Dark Coven Read online

  Dark Coven

  Nick Brown

  Published by New Generation Publishing in 2015

  Copyright © Nick Brown 2015

  First Edition

  The author asserts the moral right under the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988 to be identified as the author of this work.

  ISBN 978-1-78507-542-1

  All Rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system or transmitted, in any form or by any means without the prior consent of the author, nor be otherwise circulated in any form of binding or cover other than that which it is published and without a similar condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.

  www.newgeneration-publishing.com

  Nick Brown has an archaeological background and is the author of the highly acclaimed ‘Luck Bringer’, ‘Wooden Walls of Thermopylae’, ‘Skendleby’ and ‘The Dead Travel Fast’.

  Praise for Nick Brown’s books

  Luck Bringer, nominated for Historical Novel Society book of the year

  “This is a fascinating and entertaining book and makes the reader feel as if he were present together with Mandrocles, the Luck Bringer.” Antonis Mistriotis, author of ‘507-450 BC - The 57 Years Which Gave Birth to Democracy’

  “Every serious student of this period of history should read this book. In all respects it is exquisitely crafted.” Historical Novel Society; editor’s choice

  “Fleshes out the life of the true historical figure, Miltiades, and brings the ructions of the Arab Spring crashing into life.” Cheshire Life

  “Fast-paced and based on meticulous research, it tells it like it most probably was, stripped of the hype, but none the less moving for that.” Indie Author Land

  The Wooden Walls of Thermopylae

  “Nick Brown is the Hemingway of the ancient world.” Lucy Branch, author of ‘A Gift Rarer than Gold’

  “Historical fiction at its best; this book indicates a confidence which reflects a lifetime of study.” Robins Reviews

  “A well written and gripping story.” Historical Novel Society

  “This book lives and breathes history.” Nubian Times

  Skendleby

  “Something creepy afoot.” Big Issue

  “Gripping and genuinely creepy.” New Edition.

  “Echoes of the ghost story master, M.R. James.” I Like Horror

  “A heartily recommended read for all thriller and horror fans.” Horror Cult Films

  “I wish the book had been longer.” Sexy Archaeology

  The Dead Travel Fast

  “Sent chills down my spine; a thrilling read from start to finish.” Jessica Ward, author of ‘The Path of Destruction’ series

  “Exquisite dialogue creates such an involving story that you’ll find it hard to tear yourself away from the pages.” Horror Cult Films

  “It’s crying out to be made into a movie!” Spectral Times

  “A fantastic genre-bending experience.” Web Weaver

  “An imaginative chiller mixing horror and thriller fiction with a twist of Quantum strangeness.” Indie Author Land

  Also by Nick Brown

  The Ancient Gramarye series

  Skendleby

  The Dead Travel Fast

  The Luck Bringer series

  Luck Bringer

  The Wooden Walls of Thermopylae

  For my family who put up with and support my writing

  “Ye shall not make any cuttings in your flesh for the dead.”

  “Regard not them that have familiar spirits neither seek after wizards”

  Leviticus 19 verses 28 and 31

  “One way to think about it is that other universes coexist in the same space as ours, like ghosts.”

  Howard Wiseman in New Scientist

  Chapter 1: The Coven

  The rain that lay in pools covering the poorly drained flatlands beneath the Edge for most of November was caught out, like everything else, by the sudden sharp cold snap. Livestock penned into the reduced acreage of relatively dry land now faced a lack of water, flood to drought overnight as ice interred the fields.

  Kelly Ellsworth pulled back the curtains from her south facing window and found the world changed. The ceaseless rain and dank grey cloud had been replaced by a light too bright to stare into as it flashed off the silver sheets covering the fields. She knew instinctively that today was the auspicious day she’d been waiting for.

  She stood for a moment staring down from her second floor room in the seventeenth century converted hall at the sparkling light in the fields. The warmth radiating from glass windows, which stretched from the tip of the A frame roof to her bedroom floor, filled her with a delightful sense of promise.

  Her slight figure, covered down to her knees by the plaid work shirt she slept in, might have been mistaken for that of a child. An impression reinforced by the fine blonde hair that she wore long, and which flowed over her shoulders.

  After basking in the warmth and the light she turned and padded across the beige carpet that covered the entire second floor of the barn and made her way to the bathroom: one of three shared by the Coven. There were only two rooms occupied on this floor but the third would be filled on Sunday by a friend of Rose’s.

  The intensity of experience in the house had been heightened when Rose moved in: she was the only one of them to have genuinely witnessed the occult and this made the community more authentic. Rose claimed she didn’t like to talk about it to those who’d not seen what she had. All the same, it gave her an edge in the pecking order and this, along with the way she came across as everybody’s favourite older sister, made them seem more like a family.

  Well, maybe not everyone’s favourite sister. Kelly had noticed that Margaret, who owned the house (a consequence of her messy divorce from “that bastard Ken”), seemed less bubbly since Rose’s arrival. Before that Margaret, who ran a holistic healing centre and wrote a psychic imprints column for ‘Pagan Universe’, had been their spiritual leader.

  In fact, Rose had confided in Kelly that, although she wouldn’t hear a word said against Margaret, it was obvious that “she had issues with status” and that these were blocking her spiritual development. Rose had then smiled sympathetically and said:

  “But that’s probably the fault of that man who let her down so badly, and we’ve all been in that situation, haven’t we, love?”

  Kelly, not wanting to disagree, had nodded. She’d been in that situation herself but was not convinced by Rose’s analysis of why Margaret had become more introspective. But she was too happy in this house to want any friction creeping into their community and pushed the image from her mind; this was her home now. She looked forward to Sunday and the new arrival who would have the room next to hers.

  In the bathroom she opened the cupboard under the mirror and took down the pregnancy testing kit. In her mind she was already certain of the result, but she needed to be sure before she told the others; told them they now had what they wanted, that their circle was complete and would remain unbroken. She wanted the moment to be perfect when she told them because it would be the first time in her life that she would be the centre of attention, the first time she would be important because of herself.

  She left the testing kit unopened on the surface by the hand basin and walked downstairs: she decided she should meditate and pray to the mother first. The great house was empty and this always felt a little spooky. Despite the soft carpet underfoot there was always a faint after sound of heavy feet on stone floor. But the sun flooding through the floor-to-ceiling window of the Gathering Room drove any anxiety away. This room was the most beautiful place Kelly had ever seen. It was the type of space only a caring community of women could create.

  To the side of the great hearth, n
ow occupied by a flame effect gas fire in a massive grate (log burning had been too smoky), Margaret had designed a plinth, eighteen inches high. This was covered in a soft, thick white rug and was where they constructed the circle then sat to communicate with their inner beings and the unseen spirit world. Kelly sat cross-legged, enjoying the soft tickle of the rug on her naked calves and thighs. Leaning back against the lathe and plaster wall beneath the statue of Vesta, goddess of the hearth, she luxuriated in the sensations, watching the motes of dust circling in the shafts of sunlight.

  Margaret loved this room. She had stripped it of any last vestiges of male imposed crassness left by Ken and created the Feng Shui vibe of spiritual awareness that nurtured their community. It was a place to be savoured and, as Margaret often said:

  “We don’t need to wear a hair shirt here, this is a community of women who’ve earned and appreciate their comforts.”

  Gazing across the room towards the large oak table still covered with bottles of Prosecco and Pinot Grigio from the previous night, Kelly agreed with her. Well, not fully agreed because she hadn’t really earned anything yet, but then again she had a different role and last night had been about celebrating that.

  At first she’d been uncomfortable with this role; neither Margaret nor Olga her partner had mentioned it when they first discussed her joining the house. The dancing dust motes trapped in the sunlight were hypnotic and she began to drift into recollection.

  It had started in Starbucks, where she’d been crying into a tasteless Latte. She was only in there because she had nowhere else to go. Zak had been two timing her and when she confronted him instead of apologising and telling her he loved her he had…

  She had to stop to control herself: this bit still hurt more than it should. Instead of telling her he still loved her, he dumped her. Told her she was too clingy and it was time to move on, and that’s what he did. He moved on without paying back the student loan she’d lent to him to part finance the car and sharp clothes he said he needed to break through to the big time. Then with no money and non-attendance at exams, she found herself out of uni and crying in Starbucks. It had changed her life and she knew the mother had caused it, made it happen for her.

  Her first awareness of the happening had been a gentle touch on her arm. Looking up she saw a large Nordic looking blonde woman standing over her, a look of concern on her handsome, strong-jawed face.

  “Forgive me, but you looked so unhappy, would you mind if I sat down for a moment?”

  Thus she met Olga, her first contact with the community. She couldn’t remember much of their conversation, only that at the end of it she was left with an address and an invitation to the house for that evening: it was fate.

  She took the 157 bus from the city centre to the end of the line. The ride took well over an hour as she moved through inner city regeneration, decaying inner suburbs, affluent outer and satellite suburbs and at last into the country. The bus stopped in a lay-by next to a rural pub; opposite there was a church and nothing else but fields. A couple of miles away a wooded escarpment reared up sharply out of the plain; the bus pulled off quickly as if it wanted to get away. It was growing dark.

  Kelly had the instructions Olga had given her but it was assumed she’d be driving. She didn’t own a car and hadn’t the money for a taxi. By foot and public transport it wasn’t so easy. She found the lane leading to the track that led to the house but the five minutes that Olga had told her this would take was more like an hour on foot.

  It was hard to tell where she was, high hedges obstructed her vision either side of the lane. Only once did a car pass her and for that she was grateful as she had to scramble into the hedge to get out of its way. The further she walked the darker it grew, and the more uncertain she felt: what was she doing here? The day had already been bad enough. How much more gullible could she get? It was the story of her life over and over again. Some night bird was making a noise in the branches over her head and there was rustling in the hedgerow.

  Now she was frightened, she could have been lured here to be murdered or raped and no one would miss her. She felt the tears start again but it was the thought that no one would miss or care if she died that kept her going. There was nothing to go back for anyway, so, pulling up her coat collar, she trudged on, trying to shut out the sounds.

  Seconds later she found the track snaking away to the right. It was narrower and darker than the road and uneven underfoot. She wondered how cars would get down it in bad weather, but she followed it. It was dead black now: the moon and stars were swaddled in thick layers of cloud and no light came from streetlights or windows. There were no streetlights or windows out here.

  She could hardly see her hand in front of her face. Then she hit a thorn hedge; the track had ended. She groped around before realising that it had veered away to the left and she followed it, keeping her hand on a field fence that marked its right boundary. This time she didn’t miss the turn: she just followed the fence line, concentrating on the ground beneath her feet. She was congratulating herself on this when she realised it had become brighter and looked up.

  It was there, a few hundred yards ahead of her, three stories, massive, the windows pouring out light; something out of a fairy tale. She stopped worrying about how she’d get back: she wouldn’t be going back.

  The track had become a drive, emerging from the claustrophobic confines of the hedge and sloping gently down towards the house. Her arrival was no surprise; security lights picked her out as she made her way along the gravelled path. Before she reached it the front door opened. Olga, dressed in a dark green dress, waited for her in the open doorway. To Kelly’s relief, she was smiling a welcome.

  It was the smell of the house she noticed first, a mix of scents: beeswax, perfumed candles and fresh cut flowers. Olga ushered her into a huge, softly lit room with a massive old fireplace and some type of raised platform next to it. There were seven women in the room; all of them older than her. Standing in the centre was a tall, red haired woman who looked to Kelly to be in her late thirties. She was wearing a long, clinging black dress and was holding a wine glass. Olga steered Kelly over to her.

  “Kelly, this is Margaret, she’s the head of our rather special little group.”

  She leant across and kissed Margaret on the lips almost proprietarily as she said this, which struck Kelly as strange.

  “Welcome to our community, Kelly, from what Olga has told us you will fit in perfectly.”

  And, apart from the introductions, that was it. Someone gave her a glass of white wine and not long after, dead tired, she was shown to her room: she was in. But it hadn’t been as simple as that - nothing ever was - there had been a price. Something she hadn’t expected and could never have imagined.

  Looking back they had tried to prepare her for it, but she’d been too naive to pick up any of the hints. So, when Olga and Margaret took her to one side to put the proposition to her she’d been shocked, and then outraged. Her first reaction had been to storm out, but where would she go? The thing that hurt most wasn’t the ethics of what they wanted but the fact that during the three months she had lived with them she had filled the role of baby in the house. She had been petted and pampered and confided in because she was no one’s rival, even Rose had recognised this when she arrived. Now they wanted a real baby.

  She sulked for a bit and then agreed, reasoning it would give her status: she would become the representative of the mother in the community. It had been a logical decision when she reviewed her options; it gave her security because she’d have what they needed. It would also bring her closer to the inner circle: Margaret, Olga and Jenna had connections with other occult groups and knew things the rest didn’t.

  It was particularly the case for Jenna, who was small, dark haired and sour like a crab apple. She had been ejected from a long-standing, more powerful community for reasons Kelly couldn’t discover except that it was the consequence of a bitter feud. There were things that these three kne
w that weren’t shared with the others, but, apart from by Rose, it seemed that this wasn’t resented.

  In fact, the relationships in the community worked well; there was little friction and the members contributed to the subsistence of the house according to their ability to pay. Not that this was a problem to any of them except Kelly and Rose as they all had successful careers. As Jenna often said, they were “sisters who had broken through the glass ceiling”.

  Any problems there were came from outside. Kelly heard Margaret talking to Jenna about a hex fetish that had been pinned to the front door one night, a disgusting thing of feathers, blood and bone.

  Then there were the bouts of late night phone calls, always the same recorded message, always the same threat or curse. Jenna blamed this on bitterness from an unbalanced member of her previous community. But Kelly observed the upgrading of the house security system and worked out that one of the reasons they had voted to allow Rose to join the community was her knowledge of the horrific aspects of treading the left hand path. Rose was still on sick leave from her job with the county archaeological unit as a consequence of her experiences.

  The nature of the engendering of the community’s child had been another sticking point in Kelly’s willingness to represent the mother. In fact, it had almost split the community. Kelly had assumed that the act would take place at a clinic using the sperm of a donor, a methodology supported by Rose, Ruth and Ailsa who adopted well-rehearsed arguments from the dialectic of sexual politics backed up by personal experience.

  However, Margaret, Olga and Jenna insisted on tradition and the old ways. There was to be an act of sexual magic practised on the most auspicious day, involving all of them. Kelly made the mistake of asking if she would have any choice regarding the father but quickly realised this was a faux pas, which was scorned and dismissed by both factions. Tradition prevailed and it became apparent that Jenna had already identified and made overtures to a prospective candidate, a man of impeccable pagan credentials with close links to Wiccan communities and experience in the field supported by impressive recommendations and testimonials.