Chapter 1
Vengeance
Hallows Hill, England
31st October 1665, year of the Black Death
She daren’t glance down at the marked trapdoor beneath her feet. A trickle of sweat raced down the bridge of her nose. Black hair whipped her face in the threatening breeze, wrapping itself around the thick rope. Rain attacked her face, soaking her black dress and forming a puddle beneath her tatty boots.
Across the town, she could see him, hiding in the shadows. Waiting for the moment that would change Hallows Hill forever. He couldn’t even watch. The coward. Even though she ‘repulsed’ him, he couldn’t bear to face the consequences of his actions. A crow shrieked. A group of them were huddled on the town wall, shifting from foot to foot impatiently.
Two minutes to go. A gust of wind blew through the dark, narrow cobbled streets, where rats scurried in the shadows. They were everywhere these days. The Ale House pub sign flapped and creaked as an empty tankard rolled into the gates of the new graveyard. She’d carved the incantations on the blank stone herself, and hidden the key underneath – for next time. The dim, yellow oil lamp outside the weaver’s cottage flickered just as two horse-drawn carriages crossed each other under a stone archway. Heavy drops of rain hit the ground, splashing onto the worn cobblestones.
One minute to go. The drums rumbled to life. The crowd were still, zombie-like. He had them under his control. It was the main reason he became mayor. So that he could turn the village against her and force them to share his belief that she worshipped the devil and summoned evil spirits. One day he would learn the truth. If being able to help people with her powers made her a witch, then her confession was worth it. And that brought her here.
Any second now. The church clock ticked. The drum roll struck. Bom. Bom. Barom bom-bom-bom. Bom. Bom. Barom bom-bom-bom.
The church clock tolled nine o’clock.
The drum roll stopped. Silence.
She looked at him with a wounded glint in her eyes. The mayor. She pointed a finger at his shaded face and focused her mind on it and nothing else.
She swallowed. Her eyes switched from brown to a blazing orange. A burning energy twisted deep inside her gut and ripped through her heart and into her arms. It felt different this time. Painful. Magic should only be used for good, not evil, but she had no choice. It drained her of everything she had left.
“Yersinia pestis!” She screamed the word to inflict the Plague.
Lightning bolted from her finger, a bright jolt of it, and headed straight for his body.
The mayor jerked backwards, losing all control of his limp arms and legs. As he collapsed to the ground, the crowd drew in a gasp of shock. The scavengers didn’t hesitate. Twitching their noses at the smell of new blood, a mounting number of crows and rats abandoned the Plague victims they’d been feasting on to pile on top of him, squealing in delight at the prospect of fresh food. A few seconds later, the mayor’s cries faded.
“She has used her sorcery to curse him with the Plague!” The executioner pulled the creaking lever. The trapdoor flew open.
She plummeted sharply into darkness and smiled to herself. This is not the end.
Over in the graveyard, a dormant stone sparked and shimmered with a row of burning, lightning-white lettering. Thunder roared a startling threat. The curse was forged.
Chapter 2
The Mysterious Epitaph
Something shifted behind the cracked gravestone at the back, the one with a man’s hand carved into the top. Harriet Flynn spun around. Only two days until Halloween, one of her all-time favourite days of the year. What if it was a…
“Nope. Don’t even think about it. Just get out of here,” she scolded herself aloud. Zombies and ghosts don’t exist, although it’d be awesome if they did. She’d get them to freak out all the people who got on her nerves, which happened to be most of the human race at the moment. Nah. It was probably a fox.
This had to be the worst shortcut ever. Deep with sludge, overgrown weeds and no light whatsoever. According to the admissions team, it was the quickest way to get to the castle. Failed to mention there wasn’t any path, though, didn’t they?
Harriet crouched to lift the edges of her blue dress, sopping with water and brown muck. The primroses in her wicker basket spilled onto the ground and sunk into the mud. Brilliant. If she hadn’t had to run all the way back to the staffroom to collect her satchel, then she’d now be indoors like everyone else. She hadn’t slept a wink last night, after Dad had left. It wasn’t so much the worry for Uncle Mike but how Harriet would cope with Dad gone for the whole festival. She was completely out of her depth in Bellsbury, and Mum was always on at her to learn how to be like the other performers – loud and overconfident. Dad was the one person Harriet could trust. He understood her, he had time for her and he encouraged her to do the things that she enjoyed. He’d even tried convincing her that she could sing!
Leaves started to rustle around her. Or was that someone whispering? Harriet paused. Oh God. Without a torch, she couldn’t see much of anything.
A mournful sigh floated past her ears. Her whole body stiffened. Through the rustle of leaves there came a whisper in the wind – ‘Kapayi, Nihoyi. Vish hol…’, and then a stronger gust thrusted her forwards.
Grabbing her wicker basket, Harriet trudged against the wind through a sea of tangled grass and crooked gravestones.
Ouch! Her foot bashed into something rock-hard. She didn’t have time to stop herself and within seconds her bottom squelched into a wet, slushy pool of mud. Just great. The wardrobe lady only washed her costume this morning and she’d made it quite clear that she wouldn’t be doing another wash. What’d she wear for work tomorrow? Her pyjamas? If anyone from school found her knee-deep in mud, wearing a dress, she’d die of shame.
Still sprawled on the ground, unable to summon the energy to get up, she lifted her head of drenched hair.
The wind had died down, but before her stood a small, crumbling gravestone. It was a bit out of place among the many headstones carved with elegant epitaphs,scattered around the graveyard. This gravestone was completely blank. She shifted her bottom to stand up when a ray of moonlight splashed onto the crumbling gravestone. A single row of slanted inscription, etched with loops, flicks and tails, shone back at her.
A woman’s cupped hand had been carved into the stone. That definitely wasn’t there a moment ago.
Harriet leant further to the left, allowing the moonlight to illuminate the carved lettering.
Kapayi, Nihoyi. Vish hol luminar vos sorcerati.
What sort of weird language was that? The hand must’ve been a popular symbol in those days, it must have meant something. Was this even a grave?
Harriet dragged her knees up to her chest. Something solid pressed into her left leg; its cold, cast-iron edges scraped her bare skin. Mud seeped between her fingers as she closed her hand around the jagged object. The rusty thing looked like it’d been buried for centuries. She raked away a mound of dirt using her nails and held it upwards, twirling it from left to right until it caught a spattering of light.
A key.
It was one of those antique types with a club-shaped bow and a long stem. Its tip jutted out with two ridges that looked like a crocodile’s jaw. Harriet twisted the key again. At the top, on the bow, were etched a clutter of letters. Four letters? No, three letters. Yes, three.
“H-H-O… no, B… or is that a D?” Harriet scrunched her eyes and held the key up against her nose.
Below the letters were six numbers. 311065. Could that be a date, or perhaps someone’s phone number?
What if the key was connected to the gravestone? She could’ve found something here, a genuine antique. Harriet reached into her satchel and wrapped her grimy fingers around her phone. The stone wasn’t exactly captivating, but it was an interesting subject. As long as she had a clear shot of the engraving, she’d be able to Google it later.
Several bugs scuttled across the gravestone, just as the clock in the church tower chimed eight times. A tornado of crisp leaves whizzed through the graveyard and Harriet wriggled her shoulders. A heavy cloud rolled over the moon, dulling its bright rays.
The carved eulogy disappeared. Perhaps it was designed to glow in the dark?
There came that rustling noise again, from over by the bushes. Harriet turned her head, her pulse racing. Slipping the key into her dress pocket, she ran. Weeds snatched at her ankles as she followed the long path out of the centuries-old graveyard, passing the Fair where the old stake used for burning criminals stood tall. Her soggy shoes smacked onto an empty cobbled-stoned street littered with wooden barrels and crates. The pong of decomposing fruit combined with coal smoke zipped up her nose.
Mm, very authentic. Jorvic Centre, eat your heart out.
Orange lights flickered behind the windows of thatched pubs, where the buzz of conversation flooded the air.
At last. Just beyond that stone archway stood Bellsbury Castle, its grandness half-lit by yellow spotlights against the jet-black sky. It looked a bit like one of the castles she’d seen in those old Dracula films that Dad watched practically all the time. Its several towers and turrets could probably be seen all the way from the next town in Dorset. Apparently, it belonged to King James I back in the 1600s – or something like that. She probably should’ve paid more attention during the mini history lesson on training day, but what was the point in learning about stuff that no longer exists?
Harriet stepped into the wide entrance hall and dragged her grubby shoes along the cold stone floor. She hated it being quiet like this. All she could hear were her own footsteps squelching towards the huge staircase at the bottom of the hall. Halfway up, the staircase spiralled to the left and the right. Choosing the left staircase, she took a slow walk up the uneven hard steps. Using an old castle as accommodation for staff and guests was a pretty cool idea. Although having to sacrifice modern-day light for battery-operated candles totally sucked. Especially when the battery ran out while you were on the loo.
It was such a shame Dad wouldn’t get to see his seventeenth-century festival come to life. He’d spent so many late nights planning it. But last night Aunt Michelle had called from France: Uncle Mike was in a diabetic coma, and could Dad come as soon as possible? Mum insisted he be with his brother, ‘just in case’. That left Mum and Dad’s assistant, Ben Jennings, in charge of everything.
In charge of each other more like. These next three days would be absolute torture. But at the same time, it’d mean no arguments between Mum and Dad for a while.
Harriet let out a breath when she reached the third floor. The staff bedchambers took up this whole floor. At last. Room number 407.
Twisting the accommodation key in the small arched door, Harriet stepped into the large, wood-panelled lounge where she also slept. Paintings of old royalty (no idea who they were) and tapestries covered the stone walls. Fake wax candles flickered by the window. Harriet tossed her empty basket onto a chair, letting out a loud, deliberate grumble. Her roommate and best friend from school, Liliana Garcia – Lily – was so fascinated in something on her laptop that she hadn’t seen Harriet. Bet it was a boy, had to be.
Harriet peered over her shoulder. Oh, would you look at that. Lily was on Facebook – again. Stalking a boy. Wayne Barry. Yes, OK, those ice-blue eyes were super dreamy. Oh, and that silver stud in his right ear looked cool. Wayne had been employed as a jester at Bellsbury. He totally rocked that role.
“He’s only in the room next door, you know,” Harriet teased.
Lily slammed the laptop shut and spun around, pulling a face. “Shh, he’ll hea… Ew, what is happening to you, my lovely?”
“I decided to have a bath in the graveyard,” Harriet moaned, washing her hands in a basin of soapy water. The key she’d found in the graveyard swung forwards in her pocket, thumping against the basin.
