The morning sun streamed through the living room curtains. I looked up at the clock on the wall: it was 8.15 a.m. I could hear Nia bustling around in the kitchen, where she was busy preparing breakfast. I looked down to see a panting Jake at my feet, his tail wagging expectantly. Fussing him a little, I eased myself from the armchair.
I had slept soundly for the rest of the night, which thankfully had passed without any further unwelcome episodes. My head was still fuzzy from the medication and I felt slightly disorientated. Reaching for the back of the chair, I steadied myself as the blood seemed to rush to my head for a moment. Reverend Evans appeared in the doorway.
‘Good morning, Annie!’ He beamed. ‘I do hope you’re hungry. Nia has cooked you a full Welsh breakfast, and there are even croissants for afters!’
I smiled weakly. Breakfast was not really top of my agenda, but I felt I couldn’t be rude as Nia had clearly gone to a lot of trouble. I followed Arfon into the kitchen, an ever-hopeful Jake trailing behind.
‘Bore da, Annie!’ Nia greeted me warmly. ‘Let’s get some food inside you and then we can get down to business. We can’t go ghost-busting on an empty stomach, can we?’
I surprised myself with the quantity of food that I was able to consume, even rounding it off with a decaf coffee and a croissant. I helped Nia to clear away the breakfast things, then went upstairs to wash and dress.
Within minutes, I was ready to join the Evans’s. They were already waiting on the driveway, eager (if that is the right word) to embark on our mission. Nia was clutching a large, battered old carpetbag. The Reverend unlocked the truck, then paused.
‘Wait a minute – I nearly forgot those old keys. I’m itching to know what’s inside that box that turned up at Tyddyn Bach.’
He disappeared back into the cottage for a moment and returned brandishing a huge bunch of keys, of all shapes and sizes.
‘If there isn’t one on here that’ll open it, I’ll eat my Bible!’ he declared.
Nia rolled her eyes. ‘Right, let’s go, then. It’ll be lunchtime before we get there at this rate.’
*
We arrived at the farm at about 11 a.m. Mrs Parry was watching at the window and came rushing out before we had even got out of the truck.
‘Good morning, everyone! Mrs Philips, I spoke to Peter last night,’ she announced, somewhat breathlessly. ‘He’s very sorry, but he says he can’t come back for at least a fortnight. Work commitments, I believe. I did ask if he could go round to see your sister though, and he promised he would try this morning. He said he’d ring back later today, or ask her to ring you if she’s able.’
‘Thank you, Mrs Parry.’ I was even more desperate to talk to Sarah. ‘I’m just worried that there might be something wrong. It’s not like her not to call me or answer her phone. And she’s supposed to be arriving tomorrow.’
‘Right, Mrs Parry,’ said Nia, looking suddenly serious. ‘May we have the key to the cottage, please? Annie had a visitation at our house last night and I think we need to begin our work as soon as possible.’
Mrs Parry clapped a hand to her mouth. ‘At your house? Oh my goodness. How awful. Yes, of course. Can I do anything to help?’
‘No, no. You just wait in the house. Although if you’d like to say a quiet prayer for Anni, it may be useful.’
She turned to me. ‘Annie, I think perhaps you should wait with Mrs Parry. I need to see the lie of the land first, if you see what I mean.’ She squeezed my hand. ‘Don’t worry. Everything will be all right; I’m sure of it.’
Mrs Parry and I watched as the Evans’s made their way over to Tyddyn Bach and vanished through the doorway. My heart began to race as I wondered what was about to happen.
‘Come on, cariad; let’s go inside. We’ll have a cup of tea and say a few prayers for them. What a time you are having – you must be exhausted.’
*
Half an hour had passed. It seemed interminable. I watched anxiously from the kitchen window, wondering whether the Evans’s were having any degree of success.
Mr Parry was conspicuous by his absence. Apparently, he had gone to look at some farm machinery somewhere in Chester, and wasn’t expected back until later that evening. It occurred to me that an actual real-life haunting was disquieting to him, in spite of his delight in relating tales of the supernatural.
Mrs Parry had cleaned the old tea caddy and it stood on the kitchen table, as if waiting to give up its secret. The wood and mother-of-pearl gleamed. It really was quite beautiful.
‘I wonder how it got into the cottage?’ she mused. ‘Mind you, with everything that’s been going on, I shouldn’t really be surprised by anything at the moment …’
Suddenly, my attention was drawn through the window towards Tyddyn Bach. Seeing a flustered-looking Reverend Evans emerge from the doorway, I sat up sharply. He ran over to the farmhouse, and burst into the kitchen.
‘Annie, I think we need you to finish this properly,’ he said, his eyes wide and earnest. ‘If you feel you can, that is.’
I nodded and, steeling myself, followed him from the building. My legs felt as though they were about to give way. The baby gave a gentle nudge as if to remind me of its presence; whatever was to ensue, its safety must be paramount.
‘Do be careful,’ called a tearful Mrs Parry.
I turned to offer her a feeble smile. ‘We will,’ I replied, my voice barely more than a whisper.
Upon reaching the entrance to the cottage, the Reverend turned to me.
‘Don’t be alarmed. Nia is in a trance state. She’s been communicating with the spirits in the house – two of them have come through, and they are both very different. They keep coming and going, but one seems more dominant. Nia has all her paraphernalia with her – her crucifix, holy water and the like. It might all seem a bit scary I know, but it’s simply part of the ritual. Just be guided by what we tell you and it’ll be all right.’
I must have looked dubious, because he smiled. ‘I promise.’
I managed a brief gesture of the head. Words seemed to evade me. My throat felt constricted and my breathing was becoming erratic.
We climbed the stairs. My palms were sweating and my heart thumped so loudly against my chest I felt sure it must be audible. I could hear voices coming from the bedroom on the left. Arfon stood back and made way for me to enter, following closely behind.
I shuddered as the chill in the room enveloped me. Nia was sitting, cross-legged, on the floor between the beds, which had been pushed apart to make more space. The contents of her carpetbag had been emptied and carefully arranged in front of her. Two identical conical glass bottles, one appearing to contain water, the other what looked like salt, were placed to the left and right. A heavy silver crucifix stood between them. Two large candles in silver candlesticks, their flames dancing wildly, stood either side of the cross.
Nia’s eyes were closed and she was breathing heavily. Her face was expressionless. I gasped as a sudden rush of cool air swept past me.
Reverend Evans guided me gently towards Nia. He indicated to me to sit on the floor, opposite his wife. Shakily, I lowered myself to the ground and sat as comfortably as I could, wondering what on earth I was getting into.
I could fathom little of what ensued, as much of the conversation between Nia and the spirit present was in Welsh. Afterwards I was to learn exactly what had been said. It transpired that the spirit in question was that of the unfortunate milkmaid: Anwen Davies. A quiet, almost childlike, disembodied voice spoke seemingly from nowhere. There was much sobbing and wailing. Nia’s words seemed to soothe her and touchingly, their two voices merged as they chanted, almost sang, something in unison.
Reverend Evans joined in and the joy that seemed to come through from Anwen was unmistakeable. I discovered later that it was the Lord’s Prayer in Welsh. Anwen’s voice eventually began to fade away. Nia slumped for a moment and there was a lull.
Then the atmosphere in the room seemed to change. The previous chill turned to an icy blast. I could see my breath in the air. It was unsettling. And then …
‘Anni wyf i,’ the unwelcome, familiar voice persisted once more. The cloying, musky smell had returned briefly. But just as quickly, the temperature lifted and all seemed calm once more.
We waited for a few minutes, and Nia sat up and shook her head. ‘She’s gone again,’ she said, sounding deflated. ‘I don’t think we’re likely to have much more luck here again at the moment. But hopefully we may be able to help poor Anwen Davies. What a sorry little tale.’
‘So – Anwen and Anni – they’re not the same person, then?’ I asked, baffled. It was all very confusing.
‘No, I’m afraid not. The spirit of Anni is a very different kettle of fish. Anwen is embittered and desperately sad – and no wonder. But there is a terrible darkness in Anni’s soul. I fear there is much more to be done to quell her anger.’
My heart sank. I did not relish the thought of further dealings with the apparently malevolent Anni. I was desperate to return to some sort of normality. The only positive to come from the whole situation was that my current state of perpetual fear was overriding my misery. I wasn’t sure which was worse.
*
Later in the Parrys’ kitchen, Nia related all that she had learned of the fate of the pitiful Anwen. A great beauty, it transpired that the girl had been relentlessly pursued by the farm’s philandering owner, John Owen Parry – Mr Parry’s great-grandfather. Naively, the youthful Anwen had allowed him to seduce her. Many of their trysts took place in Tyddyn Bach.
Finding herself pregnant, Anwen expected Parry to support her and their child. He made all sorts of empty promises, assuring her that he would leave his wife when the time was right and paying the girl a sizeable sum of money to leave the area until after the baby had been born.
Anwen had spent her confinement in a remote cottage by the sea on the other side of the island, and was attended to by a local midwife, paid off to keep quiet about her services. Parry continued to send money for a short while but distanced himself from Anwen, and as time passed it became clear that he had no intention of resuming their relationship or of leaving his now pregnant wife. The money now no longer forthcoming, she had no way of supporting herself or her child.
Arriving, babe in arms, at the farm to confront him, Anwen was met with ridicule and denials on the part of the faithless Parry. Distraught, Anwen, still clutching her tiny child, ran aimlessly from the farm. Realizing the hopelessness of her situation, she flung herself into the well. Both mother and baby perished. Anwen’s lifeless body was pulled from the well but that of the baby was never recovered – nor, it would seem, was its existence ever acknowledged.
She was buried, as was the custom of the time for a suicide, in an unadorned grave in the unconsecrated northern part of the local churchyard, along with the excommunicated and criminals.
‘We have a duty to the poor girl – to find her baby and reunite them,’ Nia said grimly.
Mrs Parry was appalled. ‘The swine. He clearly buried his sins along with young Anwen – and there was never any mention of the baby in the tale that was passed down. The story was that she was still pregnant. How callous! And what a terrible legacy for his family.’
‘Mrs Parry, do you know where the old well is?’ enquired Reverend Evans. ‘I feel there’s no time like the present. It won’t be a pleasant task, but I think the sooner we find this poor child’s bones, the sooner we can lay Anwen Davies to rest. She’s waited far too long already.’
Mrs Parry nodded in agreement. ‘It’s absolutely tragic. The well is across the field – towards the Williams’ place. But it’s been abandoned for as long as I can remember.’
‘Then we shall need shovels,’ declared the Reverend. ‘And I’m pretty good with one – if I do say so myself! D’you think those lads of Mrs Williams might give me a hand?’
‘Without a doubt! They’re a good pair of workers, too. I’ll ring Marian and see if they’re home.’
Ianto wasn’t available, but his brother would be happy to oblige, according to Mrs Williams. Mrs Parry, Nia, and myself trekked across the field after the Reverend, who was clearly a man on a mission. We met a bemused Tudur at the site of the old well. He greeted us warmly.
‘I’ve brought a couple of spades, and a torch and stuff,’ he said. ‘What are we looking for exactly?’
We all exchanged glances. Mrs Parry looked tearful.
‘It seems there might be some bones down there,’ I explained at last. ‘A baby’s bones …’
Tudur was evidently shocked. Rolling up his sleeves, he helped Reverend Evans to heave the rusty iron grid covering the well to one side. He peered down after the older man as the Reverend clambered over the edge and, using the footholds built into the wall, descended into the cavernous depths of the old well.
‘Do be careful!’ called an anxious Mrs Parry.
The Reverend set to work. There was a layer of rocks piled at the bottom of the well. Soon he had filled a bucket attached to a length of rope with them. He shouted up to Tudur, who hoisted it back to the surface, the veins standing proud on his arms from the effort. Removing the stones and setting them aside, he returned the bucket to the well. The soil was far enough down not to be baked as hard as that at ground level.
Using the flashlight, Reverend Evans began to dig carefully, scooping the earth into the bucket. Again, Tudur pulled the bucket from the well. He emptied the contents onto the grass but no bones were in evidence.
Nia called down to her husband. ‘Nothing in this lot – keep going!’
The process was repeated several times, but the results were fruitless. After half an hour or so, Reverend Evans was becoming breathless and clearly needed a break.
‘You come back up here, Mr Evans,’ called Tudur. ‘Let me take over. You must be knackered, man!’
Reluctantly, the Reverend slowly scaled the walls of the well and, reaching the top, sat on the wall, recovering his composure.
‘I’m not as young as I used to be!’ He smiled, puffing a little and wiping the sweat from his brow. ‘Phew. It doesn’t smell too good down there, I have to say. Watch yourself now, son!’
Tudur was already lowering himself into the well.
‘Jesus Christ … I see what you mean about the stink – sorry, Mr Evans, no offence intended!’ he called up. Much scraping and shovelling could be heard from below. Tudur filled the bucket in no time at all.
‘Well … he is much younger and fitter than me!’ conceded Reverend Evans.
We spread out the contents of the pail once more, scrutinizing every pebble, leaf, and fragment of broken glass that had surfaced.
‘Wait!’ cried Nia. ‘What’s that?’
Everyone peered down at where she was pointing. A minute fragment of what looked like bone had emerged from the depths of the well.
‘Be very careful now, Tudur,’ the Reverend called. ‘We think we’ve found something, so gently does it, eh!’
*
Soon we had recovered the entire skeleton of Anwen’s lost infant. Fragile twig-like bones, as porous as fine filigree. Some of them had snapped into several pieces. We laid them out on the ground and stared down at what made up the remains of the tiny body. It was such a poignant moment. I choked back tears, thinking of Anwen and the heartache she must have suffered. Clutching my stomach, I felt an incredible surge of love for my own baby and a fierce, almost primordial desire to shield it from all evil.
‘Was it … a boy or a girl?’ ventured Tudur eventually, his voice quavering with emotion.
‘It’s so tiny, it’s impossible to tell,’ whispered Mrs Parry. ‘Poor little mite.’
‘It’s a little boy,’ said Nia, with conviction. ‘I know it – I feel that it’s a male child.’ She jerked her head round suddenly. ‘She’s here,’ she said, in a low voice, staring fixedly at some unseen object behind her. ‘Anwen has come for her baby.’
Everyone looked round but no one else seemed able to perceive what was so very plain to Nia.
‘Osian,’ she said quietly, her eyes misting over. ‘She named him Osian.’
*
Later that day, the five of us made the journey to the graveyard at the local church. It was an ancient, drab grey stone building, its grounds neglected and tangled with weeds. Reverend Evans had called an old friend who happened to be an undertaker, and the man had kindly donated a tiny coffin, into which Osian’s remains were placed.
‘I know the minister of this parish well,’ Reverend Evans informed us. ‘I’ll go and ask him to obtain permission to open the grave. We can bury little Osian with his mother and I’ll give them both a proper blessing. I can’t see anyone on the Parochial Church Council objecting.’
Tudur looked suddenly thoughtful.
“D’you think we should’ve contacted the police? I mean – we’ve found some human bones, at the end of the day.”
Reverend Evans frowned. “Frankly, I don’t think the law – or anyone else come to that – did much to help poor Anwen and Osian at the time. And I think we’re all agreed – that none of us are in any doubt that these bones belong to Anwen’s baby. She has waited over a hundred and sixty years already to have him with her once again. Police involvement could well mean an unnecessary and protracted investigation – I don’t see any moral reason why we should inform them; it would only prolong her agony.”
Everyone nodded in heartfelt agreement. Tudur seemed satisfied with the Reverend’s words.
“You’re right. The baby should be with his mother. Let’s get on with it, then!”
The local minister, an elderly, balding gentleman with sad brown eyes, lived in the purpose-built house next to the church. He seemed happy to oblige and, after a couple of phone calls, told the Reverend that we might proceed.
‘I wonder if I might be in attendance?’ he queried. ‘It’s such a sad tale. At least this is some sort of happy resolution, I suppose.’
*
Arriving in what the minister identified as the northern part of the cemetery, my heart sank as I realized we now had the near-impossible task of identifying Anwen’s grave from the worn, moss-infilled inscriptions on the basic stone markers allocated to the social pariahs of her time. We stood and looked about us helplessly. It was soul-destroying.
Nia was the first to speak. ‘Let’s see if she can help us out here,’ she said softly. She closed her eyes for a moment. There was no sound but for the call of birds high above us in the trees. A sudden breeze cut through the stillness of the afternoon, rustling the foliage of the yews under which many of the graves sheltered. I shuddered, and looking round, briefly glimpsed a grey mist hovering beside one particular headstone before vanishing into the ether.
‘There!’ I pointed to where the haze had appeared. ‘I think that could be the one.’
We walked across and I stooped to examine the stone more closely, wiping away the grime with a handful of tissues. The faint inscription gradually began to reveal itself.
Anwen Hannah Davies
18 Chwefror 1829 – 5 Medi 1846
Hunanladdiad
‘What does it say, Mrs Parry?’ I asked the old lady. I turned to look at her. She was shaking her head in disbelief, her eyes brimming with tears.
‘Seventeen. She was only seventeen. Just a child.’
‘It says that she was born on the eighteenth of February, and died on the fifth of September,’ said Nia, her voice wobbling. ‘And then that one word: suicide. How cruel.’
‘Terrible business,’ said the Reverend.
The old minister nodded sombrely. ‘A tragedy,’ he agreed. ‘And evidently no compassion from the people of the era. Thank goodness attitudes have changed.’
Reverend Evans and Tudur set about digging up the turf covering the grave, followed by several feet of soil. It was an arduous task, but at last their shovels struck something which gave a resonating thud.
‘That’s it. We’ve reached the coffin,’ declared Tudur, looking a little unnerved. The two men tentatively scraped back the soil, revealing a plain wooden box. The minister lifted Osian’s miniature coffin from the ground and carefully passed it to Reverend Evans, who placed it gently atop Anwen’s final resting place. It was incredibly moving.
I thought of my own baby, the little stranger for whom I had so much love but had yet to meet, and knew what it must have meant for Anwen to be reunited at last with her infant son. The bond between a mother and her child was one that nothing, not even death, could sever.
We all stood staring down into the grave as the Reverend performed a brief but moving ceremony, asking everyone to bow their heads in prayer with their own thoughts of Anwen and Osian, and for the other poor souls, buried and not mourned. We left the graveyard with a sense of tranquillity and peace. It felt as though our task, on this front at least, was complete.
*
‘But what of putting them in the northern part of the cemetery?’ I mused later, back in the Parrys’ kitchen. ‘Do you think they should have been moved elsewhere?’
‘I’m certain that now Anwen is reunited with her baby all will be well,’ Nia assured me. ‘We all thought of them with love and wished them on their way. They can sleep peacefully now, wherever they may be. The site doesn’t really matter – it’s just superstition, if the truth be told.’
‘And what of this Anni? What do we need to do to help her … on her way?’
Nia sighed. ‘We need to go back into Tyddyn Bach. I feel she is a much more complex character, I’m afraid.’
‘But not on an empty stomach!’ interrupted Mrs Parry. ‘I’ll cook for everyone first. Tudur – you must join us. I’m sure you’ve worked up an appetite with all that digging today!’
Tudur grinned good-naturedly. ‘I’ll never say no to one of your suppers, Mrs P!’
We all ate well and wished Tudur a good evening, thanking him for his help.
‘Mam won’t believe this, you know,’ he said as he walked from the door. ‘She thinks all that supernatural stuff’s a load of crap!’
‘Maybe keep this one to yourself, then,’ suggested Reverend Evans. ‘She’ll only scoff.’
Tudur smiled and waved as he made his way back across the field towards his home, pausing to look at the old well en route. It had been a strange day and no mistake.
*
As if she had been waiting for Tudur to leave, Anni suddenly made her presence felt once more. The kitchen door slammed violently open and shut three times. My heart almost jumped out of my chest. The electricity in the air was tangible. I desperately wanted to run, but knew that I had to play my part in assisting Nia and Arfon. The anticipation of what was to come filled me with more fear and dread than I had ever known.
‘I think it’s time,’ Nia said quietly. ‘We must go back into the cottage. We have to deal with this once and for all. Annie – are you ready?’
I was never going to be ready but lied and asserted that I definitely was. Mrs Parry squeezed my quivering hand.
‘You be careful now, cariad,’ she said in a low voice. ‘I’ll be saying prayers for you all.’
Reverend Evans, who insisted that I call him Arfon as I was apparently ‘making him feel ancient’, led the way and we walked across to the cottage once more. By now the sun was beginning to wane and the evening sky blushed pink with blue swathes between.
I took a deep breath as we entered. Encouraged by Arfon, I followed Nia closely as we climbed the stairs, with him right behind us. Nia resumed her place on the floor, sitting cross-legged and carefully lighting the candles that she had placed there. She closed her eyes and began to breathe deeply, chanting softly. Any words I could decipher seemed to make no sense. I sat opposite her once again and Arfon stood by at the ready, watching over us like a protective hen over her chicks.
I gulped as the air temperature plummeted as it had earlier. From then on, things started to happen very quickly. The huge crucifix keeled over. Arfon hurriedly replaced it, mumbling a prayer as he did so.
Nia’s eyes opened suddenly, and her whole face appeared to morph into that of someone else. In the candlelight, the features seemed to writhe and flicker.
A distorted voice began to speak through her. ‘Why did you come here?’ it hissed, in a strong Northern Welsh accent. ‘You brought him back with you.’
I opened my mouth but no words came out.
‘You need to answer her, Annie,’ Arfon said quietly, but firmly.
‘Who – who did I bring back?’ I asked eventually, alarmed that I was actually speaking to this unknown and evidently hostile entity.
‘That bastard. He took …’ Nia began to moan as though in pain. It was distressing, but Arfon motioned at me to stay still. ‘My Glyn …’
I gasped, realizing that Anni and Mrs Williams’ daughter Aneira must be one and the same. So she was no longer alive. But how had she died?
‘What happened to you, Anni? May I call you Anni?’ I ventured, not wishing to antagonize her further.
‘Only my Glyn called me Anni. His pet name for me. Little Orphan Anni …’ The voice trailed off.
I understood now why my name had triggered such a strange reaction from the Parrys and Marian Williams. It must have been a sore reminder for them, both of Glyn and also of Aneira.
I looked at Reverend Evans. He nodded and gestured for me to continue with the dialogue.
‘Shall I call you Aneira, then?’
No response.
‘Where are you now, Aneira?’
A sudden sharp breeze gusted through the room, snuffing the candles out. The curtains billowed outwards from the window.
‘In my house, of course. Where I belong. My house … my house …’ The voice seemed to reverberate around the room.
‘But – where?’
I almost leapt into the air as a sudden, deafening banging came from the eaves behind the wall. The wardrobe pushed in front of the attic door began to vibrate violently.
‘In my house …’
A sudden hush fell over the room and the temperature rose once more. I sat in stunned silence as Nia began to stir. Her face had returned to normal. She opened her eyes, blinking.
‘Are you OK, my darling?’ Arfon took her hand in his.
Nia smiled. She looked drained. ‘We’re nearly there.’ Her voice was hoarse and hardly more than a whisper. ‘We can’t stop now …’
I clambered from the floor. ‘What else do we have to do?’ I was finding the whole experience incredibly disturbing. ‘Will she come back?’
‘Oh, yes, I’m afraid so. Our work here isn’t yet complete.’
‘I think you need a break,’ said a concerned Arfon. ‘Do you think we should go outside for a while, so that …’
‘No!’ Nia was emphatic. ‘We have to see this through. If we sit quietly she’ll come back. Just let me gather my thoughts for a moment.’ She sat, breathing deeply, staring straight ahead.
I looked over at the wardrobe, which had inched itself away from the wall.
‘There’s a door behind there,’ I pointed out. ‘Mrs Parry showed me.’
Nia and Arfon looked at one another. They remained silent for a moment.
‘Better take a look, then,’ said Arfon eventually.
Mustering all his strength, he manoeuvred the heavy cupboard away from the wall, revealing the low door behind it. It was locked.
‘Wait a minute,’ I said, remembering a small bowl of keys I had seen on the windowsill in the kitchen.
Arfon rushed down the stairs. Within seconds he had returned with the keys. He then proceeded to try any that looked a likely fit. Not one of them worked.
‘Damn! I’ll go and ask Mrs Parry. She’s sure to have a spare somewhere.’
Nia and I clutched each other’s hands and waited, rooted to the spot, until he returned from the main house, grinning triumphantly as he held up an old tarnished brass key.
‘She keeps it in her apron!’ he exclaimed. ‘I reckon she could have the Crown jewels in there, you know … Well, here goes …’
The key turned stiffly in the lock and clicked open. The door creaked ajar. The space beyond was dark, but illuminated sufficiently by the light from the bedroom. It was suffocatingly warm; the air was thick with dust, and the ceiling festooned with cobwebs. There were various-sized packing cases scattered across the floor and an old standard lamp in one corner.
Nia squealed and clutched Arfon’s arm, as a huge spider scuttled across the wooden floorboards, disappearing behind an enormous old-fashioned luggage trunk, which was pushed up against the wall. Had it not been for the gravity of the situation, I would have laughed at the irony – fearless when it came to the paranormal, and yet clearly terrified of anything with eight legs.
‘Well, what d’you reckon’s in there, then?’ Arfon nodded towards the trunk. ‘Shall we take a look?’
The trunk was fastened with two large leather straps. With trembling hands, I undid one rusty buckle and Arfon the other. I stepped back, turning to look at Nia, who had been watching us, motionless.
She shook her head. ‘I don’t like this,’ she said, retreating suddenly. ‘I don’t like it at all.’
Once again, the air temperature nose-dived. Without warning, the lid of the trunk sprang open with no assistance. A pungent, sickening odour rose into the air. The door slammed behind us, leaving the attic in total darkness. I screamed as a pair of ice-cold hands gripped my arms, the bony fingers sinking into my flesh.
‘My house … you’re in my house!’ The resentful, hate-fuelled voice spoke directly into my ear, filling my head. I was rigid with fright.
Nia’s voice came through the darkness. ‘Aneira, you must tell us what happened to you. We can help you – but only if you help us. We know you have been wronged, and want to help put it right. Please …’
The door of the attic swung suddenly open. My arms had been released, but still throbbed from the icy pressure that had seized them.
The shaft of light from the bedroom revealed at last the shocking contents of the trunk. Wrapped in dark bloodstained old blankets, and covered from head to foot but for a tuft of dark, wavy hair peeping from the opening at the top, were the unmistakeable remains of a young woman.