The endless tasks of the day were done; pots were scoured, water hauled, floors sanded and the slops carried out to the midden. The other servants had already retired, maids clumping up to the dusty roof space, men to the barns. Alys listened as their footsteps and voices receded ...  leaving her alone in the gathering shadows. Only she, the kitchen scullion slept alone among the ashes of the hearth. In truth she would rather lay herself down with the beasts in the fold than in that place of horror. She fumbled for the crude wooden cross she wore on a thong around her neck. Her lips moved in fervent prayer. The time of dread  had come ... as it came every night when darkness engulfed the house. Her mistress, shrilling her name from the house made her start. Alys clenched her hand around the ugly cross, and tore up some sprigs of betony and rue and twisted them into a posy. Pray to Holy Mary they would ward off harm this night.  She tucked the sweet herbs inside her shift and trotted indoors obediently.

   Alys whimpered as she crept into the kitchen. If only she could find her bed with her eyes shut, but to grope blindly would be more terrible still! Who knew what she might stumble against in the dark?  She scampered to the hearthplace where the dampened ashes gave out a stifling heat. She scuffed up the rushes and wound her blanket tight around her.

   Twelve-year-old Alys ... cold charity’s child ... was an almost invisible member of the household. It was doubtful if any in that bustling demesne even knew her name. Friendless drudge that she was, Alys was just girl ...  child or ...  ‘scully’ ; scorned and overlooked even by the other servants. She had not one person to confide in. No-one to whom she dared speak about the nightly visitations that so beset and bedevilled her. Her mistress would think her mad or worse. The servants would shun her. She might be taken-up, sent away, (or, at best, cast off and put out on the road). How had come about? Why was she plagued by demons and night devils? Alys had no doubt in her mind that her night-time torments were a punishment ...  a judgement visited on her for some unguessed-at sin.  If only she knew what it was.

​

***

 

Ye bread will not rise. Y best bowl is cracked and alle ye eggs brok. Ye hens do not lay.

​

   ‘What do you think?’ Howie fiddled repeatedly with the camera. Erin shrugged and swallowed the last of the tasteless, plastic-wrapped sandwich.

   ‘I’m going to lock this camera off at the door, and set up another one over there by the window. Better get started, I s’pose.’

 

 Erin swore under her breath. God she was bored!  Why the hell had she agreed to tag along? In the noise and glare of the pub last week the prospect had seemed like a bit of a laugh. Besides, she quite fancied Howie, and the thought of having him all to herself for a long evening .... well, that might just prove amusing.  But now. Hah! A week on and nothing had happened. Howie was more focussed on setting up his equipment than in exploring the possibilities of un liaison amoureuse. For several nights Erin had braved the dark and wet and helped Howie lug his equipment into this stinking old dump of a house. But all she had to show for their nocturnal escapades was a heavy cold. She made a mental note to ditch Howie at her earliest convenience.

   ‘I’m going to start with a base line test.’

   ‘Whatever.’

   ‘EMF, check. Camera running, check. Oh, you’ll have to turn your phone off … it might interfere with the readings.’

​

   Erin sighed and slid from her perch on the window ledge.  She rubbed at the filthy, cracked pane and her blurred reflection stared back at her. Hmm, she was looking bloody hot tonight ... if she said so herself.  She twirled slowly on one heel, gazing at herself in the crazed glass. Skin-tight silver jeans, short black jacket, lashings of eye liner and lipstick, topped with a vivid shock of hair. She hadn’t been too sure about the electric blue at first, but now …  she was dead chuffed. The shimmering colour made her look like an exotic alien ...  a creature from another world.  Shame that Howie seemed immune to her bewitching charms! She pouted at her reflection in the glass.  If she could angle her phone just so she could probably great a great selfie in that glass. She clicked the button.

    ‘I thought I said “turn that off" ’ Howie snapped.

   Erin pulled a face, and stabbed the off  button with a sharp scarlet nail.

  ‘Happy now?’ To think she’d got herself all dolled up for this!

 

​

***

 

Vexation. Alle anon. Ye well is taiynted. And ye black sow hath run mad and trampled her yongge.  Ye wench mumbles like a crone .... of devils and hobgoblins. Ye servants fear she is bewitched. They will not suffer her to sit with them.

 

***

​

‘Switching to night-vision now. Turning over. Kill the lights.’  Howie adjusted his head set and began stalking round the room. Erin switched off the portable light pack and the house was plunged into darkness. Thick dark. Darkness that crawled over your face and clogged your chest. Howie cleared his throat rather self-consciously.

   ‘Ahem. Hello? Is anybody here? Are there any spirit people here with us?’ The silence thickened and Erin stifled a giggle. Really Howie was the most god-awful prat!

 

                                                                          VVVV              

 

Alys shrank into her bed roll.

   ‘If there are any spirit people here ....  please make yourself known to us.’

  ‘Yoo hoo! Come out come out wherever you are.’ Erin laughed into the dark.

   ‘Shut up, will you! I thought I heard something.’

​

Alys shrunk herself down until she was as small and still as a stone. She screwed up all her courage and risked a glance. One of them was coming close. Lady of Grace save her soul!  For it was no creature of this world. Its thin legs were tightly bound in some covering that shimmered like the moon. The shape of its lower limbs was plain to see. It was a forked monster ... indecent ... so that Alys blushed to look upon it.  Its shimmering limbs tapered to a pair of spiked feet ...  and its fingers bore fiendish blood-red talons. But it was the face that haunted her. It was a painted mask, with huge black eyes, lips red as blood ...  and something like hair ... that stuck out in a stiff halo round its wicked little face. The hair was as blue as the cloak of the Blessed Madonna. It brought to mind the devilish imps that pranced about in company with the Mummers.  They always put Alys in a fright, though she knew that behind the painted mask t’was only some gleeful, cavorting child.

​

   The creature had a wild, impious beauty. But the devil can put on a pleasing form to beguile the unwary.  Alys wondered if it could be an angel. For angels came in strange guises and ofttimes struck terror into their beholders. Or so she had been taught.   But no, those bloodied lips and mocking eyes could never grace a heavenly being. If not an angel …  then a devil surely. And one sent to taunt and terrify her ... to send her mad …. or worse. It always came with another; and this other was stranger still. Blessed Virgin, Lady of Grace, Mother of God ... preserve her!

The lewd, mocking, creature had a diabolical companion. And this other possessed strange caskets of power. There were chests that gave forth lights, others hummed and chattered, some glowed red and green and winked in the dark. One was a great all-seeing eye. He muttering over the boxes as though conjuring more demons.

​

***

 

Ye brede wille not rise. Ye butter will not churn. The bees have swarmed and ye hive lies colde.

 

***

‘Okay. I think we’ll wrap for tonight.’

   Erin sniffed. ‘Waste of time, then?’

  ‘Not entirely. We had some interesting readings on the EMF meter. And the mic might have picked something up.’

  ‘You say that every time.’

   But Howie wasn’t listening. He whistled tunelessly as he disconnected cables and rolled them up. Erin switched on her phone and scrolled through a flurry of pictures and text messages. They were all having a whale of a time down at the pub. Oh, tits! They were going on to a club! She scrolled though the pictures she’d taken that night. One of the back of Howie’s head as he twiddled with his camera, another couple taken from the window; then she glanced at the selfie she’d taken reflected in the window. It was the only good one, she was pleased with that shot of herself, looking shadowy and alluring in the darkened pane. But there was something else in the photo ... something that spoilt the effect; a smudge, a pale oval shape, floating behind her in the corner of the room. Erin stared at the screen. It looked like a face. It was a face, surely? Pale and indistinct…. but definitely a face.

  ‘Howie?’ She held out the phone. Howie glanced at it, then stared.

   ‘Is this a joke?’

   'Don’t be stupid! Look! It looks like a girl, see? A girl with straggly hair, and it looks like she’s wearing some kind of a weird cap.’ They stood with their heads bent over the phone.

   ‘S’probably a trick of the light.’ Howie muttered cautiously. ‘A reflection in the lens or something.’

   ‘Don’t be stupid. It’s a face! You can even see her expression. Jesus, she looks terrified.’

   ‘If this is real, it’s incredible.’ Howie stared in amazement. He was beginning to allow himself to dare to believe the impossible. ‘We’ve got to get back and download it. I’ll get it on my computer and enhance the image. Come on!’

 

***

 

 

 I shall not keep her.  If a man will not work, he shall not ete. Are these not Our Lord’s own words? The same must stand for a wench. I will not keep a servant in idleness. I give house to a nameless orphan ... in charity .... and what do I reap? Tribulation. Vexation. The wretch falls sick. She will not ete. She faints away. She stares and starts and twitches like a hare.

 

​

​

 ***

 

 ‘D’you mind ... can we knock on the head now? Erin yawned. Back at Howie’s flat he had downloaded great chunks of texts from a paranormal investigation website, and was now reciting them excitedly.

   ‘The house has always had a reputation. That’s why it’s so popular with investigators.

It’s haunted alright. Really haunted. And this proves it. People have been seeing things there for hundreds of years. Lights, noises, strange devil-like creatures. The house is very old, you know, some bits of it are pre-Norman.’

‘Fascinating.’ Erin stretched like a cat and allowed the tip of her toe to graze Howie’s leg. This not-so-subtle overture produced no results whatsoever, as Howie rattled on excitedly.

  ‘Just listen to this.’

 

Unthank Old Hall is a perennial favourite for paranormal investigators. Although the house and buildings now lie in ruins, there has been a house on the site since the 12th century. Unthank Old Hall, once a prosperous medieval manor, has been pulled down and rebuilt several times. Reports of paranormal occurrences (devils and demons and imps) date from the time when the first house was built. And the haunting persists to this day.

​

‘You see? Unthank’s always been an unlucky place. No-one seems to have made a go of the place. And it’s always the same story. The occupants were tormented by demonic creatures. A young girl died there, hundreds of years ago.  They said she was a witch, but she was probably a bit simple. She ‘consorted with demons’ so they said. The poor girl went mad and died.’

 

‘How-ie!’ Erin groaned. I’m tired.’ She lay her head in the crook of her elbow and watched Howie’s fingers skittering over the keyboard. Nice hands. Thin, brown hands. Nice long fingers.  

   ‘I was thinking...’  She peered at Howie with big hungry eyes. ‘We could ... go to bed.’

   ‘Yeah, sure. Sorry, you must be shattered. You can have my bed, I’ll kip on the sofa.’

   Erin gaped in disbelief. How thick was this bloke! She was handing herself on a plate here. What a frigging nerve! Just wait till she told the others!

   ‘No, it’s all right.’  She snatched up her bag and coat. ‘I’m going.’

   ‘You’re welcome to stay.’ Howie muttered over his shoulder, while his eyes remained glued to the screen. ‘Or I could call you a cab?’

   ‘Don’t bother. I know when I’m not wanted.’

   ‘Humm?’ Howie muttered. ‘Okay, bye then, and thanks for coming. Catch you tomorrow?

The door slammed on his words.

 

 ***

 

The nights of torment had wrought their mischief on Alys. The nights of terror had shrivelled her; till her child’s face grew waxen, and she resembled a crazed crone. ‘Blessed Mary, Holy Mother. Blessed Madonna, Salve, salve! Saints and heavenly angels save me. Blessed Virgin save me!’

   Only the Diviner has come tonight. Be he an enchanter, the Diviner has the shape of a man, at least. And the other, that forked and wicked creature has not appeared this night. Praise be to Our Lady, Holy Mother! This one moves quietly in the dark. He calls forth sounds and lights from his chests and boxes. He has a strange speaking box!

 

 ***

 

The cold in the house was crucifying, and Howie had kept up his solitary vigil all night. Now he was as cold and stiff as a corpse. Slowly, painfully, he eased himself out of the camp chair. He must have dozed off, because a stain of grey light seeped in through the window. He hobbled to his rucksack and pulled out a flask. God, how he wished he was warm at home! Attempting to thaw his hands on the mug of cold dregs, he reflected on yet another fruitless night at Unthank Old Hall. He would spend the weekend analysing the data, but he was fairly sure there would be nothing to show for the hours of cold and discomfort he’d endured. Nothing had tripped the sensors, or the locked-off cameras; no sounds or movements has triggered the EMF meter, and his spirit-voice recorder displayed nothing. If devils and demons had once plagued the house they were long gone now. (If they had ever existed, which Howie doubted). Meanwhile, he had a desperate need for a hot shower, coffee and breakfast. He loaded his equipment into the boot and jumped into the car. He glanced at the folder of notes on the passenger seat. He read them again as he warmed himself up in the car.

 

The first recorded episode of a haunting at Unthank concerned a young serving maid.  We know nothing about her, and her name is lost to posterity.  She arrived at the house sometime in 1362. Soon she began to have visions and hear voices. The episode lasted for several weeks and the girl became very ill.  The maid reported seeing mysterious lights and sounds in the house (which no other occupant heard or saw). She spoke of a monstrous ‘forked creature’ with long talons and limbs than ‘shone like the moon’. And of an ‘enchanter,’ with boxes and chests of power who looked into an ‘all-seeing magical eye’.  One morning, her mistress found her raving and a priest was sent for. We know this because there is a reference to the payment for her shriving in the medieval pipe rolls of St Michael and all Angels church. (Currently held in the Suffolk County Archive.)

 

9d. payen. For ye shriving of y wenche of the house of Unthank. Thatte had fallyn sikke. Thiss day 21st June. 1362. Viz. The mayd spake of lothe divils and daemons that so drede herre. To witt. They mayk strange light and noise thatte so affray ye mayd as she be lykke to deye. Which nonne else in ye hose may see o heyr. She spake of y wykke creature forkd alle lewd, with longge talon and legges that shinne lykke ye lune. She spake alle of ye enchaunter ye kep boxes and chests of power. And ye alle-seeing magike eye. I did first shrive her and mark her with the token of the holy cross, so that the fiends ne have no power over ye.

 

'The maid was so afflicted by these terrifying visitations that she eventually sickened and died.  This anonymous serving girl was no doubt buried in a pauper’s grave. (Alas, the medieval burial ground adjoining St Michael’s church has long since disappeared, and the parish records have not survived).

'This is the earliest reference to the hauntings at Unthank Hall. But the house and farm thereafter gained a reputation for being unlucky. No owners or tenants appear to have resided there for very long. For over 700 years the occupants of Unthank Old Hall have reported strange visitations and these mysterious hauntings continue to the present day.'

 

The car’s heater whirred, and the warmth gradually crept back into Howie’s hands and feet. Another thankless trip to Unthank, he thought. And this would have to be his last visit, he decided.    He turned on the wipers and cleared the windscreen. He gazed out at the ruins of the house. ‘An empty and untenanted house .... shall become the abode of demons.’  The words drifted through Howie’s head. He was sure he’d heard or read that somewhere, was it something  in the Bible, maybe?  

   But in the bleak light of dawn Unthank Old Hall looked just like any other old, derelict house; and the atmosphere that hung about it was merely desolate. No shadows or phantoms, ghosts or devils cavorted within its crumbling walls. Perhaps it was too cold, too desolate, too empty, even for them.  Maybe they, too, had abandoned the place and left it in peace in its silent disintegration.

Time he was heading home. Howie started the engine and pulled away. He gave one last backward glance at the house through the rear-view mirror. But he did not see the pale, floating, oval face at the window. The face of a haunted child who watched him leave.

 

​