Welcome back to the release of a free creepy tale to mark the Vernal Equinox. Today sees the second chapter of Last Spring, part of the Seasonal Disorders quartet. In chapter one, Richard Lucy is puzzled by strange goings-on in his normally quiet village. Is it something to do with Supermoon? Then the nightmares begin ...
Last Spring
Chapter 2
Father and daughter both overslept a little the next morning, but it was Saturday and Richard decided not to worry. He made Jenny her breakfast, but his head was pounding after his restless night. The dreams, or rather nightmares, had unsettled him, and he was looking forward to a quiet morning catching up with his work while Jenny went round to her friend’s house.
Perhaps his allergy was getting worse. Idly, as he handed Jenny her satchel, he tried to remember a book he had read about how flowers gave off their scent. Was it something to do with tiny droplets of volatile oils? He recalled something about how perfume was made from the essence of petals. He wondered if they emitted the scent all the time, or just when they were hoping to be pollinated. Miss Greenway would know, he thought, and felt better.
‘Dad, there’s a letter for you.’ Jenny picked up an envelope from the mat.
‘It must have been hand-delivered.’ He glanced at the name and address, written out in neat capitals. A sense of foreboding made him put it to one side. ‘Never mind that now. Off you go. Have fun.’
She gave him the usual kiss and ran out. ‘Careful crossing the road.’ He heard his own words and felt guilty. Really, he mustn’t fuss so much. ‘Sausages for tea,’ he called after her, laughing as she waved back. Fondly, he watched her walk along the pavement. She was so precious that he was already dreading the day when she would finally leave home.
He tore open the envelope. ‘Leave this place and take your stupid child with you. You’ve never been welcome here. Heathens!’
Tears pricked at his eyes. Bloody Basil Crowsbill – or his toxic sister. He nearly burned the sheet but recalled Daphne Greenway’s words. Should he show her? Yes, he damned well would. He folded the poison pen letter and stuffed it into his desk drawer, feeling grubby.
The harsh jangle of an ambulance bell drew him to the window. The vehicle careered down the main street and screeched to a halt by the church. Richard hesitated, but decided it wasn’t his business. Half an hour later, a police car drew up across the road. Feeling worried, he glanced out and saw two policeman ring the bell of Mrs Crocker’s house. The maid answered and he heard her cry out, then the men went inside.
He hurried out and across the road and knocked. A young constable appeared, looking anxious.
‘Is there something wrong? Can I help?’
The young man hesitated. ‘Poor maid’s in a state. Bad news, I’m afraid.’
‘Can you tell me what happened?’
The policeman glanced over his shoulder. ‘It’s Mrs Crocker.’
Richard felt cold. ‘I know her well. We’re good friends.’
‘She was at the church. On the roof, threatening to throw herself off.’
‘What!’ Richard reeled. ‘I only just saw her yesterday afternoon – and she seemed her normal chipper self.’
A shrug. ‘The sexton saw her running into the church, weeping and wailing, he said. Next thing he knew, she was up on the roof then he called us. Just as well. We managed to persuade her to come down.’
‘Good God. This doesn’t make sense. I can’t believe it. Where is she now?’
‘Cottage hospital in Warwick. Sedated.’
‘Right. Best place, I suppose.’
‘Sorry, sir. A shame.’ He closed the door.
***
He was so shocked, he couldn’t settle to any decent work. Mrs Crocker was a sweet, kind soul who’d been friendly from the start, even when some of the other villagers had been standoffish. She’d never shown any sign of depression – quite the reverse.
Jenny would be upset, too.
To clear his head, he decided he’d better get out and get the sausages as promised.
He put on his hat and coat and made his way down the street. With luck, the vicar’s ghastly sister would be busy spouting off her nonsense elsewhere. As he reached the butcher’s, he stopped in surprise. The closed sign was dangling in the door.
The postman was passing as he stared, confused. ‘What’s going on, Jack?’
‘You haven’t heard? It’s the solicitor’s sister, Miss Penny.’
‘What about her?’
‘Horrible business. Mr Forsyth got home from his office in Stratford and found the ambulance men carrying out her off on a stretcher. The butcher’s lad was there to deliver the weekly order, but when he knocked, no-one answered the door. He peeped through the window and saw her in the parlour. Writhing about on the floor.’ This was added in a horrified whisper.
‘Good Lord.’
‘Poison, they reckon.’
‘How do you know this?’
‘He told my son – best pals they are. And there’s more ...’ The postman licked his lips. ‘She was all dolled up, so the lad said. Lipstick, the lot. A wig, too. And in such clothes as a respectable woman shouldn’t be caught dead in, if you get my drift.’
Richard felt his jaw drop. ‘Miss Forsyth. I thought, well ...’
‘I know. Bit of a prude, but that’s what I heard. Can’t get the image out of me head.’
They both shuddered.
‘Poor little lad was all in a tizz, so his mum and dad shut up shop for the day.’
‘Understandable.’
Feeling shaken, Richard called in at the grocer’s and managed to pick up some bacon and eggs instead. As he left, he caught sight of Mr Biggins, a quiet little man who ran a tiny hardware store. To Richard’s astonishment, he saw him slip into the public bar of the village pub. The man was a staunch Methodist. What was he doing, drinking at this time?
Shaking his head, he crossed the road and nearly bumped into the schoolteacher Miss Armstrong. Not an unusual event in a small community, but today the normally meek-mannered and pleasantly dim creature was smoking a cigarette. ‘Well, well, Mr Lucy,’ she said, puffing out a perfect smoke ring through red painted lips. ‘Lovely day for stroll, don’t you think?’
The wink she gave him made him almost sprint for cover.
***
Jenny got back in time for lunch. After some hasty sandwiches, he coughed nervously. ‘Jenny, do you fancy a walk?’
‘All right.’ She ran to fetch her hat and coat. ‘Where are we going?’
‘I thought we might just call in on Miss Greenway, if that’s all right. She should be around this afternoon.’
Her daughter was only ten, but the look she gave him was wise beyond her years. He pulled her hat down over nose to make her laugh and off they went.
Lilac Cottage was a proper cottage. Thatched roof, mullioned windows, daintily rugged rockery and beams galore. Taking a deep breath, he knocked on the door. At first no-one answered, then he heard footsteps and the door opened. Daphne Greenway stood there in a baggy sweater and tweed trousers. She was holding a wrench and her fingers were covered in grime. ‘Sorry! Just clearing the drains. Hello, Mr Lucy.’
‘Richard, please.’
‘I won’t shake your hand right now!’ She waved her palms in apology. ‘Richard, then. Now you must call me Daphne. Everything all right?’
‘Of course,’ he mumbled, not wanting to speak in front of his daughter. ‘Just wondered about, you know, the school?’
‘Yes, yes. Do come in, both of you. Hello, Jenny.’
His daughter turned pink. ‘Good afternoon, Miss Greenway.’
Daphne laughed. ‘Could one of you put the kettle on while I clean myself up? There are biscuits in the tin. And I think I saw some frog spawn in the pond. My aunt’s out there now, if you’d like to take a look.’ She flicked an eyebrow at Richard, who nodded, and they retired to the kitchen as Jenny charged into the back garden.
As Daphne washed her hands, he leant against the counter, waiting for the kettle to boil.
‘You look pale, Richard. You all right?’
‘No, actually. Things have been rather horrible.’ He cleared his throat. ‘Well, you heard Basil have his say, then there was nasty talk in the shop. This morning, I received a poison pen letter – from the language it was Basil or his sister. Then did you hear about Mrs Crocker and Miss Forsyth?’ He rapidly told her the latest news and what he’d seen in the village. ‘Is everyone going mad?’
‘Funny you should ask.’
‘Oh?’
‘You know Mrs Purdy, the baker’s wife? Auntie spotted her taking a dip in the river.’
‘Good Lord.’
‘In a rather daring fashion, if you understand me.’
He burst out laughing. ‘Sorry, but it is strange. Is everything is all right in Stratford?’
‘As much as you’d expect in a girls-only school in Middle England, run by frustrated spinsters.’ She made the tea and poured him a cup.
‘So, what is happening here? Mass hysteria of some sort, do you think?’
‘But it’s not everybody, is it?’
‘Could it be something random, but toxic? Bad water, or rotten flour. Or possibly some strange disease, like St Vitus’ dance?’
‘The mania of the Middle Ages? A thought.’
He was getting into his stride. ‘What about ergot poisoning? Those strange seizures caused by bad rye?’
She nodded. ‘I don’t think I recall much rye bread at the baker’s. It isn’t as popular as white, is it?’
‘No, but-’ he shrugged.
The door opened and Jenny raced in. ‘Dad, look! You can see the full moon already. See? I saw the reflection in the pond. It’s a lovely pond, Miss Greenway.’
‘Full moon, eh?’ Daphne exchanged a look with Richard over Jenny’s head. ‘Here’s some food for the fish, Jenny. Just a couple of pinches.’
‘You have fish too?’ Jenny ran outside again.
Smiling as he watched his daughter, Richard rubbed his chin. ‘Lord, you don’t think this special moon is turning us all into lunatics?’
‘Ah, the perigee-syzygy?’
‘The what?’
‘Just showing off. It’s the technical term for this mega-moon, or whatever, although someone clearly needs to come up with a better name, but that’s all it is. Not the harbinger of doom, or any such nonsense. And the vernal equinox should be pretty harmless, too.’’
‘What about the solar eclipse?’
‘I see you’re a keen astronomer.’
‘Not really. Just reading about it in the newspaper while trying to avoid work.’
‘You’re an artist, I gather?’
‘Illustrator – mainly children’s books.’
She smiled. ‘Lucky you. It sounds wonderful – to be part of a child’s world, but without all the messy bits. I love teaching science, but sometimes I miss that sense of mystery ...’ She took a sip of tea and stared into the middle distance for a second. ‘Anyway, as far I’m concerned, all these celestial occurrences are all perfectly normal phenomena. And as for the behaviour in the village, given my profession, I would prefer to find a scientific explanation.’
‘I agree and I’m not superstitious, but I’ve been terribly restless and my work just isn’t going well. On top of that, I’ve been having the most peculiar dreams. Nightmares, really. And I wonder if I saw something in the garden last night. Crikey. I sound insane.’
‘You seem pretty rational to me.’
‘Thanks! Cheers.’ He took another sip of tea and explained about the weird effects. ‘And no, I haven’t been eating magic mushrooms.’
She laughed and patted his arm as she pottered about the kitchen, tidying up. He felt her warmth and decided he could stay in that cosy sanctuary forever.
‘I have a suggestion,’ she said. ‘Let’s garner the facts we have then take a walk around the village and see what’s what.’
‘What about Jenny?’
‘My aunt can supervise. She used to be the schoolteacher in the village before Miss Armstrong turned up.’
‘Ah! Good idea. I didn’t realise you were related.’
‘She’s the reason I came to live here. We get along well.’
‘Sounds nice.’
‘She’s a good egg. Actually,’ she caught his eye, ‘she really straightened me out. I wasn’t always such a pillar of society. Right. I’ll fetch a pen.’
***
They listed every odd occurrence, but when they looked at the list of eccentric – and self-destructive – behaviour, it made no obvious pattern. Just a random set of villagers misbehaving. It was very odd.
‘Let’s ferret about,’ said Daphne.
‘All right.’
They said goodbye to Jenny and Aunt Claire, who were busy planting marigold seeds.
‘Even if I had a camera, it would be difficult to capture that odd effect of the twisting air,’ he said, as they left and walked down the main street.
‘You could draw it, though.’
‘That’s true. I have an idea. Why don’t you come round for tea later and when it’s dark, take a look in my garden for yourself.’
‘A good plan. I have some sausages to contribute. For tea, not the garden.’
‘Oh, you shouldn’t ... but I won’t say no.’ He felt his cheeks colour. ‘Thank you for taking all this so seriously.’
‘In my interest,’ she said, and took his arm as they crossed the road. ‘Let’s give the gossips something really juicy to chew on, shall we?’
***
First stop was the bakery. ‘I don’t know Mr Purdy well enough to interrogate the poor chap.’
Daphne stared into the window. ‘Well, nothing untoward here. The usual array of hot cross buns and fairy cakes. Sorry!’ She grinned at his expression. ‘Have you tried the ones with the sugar-coated violets? They are just dreamy.’
He rolled his eyes and they continued down the street until they reached the solicitor’s house.
‘Let’s take a peek.’
‘You’re daring.’
‘I was one of the first women at Oxford to get a degree.’
‘Ah.’
She stopped at the gate. ‘So? Shall we invade?’
‘In for a penny.’ He felt quite giddy.
They lifted the latch and walked boldly up to the window through which the unfortunate butcher’s boy had witnessed the lascivious scene.
Daphne stood on tiptoe and peered in. ‘The seizures suggest strychnine. It’s quite straightforward to get hold of that particular poison in a rural area. After all, who hasn’t suffered a vermin infestation at some point?’
‘You sound like Dorothy L Sayers.’
‘I knew her, actually.’
‘Really?’
‘I’d share a port with her from time to time, but she was a bit bossy.’
Richard stood next to her, trying to peer in past the potted hyacinths on the windowsill inside. ‘I can see a rather horrible heap of dresses and ribbons. What was Miss Forsyth doing?’
‘Trying them on and parading in front of the mirror. See, she’s lifted the one down from over the fireplace.’
‘I’ll take your word for it. Anything else out of the ordinary?’
Daphne shook her head. The clock chimed half-past four and they left.
He took a deep breath, somewhat relieved their venture had not met with instant imprisonment. ‘I know Mrs Crocker’s maid, Gladys. Maybe she has some news.’
‘Or information.’ Daphne agreed and they headed back.
He knocked and Gladys duly appeared, looking pale and tear-stained. She let them into the parlour.
Richard perched on the chintzy couch. ‘How is Mrs Crocker?’
‘The doctor telephoned to say she’s calm now, Mr Lucy, thanks for asking. She’s just sleeping it off. I’ll visit tomorrow, if I can get a bus.’
Daphne pressed a note into the girl’s hand. ‘Don’t be silly. Take a taxi. No, I insist. Now, can you tell us what happened?’
Gladys blew her nose. ‘Well, she came back from the church. She was a bit cross, actually, because some of the ladies hadn’t turned up. But then she laughed it off, like she always does. Well, she had her afternoon lie-down as usual, but then I heard her crying. She burst out of her room, ran down the stairs and straight out into the street and back to the church. I called the Father, and the next thing I knew, the police were on the doorstep.’ Tears welled. ‘I don’t understand it at all. She just seemed to lose her mind. Sorry.’
They made sympathetic noises and after a decent interval took their leave.
After collecting Jenny, all three returned to Richard’s house. Preparing tea was more fun than usual, especially as Miss Greenway insisted on switching on the radio to a jazz station.
They played snakes and ladders and finally Jenny went to bed.
He tidied up, and as he returned to the lounge, he found Daphne scrutinising the painting over the fireplace.
‘You?’
He nodded.
‘Wonderful portrait. Who did it?’
‘Um, I did, actually.’
She angled her head and considered it further. ‘Yes, I wondered. Why ever did you stop? It’s rather good.’
‘Life got complicated. You know, the crazy life of the artist.’ He didn’t feel he knew her well enough to confess just yet.
‘Ah.’ Daphne turned her gaze upon him, and it seemed she understood. ‘I moved with rather a fast set myself. Nearly came a cropper.’
He went to a small cupboard. ‘I have some port left, if you’re interested.’
‘Why not?’
He poured what was left into two tumblers. ‘To leaving the dark years in the past,’ he said.
‘Agreed.’ They chinked glasses and moved into the kitchen, where the moonlight was streaming in.
‘Just look at that.’ Daphne gazed upwards. ‘God, I’d love a fag, but I’m trying to give up.’
‘Good for you.’ He joined her and stared at the moon. ‘It looks full enough to burst, like a giant seed pod of Honesty.’ He laughed, embarrassed.
‘You should write and illustrate your own books.’
‘Really? Well, I have thought about it, but I’ve never really – what?’
She was gripping his arm. ‘I think I saw something on the ground. Or ...’ She put down the glass of port. ‘Every time I focus, it vanishes. Wait. I have an idea. Have you got a mirror?’
Pulse racing, he hurried out and tiptoed back with the old one from the hall. ‘This do?’
She placed a finger on her lips and switched off the light. Then she turned around, tilting the mirror so they could both see a reflection of the moonlit garden.
‘My Lord.’
The clock ticked lazily as they boggled at the sight. The tiny garden seethed with a host of tiny bluish-grey figures. They weren’t corporeal as such, but more a ripple of dark nothingness, yet the wings were quite distinct.
He felt Daphne’s body tense and knew she could see the uncanny scene as well. They both watched, horrified and fascinated at the same time. ‘What are they doing?’ she whispered.
‘Dancing? Whatever it is, they seem to be enjoying themselves.’
The activity was particularly feverish under the laurel. ‘What is that?’ Daphne whispered, touching a shape on the mirror.
He swallowed. ‘Um, it looks like a cauldron. And they’re ripping up the cowslips and throwing them in. How extraordinary.’
They turned to stare at each other. The mirror slipped and he only just caught it as it thumped onto the counter. Quickly, he held it up again, and the movement calmed and drew in to a single point of stillness, almost as if someone had reversed the effect of ripples spreading across a pond. The frenzied figures seemingly vanished into the shrubs, leaving a series of mystic trails in the night air.
He leaned on the counter, pressing down with his fists, breathing heavily.
‘Richard? Are you all right?’
‘Not really.’ He reached to the bookcase over the kitchen table and pulled out the first fairy book he’d illustrated. ‘Look. A sketch of hedgerow fairies.’
She did so and gasped. ‘They’re the spitting image! Well, almost. The ones outside are more raggedy and skeletal, but how can this be?’
‘Well, at least I don’t need to sketch what’s going on outside,’ he said, aware his voice was a little shaky. ‘I’ve done it already.’
Daphne made some strong coffee, reassured him and promised to be back first thing in the morning.
‘Lock your door,’ she suggested. ‘Draw the curtains and don’t look out.’
‘I’m worried about Jenny. What if she-’ He stopped.
‘You could sleep on the couch.’
He nodded and felt quite overcome when Daphne kissed him on the cheek. ‘Get some rest,’ she whispered and let herself out. ‘I’ll be back first thing and we can put our heads together.’
***
At first, he didn’t think he would ever fall asleep, for his brain was feverishly awake. However, he must have dropped off at some point and awoke early.
It was Sunday, a bright spring morning and his spirits rose. Perhaps all the nonsense of yesterday would just blow over. And Daphne would be popping round soon ... Whistling, he made breakfast.
‘Jenny? Off to Sunday School?’
‘Oh, yes,’ she replied and ran downstairs, noting his disappointment. ‘The hymns are awful, but they give us custard creams and orange squash.’
‘Maybe we are heathens,’ he muttered. A quarter of an hour later, she’d skipped off through the front door. ‘See you later.’
He did the washing up, glancing occasionally into the garden, which seemed perfectly innocent in the soft morning light. Nothing supernatural in sight. The strange creatures were just a figment of his imagination.
A brisk rapping at the front door disturbed his reverie. He hurried down the hallway, pleased to see Daphne’s reassuring features.
‘Everything all right?’ she asked, dumping her handbag on the table as if she lived there.
He massaged the stubble on his chin. ‘Yes. Sorry, I must look a sight.’
‘Show me the rest of your books,’ she said, striding to the bookcase.
‘Pardon me?’
She ran her fingernail along the titles. ‘It struck me in the early hours. Somehow, you have an intuition into this nonsense. Fairies. Flowers. Let’s see what’s on your shelf.’
‘I, what? All right.’ He traipsed after her, feeling inadequate. ‘Well, there’s the Hundred Gems series. I’m working on hedgerows at the moment – just the spring flowers to do. See, there are the other two: wildflowers and woodland wonders. Then there are the four guides to seasonal garden flowers. They’re still selling well. Gawd.’ He pulled out a thin volume. The Language of Flowers. The author wanted smiling faces on the flowers at first, and I refused point blank. What a battle – you’d never know that from the text, just reams of sentimental bunk. I got my way in the end – which is just as well because I needed the money. Not that it made much.’
Daphne skimmed the pages.
‘It’s all utter nonsense,’ he continued, ‘but very popular in Victorian times, I believe. This was a reissue, but it just wasn’t that successful. Well, after the war, the old beliefs didn’t hold.’
‘Hmm.’ Daphne sighed and put the book down. ‘Ironic, really. You’re such an expert in flowers, yet you can’t go near them.’
He grinned. ‘Quirky, eh? But it’s not an insurmountable problem.’ He pointed to the pots on the outside windowsill then sneezed. ‘Oops, left the window open.’ He closed it and wiped his eyes.
As they cleared, he found Daphne staring at him. ‘Maybe the strange behaviour isn’t so random after all.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘Perhaps you aren’t behaving oddly because you keep away from flowers.’
‘And you?’
‘I’m in Stratford most of the time. And auntie gets hay fever, too, so she doesn’t have flowers indoors.’
His gazed drifted towards the garden. ‘You’ll have to tell to try some honey, just a country remedy. Perhaps it means I’m immune.’
‘Interesting. Let’s look at our list again. Basil Crowsbill turning into a ranting curmudgeon ... the solicitor’s sister getting all dolled up and posing ... Mrs Purdy and her racy aquatic habits ... Mrs Crocker’s sudden despair ... And as for Miss Armstrong ...’
Richard mind raced. ‘I’ve just remembered that the windowsills at the Forsyth place were filled with hyacinths – and the windows were closed.’
Daphne seized The Language of Flowers and skimmed the pages. ‘But hyacinths mean constancy.’
‘Damn.’
‘No, wait. Blue hyacinths mean constancy, but white hyacinths mean something quite different. And I quote: “This lovely flower denotes unobtrusive loveliness.”’
‘The opposite of which is lewdness, I suppose? Good Lord, Daphne. You’re saying the flowers are causing the opposite effect of their traditional values? What about the others? Well, the churchyard is full of crocuses and I suppose Basil and his sister would be exposed to their pollen on a regular basis.’
‘Crocuses ... crocuses. Their message is “good cheer” and “abuse not”. So rude grumpiness is the reverse.’
‘Quite. Now I understand Mrs Purdy’s exhibitionism, too. Remember the sugar-coated violets? They mean modesty, if I recall.’
‘Correct. So all the various instances are the result of flowers giving off their scent in a perversely topsy-turvy fashion. I’ve heard of being away with the fairies, but this is too much.’
Richard rubbed face. ‘I still don’t understand what happened to Mrs Crocker. Wait.’ He dashed through to the front room and called through. ‘There’s a tree in blossom outside the house – and her bedroom window’s open.’ He hurried back. ‘Look up almond blossom. What does that signify?’
She flipped back to the start of the book. ‘Hope.’
They stared at each other in horror.
At that point, the light seemed to dim. Daphne peered out of the window. ‘The solar eclipse is starting to happen,’ she said. ‘The moon’s starting to block the sun.’
A weird rustling started up and they both turned to look out across the garden. Daphne gasped. ‘I can see them, now. Ugh. They’re terrifying and rather disgusting, all squirming on the ground like that. Not like the cute fairies in the storybooks, are they? No disrespect. All skin and bone, positively skeletal.’
Together, they watched as a sea of swarming creatures, swayed to and fro, jeering in triumph at the sky. They linked arms and danced, pounding the grass into a mulch. In the centre, next to the cauldron, a tiny hunch-backed creature shrieked and the fairies all around fell silent. He reached for what looked like a bent shepherd’s crook and dipped it into the liquid.
Above, the sky darkened a little more and a black disc could be seen to touch the edge of the sun, as if some celestial giant had taken a bite out of its golden surface.
With a roar, the creature drew up the crook and shook it in triumph, yellows drops of liquid gushing downwards, revealing a bunch of keys. He swept them into his hand and paraded them in front of the supernatural multitude as their roaring and stamping rose to a frenzy.
‘What are they cooking up?’
‘Trouble,’ said Daphne, her face severe. She hunched her shoulders. ‘We’re not that far from Stratford-upon-Avon, after all. “Ill met by moonlight” and all that. Maybe Shakespeare wasn’t making it up.’
‘What about that bunch of keys?’
‘Hold on.’ She flipped through the book, frowning. ‘Listen, I’ve just looked up cowslip. “In some parts of the country, it is called the ‘Key Flower’ for its cluster of golden flower head resembles a bunch of keys, the emblem of St Peter.”’
Richard nodded. ‘I remember that bit. One day, St Peter, the gatekeeper, heard a rumour that people were trying to enter heaven by the back door, instead of the front gates. He was so agitated at such irreverent behaviour that he dropped his bunch of keys. They fell to earth, took root and cowslips bloomed on the very spot.’
Daphne flipped over the page. ‘“Fairies love and protect cowslips,” she read, her voice turning serious. “Touching a fairy rock with a cowslip posy opens the way to fairyland.”’
He stared at her. ‘So what’s the key all about? Do you think they’re trying to unlock somewhere?’
She shrugged. ‘Yes – and it gives me a horrible feeling in the pit of my stomach.’
He shivered. ‘I have hellebores in the garden, too. Aren’t they to do with demons and possession?’
Daphne consulted the text and nodded.
He took a deep breath. ‘All right. So, I can’t believe I’m saying this, look at what we’re seeing. The fairies are back – and up to mischief. What if your mega-moon and the solar eclipse stirred them up?’
‘Not forgetting the vernal equinox, of course. Quite a celestial trilogy.’
At that point, the light dimmed noticeably. Daphne peered out of the window. ‘The eclipse is on its way.’
‘How long does it last?’
‘The moon can only block the sun for a few minutes, but the whole process of sun and moon overlapping and moving on can affect the light for several hours.’
Outside the noise of the tiny creatures was growing louder, then suddenly, with the speed of a shoal of silver fish in the shallows, their wings unfurled en masse. Flapping madly, they soared into the air in a large, rippling mass and shot upwards.
‘Where are they going?’
Richard raced outside and stared as the swarm turned and headed off. He felt a wave of nausea and ran indoors. ‘We have to go now,’ he said, grabbing his coat.
Daphne grabbed her bag. ‘Where?’
‘Church,’ he said, stuffing the flower book in his pocket. ‘The creatures are already there, streaming around the steeple.’
Daphne turned pale. ‘Oh, God. It’s the spring flower festival today.’ Her eyes clouded with horror. ‘The place is stuffed with daffodils. If we’re right about our theory, they’ll drive the children to madness and despair.’
Without another word, they tore out of the house and ran towards the churchyard.
_________________________________
Come back tomorrow for the third and final chapter.
Click here to go back to Chapter One.
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