Lay Me to Rest. E. Clark A.
left me a good three hours to look round. I walked back past the cottage, but kept my eyes firmly trained on the path beaten before me. Gingerly climbing the stile at the far edge of the field, I found myself in a vast meadow filled with wild flowers: buttercups, delicate blue cornflowers, cow parsley and poppies as bright as drops of blood.
The air was still and humid. I walked for what seemed like an age, alone with my thoughts and the perfect peace of the seemingly endless countryside. Butterflies hovered in their droves. A red admiral alighted on my arm for a moment and then floated dreamily away.
The heat was not conducive to walking any great distance and, feeling increasingly breathless, I decided to head for the shade of the large oak tree in the centre of the field. My feet almost ran away with me as I descended the slope. I laughed out loud, grateful that I had no audience, since I must have looked a comical sight, waddling down the hill in such an ungainly fashion, with my beach ball of a stomach. The baby wriggled within, obviously stirred by this sudden bout of activity.
I lay down on the cool turf, gazing beyond the tree’s welcome umbrella at the miles of unbroken blue sky above. The only sound was the almost hypnotic whirring of the crickets concealed within the long grass. My phone bleeped without warning, shattering my reverie. It was a text message from my colleague, Kate.
‘How r u? What’s the weather doing?’
I smiled to myself. I didn’t hear from her often but we had always got on well at work. I knew that she would still be at school as the term wasn’t due to end for another fortnight. I couldn’t believe how little I’d thought about my job since Graham died. It seemed so trivial now. I could no longer envisage myself delivering a lesson or chairing a faculty meeting, much less marking books and handing out detentions. I couldn’t even see myself returning to the role after the baby was born. It had all paled into insignificance.
I sat up, lifting the mobile to take a photograph, by way of an answer. But a sudden shadow passed overhead. The temperature had cooled noticeably and the scent of the field’s flowers was immediately overpowered by that of a sickly, musky odour. I felt a terrible sense of foreboding. Slowly lowering the phone to reveal what had caused the occlusion, it fell from my hands as I started in fright.
I could scarcely believe what I was seeing. My heart began to pound and I let out an involuntary scream. Floating above and a little in front of me, no more than two feet from the top of my head, was the outline of a woman, featureless except for a pair of intense, dark eyes that seemed to look straight through me – a grey, translucent vapour.
How long I lay there, I do not know. Time seemed to stand still as, powerless to move, I felt compelled to gaze in horror upon the shadowy figure that seemed to be pinning me to the ground. It felt suffocating.
The penetrating eyes suddenly shifted their focus and locked with mine. It was as though I were staring into an abyss. I was gripped by an awful, cold dread as I acknowledged the blatant contempt in their expression. Fleetingly I wondered if I would leave the field alive; did she mean to take my life and that of my unborn child? I was completely helpless.
The figure’s hand was extended as though pointing towards something behind me. As I turned stiffly to look, I noticed that there were several sets of initials carved deep into the trunk of the old oak.
‘Anni wyf i.’
Immediately, I recognized the same disembodied voice that had whispered in my ear the night before. My stomach turned over. As though released from a vice, I felt suddenly able to move properly, and jerked my head back to examine her more closely; but the apparition had faded away. My quivering arms covered in gooseflesh, I scrambled to my feet and looked around me. All was still. I was alone once more.
I stood frantically scanning the field, hardly daring to believe that she had definitely gone. My whole body was quaking with fear. Taking deep breaths to regain my composure, I peered at some of the letters on the tree.
G. P. ♥ A. W. AM BYTH – 1992
G. P. – Glyn Parry, surely? And the girl he was engaged to – Aneira Williams. Kneeling down, with trembling forefinger I traced the outline of another group of initials nearer the base of the trunk, which were older and less well defined.
J. O. P. + A. H. D. 1845
Could it be? Anwen Davies – the unfortunate milkmaid; but who was J. O. P.? I would have to ask Mr and Mrs Parry about my discovery. And I felt I no longer had any alternative but to tell them about my unusual visitations. Shaken and emotionally drained, I made my way back to the farm, not daring to look behind me. I was beginning to wonder if it had been such a good idea to come here after all.
*
The moment I entered the kitchen, Mrs Parry realized that something was amiss. She ushered me towards Mr Parry’s chair in front of the stove and bade me sit, whilst I struggled to get the words out.
The old woman listened in grave silence as, breathless and still reeling from my experience, I stammered an explanation of what I’d just seen and what had taken place during the night. She sat beside me holding my quavering hand, and said nothing for quite some time.
‘I don’t know what to think,’ she said eventually. ‘I’ve never taken too much notice of Will’s stories. All the time I’ve lived here I haven’t seen anything of that sort. But then I suppose spirits – if that’s what they are – can’t always be seen by everyone.’
She looked at me curiously. ‘Has anything like this ever happened to you before?’
Her expression told me that she wasn’t entirely sure whether the whole thing could have been in my imagination. A recently bereaved pregnant woman in a strange place; perhaps I was just hysterical and rampantly hormonal. It was not an unreasonable assumption to make.
I sighed and shook my head. I had always been what I considered down to earth and healthily sceptical. The nearest I had ever come to a paranormal experience was when I had once predicted the unlikely winner of the Grand National after an unusually vivid dream, but I put that down to having read about the runners in the newspaper a few days before the race and thought the name of the horse must have lodged somewhere in my subconscious. That – and the copious amount of wine I had consumed the previous night. A fluke, no more, I had told myself.
‘Peter’s looked into it all, apparently. He said that if there are spirits in a place, even if they’ve laid low for years they can be stirred up again when someone new arrives. He told me all about what happened when he and Glyn messed about with the Ouija board when they were kids.’
Mrs Parry released my hand and stared at me. She sat back in her seat, looking stunned.
‘What Ouija board? That’s the first I’ve heard of it …’ Her voice had become uncharacteristically hard and she studied me in disbelief.
‘I’m sorry – I thought you knew.’ I felt instantly awkward and regretted having opened my mouth.
‘Glyn wouldn’t have done a thing like that; I’m sure of it. He was a sensible lad. And I always thought Peter was, too.’ Mrs Parry considered for a moment and her face softened a little. ‘What exactly did he tell you, then?’
Reluctantly, I repeated almost everything that Peter had told me: about the messages that had been spelt out (omitting their content) and the eerie voice that had spoken to them. Anxiously, I watched the old woman’s face for a reaction.
‘Well,’ she said, after thinking for a moment. ‘I’m not surprised they didn’t tell us. I’ve heard all about those boards and the things that have happened to people after they’ve used them. Glyn would have felt the back of my hand if I’d found out. And Peter’s mam and dad wouldn’t have been too impressed, either.’
The familiar smile returned to her face and I relaxed a little.
‘Still, what’s done is done, I suppose. Listen now, if you’d feel happier staying here tonight instead of at the cottage, I can make you up a bed. I’m sure