Body and Soul, a story of possession( Part one)
I wondered, as I drove along the narrow,
twisting roads on my way to visit my old friend Tom, why the belief in the
paranormal is so readily accepted in the countryside. Is it the absence of
streetlights that allowed the mind to wander, or the tranquil way of life,
uninterrupted by the chaos of city living? In the silence of the bogs and
deserted roads one is lulled into a meditative state and is it at such times
that the wind whistling across the quiet fields carries within its cries the
voices from another world? Whatever the reason the people live happily side by
side with all sorts of supernatural beings, be they ghost, spirit, Banshee or
Leprechaun.
It
was late afternoon by the time I reached Toms cottage and the light was already
beginning to dim. It was a stark contrast to the brilliant sunshine I’d left
behind at home and I saw from the thin curl of smoke from the chimney that it
was colder here. This was evident the moment I stepped out of the car and so I
leaned in and pulled my coat from the passenger seat. Tom must have heard me
drive up, because as I was fixing my collar the cottage door opened and Jip,
his old Jack Russell dog bounded out to greet me with a series of barks and
yelps.
“How are you old fellow?” I patted his head and noticed how patchy his
coat was. Like his owner he’s showing his age. Rummaging in my bag, I found the
pack of dog biscuits and fed him what would be the first of many.
“That’s cupboard love,” Tom joked, as he watched Jip slobbering over me.
“How are you girl?”
The arms that hugged me were surprisingly
strong and the wool of his jumper felt coarse against my cheek. It smelt
familiar of Old Spice aftershave, wood smoke and the earthy scent of the turf
he used to power the range.
“I’m fine, Tom, never better,” I assured him.
He always takes a moment to study my face,
as though checking to see if I’m telling the truth.
“Aye, well you look all right,” he was satisfied with what he saw. “Come
inside and get warm.”
Jip followed at our heels. Every time I
enter the small cottage I am overwhelmed by the scent of yesteryear. If I close
my eyes I’m a child again and the worries of the world far beyond me. Everyone
should have a place like this, somewhere they can become enveloped by an old
horse-hair stuffed armchair and bask in the warmth radiating from an old range
cooker.
Leaving no time for chit chat, Tom sat down opposite me and said.
“I
was talking to the lads in the pub the other night about which story I would
tell you about next and I had all but forgotten the one I have for you until
old Tim Rodgers reminded me. Do you know the old Pettigrew’s place?”
“The old house at the top of Casey’s lane?” I asked.
“That’s the one,” he said. “It’s so far off the beaten track I all, but
forgot about it until Tim reminded me. There’s a terrifying story attached to
it, the house I mean and it’s said to be haunted.”
In all honesty there’s not one abandoned
building that’s not haunted according to Tom. I smiled at the thought and he
grew annoyed with me.
“I’m telling you now and you needn’t believe me if you don’t want to,
but I heard the tale from my father and he wasn’t one for making things up.”
“I
believe you,” I held up my hands in mock surrender.
“Good,” he mumbled. “But even if you don’t now, you will before the
night is over.”
At this, I felt the first prickle of fear
on the back of my neck. Jip jumped up on my lap and I begged Tom to let him be,
when he roared at the dog to get down. I was glad of the warmth of his little
body and the steady rise and fall of his breathing as he drifted to sleep, was
comforting as Tom began his tale.
“It was in 1938 that the last of the Pettigrew’s died. Trevor was his
name and he was in his ninetieth year when he passed away. I was ten-years-old
at the time and my father acted as a sort of handyman for him as old age and
rheumatism kept the old man indoors for most of the year. My father would do
the odd bit of shopping for him and my mother went up now and then to wave a
duster around. There was no payment involved,” Tom said. “It was just being
neighbourly to someone in need. My father was with him when he breathe his last
and I still remember the night when Pettigrew died and the look on my father’s
face when he came home after making sure the old man didn’t die alone. I was
too young to understand at the time and imagined my father’s ashen face for
that of tiredness, but what I do know is there was something in his eyes that
I’ve never seen before and I know only too well its meaning now. He was
haunted,” Tom stopped, and shook his head at the memory. “Haunted by what he’d
heard that night. It was many years later when he told me the full story that I
realised the horror he must have endured as the old man clutched his hand with
bony fingers and begged him for help, but I’m getting beyond myself,” Tom said.
“I’ll tell you the story from the beginning and then we’ll be off.”
“To the house?”
“We’ve two stops to make first, so the house will be our last call,” he
settled back in his chair.
Great, I thought, looking towards the
window and the way the shadows crept across the floor as the light faded. If he
didn’t hurry up it would be dark before he was finished. Outside the wind had
picked up and its rumbling in the chimney was the only sound within the room as
Tom began.
Milly Pettigrew hated her stepmother.
Stepmother! The title was a joke since Lily was only six years older than her.
Her own mother had died giving birth and for years her father had doted on his
only child until Lily came into the picture. She was the niece of one of their
neighbours and it was on one of her visits that she was introduced to Milly’s
father. Things were decided rather quickly in those days and within three
months of this first meeting; Lily was ensconced as mistress of their home. It
wasn’t that she was unkind to her new stepdaughter, not at all. She went out of
her way to make friends with the sixteen-year-old, but to no avail. Milly’s
nose was firmly put out of joint by Lily’s arrival and the fact that she was a
beauty did little to help her cause. Fair and rosy cheeked, her looks were the
opposite too Milly’s and while she never considered herself a beauty, Milly
knew she faded into the background the minute her stepmother entered a room. Having
decided at the beginning to hate Lily, her father’s pleas for her to give her new
mother a chance fell on deaf ears and for the next two years the house vibrated
with the suppressed tension between the two women. This was to change in the
year1848 when Lily gave birth to a son, Trevor. From the moment Milly laid eyes
on the baby she was smitten. Having decided long ago that she was not the
marrying kind, she saw her new stepbrother as a way of easing her longing for a
child of her own. When the trauma of giving birth proved Lily’s undoing. Milly
felt none of her father’s grief as he returned to the status of widower. As the
boy grew he knew nothing of the loss of his mother, as Milly’s care and
attention made up for any neglect he might have known. Once the boy was weaned
and the wet nurse sent on her way, Milly took total control of his care;
refusing her father’s offer to hire a nanny and later on a tutor. Every waking
moment of the boy’s life was spent in her presence. His bedroom was next door
to hers, so should he waken in the night, Milly’s face was the first thing he
saw. Many spoke of her dedication to the boy, but to their father, there was
something not quite right. He tried to encourage his daughter to mix socially,
even going so far as to invite eligible young men to the house, but it was
useless. Milly showed no interest in any of them and during their short visits
it was obvious to her father that her ears strained to pick up any sound from
the nursery overhead. When Trevor was six-years-old, his father decided he must
be sent away to school. It pained him to send the boy away, but he wanted more
than anything that his son should be free of his stepsister’s influence. Milly
went quite mad when this was suggested.
“Trevor is not well enough to be away from home,” the servants heard her
say. “He favours his mother in that way and he had never very strong; you know
that father.”
Her father would not be swayed and sent
orders that the boy’s trunks were to be packed at once for the journey.
“It’s still not known what happened that night,” Tom said. “But her
father was found dead at the bottom of the stairs next morning. Rumour had it
that Milly had pushed him, but there was no solid evidence to prove this and
the boy remained at home.”
It was no surprise when the will was read
to hear that her father had left the bulk of his money to his only son, to be
kept in trust until his 25th year. Milly received a large sum of
money and tenancy for life in her family home. The money made her a target for
those in search of a wife with a large dowry and the whispers about her
father’s strange death did nothing to repulse those eager or desperate enough
to make the match. Like many before them, they were driven away and left in no
doubt that any further efforts on their behalf to win her hand were be spurned.
“I
would like to say the boy thrived as the years passed,” Tom said. “But that was
not the case. He was a delicate child and I remember even in his later years,
his face was unlined and ashen, as though carved from marble. He was very thin,
riddled with some wasting disease, my mother always said, but I don’t believe
that was the cause. It’s true he favoured his mother in looks and his hair was
a white as his complexion, but there the similarities ended. There were no
roses in his cheeks and his eyes had a lacklustre look that frightened me.”
Milly’s obsession with her younger
stepbrother showed no sign of weakening over the years and even though it was
normal for a young man to try and break the ties with home, she refused to
release him. Every time he made a bid for freedom, she found a way to stop him.
His health was the barrier that kept him prisoner and it was said that she used
all sorts of potions to keep him weak and in need of her nursing. She didn’t
have it all her own way though and during one dreadful winter when the
influenza was raging; she had to take to her bed for over a month. Without her
meddling, Trevor rallied and was seen out and about with the few friends he
had. It was during this time he met the love of his life. Mildred Wilson was
the daughter of a local farmer and though beneath Trevor in breeding, the
couple fell in love. Mildred’s parents were delighted when he proposed and
despite his delicate appearance, they thought him a great catch for their
daughter. It is left to our imagination how Milly felt when she heard the news,
but she put on a great show of inviting the Wilson
“This is most pleasant,” she smiled, leading the couple into the sitting
room. “We can speak freely now that the young people are out of the way.”
“Indeed,” Mrs Wilson said, a little confused by her meaning.
After the champagne glasses were refilled
and the butler left the room, Milly put her plan into action.
“I
was quite relieved when I heard that Mildred had agreed to marry my brother,”
she smiled. “I must admit, I thought I’d never get him off my hands.”
“Really?” Mrs Wilson asked. “Why was that?”
“Surely you know about his health problems?” Milly acted surprised.
“I
imagined him a little delicate I must admit,” Mrs Wilson said. “But thought
nothing more of it.”
Milly sighed, and showed all the sorrow of
one who has to break bad news.
“He’s not just a little delicate,” she brought her handkerchief to her
eyes and dabbed at imaginary tears. “My brother is very ill. He had the
consumption you know?”
“We were not aware of that,” Mr Wilson spoke for the first time.
“Yes, we made a great show of visiting the continent two years ago, but
the truth is that my darling boy was in a hospital that deals with such cases.
I know I can trust you to tell no one about this, and as we are soon to be
related by marriage I know you will keep our secret.”
The Wilson
“He is quite recovered now though?” Mrs Wilson said.
“Oh yes, quite recovered,” Milly gushed. “And with a little luck, he
might stay that way.”
“You mean it can recur?”
“Unfortunately that is the case. Trevor’s consumption is inherited you
see? His mother was very young when she died of it and the doctors have said it
is passed down. We must hope that any children the dear pair have will not be
afflicted in that way.”
“Yes, indeed,” Mrs Wilson muttered, as she eyed the door, hoping to hear
her daughter return so they could make their excuses to leave.
Unlike many at that time, the Wilson
“Why didn’t he just leave?” I asked Tom. “He was rich enough and could
have gone wherever he pleased.”
“He was a broken man after Mildred called off the engagement,” Tom said.
“I think he hadn’t the heart to leave. Now I’m getting to the crux of the story
and I’ll tell you what happened the night he died.”
The ticking of the old mantle clock sounded
louder and the evening shadows crept closer still as I waited for Tom to finish
his story.
That’s all for this week dear reader. I’ll
be posting the second part of Body and Soul next Friday. Have a good week and
when you turn off the lights tonight, as you settle down to sleep, take no
notice of the dark corners of your room. They are, what they appear to be, just
empty pockets of darkness or are they? Sleep tight.
