Cursed Remembrance: The Constance Chronicles – Volume 1

By Emma J. Cooper

What causes blood-curdling screams in the darkness? What are the cursed souls calling out in waking nightmares? Are you a sinner when you have committed no sins? What is the truth, when you don't know how to question?
Constance Delaware is plagued by the screams of forgotten souls when she sleeps and cursed by memories of a forsaken past when she wakes. She has spent her life running from the madness, hiding the malicious voice that whispers sinful desires, all hope is dashed away within a single moment, until a beautiful woman appears to make her an offer she cannot refuse. Constance, willingly, consults the lurking shadow she has fruitlessly ignored, as it goads her desire for revenge beyond what she knows, or understands. No longer willing to flee the chaos, Constance embraces the shadow’s whispered counsel, calling an army to her side, because it is time to change their destiny!
As a God among men, she will condemn all those who oppose her...

• Language: English
• Publisher: Austin Macauley Publishers
• Release date: Nov 30, 2021
• ISBN: 9781528909556

Emma J. Cooper

Emma J. Cooper has been an avid reader most of her life. While studying at James Cook University, she began writing her first full-length novel, and has since noted down many more. In her free time, she enjoys drawing comic books, as well as, canvas-painted art which she has sold to a number of requests or gifted to family and friends.

Book preview

Chapter 1

October 1775.

Fire is my beacon through the darkness; scorching flames are all I see in my slumber. I have known nothing but this. I do not know the peaceful rest of which so many speak – only the screams and the smell of burning flesh. Although it is nothing but a dream, it is still my torment, my punishment for existing. These thoughts throb within my mind as I focus on the slow stumbling of my feet against the cobbled streets of London. A sudden glacial wind whips my long red hair across my face; my body shivering at the bitter cold. I wish that I could be sitting in a warm room beside a raging fire, like so many others on this night.

My gaze lingers on the orange haze, aglow behind the exquisite drapes of a townhouse I pass. I hate those inside. They have what I cannot even dream about; it is not fair.

My thoughts retreat from such hatred when the rumble of malicious laughter echoes in my mind. It is the laughter of my dreams, the torment of my entire life.

No, you’re not real…you’re not real. I chant over and over, shaking my head to cast away the wicked thoughts, my continuous struggle against the creeping darkness. I know I have no right to wish for such luxuries and they will not come. I am not an honourable woman, I sneer at myself in disgust. I’m nothing but a streetwalker, flaunting myself at eager men for money.

A streetwalker indeed, but not your usual type, which is why I get paid more. No, it is not that I am so beautiful that they flock to me, though by no means am I an ugly duckling. No, it is that I give what is paid for and leave their pockets filled with any belongings carried upon them. Reputation is what I hold, I think before I take in my surroundings. Though not on these streets where the wealthy dwell, but the taverns with rowdy sailors, tired of being cheated. I kick a stray stone – a little release of frustration – watching it tumble atop the cobblestones. At the age of twenty-two and with no prospects of securing a husband, how else am I to live? My footsteps stutter for a moment, considering my fate before continuing this twisted road. No, I refuse to seek work at the workhouses; they are no better than the parish from which I ran.

Lucky, I was told, to be allowed to live in a home for children, run by the local parish. Lucky to have not been sent away to the workhouses. It is not that I wish to diminish what was the truth – that I was lucky to not end up in the workhouses – but was I truly lucky to be raised within the parish walls?

HA-HA-HA-HA-HA…

I realise that I have, again, awoken the lurking shadow. Readily ignoring its presence, I hasten my steps, battling against the chilling wind. But my fearful tormentor is quickly forgotten as I catch the sound of men talking. My heels clatter in my haste to stop and listen. Loud, obnoxious and with a slur coating their tongues. Drunk, the lot of them. Easy pickings. I think as my gaze drops to my skirt. Automatically I reach out, my palms making quick work of brushing off the dust and dirt. The choices I make for a dry bed to sleep and a full belly have nothing to do with letting anyone feel superior to me, never again will I lower myself due to another’s hand. I have seen the looks of hate, from the upper-class, when they hear my articulate speech and the sneering mutters from the whores for speaking above my station. I am left friendless and alone because of it, but I will never change who I am for anyone, because in truth, I am never alone… Best to not encourage.

With not a speck of dust in sight, and depressing thoughts forgotten, I stand upright, ignoring the glacial wind stabbing my bare arms like thousands of needles. Thrusting my shoulders back, I start walking with a sway of my hips and a subtle slowing of my pace, guiding my feet to pass beside them in a provocative appeal. The lace of my skirt brushes the second tallest of the three, gaining his attention first – thankfully – because if I were to choose, the medium-height gentleman with the sharp, mouse-like, nose, is far more preferable to the short-plump walrus, and the sickly thin giraffe, which all now leer in anticipation.

Beggars can’t be choosers, I think with a hefty sigh while I give my most mischievous smirk and a wink for good measure at the most tolerable. Usually, this is when my fellow streetwalkers would throw themselves upon mouse-face, but you should never do that here where excess coin jingles in silk-lined pockets. My brash sisters would not have tempted them with such an obvious lure and would more than likely have earned themselves a beating for shaming them in public. He is a well-dressed man, perhaps even a gentleman of sorts, which means, here, I have to play a different game, but one made easier by the liquor they’ve embodied. And, with the enticement of better pay, and less illness amongst the wealthy they are enough reasons to trek so far from home. Maybe my luck is turning? Surely, he can pay well.

I am brought back to reality when he inclines his head to me, his fingers tilting his hat slightly to the side. I subtly lean my head towards a nearby lane as my fingers brush the shoulder of his jacket with enough pressure to show meaning. With a brief widening of his eyes, he glances towards the shadowed walkway; a slight smile awakens with understanding.

All men are the same, their façade drops once they have it laid out before them. What do they need to hide? The young man eagerly bids farewell to his companions, as he begins to walk towards the alley with me following in his wake. The backstreet, I note, scurries with rats fleeing from our sudden appearance. The filth of my surroundings is insufferable. My nose naturally wrinkles from the smell as I consider the degrading conditions which I humble myself to even though I deny the demeanour with believing it is my choice.

The memories of why I was punished at the parish, cloud my thoughts. I remember the nurses saying it was ‘because of the wickedness that lurked within me’, as they pinched my ear, dragging my black and blue body to the parish pastor for punishment after already beating my flesh with their favoured cane. But I would take the cane any day rather than the punishment that Father doled out. That is why I held my tongue when my dreams began to blaze with death. I feared what type of punishment I would have had to endure, more than I feared the wrath of the Lord by not confessing my sins.

I turn my sights down the alleyway to peer at the gentleman at the far end, ignoring the memories which should remain forgotten. He is drinking some alcoholic beverage from a glass flask. I didn’t notice he was still drinking not just simply drunk, but now it makes sense why he is in the streets at this hour. I watch with interest as he gulps down the final dregs, placing the empty flask on the floor. Something so refined shone in his every movement, inviting me to walk towards him. The look in his eyes though is the usual hungry gaze which rakes over my form. Honestly, I am an attractive woman. I am vain enough to know this and arrogant enough to admit it. In truth, some drunkards come flocking to me, to stroke my cheek, calling me their English Rose. Gentlemen were usually different, forcing me to humble my opinion, but this one seems delighted by my curvy, petite figure. Perhaps I may earn more than my usual pittance…

He leers at me as I stop a foot in front of him. I gasp, looking deep into his eyes, seeing a glint of something sinister within. Before I take my next breath, his eyes turn welcoming, once more. Did I imagine… Continuing to gaze up at him, I smile sweetly while secretly hoping he will make the offer to save me from the shame of asking.

Hello, ma’am. Do you offer me the pleasure of your presence this evening?

I sigh faintly in relief. My lips twist into an inviting grin as his spread into a leer.

Yes, though there is a price you must be willing to pay first.

He smiles down at me with eager eyes before he raises his hand to brush his knuckles against my jaw. For such a beauty I will pay any price, but I shall not grant payment until you have given me what I am paying for.

So, the smile is for a bargain, and his comments are to imply a doubt of all streetwalkers’ honesty. I nod my head once to indicate that I am accepting his compromise.

With that approval given, he immediately starts to unbuckle his pants, obviously eager to begin. As for me, I do what is expected of whores and lean against the hard walls of the alley, lifting my skirt for easy access to what he seeks. He steps towards me with a fierce, cold gaze of which I caught a glimpse before. I had hoped I was mistaken. He reaches out with one hand, thrusting my skirts higher and pinning me against the stone wall. The force he then uses to surge inside of me causes me to cry out in pain, as tears blur my vision. He then snatches my hair with his other hand, forcing my face upward. My features crush in anguish, giving my tears freedom to trail down my cheeks as strands of hair are ripped from my scalp. Suddenly, his aggressive lips press against my own, bitingly painful, as his tongue thrusts into my mouth, choking me.

Just withstand, hold out a little longer… I chant in my head, knowing I am nothing more than a means to an end, but that doesn’t mean that a little part of me does not die with each coupling. His lips leave mine, trailing down my neck and biting my ample bosom. I cry out as his teeth break through the skin, but not enough that it will leave a scar. With my head thrust up, I focus my thoughts to my surroundings to shut out the world. But I do not need to try that hard when I notice a woman no older than I, but unimaginably more beautiful, watching us. How could one just stand there and watch such a thing? Does it disgust her that a woman could lower herself to be paid for sex with any man that desires it? I continue to watch her, watch me, attempting to embarrass her with a scowl – to no success. Her sight never leaves us, never waivers. Though I must admit, her focus helps me ignore the presence of mouse-face, continuing to thrust himself inside of me.

Finally, I hear the groan from him for which I am waiting and sigh with relief as he releases my hair and steps away from me, making me forget our witness. A triumphant grin spreads across his face as he pulls up his pants and begins to buckle them closed. Averting my gaze, I lower my skirt and begin to brush out any wrinkles, hopefully removing most of the dirt and dust with it. Appearance sells, and the evening is still young. Once I complete my task, I focus my attention back to the now dignified looking gentleman. I hold out my hand, awaiting payment. A leer distorts his lips as he stares at my empty palm while crouching to retrieve his flask. My eyes follow the odd movement. Wasn’t the bottle in fact empty? Perhaps I was mistaken?

As he slowly rises, flask in hand, my shadow shrinks from the menace quivering in the air. Instinctively I take a step back, trapped against the alley wall. His sneer is still evident as he twirls the flask between his hands. Breathe.

Sir, have you forgotten our agreement? I am still waiting for payment. That is the best I can get out of my trembling lips.

Not at all, ma’am. I will present you with what you deserve.

My resolve falters as I stare at him for just a moment, puzzled at his response making me miss his movement. With incredible power the flask comes crashing against my skull. Shards of glass pierce my flesh, the impact knocking me off my feet, spraying my blood across the stone. My eyes cloud in confusion at the sight of my blood staining the previously black stones. My head throbs, disorienting my thoughts as I feel the trail of blood escaping from a large gash, trickling through my mouth before dripping carelessly onto the ground. Nasty laughter erupts at the entrance of the alley. Is it his companions he had left behind? Were they present the whole time, waiting to witness what they knew was to come? My mind swirls in torment when I hear his sniggering joining the other men’s. It rings through my ears, igniting a hot, red haze to engulf my gaze.

Not so beautiful now, are you? He spits out between his snickering. Now you more closely resemble the whore that you are, he continues, while his companions’ chafing mirth continues to grate on me.

Chagrin flashes through me so fiercely that I wish I was strong enough to beat this man to a pulp! Do it! A shadow of a voice whispers in my mind.

How? My eyes fasten on the shards of glass on the stone floor, urging me to respond. I feel the darkness swirl in calamity, the wickedness I have suppressed all my life grows monstrous in its break for freedom. I want to slice his throat, stopping forever the horrible sound of his laughter!

Yes! The darkness screams, as the glass starts to tremble on the ground before shooting into the air straight and precise towards him. Within that moment, I watch horror flash in his eyes as he attempts to raise his hands to stop it, but it is too late. A geyser of blood erupts from his neck from impact. Strangely, I find that I am enjoying the image of his demise. That is when I realise that I feel no pity for his slow and painful death. He deserves it. At the same time, I am trying to work out how the glass inexplicably flung itself at him in the first place. I did not throw it. I had only thought of wishing it so. That voice? I had never heard a voice before, only its laughter…

As the soon-to-be-dead man drops to his knees before me, gripping his throat to stem the flow of blood, I gasp as I remember the woman who was watching earlier. I look to where she was lurking previously, watching us with intrigue and disgust, but now those eyes have a flash of interest or excitement. Why does she not seem to be concerned that I am committing murder right before her? Indeed, it appears as though she wishes to join the fun! I rip my gaze from the beautiful woman to investigate the thundering vibrations of feet running towards me. It is the man’s companions, Giraffe and Walrus. They hurl themselves towards him, stopping with their backs to me, unconcerned with my presence.

Walrus drops to his knees, trying to help mouse-face stop the flow of blood with the handkerchief from his coat pocket. Blood pools turning the white cloth crimson and yet Walrus persists despite his futile endeavour. No man can breathe through a sliced windpipe. Fools! The malicious laughter springs back to my mind and for the first time, this gives me pleasure. The sound of his rattling last breath echoes up and down the alley as he collapses to the floor, Walrus unable to hold his weight. My escort’s lifeless eyes, inches from my own, enrapture me. His blood still flows from his soulless corpse, creating a pool which inches closer to my paralysed form. The sticky red fluid smothers the ground around him, disguising all evidence of his attack on me. I never knew how fulfilling it could be to have one’s revenge. Sudden pressure builds within my head, rendering me blind from the throbbing pain. Having a bottle struck against my head is what I blame until the pressure vanishes upon the sound of a frustrated scream.

A scream? Who was it? Forgetting my curiosity as Giraffe, still on his feet, slowly turns to look at me. I gaze back at him, no longer concealing my delight at his friend’s demise. Though lacking in strength, a triumphant grin wobbles in place, showing all that I have no regrets. To my utter astonishment, he begins to shout. It starts off as incoherent rambling as my hearing rings, struggling to follow.

Murder! Murder! Murder!

With that one word, I realise what these men have seen, though not the means of how it happened. I didn’t murder him. I was defending myself. They’ll have a noose slung around my neck before a minute passes. I know I must run away from these men, but I am still dizzy, fused against the stone.

I need assistance; I need a witness. With that thought in mind, I shoot a glance back towards where the beautiful woman was hiding before, hoping by some chance she will save me from this predicament. But all that is there is the grime covering the walls at the back of the alley. She’s gone. Where? I did not see her leave. Did I imagine her? Surely not, but then where could she be?

The sound of a stampede sweeps my thoughts away. It seems that some passers-by have heard the screaming rant. Still frozen to the ground, I hear the urgent voices of some strangers. But one voice overpowers the rest, making my heart quicken from its authority.

Calm down, man! the thunderous voice exclaims. What is this about murder?

Are you blind? That whore just killed my friend!

A deathly gasp fills the air before the thunderous voice speaks again. What did you see, my friend? Quickly, out with it.

I see a hand reach out to check the pulse of the deceased, a quite evidently pointless action. The pool of blood bears witness; he is obviously dead. I have to get out of here! I try to force my body upright. I must escape but my body remains limp, unable to respond. I silently curse my inexcusable weakness for I know the longer I lie here, the easier it will be for them to capture me. Then I will be hung for such travesties. I cannot allow that to happen. How did I move the glass earlier so that I can save myself now?

My friend came across this woman, ready to assist when he saw her bleeding face, he exclaims.

Open-mouthed, I fume at his false accounts of the events.

He proceeded to lean down towards her to see if she was well, but then… He trails off, still too shocked by what he has seen.

And then what, man? the voice presses.

Then she, she… He trails off again, trying to figure it out himself before rushing out with his explanation. She forced the broken glass directly into his throat!

With his explanation of the events just passed, I notice how everyone in the small alley stops breathing from the shock of what he has just attested. Fear runs through me fiercely; I am terrified of what is to happen next. What are they going to do with me now? The fear consumes my every thought as I listen to the new arrival’s response.

You saw this with your own eyes?

Yes! And so did my fellow companion here. He shall vouch for what I have said, he announces, turning his gaze towards his friend who still seems to be in shock. Continuing to stare at his companion, who is covered in a thick congealing layer of his friend’s blood, Giraffe snaps his fingers for a response.

Robert! Tell these fine people here what we just witnessed.

Hearing his name, the one named Robert shakes his head as though to clear it. Everything my friend Charles has told you is the truth. I saw it with my own eyes, Robert explains. He does not turn to look at the anxiously awaiting crowd, instead he just stares, unable to comprehend the demise of his friend.

Very well then, we shall have her taken to a cell to await a trial, hopefully in the morning, the thunderous voice exclaims. I shall carry her. Be wary everyone; we do not know yet the extent of her unjust hatred, he cautions.

My whole body goes rigid, a trial as early as the morning. I have never heard of such a thing! Surely that implies I am not going to have a fair trial but what hope do I have anyway? Must I rot and slowly decay, awaiting trial or will it be a quick death, the noose being fitted in the near future? I know all too well that if a woman is accused of murder, there are rarely any pardons. Lost in thought I barely notice the large hands lifting me bodily from the ground.

My body remains limp in my captors’ strong arms as I hear the procession follow us. They are not going to let me, or my captor out of their sight. Perhaps they fear that I might attack him and then flee from the scene. That is not a bad idea if I was only capable of doing it, but I still have no control over my body. The strength of the arms wrapped beneath me is far too much for me to break through. I have never been able to escape the unwanted arms of a man before. I start to see the light of candles, which hovers over the street in glass cases. Now, with the glowing of the present light, I can see the features of the man carrying me. He is solidly built but has a very inviting face, even with the stern look that covers it at this moment. Judging from his uniform though, he is an officer of the law. I’ll try to convince this man that I am no murderer and not a danger to anyone… I think.

Sir? I ask, as my voice cracks with effort. He looks down at me with a worried expression when he hears me speak. I believe he is hoping that I will continue my silence for fear of what my words may do to him. Sir, please? I mean no harm; I am not guilty of the crimes of which they accuse me. I try to put the sincerest effort into my words for I know that they are partly a lie.

Do not speak to me, woman, for I have nothing to say to you. The courts will decide whether what you say is true or not, he replies, with a finality in his tone.

I sink further into hopelessness, for if I cannot convince this kind-faced man, what hope do I have of convincing anyone else? I continue to listen to the hurrying footsteps of the man carrying me, as well as the people that follow, wondering what my fate holds. Regretting my thoughts of believing myself to be lucky to catch the eye of a gentleman, I know now it has turned into the worst luck imaginable. Now I am considered a cold-blooded murderer and I am going to die a most frightening death. When the man starts carrying me up some stone steps, my focus on our destination returns. He shifts my weight slightly to his left arm, reaching out with the right to push the door open.

What do you have there, John? another male voice questions from a distance.

This woman has just killed Sir William Henry, he explains.

He is on his feet in an instant. I watch the shock spread across his features, his gaze shifting focus to eye me cautiously.

Sir William? he exclaims in utter shock.

So, this is the name of my recent ‘acquaintance’. Sir indeed! He was no better than the foulest of creatures, yet he had the honour of being called Sir!

The very same. I will explain more when I return, Constable Dower. Please, quickly my friend. The constable urges for my riddance.

Should I have wished for anything different? No one has ever wished to be in my presence longer than was needed.

Right this way, follow me, Constable Dower insists. John starts to follow the constable as quickly as he is able until he halts in front of an iron-barred door, waiting for Constable Dower to open it.

We’ll place her in here, away from the other prisoners. Who knows what she is capable of? the Constable states.

John swiftly steps into the cell and drops me on the filthy floor. Once his arms are free of me, he quickly makes his escape from the cell, leaving my seemingly lifeless body huddled on the floor. The iron-barred door swiftly shuts with a clang and then I hear the resolute click of a lock. I continue to lie there, even though I can finally start to feel my body working again. What keeps me grounded is my eternal pain, the pain of being rejected as worthless once again. What have I done to deserve this? I know that I am the lowest form of the female race, but I only did what was necessary for my own survival. After all, women like me do not have choices like women in higher classes.

The day I fled the parish was the first time I had ever felt free and safe. No more punishments from Father, no more seclusion from others who believed me to be possessed. I hid my dreams from the nurses to avoid the beatings, but not from the other children living there. The screaming or laughing in my sleep could not be ignored. I remember Marissa, the girl who slept in the cot beside me, holding a crucifix out from her like a talisman. I’ll never forget the disgust and fear on her features, as she pled with me not to hex her. In return, she promised to keep my secret. In the end, I did not need her promise, once she contacted a fever which ultimately took her life and I was unjustly suspected of the deed. Everybody feared confrontation after that. I was never accepted, never believed. I sigh at the memory as I push myself from the floor with a groan, positioning myself against the stone wall. Once again, I find myself dusting off my skirt fanned out before me. My hands freeze. What is the point? I’ve already ‘paid’ for my lodgings. I gaze at my surroundings, knowing this will be the last place I will ever rest again. The stones and rocks protruding from the walls. The straw-covered stone is the only comfort offered for slumber to any person unlucky enough to be locked within these walls. The only pleasure presented is a single-barred window, out of which one can watch others enjoying themselves. I keep my back to it because even this simple pleasure is marred by conflicting thoughts; you can only watch, but never join, the throngs outside.

I raise my hand to touch my cheek, checking the damage that has been inflicted on me by such a callous man. I wince when my fingers