Gloria tugged on her coat as she closed the car door behind Josie. The moment she pushed the key into the ignition of her Morris Minor, she knew there was no turning back. The little car roared up the road and turned onto the high street, all the while squinting as the windscreen wipers fought against the onslaught of rain. Thunder bellowed. Josie clutched the collar of her coat to her mouth, her eyes tight. Gloria switched her gaze from Josie to the road; the panic she would feel knowing her child was in danger would be too agonizing.
‘Nancy would do the same for me,’ she chanted as she pushed her way up the gears.
The village was deserted. It knew. They all knew, had always known the terror that lay at Hardacre. She wouldn’t let this happen again. She had lost Allan to that place. No one else. She had a duty, didn’t she? As a teacher, she had a responsibility to care for those boys.
She was out of the village. Here, the night was thick and heavy. She turned off the main road and into the crossroads. A flash of light illuminated something in front of her. Beamish’s car. Gloria slammed her foot on the brakes, swerved on slick mud as a high screech of metallic griding brought her car to a halt.
‘Are you all right?’
Josie nodded and pulled the door open. ‘Mummy?’
‘It’s all right, darling. Not sure I can say the same for the cars. But no time, we need to find the twins, okay?’
With their coats pulled tight around them, the raging storm dragged them into Hardacre.
‘Look!’ Josie shouted.
‘Oh, dear god.’
Peter Beamish was sprawled on the mud, his limbs twisted at odd angles. Gloria bent down to check for a pulse, and he gently murmured.
‘Oh, thank goodness. Can you hear me?’ Gloria smoothed the rain from his face. ‘The boys—whatever happened?’
‘Nancy…’ he wheezed. ‘You must find her.’
‘Mummy, I shall go get some help.’ Josie started up the drive, heading towards the Priory.
‘No!’ Gloria screamed. ‘Don’t go anywhere near there without me.’
Peter squinted against the rain. ‘Let her go.’
‘It’s all right, Mummy.’ Josie ran like a determined tornado against the elements. Nimble and eager, she wound between the gusts, darting out of sight.
‘Okay but go straight inside and don’t—’ Gloria didn’t know what else to say. The Priory was the place of nightmares, and she was sending her daughter into its mouth.
‘Where’s Nancy?’ Gloria knelt on the wet mud; her ear close to Peter’s mouth. ‘What do I do?’ she pleaded.
He was unconscious. Gloria pulled off her coat, laid it over him, placed her hand on his chest, and looked up at the tortuous sky.
‘We’ll get help, Peter,’ she said softly.
Gloria stood in the shadow of the oak tree. It loomed over her thin stature, taunting her. As the rain eased, she felt a jolt under her feet. For a moment, the world fell silent, still.
The wild winds, which had flogged all of nature into a frenzied twister, ceased. Gloria stood in the eye of the storm, nothing but her and the oak tree and a static sheet of glaring electricity that lit the sky.
The ground was broken. Gashes scored the mud, unnatural cavernous channels where roots had once been buried. But this was Hardacre Priory; nothing was natural; she swore under her breath. Evil erupted at the roots of the oak, a weak point in the earth. Maybe faith had always been at its most vulnerable here. She knew her history. This was the crossroads where ley lines met, crossed, it held power. Moreover, centuries ago, the oak had once been a hanging tree. What lay beneath had fed on the sadness, the ager, all the evil and cruel deeds
She took a step closer to the trunk but lost her footing and fell ankle deep into a hole. Something caught the heel of her shoe—a small, leather-bound item. She pulled it out and wiped the mud away. Before she had a chance to plunge it into her cardigan pocket, a thin vine swept around her wrist. It twisted and coiled in the lightning’s bright, electric glare and dragged her closer to the tree.
The sky flickered, plunging the grounds back into darkness. She reached the oak, and with one hand, slapped the trunk in anger, the other folded around the wet leather. She shuffled over holes and trenches around the trunk to gain a stronger foothold. Her toe hit a large, knotted root as a lightning bolt struck the ground inches from her with a crackle and sizzled the wet grass. It was swift but bright enough to see what glinted half-buried at the base.
Gloria tugged the vine at her wrist, her nails digging it away as it tightened. She bent forwards and pushed the leather-bound thing into her pocket. Pulling as far as she could, desperate to reach for what was half-buried. The taut vine’s thin truss bit into her wrist. She screamed as it cut through and a stream of blood dripped down her arm. The pain was too much. She closed her eyes and collapsed to her knees. The trunk of the vast oak pressed against her chest—breathing, pulsated—its heartbeat.
She dug her fingers into the vine, picking it from her gashed skin.
‘I won’t let you do this,’ she swore through gritted teeth as tears ran down her face.
The vine crept away. Tree wreckage whipped around her head in a thrashing frenzy then fell to the ground, pelting her with acorns and branches. Gloria hurled herself forwards, dug away at the mud until she found it. An axe—Allan’s.
‘Nancy?’ she yelled. ‘Nancy!’
With the smooth wooden handle in her grip, Gloria struck the axe at the bark. It swung back, knocking her to the ground. Biting her lip, she got to her feet and swung it again. With every swing, her breath hitched in her burning chest, driving her forward with more determination.
‘This is for Allan,’ she screamed.
The axe split the bark. Again, the blade bit through the tree, then again, until she fell to the ground. Her heart throbbed. Her short breath wheezed in her chest.
Gloria got to her feet and aimed the axe high. Its final blow hurled her backwards. Staggering, she left the tree, moving away into the grounds. Amidst the continued onslaught of thrashing branches, Gloria looked up; something sticky dripped onto her face. She wiped her forehead with the sleeve of her cardigan. It wasn’t the rain.
With her arms wrapped over her head, she peered into the heights of the oak. Up high within the twisted boughs, barely visible, was an outline, a silhouette. The oak shuddered as the highest branch broke. What had lain within its hold fell through the tree mass until it stopped with a swift jerk just above Gloria’s head.
It was a figure, arms outstretched and bound tight. The thinnest and sharpest twigs thread through the body.
Nancy Hardacre had been crucified.
†
Elliot lay in the mud. His chest burned as his vision finally cleared. He realised then. He didn’t remember why or how, only that all the darkness that had been festering inside him had spilt over.
His hand reached out, patting the ground next to him. ‘Oliver? Oli?’ His arms swept through the mud, making a sticky mud angel.
He strained to sit up, but the mud held him fast, tried to calm his breathing to stop the panic from swallowing him, but it already had. Tears fell. A scream ripped from his lungs filling the air, his chest heavy with pain, he pushed his hand over his heart and hit something hard—the mirror. He dragged his legs up and pulled himself free of the muddy bank, and swung them over, pushing on his elbows.
A loud crack lit the sky like day, a great sheet of lightning over the Hardacre grounds. He whipped his head around, but he was alone. He remembered the figure on the driveway, remembered the fear that had taken hold, the need to run. It had made him think of Dad and the bedsheet man.
Elliot trudged through the slick grounds. Every other step slipped in the deep muddy patches. Standing on the brow of the hill, he glanced behind him towards the Priory. They hadn’t got far.
Had they come looking for him and Oli yet?
Did they know they were missing?
Beyond was the silhouette of the oak tree.
Panic made his feet move, and he began to run. He had to find his twin. The mirror hummed, a sensation he’d felt before—it was like the energy he’d found in the walking stick, the power that had purged his body when…
He shook the thought away. None of it was real. It had burrowed inside his head, made him feel and think awful things. He hated Hardacre Priory, and it hated him.
Elliot ran. I must get out. Get help.
There was a movement by the oak. Elliot skidded to a stop, and his wellies sank to the ground. He fiercely gripped the mirror to his chest. Don’t let go. I must not let it go.
Someone was at the tree.
He pulled his boot from the mud and took a cautious step closer. With speed, the sticky sludge took him. Elliot fell onto the slippery slope and slid into a knotted root a dozen feet from the oak, hitting his head. Dazed, he rubbed his temple. The sky had darkened again. Sharp flashes and forks of lightning mixed with rumbling thunder.
Elliot pushed his hand to the ground, and it squelched into a pile of fallen leaves. The stalk of an acorn pierced his hand. As he pulled it free, a bead of blood swelled on his palm and fell, seeping into the earth.
‘Oh, now what do we have here?’
Elliot froze.
It wasn’t real.
He clambered to his feet, desperate to steady his legs, and willed his boots to move.
‘Not so fast, young heir.’
The sound rang through the atmosphere like a siren. The long, voluminous root crackled up from the earth, shaking off wet soil. It twisted, coiled high into the air and lingered above him for a moment. Taunting him, freezing him to the spot, unable to move. He stood rigid, his eyes wide and knowing while he could do nothing but wait.
It whipped.
The thick tail of the root thrashed him about the head, then with another lash, propelled him through the air until he landed at the foot of the oak.
Elliot lay winded, panic-stricken.
‘Your mother could not choose. It seems you chose for her.’
†
Gloria had not taken her eyes off Nancy. Deep rumbling rang in her ears as the earth quaked underfoot and took her legs out from under her. Thunder roared in her ears as sharp bolts hit the ground. A few feet away, a cloud of dirt churned through the air, then a loud thump.
Gloria crawled over.
A boy lay twisted over the base of the trunk—one of the twins, though which one?
Gloria pushed her fingers to his neck, her ear to his mouth.
He was alive.
She pulled off her cardigan and wrapped it around him. He was wet through to the bone, dressed in only his pyjamas and wellies. She looked at his small face. Even though he was unconscious, she saw terror painted there. Then, tentatively, she looked back at her friend’s body.
Gloria patted his cheek, carefully running her hands over his arms and body to check him over. He seemed okay.
‘Are you okay, darling? Can you hear me?’
‘Mummy?’ the boy murmured. ‘…what’s happened to my mum?’
‘Oh, you poor darling…’ Gloria hugged him close. For this poor child to witness such a horrific sight… oh God.
Gloria patted his arm, bringing his face up to meet hers. ‘Look at me, darling. Don’t look anywhere else, just look at me—’ She gulped down a sharp tang of bile. ‘Are you hurt? I don’t think anything’s broken.’ She chastised herself as the words left her lips. What did it matter? His bones would mend. A few bruises were nothing to witnessing the sight of his mother. That would never heal.
He shook his head.
Gloria stared at him, straining to think which twin he was. ‘Darling, where is your brother? Are you Elliot or Oliver?’
The boy mumbled something vague and breathy. His hand scrambled over the ground, frantically fumbling in the grass.
‘What have you lost?’
He found it and pulled it to his chest as he moved off the root. Gradually, he shuffled away from the tree. Not once did he look at her.
Gloria studied him as he trembled.
‘Oliver,’ he slowly muttered, then fell back to the ground, gripping the mirror to his chest. ‘Mummy?’
Gloria hushed him. ‘I know, darling. I know. I’m so sorry. I couldn’t—’ She wiped the tears from her face and tried to stay calm, then patted his shoulder, smoothed the hair from his forehead. ‘Where is Elliot?’
He stared, his eyes full of fear, then they flicked to the mirror and back to the oak tree. He shook his head sobbing, opened his mouth to speak and closed it again.
‘My brother is lost, and it’s all my fault.’
The rain stopped. The storm eased.
On the sodden ground in the oak’s shadow, Gloria cradled the boy in her arms. She didn’t dare look up. She had been too late to help her friend; she wouldn’t fail this poor child.