Something Wicked

Billy Matthews was looking forward to the trip to the Lake District. While his friends were driving up together on the Friday, Billy would be catching the train on the Saturday morning, as he couldn’t get the Friday off work. He would have to change a couple of times at train stations he had never heard of, but he would hopefully be with his friends by mid-afternoon Saturday. He would still have plenty of time with his friends and be able to travel back with them. It would be a squeeze in the car journey home, but with your best friends it didn’t seem to matter.

With his rucksack slung over his shoulder, and eager for his adventure to begin, Billy arrived at Manchester’s Piccadilly train station. He hoped that at least the first train would be departing on time. Having paid an extortionate amount for a cup of tea and a muffin in a café at the station, he headed for the platform. The screen above the platform declared proudly that the train was ON TIME. Get in, Billy said under his breath and boarded the train. 

Just over an hour and twenty minutes later, the train slid into a station. Billy looked out the window. Behind the station building, a small northern town huddled together, beneath a backdrop of sweeping moorland. 

We have now arrived in Lindal, where this service terminates. Please change here. The automatic voice chirped over the speakers. While the other passengers grabbed their bags and zipped up their coats, Billy checked his train tickets. No, this wasn’t right. There was no mention of a town called Lindal. This train was to take him to a place called Oxenholme, and from there he was to catch the train to Bowness on Windermere, where his friends were already staying, and he was sure, having a great time. 

On the platform, he approached a woman in railway uniform. She glared at him with a weary, what now? expression. 

‘I was after the train to Oxenholme. I’m meeting my friends in Bowness.’ Billy explained, showing his tickets.

‘There are no more trains. There’s a strike. From eleven o’clock this morning, everything is cancelled.’ She said, pointing to the screens mounted on the wall.

The clock on the platform said 10.58am. As Billy stared at the screen, he felt sick. Rather than showing the times of the upcoming arrivals and departures, the screens now displayed the train times as cancelled in capital letters. 

‘And when will the trains be back on?’ Billy asked.

‘We expect normal service to resume hopefully by Wednesday morning.’ She said. 

The word hopefully was delivered almost as a threat.

‘What about a replacement bus service?’ Billy said.

‘It’s a strike, sir. It wouldn’t be much of a strike if we laid on replacement buses, would it?’ She snapped. 

Billy thanked her for her help, his voice thick with sarcasm and headed for the exit. It seemed he was stuck in Lindal, in deepest, darkest Lancashire, until the trains were back running. 

He headed away from the platform, texting as he walked. He messaged his friends to say the trains weren’t running and he honestly had no idea if or when he’d be joining them. He also phoned his mother and explained his unexpected change in plans. So much for his fun trip away with the lads.

‘So, yeah,’ he went on. ‘here I am in a place called Lindal. There doesn’t look to be a great deal here. I’ll be lucky if they have a pub and a corner shop.’

‘Sorry, love. You’re breaking up. The signal is awful. Did you say you’re in Lindal?’ His mother replied, her voice crackling on the line.

Outside of the train station, the signal was even worse. It sounded like his mother was talking underwater. Billy said he’d catch up with her later and hung up. A signpost pointed towards a muddy footpath that led out across the countryside. Lindal Hill. The large hill loomed over the town, backing on to miles and miles of moorland. He suspected the place might have been quite pleasant in the summer, but in the winter gloom, the whole area seemed rather desolate and foreboding. At that moment, almost in response, the wind picked up tugging at his coat. He had to lean forward to push onwards though the blustery winds. 

The streets of Lindal were cobbled and lined with buildings that looked like they had survived both World Wars. It felt as though he had stepped back in time. The town no doubt hosted festival weekends in the summer, where everyone dressed in vintage clothing, and classic cars would like the streets. In the drudgery of winter, the place had more of a haunted, rather than a quaint, cosy vibe. The faces of the people passing by were as miserable as the weather and the backdrop. The townspeople walked by, head down, avoiding eye contact with people, trying to ignore the world around them. 

As predicted the windswept Lindal high street was little more than a row of shops that culminated in a pub at the end of the strip. Still, he thought, at least there was a pub. The Sad Labrador had frosted windows and flaking paintwork that looked like it hadn’t been recoated in decades. The window panes were thick with cobwebs. The exterior of the pub suggested it didn’t so much need a refurb as knocking down and starting again. 

Billy ducked into the pub, hoping a pint would help him cope with being stranded in this town. The interior was made up of dark wood panelling with framed black and white photographs mounted on the walls. The place itself was like stepping into a black and white photo. The few customers in the pub sipped pints or halves of dark ale and seemed to keep themselves to themselves. No chitchat, no laughter, no cocktails and no atmosphere. 

Billy headed to the bar and ordered a pint of beer from the barman. The guy nodded, a cigarette dangling from his lips. As he paid for his pint, Billy asked if there was a hotel nearby.

‘There’s no hotel in town. This isn’t London, you know.’ The barman replied.

If Billy hadn’t been stuck in this dreary place, he would have laughed at the barman’s glib answer. As it was, he found there was little to laugh at. 

‘There’s Mrs O’Keefe’s place.’ The barman added.

‘And what exactly is that?’ Billy said.

‘Mrs O’Keefe runs a Bed and Breakfast place, three streets over.’

Mrs O’Keefe was somewhere in her thirties but dressed and acted much older than her years. She showed Billy to his room and explained that breakfast be served in the dining room at 9 o’clock sharp. The small bedroom was so old-fashioned. It was the type of place you could imagine evacuated children would be put up in during the Second World War. There was the narrow single bed, a tall wooden wardrobe, a bedside lamp and an old-fashioned radio. The radio was the type of thing that, these days, would be described as retro and sold for rather a lot of money. Billy sighed, once again thinking of his friends and the trip he was missing out on.

The landlady handed him his room key, on a thick wooden fob, and said she would let him get settled in. Having unpacked his clothes and hung them up in the musty old wardrobe, Billy headed back out into the town. As he walked down the high street he checked his mobile phone. No signal. He swore. He felt so far away from home, cut off from his family and friends. 

Having dined on possibly the worst fish and chips he’d ever tasted in a poky little chip shop, Billy returned to the pub. Maybe the plastic chairs and cutlery hadn’t helped with the food’s flavour. In the Sad Labrador, the early evening crowd were gathering. Billy sensed that a lot of the regulars frequented the pub every night, sitting in the same spots, that would inevitably become thought of as their seats, as though the pub was their own home. Billy sipped his pint of beer and found a free seat by the fireplace, that he hoped didn’t belong to someone else. He could always move seats if he was grumbled at by some local. 

A guy in his sixties took his pint of beer and shuffled across the room. Billy assumed he was either heading to the toilets or to the bar. Halfway across the room, the man stopped. He perched on the stool in front of the upright piano. Placing his glass on the top of the piano, the guy lifted the lid and started to play. The room was filled with music. The others in the room sang along with the old tunes. 

Later that evening, having had several pints of beer, Billy stepped out of the pub, and wandered back to the B&B. In the glow of the streetlights, the shadows loomed menacingly. He felt like he was starring in a low-budget horror film. 

As he walked down the street, he heard quick footsteps dashing up the pavement behind him. Maybe a late-night jogger out getting a few miles in before bed, or someone in a rush to meet their date. He stepped to the side, out of the way, and turned to see who was approaching. He was shocked to see the street was completely empty. There was nobody around at all. Telling himself he must have been hearing things, he walked all the more quickly. 

Back in his bedroom, in the glow of the bedside lamp, he undressed, folding his clothes and placing them on the hard wooden chair. The old-fashioned feel to the room reminded him of staying with his grandparents when he was a child. With the strange events of the day going around his mind, he made himself as comfortable as he could in the narrow bed and went to sleep.

A noise outside the room woke him. He sat up in bed and listened. There were footsteps dashing up and down the stairs. Several sets of footsteps bounding up and down. It sounded like children playing. The creaking of the old building, the thump of footsteps. At one point he could have sworn they were rattling the doorhandle to his bedroom, in either an attempt to gain entrance, or to spook him. He was grateful that he had locked the door.

After a while, the noises stopped. Billy tucked the bedclothes tight around his chin and tried to get back to sleep. 

Billy made it down to the dining room for breakfast at nine o’clock. He sensed this Bed & Breakfast was the kind of place that served breakfast at a specific time, rather than from it. The dining room was in the front room of the house. Four tables were laid with white tablecloths and gleaming silver cutlery. Billy was the only person who had made it down for breakfast. Maybe the other guests were having a lie in after all the commotion on the stairs during the night.

Mrs O’Keefe appeared in the doorway wearing an apron. She bid him good morning and asked how he had slept. Billy replied that he hadn’t slept too badly. He didn’t really want to complain about the racket during the night. Hopefully he’d only be staying here a short time, so rather than make a fuss, he said nothing.

‘And would sir be having the Full English breakfast?’ She asked, her tone implying that he really didn’t have a choice. 

Billy smiled and said that would be lovely. A few minutes later, she returned with a plate of fried food and a pot of tea. As she placed his breakfast down in front of him, Billy gestured to the empty room.

‘Am I the only one who made it down for breakfast?’ He asked.

‘You are the only one staying with us at the moment.’ She replied. 

Billy shivered. That didn’t explain the noises in the night.

‘And you didn’t hear anything during the night? Any loud footsteps on the stairs?’ He asked.

‘I didn’t hear anything. I always sleep soundly. I’m out like a light.’ She said, before quickly leaving the room.

As he ate his breakfast, he tried not to dwell on the strangeness of the place he had found himself. Maybe there were lots of odd little places like this across the country, little towns and villages, out in the sticks. He had always lived on the outskirts of a big city. His backdrop had always been so very urban, rather than the rural wilderness. Maybe he was suffering from a bit of culture shock. 

After breakfast, Billy headed out into town. He was determined to look at his rural surroundings. A positive mindset might help. He wandered around the narrow cobbled streets, admiring the stonework of the old buildings. He did try look at things in a more positive way, but the backdrop of Lindal Hill, and the moors stretching away certainly did have a very bleak way about them. The word desolate came to mind.

He found a bookshop. The store was tiny, with books filling the shelves. As the bell above the door chimed his entrance, the owner looked up from behind the counter and smiled. Billy wished him good morning. A lot of the volumes on the shelves were more than half a century old, their covers torn and faded, their pages yellowed.

A book fell from a higher shelf, almost hitting him, before clattering to the floor. Billy reached to pick the book up and gasped when he saw the title. The Lindal Hill Witches.  This area would have been well suited to macabre going on back in the day. There were still tales of witchcraft in the North of England, dating back centuries. 

Billy shook his head. He really didn’t need that on his mind right now. He snatched the book and shoved it back on the shelf. As he dashed for the door, the owner gave him a puzzled look.

Outside the wind was bitter and biting, pulling and tugging at him. A leaflet was blown against his shins. The paper was yellowed with age. He peeled the paper from his leg and stared in confusion. He shivered when he saw the title. The 1604 Witchcraft Act. On the yellow paper in bold print was detailed the act. He couldn’t understand some of the old-fashioned wording, but it seemed to be detailing how the Witchfinder Generals would be taking control of seeking out witches, taking over control from the Church. To be reading such gothic literature in a place like this was just bizarre, especially on top of everything else what was going on. He turned to a man walking by with his Golden Retriever. 

‘What do you make of this?’ Billy said, waving the creepy leaflet in panic.

‘I’m not hungry, thank you very much.’ The man said, before tugging his dog away and heading down the street.

When Billy glanced back down at the leaflet in his hand, it was now a glossy takeaway menu advertising the latest offers on Burger meals and pizza deals.

This didn’t make sense. It was weird enough that the spooky paper had blown to him, but even stranger, that the leaflet was now a generic menu for a nearby pizza chain. He hadn’t imagined it, had he? He shook his head and screwed the menu up into a ball and tossed into a rubbish bin.

A while later as he walked down a side street, he saw a figure up ahead. The figure was shrouded in a long dark cloak that reached the cobbles. Their face was obscured by the hood. It was coming up to Halloween, but he sensed whoever it was, they were not out trick-or-treating. Billy stood still, frozen to the spot. The figure pointed a pale finger at him. Then, the figure moved towards him, floating, gliding along. Billy scrambled backwards, calling out in utter terror. 

Then the figure faded away, as though made white smoke, drifting away on the wind. Billy leaned on the wall to steady himself. He sighed. This place, wherever it was, and whatever was happening, it was just so unsettling. 

The skies were darkening overhead. The day had run away from him. It would soon be completely dark. It was too late to attempt his escape from the town tonight. He would have to get through the night and leave by any means necessary in the morning. 

Feeling completely exhausted and wanting to be anywhere else, headed back to the B&B. Billy climbed into bed. Still wearing his clothes, he lay under the covers and tried to think of anything but the strange goings-on. He slowed his breathing and counted his breaths, in and out, in and out. He told himself he would be okay. In the morning he would see if there were any buses to any neighbouring villages. He would even fork out for a taxi to the nearest big town. He would see about working his way back home. Comforted by his decision, he eventually he drifted off to sleep.

When he woke sometime later, the room was dark, apart from the lamplight. He shivered under the bedclothes. The room was ice cold. The curtains billowed in the gusts of cold wind coming from the open window. 

Billy dashed across the room to close the window. He flung back the curtains only to find the window was closed. The gusts of wind had now stopped.  

Telling himself his mind must be playing tricks on him; he went back to bed. As he tried to sleep, he could hear female voices, talking, chanting. It was like the women were in the room with him, standing over the bed.

He covered his face with trembling hands. He wanted to get away from here, but right there and then, there was nothing he could do, nowhere he could go. Repeating like a mantra that he would leave tomorrow, leaving the morning, he made himself as comfortable as he could, and closed his eyes.

 Somehow, he went to sleep once more.

He dreamed he was out walking on the moors, suddenly there was a throng of people around him. They all wore long hooded cloaks and pushed and shoved him around. They screeched and cackled as they lashed out at him. Billy raised his hands to protect himself. 

He was grabbed and dragged along. He was yanked and pulled across the moorland, to a lone tree, its bare branches pointing to the grey skies overhead. 

A rope, a knotted noose, was slipped over his head. As he called out in protest, he felt the noose tighten. The rope tightened and he was lifted up, his feet scrambling to stay in contact with the floor. He was snatched up into the air, the rope suddenly deathly tight around his neck. His feet kicked out in panic as he clawed at the rope around his neck, trying to free himself. 

He woke with a start. At the edge of the curtains, early morning daylight crept into the room. It was morning. He had made it. 

There was banging and pounding on his hotel room door. Still reeling from the awful dream, Billy threw off the duvet and went to answer. He opened the door, half-expecting to find nothing more than an empty corridor. His mother was standing there, a worried look on her face.

‘Mum, what are you doing here?’ He asked.

‘Come on, we’re leaving. The car is outside. I’m taking you home.’ She said.

‘What? I don’t understand.’

‘You can’t stay here. I’ll explain on the way.’ 

As his mother paced the small hotel room, Billy stuffed his clothes and belongings in his rucksack. Billy followed his mother as she rushed out to the car.

‘You remember last year, when I looked into our family tree? I managed to trace our family history quite far back. Your 18th great grandfather was Harold Matthews, the Witchfinder. Back in the early 1600s, he worked across the North of the country. His most famous trial was the Lindal Hill Witches. Seven people, mostly young women, girls really, were executed. The evidence against them was little more than tall tales and gossip, mostly from disgruntled neighbours and superstitious villagers. Those poor souls were hanged out on those moors.’ She said, pointing to the hills rolling by. 

Billy didn’t know what to say. This was all just too much. His mother put her foot down on the accelerator. Like him, she clearly wanted to put the town and its history behind them. Her gaze drifted to the moors in the distance. For a moment she thought she saw hooded figures walking across the hills. Then they were gone. 

She glanced at her son. 

‘What is that? That mark on your neck?’ She asked, panic in her voice.

Billy checked in the mirror, tugging the collar of his t-shirt down. He stared in shock. Around his neck was what looked like rope burns.

By Chris Platt

From: United Kingdom