Spring has almost sprung! To mark the occasion, I thought I’d share the next chilling story in the Seasonal Disorders paranormal quartet. Called Last Spring, it’s an unearthly three-chapter tale of a traditional English village that is threatened by primeval forces. I’ve redesigned the cover using a rather gothic cyanotype of an old English church in deepest, darkest Warwickshire. Even though I designed it, I find it unnervingly spooky.
There’s a bonus. The first person to name the church where I took the photograph of the roof gets a free copy of the original print! Just DM me on Facebook. https://www.facebook.com/pam.kelt/ The print is A5 in an A4 mount, btw.
So what is the story about?
Richard Lucy was uneasy. Despite his hay fever, spring had always been his favourite season.
But people were starting to act strangely ... and he swore he saw unearthly goings-on in his garden. What was happening to his rural idyll in leafy Warwickshire?
Before long, his daughter and friends are in mortal peril. As the Supermoon loomed, it shed light on a sight that would haunt him forever …
The first in the series is A Walk in the Park, which I put on the blog in instalments to mark the Winter Solstice. It’s a supernatural Edwardian romance about what might just happen when the sun ‘stands still’ ... It was free on my blog in December 2021 and introduces Miss Lilian Ravenscroft, a downtrodden companion in a strict household who longs for another life ... She gets rather more than she bargains for when she takes a stroll.
The sun. The moon. The stars ... And a plethora of malevolent entities ...
Read the first chapter of Last Spring below. The second and third chapters will appear on consecutive days. But if you can’t wait, head over to Seasonal Disorders for the complete set. This time, I’m giving all proceeds to the Red Cross for their humanitarian work in Ukraine.
Last Spring
by Pamela Kelt
A supernatural mystery
Chapter One
Richard added some shading to his sketch. He wished he’d brought his watercolours to capture the subtle blue and green hues of spring. Perhaps he would return tomorrow ... He put down his pencil and glanced around the familiar churchyard, dazzling in the crisp March sunlight, and took in the scented air.
Above him, a crescent moon was still visible.
His gaze lighted on the familiar double gravestone: one larger cross, with a smaller one tucked into the base. Lichen was beginning to form on the familiar lettering.
The new lychgate had begun to weather in, he thought, but it wasn’t as quaint as the old one. The repairs to the church door were all but complete. It was hard to think that a whole year had gone by since last spring.
Last spring.
His mind drifted back to a similar morning twelve months ago ...
***
‘Ah! Mr Lucy.’ Father Basil Crowsbill strode towards him, a dark figure against the bright backdrop of lilac-coloured crocuses that grew in profusion in the rich, green turf.
Richard sighed inwardly. The priest could never resist baiting him. Personally, he could not see what was so unusual about a single dad looking after a young daughter. It had been over a year since his wife had died, inadvertently taking with her their unborn second child. Putting flowers near the headstone was still painful, but he found solace in the churchyard. He wasn’t religious especially, but somehow he felt that they were both in a better place, wherever they were. This world was too harsh for them.
‘Here again, I see.’ The priest’s pale eyes were stern. He seemed to have a bee in his bonnet that morning.
Richard decided not to take offence. ‘Indeed. It is such a peaceful spot.’
Crowsbill scowled and stole a dubious glance at the sketchbook and sniffed. Richard been sketching the recently pollarded plane trees, their gnarled stumps reminding him of ancient gargoyles, so he’d been adding grotesque faces just for fun. ‘You’ll be attending the village Spring Flower Festival this Sunday?’
‘My daughter will, of course.’
‘At least all the school children are taught to rejoice in God’s work.’
‘Aren’t such festivals based on pagan traditions?’ Richard’s tone was gentle but he was inwardly furious. ‘Those which have since been more or less appropriated by Christianity?’
The priest’s gaze froze. He folded his arms. ‘Well, Mr Lucy,’ he began and an icy sensation crept into Richard’s stomach. ‘I have not seen you coming to any services lately. As you are clearly not one of my flock, then I am of a mind not to extend permission for you to idle away your days in my churchyard. You are cluttering up the place.’
‘But-’ Richard began but stopped on seeing the burgundy flush on his cheeks and neck. Really, the man was going to give himself a seizure. ‘Surely this is a public right of way?’
‘My point exactly. So, I suggest you pack up. The sexton will be along shortly to cut the grass once he has scythed the nettle patches down by the bridge. Oh, and the embargo extends there too.’ With that, he stalked back to the church, a fine example of English Perpendicular from a previous century. The man and the building, thought Richard.
Sighing, he did as requested. His deadline for the next set of illustrations was looming. The churchyard had been useful as it contained so many different popular flowers that he was expected to reproduce for the latest project, a children’s book called ‘A Hundred Hedgerow Gems’ with illustrations by a certain ‘Daisy Bradshaw’. (Thank goodness he’d decided on alias when he had set out in this line of work.) Ah, well. He would just have to find other places to sketch. At least he just had the ‘spring flowers’ section to complete.
As he trudged back to their tiny terraced house – it could not even have been dubbed a cottage – he realised how fond he had become of Hinton Charlecote.
After stacking up the latest drawings, he sat at his desk, but struggled to concentrate, his gaze falling on the large portrait over the fireplace. He did not know why he kept the thing – to taunt himself, perhaps, or to keep himself on the rails. The languid young man in a loose silk shirt and cravat refused to catch his eye and smoked idly. As self-portraits went, it was not bad.
He had had an average childhood then suddenly the war came. He tried not to think about it, although he had not lasted long, for his asthma had saved him from returning to duty. The guilt nearly killed him, though. At first, he had sunk into a black stupor before starting to paint. He mingled with an arty crowd. At first it was fun – his Spartan attic room, the mad late-night discussions, the cocktails and cigarettes mixed with a violent urge to have fun. He experimented with styles and more than a few women, being considered handsome. He even sold a few canvases. Not enough.
The inevitable happened, and one of his models fell pregnant. Poor Agnes. Jaded by the bohemian life, he set about reform, and they muddled by. A friend stepped in. ‘I know a chap in publishing. Want me to give him a bell?’
Jenny was born, a surprisingly robust wee thing, but his wife was sickly. They moved to the country – well, it was cheaper. ‘I sha;l be closer to nature,’ he told his new boss, who had laughed and agreed. Good chap.
Then last year, Agnes became pregnant again and her poor body could not take it. Now it was just him and Jenny.
They were managing.
But was even his new life about to be wrenched away by the bigoted priest? And why was he becoming so irascible?
‘To hell with Basil Crowsbill,’ he muttered and opened the latest commission from London.
Lord. He groaned. This time they wanted a dozen frolicking fairy illustrations for a sequel to children’s picture book he did a few months ago. He hated frolicking fairies with a vengeance. Those transparent wings and gauzy clothes took an age to paint, but needs must. Besides, they needed the cash. He wished he had never done that book on toadstools last autumn.
‘And to hell with bloody fairies.’
***
That morning, a primrose illustration needed some attention, but the flowers came out looking contrived and plastic. He gave up and threw the drawing into the waste paper basket. He prided himself on good quality work – even flowers should have attitude, was his credo.
He rose to make some tea, but the caddy was empty. Time to get out of the house – and maybe find inspiration elsewhere.
Hinton Charlecote was a very small village with a very large church. That was England for you. He queued dutifully at the grocer’s – the only man in the shop. As he stood, wondering when he could take Jenny shopping in Stratford, a harsh voice cut across the room. ‘Atheism is the work of the devil, you know. That’s what my brother says, and he should know. How can you trust someone who doesn’t believe in the Almighty? It doesn’t make sense.’
There were quiet murmurs of assent.
Richard pulled down the brim of his hat, swallowing his urge to weigh in. He knew the voice. It belonged to the priest’s ghastly sister, Hortensia. She was at full throttle and spouted forth, at the front of queue, talking over her shoulder to make sure everyone heard. ‘No backbone, that’s their problem. And look where it’s left the country. On its knees. Not that Lloyd George and woolly liberals can do anything about it. Only the Church can save us now.’
Blessed Basil and she had obviously exchanged unpleasantries earlier that morning. The other women turned and stared at him with cold eyes. Setting his jaw, he held his ground, bought the tea and left without turning back.
***
Was he coming down with something? Drawing was normally easy for him – a quick line here, some shading there ... and suddenly it was done. But today it was as if his fingers were made of dough and his head ached.
Perhaps it was time to start another drawing. Outside, he had a pot of daffodils. Jenny had brought them from school, but because of his hay fever, they had been left by the back door. A shame, for the scent was lovely, but rather overpowering. Within seconds of going near the things, his eyes would stream, the sneezes would start and his chest would tighten and feel as though a hippopotamus was lying on him. And it was not just daffodils – any flower with a strong scent would set him off.
He went into the garden and, holding his breath, picked up the pot and put it on the windowsill before hurrying indoors. He knew this ruse worked well, for he could see the plant clearly from the kitchen table. In fact, he often liked to work there, for the light was good.
Perhaps this year, his symptoms might not be quite so bad. Things had improved a little since he had taken his doctor’s advice about keeping everything properly dusted. ‘One day, there’ll be a tablet you can take, dear fellow. But for now, you’ll just have to do the best you can.’
Mrs Crocker, his lovely neighbour across the road, gave him a jar of local wildflower honey. ‘An old wives’ tale,’ she said, ‘but my auntie used to swear by it. She said it kept her symptoms at bay. Clever bees!’ He thanked her and made sure he had some every morning. It was worth a try.
A knock on the door made his look up in the hope of an entertaining diversion. But no. There on his doorstep was the adamant priest. In the distance, the church clock chimed twelve.
‘And you’ll have to take your child out of school, as well. Right now.’
‘Why? She hasn’t done anything wrong. She’s a bright girl, too.’
‘Because I say so. You’re an ungodly influence.’
‘How dare you!’ He supposed it may have been true ten years ago, but he was now a respectable chap. His protest sounded weak, even to him. Why was Basil being so unreasonable, all of a sudden? He gripped the side of the front door, glaring at the angry bachelor.
‘Excuse me? May I?’
The voice belonged to someone in a leather jacket and trousers, leaning over a motor cycle that was propped at by the gate. Goggles were removed, revealing the smiling face of Daphne Greenway, a grammar school teacher who had come to live in the village a few months back. She had always seemed a little fierce, but her eyes were sympathetic. ‘Couldn’t help overhearing. What’s all this, Father? We don’t want to lose any more children from the school, or it could be in danger of closing.’
Crowsbill spluttered for a second and babbled some nonsense about quotas and waiting lists. Miss Greenway stood her ground. Finally, he blustered: ‘Take this as a warning, Mr Lucy.’ Then he left.
‘Dear, dear. It seems as if the good Father got out bed the wrong side this morning.’ Daphne Greenway eyed the retreating figure.
He managed a smile. ‘Thank you. I wasn’t doing a very good job of fighting back.’
‘Oh, pish. He’s just a silly old coot. Anyway, I hear good things about your girl, Jenny. She’ll be welcome at the grammar school when she’s old enough. Will she sit the entrance?’
‘Thank you, but I don’t think I can afford it – the uniform and books and so forth.’
‘Oh, don’t worry about that. She could go for a scholarship. I can get you the forms, if you like.’
Richard suddenly felt much better about his lot. ‘Well, yes. Thank you.’
Miss Greenway grinned and straddled the motor cycle. ‘Nice to meet you. Haven’t had a chance yet. I mainly spend the weekends here with auntie – we share Lilac Cottage. Weekdays I deal with the boarders, but today there’s school trip to Oxford, so I managed to bunk off. Don’t get me wrong, the girls are terrific, but I love the peace and quiet here.’ She kicked the engine into life. ‘Any more of that silliness from Kaiser Basil and you just let me know. Man’s a menace. Cheerio.’
***
Smiling to himself, Richard went back to work. He skimmed his completed drawings and checked his list. Only a dozen or so more spring flowers to go and he could submit the whole collection.
What was left? Snowdrops. Damn! He’d meant to do them a couple of weeks ago. The ones he’d seen in the verges and woods were now dying back and sprawling in sad clusters. A thought struck him. He recalled that Mrs Crocker had a decent collection of potted bulbs. Perhaps she had some snowdrops that were still in bloom. He popped over and knocked on the door. ‘Good afternoon, Mrs Crocker. I don’t suppose ...’
‘Of course, my dear. Just help yourself. Take the whole pot and whatever else you need. Now, must be off. I’m in charge of decorating the church for the flower festival and I fear dissent over the garlands.’
Relieved, Richard hunted around her large garden and rockery, pouncing on a small pot of snowdrops. He put it next to the daffodils and set to work. The March sun had some warmth and it was positively spring-like. For once, he opened the window and basked in the warmth. He sketched the clump of flowers quickly and moved straight on to using his watercolours, then he knocked the jam jar of water over and ruined it. Fuming, he ditched work for the day and browsed the newspaper.
Finally, four o’clock arrived. He collected Jenny and started to make tea, avoiding any mention of the priest’s outburst.
‘Anything new at school today, poppet?’
‘Fred Sorrel has a boil. And Miss Armstrong handed out three detentions in one day.’
‘Goodness.’
‘Well, some of the boys and girls were a bit naughty.’
‘Maybe it’s just end-of-term-itis. The Easter holidays are coming up.’
‘Thank goodness! Oh, we did the next story in The Magic World. I have to draw my favourite animal from the book. I like Mr Nesbit’s books.’
‘He was a she.’
‘Really?’
He sighed. Miss Armstrong was sometimes quite useless. ‘Her name was Edith and she was a great children’s writer. One of the first, actually. Anyway, have you chosen your animal?’
‘Oh, yes.’ She didn’t think to tell him which one, so he left it at that. Childhood should be full of mysteries and secrets.
‘Miss Greenway was asking after you today.’
Jenny put down her biscuit and looked hopeful. ‘She’s nice, isn’t she? She came to talk to us about life and stuff.’
‘I think we might find a way to put you in for a scholarship for the big school. What do you think of that?’
Her face lit up. ‘Oh, yes please.’ She finished the biscuit, scattering crumbs down her sweater. ‘They do science and French and all sorts of things. I don’t like the uniform, but I suppose I could always take off the beret when I get near home. The village children pull out the bit in the middle and run away.’
‘’Twas ever thus,’ he said, wondering how long she’d been waiting to have the conversation. ‘And if my work goes well, we might get you a tutor, just to make sure you’re ready. Miss Armstrong is lovely, but ...’
‘Could Miss Greenway do it?’
He turned to the sink to hide the colour rising in his cheeks. ‘I’ll ask. Now, go and wash your hands. Tea in five minutes.’
After Jenny had done her drawing of a cheery fire-breathing dragon, he allowed her to stay up a little later than usual. They stood at the kitchen window, staring at the night sky together. ‘Why is the moon so big tonight?’
‘I’ve been reading about that. You know how it goes round the earth? Well, the orbit isn’t circular, but an oval. So sometimes the moon is further away and sometimes it’s nearer. Do you see?’
Jenny nodded. ‘And look, it’s nearly full, too. Will it get any bigger?’
‘The newspaper says so. In fact, it’s going to be very exciting this year.’
‘Why?’
‘We’re going to have a full moon tomorrow night, and this article says the moon is also at the closest point it can ever be to the earth.’
‘So it’s going to be whopping!’
‘Quite right.’ He scanned the rest of the text. ‘There’s also going to be a solar eclipse. It’s when the moon blocks out the light of the sun.’
‘Does it go dark?’
‘A bit, although you still mustn’t look at the sun or you’ll hurt your eyes. Anyway, remember that adventure story when the heroes get caught and have to trick the cannibals so they can escape?’
‘Oh, yes. I thought it was a bit of a cheat.’
He laughed. ‘Yes, except this time it’s for real. And to top it all, it’s the vernal equinox.’
‘The what?’
‘It’s to do with spring. In winter it gets dark very early and in summer, it’s very late, yes?’
‘I know that.’
‘Well, the end of March is exactly half way between the dead of winter and midsummer. The day is split in two, if you like. Twelve hours of daylight and twelve hours of darkness, or thereabouts.’
‘Exactly twelve? And does the same thing happen, but the other way round in autumn?’
‘I can see you’ll be good at science,’ he said and tousled her hair. ‘Yes, you’re quite right, but perhaps you could ask Miss Greenway. She’ll be able to explain it better. Now, time for bed.’
‘It’s too bright to go to sleep, Dad.’
He turned back to the moon. ‘I know what you mean, but you can read for a while, if you like. At least you won’t have to hide your torch under the blanket. Off you go. And clean your teeth!’
‘Aw, Dad,’ she said, but trotted off, The Magic World under her arm. Really, that dressing gown was too short and childish for her. It was time for a new one. She was growing up fast.
He turned back to the room. The washing up languished in the sink, but he was drawn once to the window. The moon was indeed huge. A glowing lamp lighting the way into another world ... He stared at the rueful expression, wondering if it looked that way if you lived in Australia. He yawned and felt exhausted.
Resting his hands on the edge of the sink, he peered into the dark garden, a pocket handkerchief of grass surrounded by half a dozen modest shrubs. Beneath, a few clumps of hellebores still flowered, after surviving the winter, and a some early cowslips were poking through. He rubbed his eyes. Was it his imagination or were the flower heads opening and turning to the moon? He looked away and looked back, but nothing looked out of the ordinary.
Still curious, he went outside. He was aware of the heady perfume coming from the pot of daffodils on the windowsill. It was odd, though. Why would they be smelling so strongly at this time? He took another breath. The night air was so fragrant. It reminded his of a trip he’d taken to the south of France with his arty friends. If he tried hard, he could still recall the warmth of the sun on his face. He’d barely coughed the whole time ...
He reopened his eyes. The dark air above the ground seemed to shimmer and twist, just as he’d once seen on a hot day at the beach, but it was cold out tonight. The movement ceased and he shook his head. He was just tired, and perhaps he needed new glasses.
Returning inside, he drew the curtains and put the kettle on. The cup of tea helped his sleep, but it did nothing to assuage the strange dreams ...
He was floating over the village, as if on a flying carpet, admiring the grass and flowers below, but then the sun began to set and the sky turned dark. The carpet accelerated and he was clinging on as it careered along, over the church before following the course of the river. A bright moon was reflected in the rippling water, but at the banks ... he felt himself letting out a cry. They were swarming with tiny creatures, twisting and turning, jostling to get to the water’s edge. Each one had a stubby pair of transparent wings, but their clothes weren’t gauzy and fine, but tattered grey rags and their limbs were bony. As he stared at them, their faces turned into leering skulls, with holes for eyes.
He woke up in a cold sweat. Bloody fairies.
___________________________________
Come back tomorrow for the next chapter.
Comments
Post a Comment