In the House

‘It’s evil. I can feel it. Feel it in every stone - evil it is.’

‘What rubbish. A house, or any other building, cannot be evil. Men who transgress the laws of our good Lord are evil. Whether any such men, or indeed women, have ever resided in this house we shall not know but if so their wickedness cannot seep into its structure. You are a foolish child to believe it could be so.’

Mother

I turn away from my sullen daughter. Why she thinks such things I cannot imagine. She scowls at me. In a fit of temper she wrests the cap from her head and throws it to the stone floor. The flour from her hands as she casts it down form a dusty cloud in the air. It is illuminated by the low afternoon sun shining through the small window set in the thick stone wall of the kitchen.

‘I tell you mother, it is something I know. I will no more bake today. This kitchen, that oven gaping like an open mouth – they make my flesh creep.’

When she is in this mood there is no reasoning with her. When Henry and Peter return perhaps they will cease her wild fantasies. She always listens to her father and brother more than she does to me.

Oh well, I must finish the baking alone then so there is fresh bread upon their return. The ride is long and they will surely be tired. Hopefully their trip to Winchester will have been worthwhile.

As I knead the dough my mind drifts to the earlier occupants of this house; the house that has only recently become our home thanks to the legacy from Henry’s old aunt. Without this we could never have hoped to afford such a fine dwelling. Were the previous owners wealthy? I assume they must have had considerable funds but how they were acquired or what became of them who knows.

I look around the kitchen which, despite Mary’s fear, I find the most welcoming room. I can imagine families long since dead seated around the oak table eating by candlelight while basking in the heat from the fire and bread oven; much as we shall when the winter draws in.

The table, I think, is old and perhaps belonged to those who rebuilt the house after the fire. It is a solid table which suits the room in which it sits.

My bread is ready for the oven. As I push it inside my arms appear to be drawn into it deeper than I would wish. I hurriedly let down the loaves from the iron and pull them away quickly. How strange -but perhaps not as I have never used such an oven before.

As the bread bakes I look through the window and, against the sun that has sunk even lower, I see Henry and Peter riding towards our new home.

I warm the milk and something stronger for Henry, to greet them. Then, when they are rested, I will summon Mary. Perhaps her father will be able to quiet her unfounded fears.

Mary

I hear horses, yes, father and Peter return. No doubt mother will tell them of my outburst. Father takes notice of her so will certainly brush off my concerns as nothing more than girlish pique. It is not that. I know it’s not, perhaps Peter will listen, perhaps he has felt it too. I hope so. The feeling of doom I have is not merely that of a sixteen year old maid. This house burned down some hundred and fifty years ago. This was when witches were executed in our land. I wonder, was it set ablaze to rid the house of its evil? Were the witches real or were those unfortunate enough to reside here turned to the dark side because...?.Mother calls me so I hurry to greet my father and brother. Father looks grim.

‘Your mother tells me you have fanciful notions about our glorious new home. I will not tolerate such folly. We are privileged to be able to dwell in such a splendid house. I will have no more of your nonsense. No more Mary.’

Mother smiles at father, satisfied with his response. Peter does not speak; he picks up the cat and fondles it. I am sure I am right and frightened of what may come to pass if we remain here.

Mother

It was an accident, assuredly it was. I would have no reason to harm my own son. I turned suddenly and did not realise he stood so close. The knife pierced his coat but did no real damage to his person. He does not blame me as he knows I would never harm him. He was fondling the cat again and was not aware of me holding the knife. When he dropped the cat it turned and stared at me; its eyes wider than usual and its fur appearing to bristle. I have never been too fond of that cat. Henry knows it was an accident...yes an accident, an accident.

Mary

I saw what happened. She didn’t know I was there, standing in the doorway. Quietly standing, watching her. I feel I need to watch her. She has seemed strange lately and I fear the house may be somehow taking hold of her. I pray it is not so but nonetheless resolve to observe when I can. Peter was stroking Amber. He was standing just behind mother as she prepared vegetables. He was not looking in her direction. Then, and I swear to the good Lord that it was not, despite her assertions, an accident, mother stabbed at Peter. She stabbed at him and he cried out, dropping Amber. Mother was instantly contrite but I saw, in the moment of the stabbing, it was her intent to hurt my brother. I knew not what to do and still am confused. Father believed her account so all I can do is continue to watch.

Mother

I must bake today. I must ready the oven for my loaves. Mary and Peter are busy tending to the horses whilst Henry is in the fields. I am alone in my kitchen - my realm. The oven grows hotter. Soon it will be ready for its work today. There is more work for it this day. Other than bread. Not just bread. Something else must be roasted today. After this perhaps I shall have some peace. There will not be accusing eyes watching me. Soon.

Mary

Peter and I return from attending to our horses. Mother is in the kitchen seemingly unaware of our presence. Baking, we suppose, but the smell is not of fresh bread. The smell is altogether different - burned meat. Peter looks at me and as he speaks we see the awful truth of the situation.

‘Where is Amber? Where is the cat?’