The Witch's Sister

By Ariel Dodson

Two years after the terrifying events at Southmore Arlen and Alice share a strained existence with their mother. A holiday to Edinburgh seems just the thing to bring the family closer together. But the voices of the past echo still, and when the tragic story of two sisters, victims of the Scottish witch hunts, reaches into the present, Arlen must call on an ancient power if she is to save her sister’s life. But power comes at a price and Arlen will not be quite the same again, especially when Robbie MacKenzie, her ally from Southmore, reappears on the scene...

• Language: English
• Publisher: Ariel Dodson
• Release date: Dec 14, 2014
• ISBN: 9781310875762

Ariel Dodson

Ariel Dodson writes fantasy, mystery, weird and horror fiction for adults and teenagers.She is the author of Blood Moon, a novel inspired by a 16th century werewolf legend, and the Southmore fantasy series for teenagers involving magic, jewels and an ancient family curse. The most recent novel in the series, The Shadow Heart, was published in August 2017.Ariel's short fiction has been published in Ellery Queen Mystery Magazine, Dark Lane Anthology, Red Cape Publishing's A-Z of Horror series (F is for Fear and J is for Jack o'Lantern volumes), Kandisha Press' Women of Horror series (Don't Break The Oath volume), Kids Are Hell anthology (Hellbound Books Publishing) and, most recently, the Sand, Salt, Blood anthology (Sliced Up Press). Her story, "The Keeper", will appear in the forthcoming At The Lighthouse anthology (Eibonvale Press).

Book preview

THE WITCH’S SISTER

By Ariel Dodson

Copyright 2014 Ariel Dodson

All Rights Reserved

Ariel Dodson has asserted her right under the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act, 1988 to be identified as the author of this work

Discover other titles by Ariel Dodson at https://www.smashwords.com/profile/view/ArielDodson

Ebook Cover Design by www.ebooklaunch.com

Smashwords Edition

This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

Chapter One

The car wound slowly around green pine hills; mini-forests of close, secretive darkness, a tiny memory of the once bountiful woodland which must have covered the area. They were well over the border now, and their mother’s usually fast, impatient driving, designer shoe constantly down on the accelerator, had given way to a resigned lethargy. The motorway had been busy – holiday time – and wet, and Arlen, seated alone in the back seat, had gazed blankly on a monotonous greyness through the blurring rivulets of water that ran down the pane in small streams. They had left her alone. Alice, in the front with their mother, had spent much of the journey occupied in switching CDs around, with short breaks for Radio 4 news as requested by Margaret. Having stopped briefly for an undercooked, greasy fast food meal at a rest station, they had been back on their way for several hours, and once over the border the blank grey wall outside the window had given way to a dark greenery. Even through the tear-stained windows Arlen could see the tall fronds swaying slightly in the breeze, whispering close, dark, forgotten secrets of the earth. Had they even noticed her? she wondered idly. Were humans of any consequence at all to them, until they felt the cold teeth of the chainsaw biting into their trunks?

Occasionally they passed a small stone farm, or a tiny gaggle of houses close together, but mostly it was tall hills with frowning trees. Arlen leant her forehead against the window and felt the condensation gather on her skin with slimy fingers. She had caught a small glimpse of the sea when they crossed over, a quick glimmer of sun and blue water revealed by a temporary break in the clouds, but it was alien and she drew her jacket more closely around her.

Are you alright back there? her mother’s voice broke through for a second, as it had done for intervals throughout the trip, and, not really expecting an answer, then resumed its conversation with Alice about the house and holiday plans. Oh Margaret had tried, there was no doubt about that, but after two years she had grown used to her eldest daughter’s long silences and her strange, deep eyes which turned to look through and beyond her when she addressed them. The twins had clung together for the first few months. Margaret had never entirely unravelled the story of their meeting in Southmore and, to be perfectly honest, didn’t really want to know. The thought of her childhood home in the tiny Cornish village gripped her like ice at the heart – so far away from everything that mattered, so behind the times, so strange. In a way, she could attempt to understand Arlen’s reticence – poor child, all alone there for twelve years except for ancient Aunt Maud, who had always had a plank or two missing if Margaret remembered correctly. But such sympathetic thoughts usually allowed other memories to surface, namely the splitting of the twins as babies between their parents, and the teenage Margaret, driving down one gale-blown, soaking day, to deliver baby Arlen into that life. No wonder the girl didn’t feel that she could trust her, and that was what Margaret did feel when Arlen turned her strange, bright gaze on her mother. She wasn’t trusted. And although she couldn’t blame her daughter, she preferred to switch off from those feelings of guilt and think about something more positive, which wasn’t hard, as the PR firm she worked for had recently landed a large museum contract and the work had been pouring in. That was one of the reasons she had finally decided to opt for the holiday in Edinburgh and Barney’s recommendation of the traditional Scottish house available for rent over the summer. Barney Thompson had been the firm lawyer almost as long as Margaret had worked there, and they had had an on-again, off-again relationship for years. Currently they were back on, and Margaret had been torn between taking the girls on holiday to Hawaii with him or spending some quality time, as the saying went, alone with her daughters.

Not that she hadn’t tried already. She had taken several weeks off when she had first collected them from Cornwall – tiny, thin creatures with enormous eyes and haunted expressions. Neither would talk about what had happened there except in vague terms, and a child psychologist friend of a colleague had suggested that it was probably best to let them get around to it themselves. Love and trust come first, tackle the other problems later. And she had tried. Talking with them, taking them out, telling them about work. She had pulled strings and got them into a good school, had attended every parent-teacher night, and helped them with their homework. Arlen more than Alice, poor thing. Her education had been seriously neglected, and although she could outshine any of the others in the reading department, was decidedly deficient in other areas and needed an awful lot of extra work. She had thought about a learning assistant, except that it seemed to suggest that Arlen was troubled or mentally challenged in some way, and she hadn’t felt it was fair. So she had engaged a private tutor and given up time herself. There had been some progress, but the annoying thing was that she always had the feeling that Arlen was quite capable of quick study, it was just that she didn’t see the point and couldn’t be bothered. Margaret had tried to explain to her about the modern world but this was hard, especially when the child had grown up amongst a village of elderly people still living as if it were centuries earlier.

It was strange, too, that the closer she and Alice seemed to grow, the more strained the twins’ relationship appeared. The household had altered from the girls huddled and whispering secretively together in a corner, to Margaret and Alice becoming the best of friends and Arlen always seeming to be the spare part. This was through no fault of theirs, Margaret was sure. They had both tried to include her, but she didn’t seem to be interested. In some way, it seemed as if she was still living in Southmore in her mind, and she became more and more introverted as the months went on. She constantly carried a small velvet pouch in her pocket, and occasionally would take it out and peer into it like a sibyl, so that Margaret couldn’t help but wonder what it was Aunt Maud had actually been teaching her. Once she had come upon Arlen by surprise, with the contents of the pouch spilled over her hand like fiery drops of blood, but when she had sensed someone behind her she had drawn the fragments quickly together in her closed fist and disappeared into her room. Margaret had had a vague, frightening sense of having seen them somewhere before, and had suffered strange dreams for the next few nights about a dark, tossing sea and a white hand, some recurrent nightmare from her childhood that she had submerged well into herself and forgotten all about. She had watched Arlen more closely from that time, a fear growing silently in her heart for her strange, lost daughter.

Alice had been suspicious at first and very protective of her sister, recognising how new everything was to her. Alice had also been poorly raised, by Gary, their good-for-nothing father, a small time gambler and crook, although Margaret hadn’t known that when she married him. The relationship hadn’t lasted long, any feelings well over before the twins were born, but Gary had insisted that he have one of them, as if they were things rather than people, simply because he didn’t like to feel he was missing out, and Margaret, at nineteen and in the throes of a severe depression, hadn’t felt able to cope with one baby let alone two. So Arlen had ended up in Cornwall with Aunt Maud, and Alice had spent the first twelve years of her life on the run with her father, dodging the law and occasionally bullets, and often living out of peanut and biscuit packets at hotels, where her father would leave her alone for long periods of time, out on his business trips. Margaret felt as though she would kill him if she ever saw him again, but then, she had let him take Alice, knowing full well he wouldn’t – couldn’t – be a responsible parent. She had been so determined to make it up to them, and Alice, after her initial hostility, which Margaret couldn’t help but feel was partially echoed from Arlen, had become good friends with her mother and had settled well into London life. A stable home, stable school, and the modern, predictable world she was used to, had left Alice chatty and excited and happy. She had tried to encourage Arlen to enjoy her new life, but her twin had appeared to regard this as some sort of traitorous behaviour. Margaret had hinted to Alice for the story, but Alice had remained tight-lipped, and at one point had departed to her room in tears. Therapy might be on the cards eventually, but Arlen had been through enough for the moment, and Margaret was determined to give her as much space as she needed.

That was one of the reasons she had chosen this holiday, with the freedom of a large rented house just outside of Edinburgh and complete with housekeeper and gardener, where she could switch off the phone and the laptop and be with her girls for a full month before the onslaught of the new account in September. She needed to know them properly, and after two years of trying still didn’t feel as if she had scratched much of the surface. It was funny – they looked identical, except for the fact that Alice was growing her hair out like the other girls at school, while Arlen maintained the chin length blunt bob with its sharp fringe that she had always had – and yet they seemed so different. Alice was very much like her, she felt, and could adapt quickly. But Arlen –

And it wasn’t as if she was like her father – no, there was nothing subtle or mysterious or deep about Gary. His cockney bluntness, which had been different and thrilling, and even a little bit dangerous to her when she was a teenager, now filled her with a cold, sick shudder. His quick temper, his selfishness, his long nights out without telling anyone – and she had let him take one of their girls. She brushed Alice’s hair back from her face with a quick, fierce gesture. Alice turned and smiled, still singing along with her CD. But Arlen – although at times her face took on an expression which oddly reminded her of Aunt Maud – she didn’t know at all.

How much longer? Alice asked then, breaking sharply into her mother’s reverie. She had removed the current CD from the player and was contemplating the next one.

Oh, ah, Margaret tried to collect her thoughts, about ten minutes into the city, I think. It’s been a little while since I’ve been up here. Why don’t you leave the CDs for a while and we’ll see if we can get any inkling of the weather for the next few days.

OK, Alice slid back in her seat with a magazine and Margaret, thankfully it must be admitted, switched the radio back on.

That’s good, she remarked after a few minutes. We may be in luck. Clear skies until Sunday at least.

But she was talking to herself, for Alice was engrossed with reading and Arlen, as always, was lost in her own world. Margaret sighed, and pretended it was just her and the radio.

Alice perked up as the scenery began to scatter and the blackened buildings of Old Town sprang up around them in a concrete smoke. She had been to Edinburgh once before with her father, but had not been allowed out to see anything, although she knew the interior of the hotel very well. She leaned forward with excitement as the car made its way up Lothian Road and turned right into Princes Street, past the Castle.

But the short gasp came suddenly from Arlen in the back, and Margaret smiled to herself, pleased that a reaction had been gained. It’s beautiful, isn’t it, she said.

Arlen felt cold suddenly, the Castle grim and foreboding on the black rock, winking in the pale sunlight, tourists crawling like brightly coloured ants to the top. It seemed familiar somehow, dangerously familiar, and she had felt a sudden flash as if of fire all around her, while from within the flames a pair of cat-green eyes suddenly blinked before her in the car window as though borrowing her own face, just for an instant, and then she was staring into her own grey eyes once more. In the sudden horror of the second she could almost feel those other grey eyes piercing, waiting. It couldn’t be, she thought quickly, trying to quench the sudden panic. It’s just imagination, like all the dreams. We’ve seen the last of him. Alice saw him shatter. It can’t be him.

But if it wasn’t him, she wondered then, pulling her thin jacket more closely around her, then who was it?

The house was only fifteen minutes or so out of Edinburgh, and the girls had the Forth to look at until they arrived. Grey water chopping sharply against the edges of the small islands which dotted the colourless liquid like shipwrecks, ruins vanishing and reappearing in the sea mist, the spitting spatter of rain drops against the car window. Arlen had seen it all before, but in a different land, with its own stories and passions and ghosts from the past. So many lives and so many stories, and her head was heavy with the pain of them. A shooting heat stabbed her side suddenly, and she reached her hand into the pocket wherein lay the little velvet bag and its fragments of the ruby, warm and fluid between her fingers like crimson silk.

What? she asked under her breath. What do you see?

But it was Alice who saw it first, giving a sharp cry that rang through the dullness in her excitement. Is that it? Is that where we’re staying?

Before them lay a white house like a miniature fairy tale of pointed turrets and tiny arched windows, the tree-lined grounds leading down to the splashing rhythm of the Forth. The back of the house looked as though it may have been older, jutting back from the baronial frontispiece in a square, solid block of coppery coloured stone.

Strange, Arlen thought, how she could forget so easily. This large house was in far better condition than the castle, which had been almost as much a ruin as those crumbling fragments of rock abandoned to the elements out there even when she lived there, but still –

A cold shudder ran through her suddenly, and she felt quickly for the knotted charm which she still wore, tied with a narrow black ribbon, around her neck.

Guess so, Margaret interrupted her thoughts with a small smile. This is the address, and she rolled the car to a stop outside the tall iron gates, flanked on either side by two grim stone figures, like small stout castles which seemed to be sprouting two equally grim stone plants. I don’t see a buzzer or anything, she said, stepping out of the car.

Are they locked? Alice asked.

We can see, Margaret strode up and gave them a shake.

Definitely locked.

What do we do now?

Wait, I guess. Margaret didn’t look too pleased. She was an organised woman by nature, seeing to every last detail, and she had some difficulty understanding that others did not necessarily share the same natural efficiency.

Wasn’t there a housekeeper supposed to meet us or something? Alice asked.

Yes, Mrs Anderson, her mother replied. Apparently been with the family for years. Perhaps – she’s gone out for supplies?

She’s definitely expecting us?

Yes, the confirmation letter said that she and a gardener live on the premises at all times, and this was the arranged date. Perhaps there’s a bell or something? She cast a futile look at the gate. OK back there? suddenly remembering Arlen.

Arlen was staring at an upper window, a small leaden-paned arch in one of the turrets. Oh, there was definitely someone in there. Someone playing games by the look of it. A white, drawn face framed by long yellow hair, and then – it was gone. Arlen blinked and blinked again, but there was nothing in the window, and she had seen nothing to indicate that the figure had left. No movement, no rustle of a curtain – it was simply that one minute the image was there and the next it was gone. Her flesh prickled suddenly and the ruby grew warm against her side. She was the only one who didn’t seem surprised when a sharp click broke the stillness and the gates swung silently open before them.

They must have been stuck, Margaret said quickly, but Alice cast a sharp glance at her sister which Arlen chose to ignore, her hand clasped tightly around the small velvet bag. As Margaret rolled the car slowly into the drive, Arlen could feel the energy of the house tighten and draw around her, as if enclosing her in its mesh. Something happened here, she thought quickly. Something bad.

The oldest part of the house is late seventeenth century, Margaret told them then, breaking into her thoughts, and Barney said it’s been beautifully maintained. The owner lives in Edinburgh and rents this one out.

I wonder why, Alice said in a low voice that only Arlen could hear.

Oh my dears, you’re early, came a voice from the house, and a slender woman appeared on the steps, dressed in slacks and a blouse. Her hair was almost faded to white and caught up in a clip behind her head, but Arlen noticed her eyes first, which were of a clear, piercing green. She had to force herself not to gasp as the emerald glance met each of the girls’ gazes quickly and with a subtle nod, as though she had sized them up in that one short motion and made up her mind.

Did Jimmy let you in? she asked then. It’s just as well he was around as the gates are kept locked. I didn’t expect you for another hour.

I didn’t see anyone, Margaret said almost stiffly, as if she had a suspicion that a joke was being made at her expense. I thought perhaps they were stuck.

Oh indeed, Mrs Anderson replied, and both girls noticed the fleeting look of interest that crossed her face. It may be that they weren’t locked properly this morning when he came back from town. Jimmy’s the gardener, ye ken. It’s an old lock, and it has a mind of its own sometimes.

The explanation seemed enough for Margaret, who nodded quickly and began to unload the bags from the boot. From the corner of her eye, Arlen could just make out the shape of someone watching from the side of the house, but when she craned her neck to see the figure had disappeared again.

Mrs Anderson was reaching for the bags. Oh no, don’t be silly, Margaret said quickly. We’ll do that.

Well, that’s kind o’ ye, hen. But if we all pitch in they’ll be in sooner rather than later. Will you girls be alright wi’ that? and the bright eyes came to rest once again on the twins, a little too keenly for their liking.

Yes, they both nodded in unison, although reluctantly, knowing what was to follow.

Well, aren’t they alike then. Identical twins, no doubt of it. Just as well for the different haircuts, or there’d be no knowing the difference at all. Like two peas in a pod.

Alice smiled wearily, having heard it too many times, while Arlen stared straight ahead, focusing on the house. It rests uncomfortably here, she thought suddenly, although she couldn’t tell how she knew.

Mrs Anderson gave them another searching glance, eyes like spotlights, and then looked up at Margaret.

Well, not exactly, their mother replied, her smile even smaller than Alice’s. Come on, you two. Let’s get these bags in.

The house was old and grand. Wood panelling lined the entrance hall, and the summer laugh of the sun between the rain made coloured patterns on the floor and walls, where it danced through the stained glass of the door and some of the smaller windows. Arlen held her breath as she stepped inside, the rubber soles of her shoes squealing quietly on the polished wood. She almost expected to see the faded tapestries of the castle appear before her, like in her dreams, smothering her in the heavy dust of history and legend and family past.

I’ll ask Jimmy to take your bags upstairs. Leave them in the hall. Honestly, that man’s never around when he’s wanted. Meanwhile you pop yersel’s into the parlour and I’ll bring you some tea. Just through here now.

She ushered them through another doorway into a large room, glaring with crimson walls and carpet and deep wine-coloured curtains. The whole effect was oppressive, and Arlen felt her head twinge with a beckoning headache merely at the sight of it. But what was even worse was the collection of stuffed and mounted deer heads on the walls, the prize of the set fixed over the mantelpiece in the form of an enormous stag’s head and antlers. The beast’s melting eyes seemed to gaze at her, and Arlen felt herself drain suddenly as a violent flash of a picture overtook her – a man and a woman arguing, a scream, a shot, and the face of a young man, one after the other in instant succession. She swayed and caught the back of an intricately carved oak chair, her heart beating rapidly. She wished they’d stop coming. She couldn’t seem to control them; these visions of the past that somehow sensed an open window in her and fought to be seen. She pulled herself into the chair with her hands and sat down, her knuckles raw and white.

Alice and Margaret, oblivious to all of this, were not overly impressed with the decor either.

Oh, the poor things! Alice cried, and turned away with a shudder.

I suppose they left them there because they think the tourists expect that sort of thing, Margaret said. Don’t look at them if they upset you.

But I know they’re there, Alice muttered.

Well, we’ll find another room to sit in then, Margaret said, not in the mood to argue. What about the rest of it?

Well, we’re not too far from the city anyway, Alice said, making the best of it, and slid onto a leather couch, her walkman in her ear.

How about you, Arlen? Margaret asked, although she only half turned, expecting no answer. Arlen did not reply.

Cold she felt, cold and sick, and filled with a feeling of dread. This isn’t right, she thought. Something happened here. And it terrified her to think that whatever it was might be calling on her. Last time – last time was enough, she couldn’t do that again. And why now, of all places, had the face of Robbie MacKenzie popped into her head, the only familiar image of the slideshow, although what he could possibly have to do with it, she didn’t know. To do with what? another voice seemed to ask. But she was unable to answer.

She always felt a sickening rush of guilt and fear when she thought of Robbie. She could not forget that night, the night when he was thrown from the cliff and she had seen the image in the shadows acting, it had seemed, upon her own rage and insecurity. Feeding upon it. But Penvynne was gone now – gone – she told herself firmly, and Robbie had survived. Robbie, who had kept faithfully in touch since they had returned to London, and had even been over several times, left to talk with Alice as she had taken herself off to her room. She couldn’t be in the same room with him. He could have been killed, and it would have been her fault. If she lost her temper again – and there was something about Robbie MacKenzie that brought all her anger rushing to the surface. She felt a deep flush cloud her face, and she bit her lip and clenched her fists furiously in an attempt to bury it before anyone noticed.

She needn’t have worried. Alice was strolling amongst the heavy oak and leather furniture, pausing to examine an ornament every now and then, and Margaret was impatiently pacing back and forth, all of her London energy and dissatisfaction evident in every strong stride. I hope this isn’t going to go on all day, she muttered.

But as if on cue, the door swung open and Mrs Anderson reappeared, followed by a gnarled looking elderly man in a cloth cap. He was shrivelled and stunted, and one of his legs was bandied so that he walked with an odd, lopsided gait. He gazed at the trio of strangers with an almost defiant stare, his faded dark eyes barely visible from beneath the deep pouches of reddened skin in his sunken cheeks. Alice could not help shuddering.

Seemingly satisfied with his fierce glances at each of them, he picked up the suitcase nearest Margaret with a sullen, Well, I’ll be takin’ yer bags up then, and with a final glare, disappeared back out into the corridor for the others. Margaret was obviously not impressed, but decided that it was perhaps a bit early to make a complaint. She sighed resignedly, and Mrs Anderson turned.

I imagine it’s been a long day for all of you. Would you like your tea now, or would you prefer to settle into your rooms first?

Margaret looked at the girls and nodded. Rooms, I think, please, Mrs Anderson.

Very well then, the housekeeper led the way back into the hall. Jimmy had disappeared with the bags, by an alternative route it seemed. Mrs Anderson led them up the stairs, which were wide and wooden, and turned left at the top. Now Mrs Penmorven, your room is through here.

Alice and Arlen peered around the corner as their mother entered. It was a large, light room, with a rosewood four-poster bed, white lacy canopy, matching lace curtains, and deep cushioned window seats. Very ladylike, Margaret commented, tongue firmly in cheek. Alice smiled to herself, knowing how much her mother hated frills and flounces.

Yes, indeed, Mrs Anderson replied, quite seriously. It has belonged to the mistress of the house for the last three centuries, and has been left just as the last lady liked it.

Well, I hope she’s not left here somewhere too, Margaret thought to herself, with a resigned sigh. She was growing very tired, and was looking forward to a cup of tea and a hot bath. You go ahead with Mrs Anderson, girls. It’s getting on, and you must be tired. An early night for all of us tonight, I think.

Arlen and Alice turned quietly and followed the housekeeper further along the corridor. The walls, oak panelled, were lined with paintings of long ago faces and thick tapestries. Arlen felt a pang suddenly, remembering the decrepit half corridor at the castle, with its boarded staircase leading nowhere and its walls of water-damaged, threadbare hangings and fading ancestral faces. Fading as she felt she was, sometimes. Just one more leg or arm of a many-headed family monster, shooting out its quirks and traits wherever it pleased. And she and Alice at the tail end, themselves but not themselves. It was the end, so many of the villagers had said that strange, bright morning, when the clouds over Southmore had dissolved and she and Alice had broken the spell. But was it? Could there be an end at all, as long as they were there? She shuddered suddenly, and felt in her pocket for the small pouch, which warmed, as usual,