It was just a few minutes to midnight, and I knew that something was coming after me then – something terrible. My mind was befuddled and I couldn’t remember what this creature was, but I knew that it had been sent by a witch. She wanted revenge for something I’d done to her.
But what was wrong with me? Why couldn’t I remember things properly? Was I already under some sort of spell? Somewhere in the distance, a church bell began to strike ominously. Petrified with fear, I counted each chime.
At the third one I leaped to my feet in panic and began to run. Branches whipped at my face, brambles snatched and scratched at my legs as I sprinted desperately through the trees towards the unseen church. There was something after me now, but it wasn’t running through the undergrowth; it wasn’t something on either two legs or four. I could hear the furious beating of gigantic wings.
I glanced back over my shoulder and my blood turned to water. I was being chased by an immense black crow, and the sight of it increased my terror. It was the Morrigan, the Old God of the Celtic witches, the bloodthirsty deity who pecked out the eyes of the dying. But I knew that if only I could reach the church, I’d be safe.
Why that should be I didn’t know – churches weren’t usually places of refuge from the dark. Spooks and their apprentices preferred to rely on the tools of their trade and a sound knowledge of the practical defensive steps that could be taken. Nevertheless, I knew that I had to reach the church – or die and lose my soul to the dark.
I tripped over a root and sprawled headlong. I struggled to my knees and looked up at the black crow, which had alighted on a branch, making it creak and bend under its weight. The air shimmered in front of me, and I blinked furiously to clear my vision. When I could finally see, I was confronted by a terrible sight.
In front of me stood a tall figure wearing a black dress that came down almost to the ground. It was splattered with blood. The figure was female from the neck downwards, but she had the huge head of a crow, with cruel beady eyes and an immense beak. Even as I watched, the crow’s head began to change. The beak shrank, the beady eyes softened and widened until the head was fully human. I suddenly realized that I knew that face! It was that of a witch who was now dead – the Celtic witch that the spook Bill Arkwright had once killed in the County. I’d been training with Arkwright, and had seen him throw a dagger into this witch’s back; then he’d fed her heart to his dogs to make sure she couldn’t come back from the dead. Bill had been ruthless in his treatment of witches – much harder than my master, John Gregory.
Or was it her? I had seen that witch close to and I was sure that both her eyes had been the same colour. And in that moment I knew that none of this was real. I was having a bad dream – and it was one of the very worst kind: a lucid nightmare where you’re trapped and cannot escape, cannot wake up. It was also the same one that I’d been having for months – and each time it happened it was more terrifying.
The witch was walking towards me now, her hands outstretched, talons ready to rend the flesh from my bones.
I fought to wake myself up. It was a real struggle to break free. I opened my eyes and felt my fear gradually fall away. But it was a long time before I calmed down. I was wide-awake now and couldn’t get to sleep again. It didn’t leave me in the best state of mind to face a jibber – whatever that might be.
We met down in the kitchen, but we weren’t planning to eat anything substantial. We were about to face the dark, so the Spook insisted that we fast, managing with just a little cheese to sustain us. My master missed his favourite crumbly County cheese, and wherever we happened to be, he was always complaining that the local fare wasn’t a patch on it. But on this occasion he nibbled in silence before turning to me with a question.
‘Well, lad, what are your thoughts on all this?’
I gazed into his face. It looked as if it had been chiselled from granite, but there were new deeper lines on his brow, and his eyes were tired. His beard had been grey from the moment I first saw him, almost three years ago, when he visited my dad’s farm to talk about my apprenticeship. However, there had been a mixture of other colours in there too – mostly reds, browns and blacks; now it was entirely grey. He was looking older – the events of the past three years had taken their toll.
‘It worries me,’ I said. ‘It’s something we’ve never dealt with before, and that’s always dangerous.’
‘Aye, it is that, lad. There are too many unknowns. What exactly is a jibber, and will it be vulnerable to salt and iron?’
‘There may be no such thing as a jibber,’ said Alice.
‘And what do you mean by that, girl?’ demanded my master, looking annoyed. He no doubt thought that she was putting her nose where it didn’t belong; meddling in spook’s business.
‘What if it’s the spirit of each dead person that’s somehow trapped and causing the problem?’ she said. ‘Dark magic could do that.’
The frown left the Spook’s face and he nodded thoughtfully. ‘Do the Pendle witches have such a spell?’ he asked.
‘Bone-witches have a spell that can bind a spirit to its own graveside.’
‘Some spirits are bound like that anyway, girl. We call them graveside-lingerers.’
‘But these don’t just linger, they scare people,’ Alice pointed out. ‘The spell is often used to keep people away from a section of a churchyard so that witches are able to rob the graves and harvest the bones undisturbed.’
Bone-witches collected human bones to use in their type of magic. Thumb-bones were particularly prized. They boiled them up in a cauldron to obtain magical power.
‘So, taken a step further, if these are trapped spirits, they’re somehow being forced to drive people to the edge of madness. That all makes sense, but how and why is it spreading?’ my master asked.
‘If it is a spell,’ Alice said, ‘then it’s out of control – almost as if it’s developed an energy of its own, spreading its evil, working its way east. Bony Lizzie once cast a powerful spell that got out of control. It was the first time I’d ever seen her scared.’
The Spook scratched at his beard as if something wick were crawling there. ‘Aye, that makes sense,’ he agreed. ‘Well, I reckon we should visit the place where the poor girl killed herself first. I’ll need the lad with me, so no doubt you’ll be joining us too, girl.’