Lay Me to Rest

I convinced myself that the tablets were playing havoc with my judgement, and that – coupled with Mr Parry’s tale – had sent my imagination into overdrive. I decided to try to call Sarah before turning in for the night, not having been able to get a signal on my phone earlier. No. The stupid thing still wasn’t functioning. It would have to wait until morning.

Not wishing to be flailing around in the darkness, I decided to leave the vestibule light on in case I wanted to come downstairs during the night. The medication had disrupted my sleeping pattern and it had become habitual for me to wake in the early hours. Try as I might to drift off again, sleep would then evade me, often until daybreak.

I climbed the stairs and felt overcome by a sudden tiredness. In spite of the window being left open, the room had retained the heat of the day and was stiflingly warm. I lay on top of the bed and was asleep almost instantly.

*

‘Anni wyf i.’

I sat bolt upright, a chill running through my very core. I was wide awake now, at first unsure whether the words had been whispered loudly into my ear, or if I were on the brink of stirring from a dream of which I had no memory. I had no idea how long I’d been sleeping but the room was pitch-dark, with only a tiny chink of light shining under the door from the vestibule below.

Whilst I was trying desperately to remain rational, I could not deny that the whole area, which had previously felt warm and welcoming, had taken on a hostile, menacing air. The shroud of darkness had transformed the atmosphere. I had become an uninvited outsider in unfamiliar surroundings. Every corner seemed to harbour unseen threat; every shadow a potential crouching assassin.

‘Anni wyf i!’

Again the same line, yet louder and more persistent. It seemed to reverberate round the walls. I was in no doubt now that the words had been uttered with venom; that someone – or something – meant me harm. My breath came in shallow, rapid gasps. I was filled with a feeling of unreserved dread.

As my eyes grew accustomed to the dimness, I could discern a silhouette, apparently seated at the foot of my bed. I opened my mouth to scream but the power of speech seemed to have deserted me. I could do no more than watch in sheer terror, as the mattress rose slightly and a nebulous figure drew to its full height, releasing a rush of icy air. I could not – dared not– conceive of what might ensue. I was petrified.

I stared helplessly at the apparition; through the gloom, its body resembled the shimmering negative of an old photograph; but the eyes receded deep into their sockets, as black and fathomless as a calm lake. My stomach lurched as the spectre brushed past me, only to vanish into the wall. I sat, rigid with fear, hardly daring to breathe. My heart pounded so loudly in my chest that it seemed to fill my whole head.

Close to tears and with trembling hand, I reached for the bedside lamp. The room appeared just as it had earlier, but now a distinct and unpleasant chill filled the air. A faint, disagreeably musky fragrance seemed to linger briefly but gradually dispersed.

Once able to move, I rose to reach for the jacket that I had thrown over the opposite bed and, with quivering fingers, drew it around myself. I sat, perched on the edge of the bed and took several deep, calming breaths. A lifelong cynic, I was forced to admit to myself that what I had seen had been real; that it could not be attributed either to my imagination or medication.

I dared not close my eyes again that seemingly interminable night, but sat in bed, propped against my pillows, anxiously awaiting the imminent dawn of the following day. I hugged the swell of my stomach for comfort. How I would have welcomed the background noise and passive company of some banal TV programme now!

The rest of the night passed without event. By daylight, the room felt once again homely and inviting. I resolved to try to rest later in the afternoon, but thought I had better join the Parrys for breakfast. I ran a bath and immersed myself, washing as quickly as I could. Cursing, I grabbed for the side of the basin to steady myself as I climbed out, almost slipping on the wet cork floor.

I felt an urgency to leave the cottage for the moment, and dried and dressed myself hurriedly, so that I might have the opportunity to speak to Peter about my unsettling experience before his departure.

Clutching my mobile phone, I almost ran down the shingle path towards the farmhouse, my mind still trying to make sense of what I had seen and heard. The morning was bright and clear, and already the sun’s warmth was making its presence felt.

Peter was just loading his overnight bag into the car as I approached. He looked up and greeted me with a grin.

‘Somebody’s hungry! I’ve never seen anyone quite so eager for their breakfast … hope there’s still some left. They eat very early here you know …’

But his smile faded and the colour drained from his face, as I blurted out everything that had happened during the night. I felt it imperative to stress that I was not normally given to flights of fancy and knew that what I had seen was most definitely real.

Peter remained silent for a time. His expression was grave. He stood, twisting his fingers together, as though reliving some terrible event from his past. When he eventually spoke, his voice was barely more than a whisper.

‘I thought … that all that had stopped now.’

He stared at the ground. I waited, suspecting that he was building up to revealing something momentous. Then he raised his eyes to meet mine.

‘Look – I really ought to tell you something. When we were younger, Glyn and I – we thought it’d be a bit of a laugh, to be honest. You know what kids can be like. It was after his dad had been telling my parents about the resident ghost. We’d heard about these “Ouija” boards and we thought we’d set one up in the cottage.’

I watched his face as he began to dig into the archives of his memories and to replay one that he would clearly have preferred to erase.

‘We’d have been about thirteen,’ he continued, after a long pause. ‘It was during the summer holiday. Mum and Dad had gone out for the evening and we decided that it would be the ideal time. We wrote out the alphabet, and the words “yes” and “no”, on a big sheet of paper, and cut all the letters and words into little squares. We spread them out in a circle on the floor in the living room, and put an empty glass in the middle – you know, upside down. Glyn had seen somebody using one in a film once, so he knew what to do.’

Peter seemed to shudder at the memory.

‘Of course, there was a good deal of giggling and messing about. We each put an index finger on the glass and started asking questions: daft things like “will it rain tomorrow?” and “will we ever win the pools?” at first,’ he went on. ‘I think we were both pushing the glass ourselves to begin with. Glyn was keen on this girl that he went to school with and he wanted to know if she fancied him, too, so that seemed like a more interesting question. I pushed it to spell “you must be joking”, just to wind him up. But after that the glass started to move by itself. And then, suddenly, it wasn’t answering our questions any more – just spelling out horrible messages … in Welsh.’

‘What did it say?’ I prompted Peter. His words seemed to have dried up, as though he were lost in some disturbing recollection.

He stared at me blankly. ‘Glyn translated. He didn’t want to tell me at first, but I insisted. It said … that my parents were going to die,’ he said, simply. ‘That I would be left an orphan.’

I had no knowledge of Peter’s family, only that he lived alone. ‘Was it – did it come true?’ I asked, hesitantly.

He lifted his face to look at me, his expression betraying no emotion. ‘Oh, yes. They were killed shortly after we returned to the Midlands. An armed robbery that went wrong … and they’d had an appointment with the bank manager. Something to do with their mortgage, I think …’

I had a vague recollection of hearing about an incident some twenty years ago, when several people had been seriously injured in a bungled bank heist. The manager himself and two customers had perished when the gunman ran amok.

‘Oh God, Peter. I’m so sorry.’ I felt guilty for making him relive his loss and reached out to clasp his hand. His palm was clammy and he was shaking.

He resumed the story. ‘We thought it was pretty sick, but didn’t take too much notice. Perhaps he’d read it wrong. Anyway, then it said that Glyn would never get married. And when we asked why not, there was just one word: “M-A-R-W.” It means “dead” or “death”. Of course, you know the outcome of that prediction.’

Peter shook his head and gazed into space. ‘When we asked who was giving us the messages, the glass started going crazy, darting around all over the place. But then we heard a voice – a creepy, disjointed, childlike voice. It just said “Mae hi’n gwybod”. And then the glass shattered.’

‘What’s that? Somebody’s name?’

‘Oh no. It means: “She knows”.’

Chapter Three (#ulink_85d5c7ee-d92b-586c-aeee-67d9e74e1e13)

I felt a little stunned by Peter’s revelation, but at the same time relieved that I had not completely lost my faculties. What puzzled me was why, if there had been no recent recurrence of any preternatural activity at the farm, it had suddenly reared its head once more.

Peter seemed to have an explanation.

‘To tell you the truth, I’ve had a bit of a morbid fascination with the paranormal ever since,’ he told me. ‘Apparently, the arrival of someone new at a haunted location can sometimes stir things up again. I didn’t mention anything before, as I didn’t want to put you off coming. And as nothing’s happened for donkey’s years, I saw no need to bring up the subject. Which was why I was a bit cross with old Will.’

‘So – d’you think that what I saw – and what spoke to you – was the ghost of the girl that Mr Parry was telling me about last night?’

‘It seems pretty likely, yes.’

‘But didn’t you say you’d never actually seen anything yourself?’ I looked into Peter’s face and his cheeks flushed as he stared down at his shoes.

‘Seen – no.’ He looked a little sheepish. ‘Heard – well, it was as I’ve just explained … There were a few odd happenings after that: things being moved from their proper place, pictures falling off the wall; but nothing particularly sinister. And after Glyn died it all just fizzled out.’

‘What happened to Glyn?’

‘He died of a sudden heart attack. I was staying here at the time, as it happens. Right out of the blue – we’d just come back from taking some sheep to market and he’d seemed absolutely fine, laughing and joking as usual. It was a terrible shock for everyone, especially since he always appeared so fit and healthy. Just makes you realize – you have to live for the here and now.’

Peter glanced at his watch, his eyes widening. ‘Shit, I really don’t want to seem rude, but I must hit the road. I’ve got a meeting to attend this afternoon.’

‘Yes, of course – don’t let me keep you. Well, have a safe journey and I’m sure I’ll see you when I get back.’