Lay Me to Rest Page 3

  ‘Hello? Anybody home? Are you coming for something to eat?’

  He looked up, startled, as I responded.

  ‘Sorry; I dropped off. Just give me a minute and I’ll be right down. Have a seat in the front room, if you like.’

  I laid a clean pair of maternity jeans and a T-shirt on the bed, before going into the bathroom to rinse my face and run a comb through my hair. Regarding my reflection in the small mirror above the sink, I noted dispassionately that a suggestion of the familiar colour was returning to my cheeks, which had remained so ashen these last months.

  Replacing the comb on the shelf, I took a final glance at myself before leaving the room. The bathroom door was ajar and in the reflection behind me, I saw a grey shadow cross the landing from the opposite bedroom into my own. I was at first surprised, then a little peeved. Surely Peter hadn’t come upstairs? He knew I was getting ready.

  I pushed open the bedroom door ready to confront him, but the room was as empty as I had left it. I shrugged, clicking my tongue at my foolishness for having misjudged him, and dismissed the shadow as a trick of the light. I dressed quickly, collected my handbag and mobile phone and descended the stairs. Peter, who had been gazing out of the window, turned to greet me.

  ‘Will I do?’ I asked, jokingly.

  ‘You’ll do fine,’ he said, smiling. After pulling the door to, we walked down the slope and across to the farm, the sun a huge blood-orange sphere at our backs, sinking behind the distant mountains.

  If I had turned then I might have seen. Might have seen that the shadow that I had mistaken for mere imagination was standing, looking down at us, from my bedroom window. And that the glowing, dark eyes that bore into the back of our unwitting heads exuded what could only be described as resentment and malevolence. I might have had some premonitory sense of what was in store for me and how I ought to flee before becoming irrevocably changed for ever by the terror and intensity of my experience.

  But for the time being I would remain in ignorance of the depth of hostility cast in our direction. And that this was how it would all begin.

  Chapter Two

  I ate well in spite of myself, and although I contributed little to the conversation, enjoyed the banter between Peter and Mrs Parry. It became apparent that they had many shared memories and their obvious fondness for one another was touching.

  The resident cat, a beautiful fluffy tabby, had taken a shine to me and, after sitting at my feet throughout supper, climbed up onto my lap, purring. I sat at the table, content to absorb the atmosphere in the warm kitchen; and for the first time in months, I started to take real interest in what was going on around me.

  Mr Parry was a man of few words, so when he eventually spoke I was slightly startled.

  ‘Have you any plans for your holiday, Mrs Philips?’

  ‘Well, not really. I was just hoping for some rest and relaxation. Nice walks and fresh air, that sort of thing. It’ll be good for me, and the baby too. I might even get my sketch pad out at some point!’ I paused. ‘I know there are several places of historical interest on the island, too. I might like to have a proper look round at some point. I’m quite keen on antiquity: ancient buildings and burial sites; folklore, that sort of thing …’

  ‘Well now, are you a believer in ghosts, Mrs Philips?’

  Peter looked uncomfortable but tried to make light of the question. ‘Oh, you’re not going to try and scare her with one of your old wives’ tales, now are you, Will?’

  Mr Parry sat back in his armchair and smiled to himself. He raised his straggly, grey eyebrows a fraction and, looking pointedly in my direction, cocked his head to one side, as if awaiting a response.

  ‘I – well, I don’t know to be honest,’ I told him. ‘I’ve certainly never seen one myself. Why do you ask?’

  ‘We used to have a ghost, didn’t we, Gwen?’ The old man looked to his wife, who let out a sigh.

  ‘Oh, go on with your stories.’ Mrs Parry rolled her eyes as if she had heard it a thousand times before.

  ‘Do tell, Mr Parry. I love a good yarn.’ I was poised to take his words with a very large pinch of salt, but at the same time intrigued to hear what he had to say.

  ‘Well.’ Mr Parry rubbed his huge hands together as if he were about to impart some juicy piece of gossip. ‘Bryn Mawr has been in my family for over two hundred years. So there’s a lot of history here, you know. I’ve only a few sheep and a handful of hens these days, and a couple of lads to help me. But years ago my great-grandfather – my hên Taid – kept dairy cattle. They had various people who came and went over the years to milk the cows, and one of them was an orphan girl from the village. Her name was Anwen Davies.’

  Mrs Parry muttered something scathingly under her breath and began to busy herself with clearing away the supper things. Mr Parry continued undeterred.

  ‘It seems that poor Anwen found herself … in the family way, if you know what I mean.’ He cast an awkward glance at my own burgeoning midriff, his cheeks reddening even more than usual.

  ‘Well, you can imagine: a young girl in that state, not married, all those years ago. It would have been scandalous. Perhaps the baby’s father had moved on and never knew what he’d done; plenty of itinerant workers passed through here at that time. Perhaps he already had a wife and family, or maybe he was just a coward who didn’t want to face up to his responsibilities. Whoever he was, the bugger never came forward to do the decent thing. To cut a long story short, the girl drowned herself in the well across the fields one night –’ He waved a hand to indicate the general direction.

  ‘My great-grandfather found her the next day. Terrible business.’ Mr Parry shook his head sadly.

  ‘The well has long since been filled in. But soon afterwards, strange things began to happen.’

  ‘What sort of … things?’

  The old man was certainly a gifted storyteller and had my full attention. The hair prickled on the back of my neck and I leaned forward, eager to hear more. I noticed Mrs Parry shoot him a warning glare, but he carried on regardless.

  ‘Not very nice things, I was told. Dead crows found in the milk pail. Maggots in the butter churn – that sort of thing. The worst one, though, was when my hên Nain – my great-grandmother – was pushed down the stairs. There was no one else in the house, but she swore she felt a strong pair of hands grip her shoulders and the next thing she knew she was lying in a heap in the hallway. She was heavily pregnant with my great-uncle at the time, too. Luckily, she wasn’t badly hurt, but very shaken up. She wouldn’t stay on her own after that. Can’t say I blame her, either.’

  ‘Come on now, Will, you’ll be scaring the poor girl out of her wits.’

  Peter had, I thought, appeared irritated by Mr Parry’s account of events but had nonetheless remained silent for the duration of the sorry tale. He hauled himself to his feet and stretched. ‘I’ve been coming here for as long as I can remember and I’ve certainly never seen anything …’

  ‘Oh, no – it all stopped years ago. Once my grandparents passed away there was never any more bother. I’ve never seen anything myself and I don’t think my mam and dad ever did, either. Although for a while a few years back, I did notice a peculiar atmosphere in the cottage – and there was just that one time – I could never be sure …’

  ‘Paid, Will; stop it now! It’s all just silly fireside talk. Don’t you take any notice of him, cariad.’

  Mrs Parry turned to me kindly. ‘He used to love to frighten me with his stories when I was younger, but I’ve never seen anything to make me believe that they were true. If some poor girl drowned herself, all you can do is feel sorry for her. She must have been a sad, wretched soul to be so desperate. And if any of those things ever did happen here, I’m sure there would’ve been an explanation for them. As I’ve always said, we’ve far more to fear from the living than the dead.’

  I nodded in heartfelt agreement. But it had been a fascinating tale and, nonsense or not, I was grateful for the distractio
n.

  ‘You ought to tell your story to the local paper, Mr Parry,’ I said, smiling at the old man, who was now preoccupied with stoking his pipe with fresh tobacco. ‘It would definitely drum up plenty of custom for the holiday let. People love a mystery. Look at what the Loch Ness monster has done for the tourist trade in the area …’

  At once, he lifted his head sharply, his cloudy blue eyes meeting my own as his leathery brow knitted into a worried frown.

  ‘I’m not sure if that’s a good idea, actually. We don’t want to go stirring things up again …’

  Peter groaned. ‘Right, that’s it. I’m off to bed. I’ve heard enough for one night!’ He tried to sound jovial but was clearly irked for some reason. Mr Parry seemed unperturbed, but his wife, sensing the tension in Peter’s voice, laid a soothing hand on his shoulder.

  ‘Oh, don’t mind Will, Peter. He just loves a new audience for his old taradiddles – you know that.’

  ‘I know, Gwen. I’m only joking. But it has been a long day, and I’ve got to drive back in the morning. I think I’ll turn in, if nobody objects.’ He nodded and smiled in my direction. ‘I’ll see you in the morning before I leave, won’t I?’

  ‘Oh, yes, of course. And thanks so much once again for the lift – it was really good of you …’

  ‘Don’t mention it. Well, nos da, everyone.’

  ‘Nos da. I’m learning fast!’ I said, turning to Mrs Parry, who nodded approvingly. ‘I think I’ll get to bed myself; all this clean air and good food has left me feeling quite sleepy.’

  ‘I’ll walk over with you,’ said Mr Parry, easing himself from his customary armchair near the range.

  ‘You get used to it after a while, but it’s very dim out there, you know. We don’t have lamp posts on the farm.’

  I bade Mrs Parry goodnight and followed the old man out into the velvet darkness. The night was cooler now, and a tangible damp lingered in the air. The breeze had dropped, and the navy-blue sky was clear and bright with stars.

  Mr Parry, brandishing a torch, led the way across the field. I followed him as the trusting page had followed Wenceslas, realizing that, even over so short a distance, without his guidance I would have become hopelessly lost.

  We reached the cottage and Mr Parry took his leave of me at the end of the shingle path.

  ‘I hope you sleep well. You’ll join us for breakfast, won’t you?’

  ‘Yes, thank you. And thank you very much for bringing me back – you were right; I didn’t realize just how dark the night could be without street lighting!’

  Mr Parry chuckled and ambled slowly back towards the farm. He stopped for a moment and turned, briefly playing the beam of the torch on the ground behind him; then, waving his free hand at me, he resumed his path. I watched until the thin stream of light had disappeared from view, then went into the cottage and bolted the door, in spite of Mrs Parry’s assurances – ‘We don’t get burglars round here!’ she had declared emphatically.

  Having left the light burning in the vestibule on Peter’s advice, I was glad that I had paid heed, since without the illumination of Mr Parry’s flashlight I would have been unable to see more than an inch in front of my nose. The cottage was eerily quiet, with only the gentle rhythmic tick of the mantel clock to break the silence.

  I switched on the living room light. I was about to draw the curtains when I thought I saw a pair of dark eyes reflected in the windowpane, looking over my shoulder. I spun round sharply, but found myself alone. I looked back at the glass, which now reflected only my own troubled eyes. A chill went down my spine.

  I convinced myself that the tablets were playing havoc with my judgement, and that – coupled with Mr Parry’s tale – had sent my imagination into overdrive. I decided to try to call Sarah before turning in for the night, not having been able to get a signal on my phone earlier. No. The stupid thing still wasn’t functioning. It would have to wait until morning.

  Not wishing to be flailing around in the darkness, I decided to leave the vestibule light on in case I wanted to come downstairs during the night. The medication had disrupted my sleeping pattern and it had become habitual for me to wake in the early hours. Try as I might to drift off again, sleep would then evade me, often until daybreak.

  I climbed the stairs and felt overcome by a sudden tiredness. In spite of the window being left open, the room had retained the heat of the day and was stiflingly warm. I lay on top of the bed and was asleep almost instantly.

  *

  ‘Anni wyf i.’

  I sat bolt upright, a chill running through my very core. I was wide awake now, at first unsure whether the words had been whispered loudly into my ear, or if I were on the brink of stirring from a dream of which I had no memory. I had no idea how long I’d been sleeping but the room was pitch-dark, with only a tiny chink of light shining under the door from the vestibule below.

  Whilst I was trying desperately to remain rational, I could not deny that the whole area, which had previously felt warm and welcoming, had taken on a hostile, menacing air. The shroud of darkness had transformed the atmosphere. I had become an uninvited outsider in unfamiliar surroundings. Every corner seemed to harbour unseen threat; every shadow a potential crouching assassin.

  ‘Anni wyf i!’

  Again the same line, yet louder and more persistent. It seemed to reverberate round the walls. I was in no doubt now that the words had been uttered with venom; that someone – or something – meant me harm. My breath came in shallow, rapid gasps. I was filled with a feeling of unreserved dread.

  As my eyes grew accustomed to the dimness, I could discern a silhouette, apparently seated at the foot of my bed. I opened my mouth to scream but the power of speech seemed to have deserted me. I could do no more than watch in sheer terror, as the mattress rose slightly and a nebulous figure drew to its full height, releasing a rush of icy air. I could not – dared not– conceive of what might ensue. I was petrified.

  I stared helplessly at the apparition; through the gloom, its body resembled the shimmering negative of an old photograph; but the eyes receded deep into their sockets, as black and fathomless as a calm lake. My stomach lurched as the spectre brushed past me, only to vanish into the wall. I sat, rigid with fear, hardly daring to breathe. My heart pounded so loudly in my chest that it seemed to fill my whole head.

  Close to tears and with trembling hand, I reached for the bedside lamp. The room appeared just as it had earlier, but now a distinct and unpleasant chill filled the air. A faint, disagreeably musky fragrance seemed to linger briefly but gradually dispersed.

  Once able to move, I rose to reach for the jacket that I had thrown over the opposite bed and, with quivering fingers, drew it around myself. I sat, perched on the edge of the bed and took several deep, calming breaths. A lifelong cynic, I was forced to admit to myself that what I had seen had been real; that it could not be attributed either to my imagination or medication.

  I dared not close my eyes again that seemingly interminable night, but sat in bed, propped against my pillows, anxiously awaiting the imminent dawn of the following day. I hugged the swell of my stomach for comfort. How I would have welcomed the background noise and passive company of some banal TV programme now!

  The rest of the night passed without event. By daylight, the room felt once again homely and inviting. I resolved to try to rest later in the afternoon, but thought I had better join the Parrys for breakfast. I ran a bath and immersed myself, washing as quickly as I could. Cursing, I grabbed for the side of the basin to steady myself as I climbed out, almost slipping on the wet cork floor.

  I felt an urgency to leave the cottage for the moment, and dried and dressed myself hurriedly, so that I might have the opportunity to speak to Peter about my unsettling experience before his departure.

  Clutching my mobile phone, I almost ran down the shingle path towards the farmhouse, my mind still trying to make sense of what I had seen and heard. The morning was bright and clear, and already the sun’s warmth wa
s making its presence felt.

  Peter was just loading his overnight bag into the car as I approached. He looked up and greeted me with a grin.

  ‘Somebody’s hungry! I’ve never seen anyone quite so eager for their breakfast … hope there’s still some left. They eat very early here you know …’

  But his smile faded and the colour drained from his face, as I blurted out everything that had happened during the night. I felt it imperative to stress that I was not normally given to flights of fancy and knew that what I had seen was most definitely real.

  Peter remained silent for a time. His expression was grave. He stood, twisting his fingers together, as though reliving some terrible event from his past. When he eventually spoke, his voice was barely more than a whisper.

  ‘I thought … that all that had stopped now.’

  He stared at the ground. I waited, suspecting that he was building up to revealing something momentous. Then he raised his eyes to meet mine.

  ‘Look – I really ought to tell you something. When we were younger, Glyn and I – we thought it’d be a bit of a laugh, to be honest. You know what kids can be like. It was after his dad had been telling my parents about the resident ghost. We’d heard about these “Ouija” boards and we thought we’d set one up in the cottage.’

  I watched his face as he began to dig into the archives of his memories and to replay one that he would clearly have preferred to erase.

  ‘We’d have been about thirteen,’ he continued, after a long pause. ‘It was during the summer holiday. Mum and Dad had gone out for the evening and we decided that it would be the ideal time. We wrote out the alphabet, and the words “yes” and “no”, on a big sheet of paper, and cut all the letters and words into little squares. We spread them out in a circle on the floor in the living room, and put an empty glass in the middle – you know, upside down. Glyn had seen somebody using one in a film once, so he knew what to do.’