IT ALL COMES AROUND IN THE END

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IT ALL COMES AROUND IN THE END

BY

JENNIFER WORD

The wind was chilly, a thick scud of gray clouds covering the sky. The light wind whistled through the bare trees, seeming to taunt and tease, threatening rain at every shrill note. Rachael stuffed her hands deeper into the pockets of her Trilby coat. She should have brought her gloves, but they were sitting on the passenger seat of the green Fiat. They, at least, were warm. John was walking with the farmer, Kell O’Donough, asking questions like an excited schoolboy. Rachael shivered, sighed, then walked over to John, grimacing a smile. Her lips felt numb.

“Honey, this is amazing,” John said, pointing to a headstone. “This tombstone is over three hundred years old.”

Rachael smiled and nodded. Mr. O’Donough smiled back, sympathizing. He had only agreed to bring the couple out here because John had offered him ten dollars, and Kell never refused easy money, especially from American tourists. Not that he’d ever had any knocking on his door before, but that was beside the point.

The tourists blew through town, marveling at the quaint little pubs, the architecture of the buildings, staying in the few bed and breakfasts along the row. Then they left and it never affected Kell at all, one way or the other. In town, he listened to the townsfolk complain about the ‘traffic,’ but he noticed they never complained about the money these tourists spent on their fine establishments. Now it was his turn to reap the benefits.

He’d taken over the farm after his father died, and his father had done the same on back through too many generations to count. The graveyard had always been here, he mused. A fixture no more out of the ordinary than the trees surrounding his land. As it so happened, he was an expert on the site, so to speak. The stories, like the farm itself, had been handed down over the generations. No one had ever bothered to knock on his door asking about them, however, until today.

“There’s older than that, fella. In the monastery down Cornamagh,” Kell repeated. He had already told this man, John Engall, that this old, deserted graveyard was small business, if the American really wanted to see some ancient graves. John simply shook his head.

“Everyone looks at those. I want to see something no one else has seen.”

Rachael sighed heavily, turning to head back to the car. Kell stopped her with his hand, smiling gently. She blushed and he lowered his hand to his side, feeling awkward.

“Now hold on, missus, if it’s different you want to see, I can show you that much.”

“I’m not the one who wanted to see anything,” Rachael huffed. She perceived Mr. O’Donough’s accent to be more of a Scottish persuasion than Irish, but then again, what did she know?

“Sorry, honey, but it’s not everyday we are in Ireland. We both picked this, remember? You wanted Europe,” John said.

“Paris, Nice, Rome, John.”

Now it was John’s turn to look embarrassed. He glanced quickly at Mr. O’Donough and pulled Rachael to the side, turning his back on the farmer. Kell pretended to look off, not hearing their conversation, although he heard every word.

“Honey, we went to all those places, like every other tourist, and the crowds,” John sighed. “That’s not real, that’s what everyone comes to see. A McDonald’s on the French Riviera! That’s not Europe, Rachael. That’s ridiculous. You agreed, we’d see some real parts of Europe, honey, remember?”

“Yes, but we’ve stopped at every small town for one hundred miles. They all look the same, and now you’re stopping at random graveyards in the middle of nowhere…and I’m freezing!”

“I think I can settle this for the two of you,” Kell said. He spoke low and gentle, as if sharing a special secret with his best friend.

“Now listen,” he said, motioning to Rachael. “You’re cold, and your new, eager husband is hungry. He wants to see something no one else has ever seen. Well, I can do that for you. I’ll show you something no tourist has seen through these parts, and then after, you can check in at Bell’s Bed and Breakfast, ‘cause I know it’s not full tonight. She serves the best Shepherd’s pie you’ll ever taste, with a warm brandy to top it all off. Agreed? It’ll only take ten minutes, and you can be on your way. I promise, you won’t be disappointed.”

John looked at Rachael, his eyebrows raised. She sighed lightly and nodded her head.

“All right, but after this, we check into the hotel and we’re done for tonight. For the rest of the trip.”

“Okay,” John said. “We’re done…for tonight.”

“John.”

“Okay. If this is really as good as Mr. O’Donough says, then fine. We can be done for the trip.”

Kell led the couple past the larger headstones, down an overgrown path ripe with dead vegetation. They reached the edge of the graveyard, where the trees began to take over. John and Rachael stopped, but Kell motioned them to keep walking.

“Just a bit further on, through the trees,” he said. They followed him ten more yards, into the thickening woods, Rachael grasping John’s arm. Kell stopped short, arriving at a large headstone that stood alone. He turned to the couple, looking sinister, and also devilish. A small grin played at the corners of his mouth.

“This is the grave of a witch, so the legend goes,” he said. “Sometime around 1380, or thereabout. Ashlynn Cass was her name. Her brother entered a wager-of-battle when she was accused by a man in town. The man said she bewitched him to sleep with her. He was married, see, but if he could prove he was bewitched, his wife could not hold him accountable. Back in those days, if a woman was accused, a wager-of-battle was sometimes fought. If the one fighting on the accused side won, the charges were dismissed, and the accuser paid a fine. If the accuser won, the witch was hanged.”

“And so they hanged her,” Rachael said, rolling her eyes, her voice sarcastic and annoyed.

“Now don’t go thinking you know the story just yet, missus,” Kell winked. John was looking rather interested now.

“Her brother fought the accuser in that wager-of-battle I told you about. A sword fight, it was. A drawn out affair, too. Lasted some thirty minutes or more, and by the end, both men were bloody and well cut up, but the brother stood, and Ashlynn’s accuser was on the ground, without his sword. So Ashlynn’s name was cleared, of witchcraft anyhow. The man paid a hefty fine, the likes of which broke his family, not to mention his wife was none too pleased with the infidelity. She killed herself, so the story goes, and her husband went mad not too long after. You can well imagine, these events started some gossip amongst the townspeople. They began to say that Ashlynn was a witch after all, and that it wasn’t suicide and madness that took out that married couple, but Ashlynn herself, using her craft. She was banished from town, living on the outskirts. Her brother died of illness some years later, and no one ever heard from her again.”

“That’s it?”

Rachael was not about to let the story end on that note. She motioned to the headstone, which bore no name or date on it. It was in pristine condition, and contained odd looking carvings etched into the gray stone.

“This headstone doesn’t look that old to me. If this is supposed to be that woman’s grave, that would make this headstone over six hundred years old. This stone is obviously much younger than that.”

“Ah, now here’s the part where the story starts to get strange,” Kell continued. His grin expanded, causing Rachael to grab John’s hand.

“Some years after all this took place, the town was growing, pushing outward in all directions. Some townsfolk took it upon themselves to pay a visit to the old Cass home, which no one had seen in years. Take it over, they probably thought. The money won in that wager-of-battle would have run out before too long. With Ashlynn not coming into town for supplies and the harsh winters we have in these parts, no one could fathom how she would have survived. They figured her home must be abandoned by now. They found her brother’s headstone back yonder,” Kell motioned behind him, back towards the graveyard.

“So they knew he was dead, but they couldn’t figure how Ashlynn had put up such a nice marker on his grave. So they knocked on her door, ‘cause they seen smoke billowing out from the chimney. Some twenty years had passed since the battle, so they were expecting an old woman to open the door, if anyone at all. What they got, instead, was Ashlynn herself, just as young and pretty as ever.”

“Oh please,” Rachael snorted, rolling her eyes. “Let me guess. She still lives out here somewhere, in the same little house, and at night, you can hear her cackling as she rides around on her broom in the moonlight.”

“Honey, let him finish,” John said.

“Now I told you, missus, don’t go thinking you know the tale just yet. It was three folks from town, come back swearing Ashlynn was still alive out here, and just as young and beautiful as ever. That’s how everyone finally learned that she really was a witch. That married man was telling the truth, and Ashlynn did bewitch him to lie down with her, and later, to lose his mind and his wife to kill herself. So the people in town decided it was time to hang her as a witch, like they should have done all those years before. A group of men with torches and knives and ropes came back out that very night. Knocked on Ashlynn’s door, and sure enough, a beautiful woman answered, looking confused. She was the spitting image of Ashlynn, see. Only she kept telling them all that her name wasn’t Ashlynn, it was Criona, but they wouldn’t believe her. She tried to take them and show them Ashlynn’s headstone, which she said was in the cemetery, just yonder from her brother’s. They dragged her from the house, into the waiting woods, threw a noose over a tree branch and hung her, as she cried and protested she was not Ashlynn, she was not a witch.”

“And?” John was leaning forward, eager and waiting. Rachael also looked excited now.

“Well, you can’t guess?” said Kell. “She died, the woman. And the men who hung her walked back out, through the graveyard, and on their way, they spotted the brother’s headstone, with peculiar words writ upon it. It said Angus Cass, loving brother and uncle. His name was Angus, did I tell you that?”

Both John and Rachael shook their heads impatiently. Kell paused for dramatic effect, then delved on.

“The men were puzzled by the word uncle, so they looked for that other grave, the one ‘Criona,’ had said was not too far off from Angus. They found it, the next row over, another headstone. It had Ashlynn’s name on it, and it said loving sister and mother on it.”

Rachael gasped. John merely looked at Kell with a blank stare. Kell paused again, then continued.

“Ashlynn had been with child from that affair, and had born it on the outskirts of town. She named her ‘Criona,’ which in our language means ‘my heart,’ and that little girl had been raised by her mother and Angus, her uncle. Angus died, and later Ashlynn, and it was Criona that managed, somehow, to put up the lovely headstones. No one ever knew how she afforded it, or who crafted them, for it was none from their town, as far as anyone could tell. When those folks from town saw this beautiful young woman at the door, they thought it was Ashlynn, bewitched and still young, when it was really her daughter, who, as I said, was her spitting image.”

“So that poor woman raised a child all alone, outside town, then her poor daughter was hung as a witch, all because of superstition and misunderstanding?”

Rachael’s cheeks were aflame. She breathed heavily. John continued to look blank. Then his expression changed to one of doubt.

“Now hold on, Mr. O’Donough,” John said. “You said the story got weird. So far it sounds like a series of simple misunderstandings and mistakes.”

“It does sound that way, doesn’t it though? Those men stood there, in front of Ashlynn’s grave, and realizing their mistake, they went back to that tree, meaning to cut down the body of Criona and give her a proper burial, but when they got back to the tree, Criona’s body had disappeared.”

“This is ridiculous,” Rachael said. “You’re making all of this up.”

“No, missus,” Kell said, sounding insulted. “This story has been passed down in my family for over six hundred years. I’m not making it up, I’m only telling it the way I was told. The way my father was told. The way every O’Donough has told it, since the first one broke ground out by this graveyard, where no one else would go, all those years ago, and my ancestors got the land almost free. It’s the same story I told my son, and he’ll tell it to his,” Kell said, his voice cracking slightly.

“She didn’t mean anything by it, Mr. O’Donough, I swear,” John said. “Right honey? Please, finish the story.”

Kell took a deep breath and spoke.

“Like I said, Criona’s body was gone, but all the growth around the tree was dead, just below where her body had hung. The men were spooked. They ran back to town, crossing themselves. It was over a year later, people began moving further out, and the original idea took hold to use Ashlynn’s old place. They knew for certain now it was empty. It was after a family moved into it, their son wandered out into the woods one day, and found the headstone. Right on the spot where they hung Criona, where all that green growth next to the tree had died. The very headstone you are looking at now.”

Kell stood silent, watching the Engall’s. Rachael and John stared at the headstone. Rachael could feel gooseflesh spreading up both her arms and on the back of her neck. She shivered, her body shuddering. Then she turned to Kell. It was her turn to look doubtful.

“I don’t mean to be insulting, but still, if this headstone is that old, wouldn’t it be crumbling by now? This stone looks to be in perfect shape, as if it were placed here last week.”

“That’s the strange part, at least some of it,” Kell said. “The headstone has remained in perfect condition all this while. Time seems not to have any effect on it. Angus and Ashlynn’s graves are the same. Only difference is, this one’s not marked. At least, not with anything that makes sense.”

“What does it mean?”

Rachael stared at the headstone, feeling creeped out. The markings were dark, as if they had been burned into the stone itself. How much heat would it take to do that, she wondered? The markings were foreign. Odd shapes and symbols all over it, even along the outer edges. Symbols and etchings that made Rachael feel as if she might lose her mind if she stared at them for too long. The light was beginning to fade as twilight came on. John brought out his camera.

“Do you mind of I take some pictures of it?”

“If you can take a picture of that, it’s yours to have.”

“What do you mean?”

“Tried to photograph it some years back myself,” Kell said. “None would take.”

John looked at Kell for a few moments, trying to decide if the man was joking or not. He didn’t know whether to believe his story or not, and yet, Kell seemed to be dead serious in telling it. John took several photos of the headstone, checking each digital image afterwards to ensure it was clear. Then he smiled at Kell, looking relieved. The pictures seemed to prove to John that the story was a fake. He no longer felt scared at all. He took Rachael’s hand to walk back to the graveyard, but was met with resistance. He tugged on Rachael’s hand, looking back at his wife with only slight concern. She stared at the headstone as if hypnotized.

“Rachael, honey, come on,” John said. He shook her hand in his. Rachael looked over at John, suddenly, confused.

“Huh?”

“Let’s go, it’s getting dark. I thought you couldn’t wait to get back to town?”

“Sorry,” she said. “I must have zoned out there for a minute.”

“Happens all the time,” Kell said, leading the couple out of the woods and back into the graveyard. He stopped momentarily to show them both the graves of Angus Cass and Ashlynn Cass, and John took photos of these as well. They both, indeed, looked brand new, although the other graves surrounding them were crumbled and broken. Many were so old the writing was worn too thin to read anymore.

They reached the house, and John shook Mr. O’Donough’s hand, thanking him for the tale. Kell smiled.

“I hope I gave you what you were looking for, Mr. Engall. It’s definitely something no one else has seen before. My farm is not on most tourist’s radar.”

“You’ve never shown those headstones to anyone before?” Rachael asked.

“No, missus,” Kell said. “The townsfolk all know about it, but they don’t like to think about it. No one comes out here to look at it. I’ve only looked upon it three times in my life. As a child, when my father first told me the story, again, when I told the story to my son, and today, with you.”

“But I thought you said you also tried to photograph the headstone,” said John.

“Did I? I was mistaken. My son tried to photograph the headstone, and it wouldn’t turn out.” A shadow fell over Kell’s face then. It was only momentary, so brief, John barely noticed, but Rachael stepped forward, looking concerned.

“Where is your son, Mr. O’Donough?”

“In town, getting supplies,” Kell answered quickly.

“What about her home,” asked John, looking thoughtful.

“Her home?”

“Yes, you said a family eventually moved into Ashlynn’s home, didn’t you? And their boy was the one to discover Criona’s headstone?”

“Yes, that’s right,” said Kell.

“Whatever happened to Ashlynn’s home?”

“Why, you’re looking at it,” Kell answered simply. John and Rachael stared at Kell O’Donough for several moments, their mouths hanging agape. Kell stared back at them, unblinking. John was the first to speak.

“You mean, your family lives in Ashlynn’s old home?”

“Yes, it were my ancestors who got this land near for free way back then, when no one else would have anything to do with this place. A far distant relative, a great-great-great-great-great-great grandfather, many times removed, Shamus O’Donough, who as a young boy first discovered the headstone in the woods, at the foot of that old tree. So you see, I tell you the truth when I say this story has been passed down in my family for generations. It’s the truth, every word.”

“Have you ever seen anything, or……you know……heard anything in your house?” John asked. He had a twinkle in his eye. Kell grinned.

“You mean ghosts? Sure, I got my fair share of those tales as well.”

“You’re kidding,” John said. “Witches and ghosts? This is too rich.”

“I ain’t rich, Mr. Engall, that’s for sure,” Kell laughed. “Stories I have, but money, not so much of.”

“Well, you should really think about starting up a business with all this legend,” said John. “I mean, you could charge people to look at those headstones and tell your story. Like a little tour. You could even open your own bed and breakfast. Let people stay in Ashlynn’s home, like a tourist draw. You’d probably make a small fortune.”

“I don’t know about that, Mr. Engall. I doubt if Ashlynn would like that much, having strangers come into her home all the time.”

John stared at Kell for several moments, waiting for the joke, but Kell only looked back at him with a complete look of seriousness on his face.

“You’re serious,” said John. “Your house is actually haunted by the spirit of Ashlynn?”

“Undoubtedly.”

John looked at Rachael, then back at Kell, then at Rachael again. Then he reached into his back pocket and pulled out his wallet, producing several fifty-dollar traveler’s checks. He handed three of them to Kell.

“I’ll pay you one hundred and fifty American dollars to allow my wife and I to sleep in your home tonight, what do you say?”

“John, are you crazy?”

“Shhh, Rachael, let the man think.”

“Absolutely not, John. We are not pushing ourselves onto this poor man and invading his home. We’ve already bothered him enough.”

Kell simply sat, staring, as if in deep thought. His mind was already made up.

“There’s a guest room, in the back. You can stay there tonight, if that’s what you like.”

“Awesome. Honey, let’s do it.”

Rachael pulled John away from the house, arguing with him beside the green Fiat. Kell watched them closely, smiling his slight grin. After several minutes of arguing, John opened the trunk of the car and produced two small suitcases. Rachael walked back up to the house, John following quickly behind with the baggage.

“Thank you so much for doing this. I’m really sorry about my husband. It’s just……when he gets something in his head, he can be sort of stubborn and even kind of crazy at times."

“I understand, Mrs. Engall. We all get that way sometimes.”

“Honey, think of the stories we’ll be able to tell when we get back home. How many people come back from Europe and can say that they stayed in an actual haunted house? And I can show them the pictures of the headstones, and tell them the story Kell told us. Is it all right if I call you Kell?”

“That is my name, Mr. Engall.”

“John, please.”

“All right, John.”

Kell led the Engall’s to a bedroom in the back of the house, where they deposited their bags. There was a bathroom directly across the hall. Kell explained that his and his boys’ rooms were both upstairs.

“Used to be, this was only one story. My family added the upstairs long after the Cass story unwound. That guest bedroom you’re in, that was Ashlynn’s bedroom.”

The Engalls, who had been following Kell back down the hallway, stopped abruptly.

“We’re sleeping in Ashlynn’s bedroom?” Rachael looked at her husband nervously.

“You’re not scared, are you honey?”

“Of course not,” Rachael said, slapping John’s arm.

Kell led the couple into the kitchen, which had a small dining table in the corner. The entire house was made from wood, the support beams visible near the ceiling. It was a humble home, and walking through it gave both John and Rachael the distinct feeling of stepping back in time some two hundred years or more. Kell put a large pot on the stove, which Rachael thought resembled a cauldron almost. She looked at John to see if he noticed this. John seemed oblivious. Kell poured water into the pot, then began chopping up potato and carrot. He pulled what looked like, possibly, a medium sized hare out of the fridge, already skinned. He began to butcher this, throwing the pieces of raw meat into the pot as well. He looked sideways at the couple.

“Rabbit stew,” was all he said. Rachael gave John a look. He shrugged back at her.

“I’m really sorry to be imposing on you like this, Mr. O’Donough. I mean, Kell. We really shouldn’t be putting you out like this. We can drive into town and stay at that bed and breakfast, really.”

“And force me to part ways with one hundred and fifty of my new best friends?”

Kell raised an eyebrow at the Engalls, who simply stared for several moments. Then Kell laughed heartily. John laughed as well, although Rachael only smiled, weakly.

“You know, I do believe I’ve spooked you a bit with my tale, Mrs. Engall.”

“No, of course not. I’m fine. Besides, I don’t believe in ghosts.”

“Really,” Kell said, in a daring tone.

“Well, what kinds of things have you experienced living here, Kell?” John intervened.

“Oh, the usual,” Kell said, sitting down to the table. “That will need to boil low for a few hours, steep the juices. She’ll be ready just in time for supper. We can sit in the living room, by the fire, if you’d like, and I can continue my tale.”

“Yes, that would be great, wouldn’t it, honey?”

John put his arm around Rachael, rubbing her shoulder with his hand. He hardly even noticed how she bristled at his touch. The couple followed Kell into the small living room where a fire was already glowing. Kell added two logs from a pile in the corner and stirred the embers up a bit with the poker. The couple settled on a couch directly in front of the fire, and Kell settled into a chair adjacent to them. The furniture smelled old and musty, yet it was comforting; a welcoming smell. The walls were bare, save for a portrait of Kell and what Rachael presumed to be his son. There didn’t seem to be any Mrs. O’Donough.

“I hear crying,” Kell said. Rachael frowned, straining to hear any wayward sounds. She heard nothing and said so. Kell smiled, understanding.

“At night, I mean to say,” he explained. “In the darkness, laying in my bed at night. Sometimes I hear crying.”

“Maybe it’s the wind outside, or an animal, a fox?” Rachael said.

“No,” Kell smiled again. “It is most definitely a woman. Crying inside the house. There are odd knocking sounds as well.”

“That could simply be the house settling,” John offered.

“Not the way these knocks come,” Kell said, his face suddenly becoming dead serious. Rachael’s heart skipped a beat, a cold, chill coming over her. She suddenly didn’t want to be in this house for another minute.

“You think it’s Criona? Or is it Ashlynn?” John asked.

“Perhaps both,” said Kell. “My son and I have also seen shadows moving on the walls. Shadows as if there are bodies in the room, but the bodies themselves are not visible to the eye, only the shadows they cast. You can hear them climbing the stairs sometimes as well, the steps creaking beneath their weight.”

“Well, no offense, Mr. O’Donough, but many of these things could be explained by natural occurrence, even a runaway imagination,” said John. Rachael stiffened beside him. John did not notice. Rachael expected Kell to take insult at John’s remark, but instead he laughed again, heartily.

“These are the suggestions of one who has not yet experienced what I am talking of,” said Kell. “But if you do intend to stay the whole night in my home, perhaps by morning, you will have a different perspective on these things?”

“Perhaps,” said John.

Rachael relaxed a little. She was suddenly angry and lost inside her own head. Damn John and his crazy need to have some unique adventure while in Europe. Europe itself wasn’t enough. No, he had to go off looking for some quaint little experience that wasn’t on the normal tourist destinations. He always had to veer off the beaten path. It was one of the reasons she had fallen in love with him to begin with. He never did things the way anyone else did. He was always coming up with last minute changes of plan, or just flying by the seat of his pants. She usually loved that about him, but in this particular case, it was starting to wear her down.

Rachael had agreed on Europe, instead of Hawaii or the Caribbean. She had later even agreed to this unplanned side trip to Ireland, when John had become bored with their pre-planned tour of Italy and France. It was too ‘touristy’ he had said. In some ways, she had agreed, although it did not irk her in the same way it did him. Now, here they were, in some small town in southern Ireland, she wasn’t even sure what county they were in anymore. Heathmore, perhaps? John had the map, not that he’d been using it much. Kell continued to explain the spooky goings-on inside his home.

“They try to push you down the stairs,” he said, his face growing shadowy again. “You can feel their hands on your back. And sometimes at night, you wake up feeling as if you can’t breathe, and you’d swear they were trying to suffocate you.”

“Are you serious?” John looked at Rachael with doubt.

“Hey, you’re the one who wanted to sleep here, not me,” she said.

“Oh, I’m sure you’ll be fine,” Kell assured the couple.

“Really?” John looked worried.

“Well, no, not really, you’re the first guests to ever stay here, so who can really tell?” Kell said matter-of-factly.

When he saw the look on John and Rachael’s faces, he bellowed a loud booming laugh that made Rachael jump. This made Kell laugh until tears rolled down his face. Then he excused himself to the restroom, leaving the couple alone.

After a few minutes, John left to get his camera from the bedroom, leaving Rachael alone to stare at the fire. She looked to her right, to the portrait on the wall. It was covered in glass, which reflected the firelight, as well as the dimming light from the window. She stood up and walked over to the picture to get a better look.

Kell’s son was in the photo, standing on the right side of his father. The picture was taken in front of the house, and Rachael briefly wondered who had taken the photograph. She thought the boy looked bothered, something about the expression on his face looked troubled.

Rachael jumped, as she saw an image of a man in the portrait glass, reflected and moving. She turned in time to see John, frowning, holding the digital camera in his hands. He was scanning the photos he had taken less than an hour before.

“Honey, you’re not going to believe this. None of those pictures turned out.”

“What do you mean?”

Rachael had a sinking feeling, remembering what Kell had said earlier. Something about his son trying to take a picture once. His face had clouded over, that same troubled look she noticed on his sons’ face in the portrait.

“Look at this, they’re all dark, like the lens cap was still on. I looked these over when I took them, they were fine then.”

“Are you sure?”

“Of course I’m sure, I saw them. They were perfect when I checked.”

“You won’t get any pictures of that headstone,” Kell said, making Rachael and John both jump. John actually dropped the camera on the floor, mumbling a quick “shit!” and bending over to pick it back up.

“You didn’t believe me?” Kell said with a devious smile.

“Of course I believed you,” John said, cradling the camera and sounding petulant.

“No, you didn’t, but I don’t blame you,” he said. “It’s a fair hard story to swallow. Sit back down on yonder couch and I’ll finish the tale for you two.”

“John, I think we should leave,” Rachael whispered.

John looked at Rachael momentarily, considering her request. Then she saw that gleam in his eye, the one she knew meant he couldn’t help himself. There was a mystery here, and John wanted to hear the rest of the story. Rachael sighed and followed her husband back to the couch, sitting on the far side, away from Kell, who was back in his chair.

“Now where was I? Ah, right. The bumps in the night, as they like to call it, eh?”

More hearty laughter came from Kell and Rachael stiffened. John leaned forward, listening intently.

“She whispers to you in the night, while you lay in your bed.” Kell seemed distant now, staring off into the fire.

His change in demeanor was so abrupt, Rachael again had that uneasy feeling. It stemmed from a basic impression that Kell was a man truly haunted. She began to feel as if eyes were on her, boring into her back. She looked around the room, feeling paranoid, then foolish. She still couldn’t believe any of this was real. Perhaps Kell had snuck into their room and deleted the photos John had taken? Then he replaced them with new snapshots that were dark, she reasoned. That seemed a plausible explanation.

Those headstones, they really did look brand new. Kell probably put them there, amongst the old ones, and made up the entire story. But why would he do that, she wondered? His farm was on the outskirts of town, his home the only one for miles. Surely he didn’t get that many visitors, if any at all? If this was all some sort of ruse to part tourists from the cash in their wallets, it wasn’t being advertised very well. John only stopped at the farm because he noticed the old cemetery and wanted to look at it, which had annoyed Rachael to no end. None of this made any sense. She sat on the musty old couch wondering now, how she had ended up here, in the middle of nowhere, in a man’s house she barely knew anything about.

“She tells you to do things,” Kell continued.

“She does? Wh-What does she tell you to do?” John looked at Rachael nervously, taking her hand.

“Wait,” said Kell, looking John dead in the eye. “She tells me to wait. Says he’ll be coming around soon.”

“Who,” John said, his voice shaking a bit. “You’re son?”

“No,” Kell spoke so quietly, they could barely hear him.

“My son is dead.”

At first John wasn’t sure he had heard Kell right. He glanced at Rachael, a confused look on his face. Rachael only stared at Kell, a deep feeling of dread sinking into her. She was frozen in place, unable to believe any of this was really happening.

“What did you say?” John spoke gently.

“I said my son is dead. Pushed down the stairs. He didn’t want to go along with it anymore, didn’t want to stay here. Wanted no part of my family, and our cursed generations of the damned, living here alone like this. It’s enough to drive a person mad, and many a man in my family went that way, you can be sure.”

“Okay, this isn’t funny anymore,” John said, standing to leave.

“Sit down, Mr. Engall, I’m not yet done with my story,” Kell spoke forcefully. “You wanted something no one else has ever seen or heard, and you’re going to get it, if it’s the last thing I ever do. Now sit and listen.”

John sat back down, looking at Rachael with fear and apology on his face. He took her hand and squeezed it tightly. His hand was ice cold.

“She been waiting, you see. All these centuries. Waiting for it all to come back ‘round. It always does, you see? She knew that. It all comes around in the end, everything does. She drove that wife to suicide, and drove her lover mad, but they had a son, and he was shipped off to England, to live with a distant relative. She had power, that woman. Ashlynn was right strong, but she had a child on the way, and was banished from the town. Had to put her focus on that, see? Then her brother died, and she took ill. She taught everything she knew to Criona, and Criona was stronger than even Ashlynn was. Strong enough to survive death, in a way. To keep on in these parts, in this land, here on my farm.

She was strong enough to keep my family going. Always a son, each generation. Always to keep it all going. Waiting for it all to come around. She knew, somehow. Didn’t matter to her how long it took. And now, here you are. Showing up on my farm, the day after I buried my son. She knew you were coming, could feel you somehow, I suppose.”

“What the hell are you talking about? What does any of this have to do with us?”

John looked at Rachael, panicked and confused. Kell looked only at John.

“Nothing to do with her,” he motioned to Rachael, his eyes never leaving John.

“You’re an only child, ain’t ye, John?”

“Yes, but how did you……”

“What was his name?” Rachael interrupted, speaking urgently, but softly, looking at Kell with calm, cool eyes. The fear had settled deep into her, leaving her collected somehow. It was overload, and she sat frozen, unable to move, scarcely to breathe, awaiting the answer from Kell that she already knew, in her heart.

“What was the name of the man Ashlynn had the affair with?”

“Ah,” Kell smiled, settling back into his chair. “I was wondering when ye might be asking me that one.”

John looked at Rachael again, imploringly. Rachael only closed her eyes, not wanting to see his face.

“His name was Connor. Connor Engall. His only surviving son was Riley Engall.”

“Engall?” John said, his voice shaking.

“That’s right. What I presume to be your great-great-great-great-great-great-great grandfather, many times removed. It don’t matter much, though. Like she says, it all comes around in the end. Ashlynn’s daughter was killed, but by that time, Ashlynn was no longer of this world. Ashlynn’s lover, Connor Engall had died in a crazy-house, and his son, Riley Engall was an older man with a son of his own, living too far off for her reach. So, Criona waited.

“Time’s not the same in the spirit world, s’far as I can tell. It moves differently. To her, this has all been some sort of game, taking mere minutes to play out, for all I know. For my family, it’s been centuries of madness, torture. Constantly haunted by her presence, and those damn headstones. All because my ancestors were the ones to take over this land, so cheap it was. We were the ones cursed to live out that witch’s game! My son wanted out, thought he could end it all for us by simply leaving, but she would have none of it. She knew it was time, knew you were comin’, even if you didn’t know where you were goin’ next, or how ye really got here. Drawn here, ye were. Drawn back to the place where your bloodline began. It all comes around in the end,” Kell laughed, and Rachael felt sorry for him, even as sickened as she was.

John sat frozen in his place on the couch. Rachael stood facing Kell O’Donough.

“So what happens now,” she asked.

“Now ye go and pay your respects to Criona’s headstone,” Kell said to John, still not looking at her.

John looked at Kell blankly, then behind him at Rachael who had stood up from the couch and was now backing away from him. She stopped when her back hit the wall, standing directly next to the portrait of Kell and his dead son.

“Rachael?” John looked infinitely hurt. “Honey?”

“I’m sorry, John,” she sighed and closed her eyes, not wanting to look at him. Her hand subconsciously went to her abdomen and settled there. Kell looked at John, waiting. Behind him, the front door of the house opened slowly, creaking, allowing a cold wind to blow in.

“She’s waiting for ye, Mr. Engall,” Kell said.

John walked towards the door on numb feet, as if on auto-pilot. His mind told him this was all some kind of elaborate joke. He was floating, as if in a dream, and all of this did indeed feel completely surreal to him. He swam through the front door, carried by an unseen force, leading the way. The door closed behind him and Kell and Rachael were alone. There was no sound but the wood crackling in the fireplace and a slight whistling of wind down the chimney. Rachael stood where she was, frozen for what felt like an eternity. Her hand still lay on her stomach. She felt ill. Kell smiled, still sitting in his chair.

Suddenly there was a loud piercing scream, which sounded almost like a small child waking from a bad dream, and yet, Rachael knew it was John. She stumbled over to the couch and fell into it, crumbling.

“Ye did the right thing, Missus,” Kell said. “She would have taken him anyway. This way was better for everyone.”

Rachael began to cry, cradling herself in her arms.

“It wasn’t your fault,” Kell said. “You know that, don’t you?”

“It wasn’t John’s fault, either,” she said bitterly. “He had nothing to do with any of this. It was six hundred years ago!”

“There’s no need to yell, missus.”

Rachael began to sob. Her head ached.

“There is one wee bit of business yet to take to,” Kell said gently. “Your husband didn’t know you were expecting, did he?”

Rachael looked at Kell through her tears, her heart suddenly skipping a beat.

“I-I don’t know what you’re talking about,” she whispered.

“Course ye do, missus,” Kell said gently. “You’re carrying John’s child in your belly. That’s why you let him go, so as not to create a commotion, nothing to harm your baby, like a good mum would. I understand,” Kell said, smiling at Rachael.

“You’re crazy!”

She lurched from the couch and ran to the front door, trying to open it. It was locked. She turned the deadbolt, which should have unlocked the door, yet it was still sealed tightly.

“Can’t get out, missus,” Kell said sadly. “My son tried, and she took care of him. If she don’t want you to leave, you won’t. Besides there’s business yet to take care of. I can still feel her around, her presence. She ain’t through just yet. John was an only child, but……”

“No,” Rachael said softly. “No.”

“I’m sorry, missus. No choice, really. It all comes around in the end. She don’t want you, like you said. You’ve got nothing to do with any of this, save for what you’re carrying inside, and I expect she’ll take care of that soon enough.”

Rachael felt sick to her stomach. A sudden pain wrenched her abdomen, and she fell to the floor, doubled over. Cold, invisible hands squeezed her insides. Kell stood from his chair and walked into the kitchen.

“Help me,” Rachael said, reaching her arm out to grasp his leg as he passed her. Blood was already beginning to soak the crotch of her pants, warm and sticky. Kell walked past, unscathed.

“Have to check on that stew,” Kell said. “It should be ready any time now.”

A knot popped in the fireplace and sparks of ember floated upward into the darkness of the flue. Outside, in the night, the chilly wind blew and whistled through the trees. All else was silent.