The Doll Read online

  The Doll

  by

  Elizabeth Andrews

  Copyright Elizabeth Andrews

  All rights reserved

  No part of this book may be reproduced, scanned or

  distributed in any printed or electronic form

  without permission.

  A World of Magic Myth and Legend

  First published March 2020

  The Lavender Witch

  “Fantastic and atmospheric ghost story set in a small English village.”

  “First book I haven't wanted to put down in a long time “

  The Cunning Man

  “Funny at times but interwoven with twists and intrigue. Ghosts galore and hold your breath

  moments... A real page turner.”

  “Tremendous story...These ladies are a tour de force!”

  The Haunting of Stoke Water

  The banter between the sisters gives a much-needed comic relief in this intense story.

  She worked her writing magic and brought us one scary tale.

  Mystical Night Media

  “I wouldn’t recommend reading this at night if you have a good imagination.”

  The Story Collector

  The Haunting of Stoke Water is a real horror story that will keep readers on the edge of

  their seats.

  This is a story made of nightmares.

  The ChickLit Cafe

  The Doll

  Elizabeth Andrews

  Chapter one

  Portsmouth March 1630

  It had been a long gruelling journey, the roads thick with mud from the winter’s rain made it hard going for the oxen and the wagon. The sticky sludge was axle deep in places, slowing the small family’s pace even more.

  And they were already late; the main body of travellers had reached the town a week before.

  Wet and chilled to the bone, the man whipped the tired beasts up the last stretch of track to the top of the hill. Scenting the town on the cold breeze the hungry animals quickened their pace, leaving their mud covered owner floundering along behind. He struggled up the steep slope after them, reaching the top he paused, exhausted, and surveyed the sprawling town spread out below.

  In the distance beyond the twisting streets and crowded buildings lay the harbour and the cold grey waters of the Solent. Many ships, big and small, lay at anchor and for a minute his heart quailed at the sight. He glanced quickly at his wife and child huddled beneath the thick blankets in the wagon and resolutely straightening his shoulders led the oxen down the far side of the hill towards the town.

  Once inside the walls the beasts and their heavily laden wagon trundled through the crowded streets to the old parish church of St Thomas.

  When they arrived it was already full with assembled emigrants waiting to hear their last service on English soil.

  Holding tightly to his wife’s arm, he pushed his way through the sweating bodies crowded inside the doorway to hear the final words from their Pastor.

  It was warm inside the small church despite the chill outside, but the mood was sombre and a few of the women and many of the children were openly crying. The Reverend White’s words rang out around the church as he bade them farewell and he looked out across the sea of heads picking out the well known faces of his congregation until at last he came to the woman and his gaze faltered. Her hair was neatly drawn back beneath her cowl and as usual he felt the same feeling of unquiet as he gazed upon her plain face. Feeling his eyes upon her she raised her head and stared at him. White flinched under her blank gaze and his words of comfort faltered.

  The puny child in her arms wailed and she lowered her gaze, quietly soothing the fractious little girl, the same withdrawn look on her face that she always wore.

  Struggling to regain his thoughts, White began the final prayer, resolutely keeping his eyes on the open bible clutched in his hand.

  With the final blessing given his parishioners reluctantly filed out into the chilly air while White took his leave of St Thomas’s priest. The street was busy despite the cold March weather, the inhabitants and the local militia going about their business in the surrounding shops and warehouses. They watched with interest as the group slowly fell in behind the Reverend and set off down Broad street. Jeers and cat calls from the rowdier elements of the town followed the sober pilgrims as they marched past the grey stone walls of the fort towards the docks and the area known as the Outer Cambers.

  It was here in the dock that the 400 ton ship the ‘Mary and John’ lay at anchor waiting to transport its cargo of livestock, supplies and settlers to transport to their new lives.

  Chapter two

  Slow footsteps echoed up the narrow alley between the houses. Hill View Terrace lay just off the High Street of Fordington; the small red brick homes overlooked the old cemetery of St George’s and beyond that the flat, lush water meadows that were fed by the River Frome.

  The soberly dressed man paused before the small wooden gate of number 4, staring up at the dark windows before reluctantly pushing it open. His footsteps faltered as he read the faded lettering on the old mat outside the door, ‘Beware Mad Old Witch Inside’. Sighing deeply, he raised a hand to the door knocker.

  The sharp rapping jerked Queenie awake; the newspaper she had been reading slipped to the floor and she groaned.

  What now? she thought, wiping a hand across her bleary eyes.

  The knocking continued as she reluctantly hobbled out into the narrow hall in her stockinged feet.

  ‘Who is it?’ she snapped at the unfamiliar face peering through the glass panel.

  ‘Mrs Beresford?’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘I am Paul Goodfellow, the Vicar of St George’s. Gladys sent me,’ he said in a reassuring voice.

  ‘Gladys who?’

  ‘Gladys Sheppard. She is one of my congregation. She said you might be able to help, I am in some difficulty...’ his voice trailed off.

  Queenie’s shoulders sagged realising that her peaceful Sunday evening was at an end and reluctantly opened the door. ‘Then you had better come in.’

  ‘Thank you...’ he hesitated as he gazed down at the short stout woman in front of him. Thick brown stockings hung in wrinkles about her ankles beneath a tweed skirt, all of which were at odds with the bright red Batman T shirt.

  ‘Mrs Beresford?’ he asked doubtfully.

  ‘That’s right,’ she replied, scrutinising his fresh young face; the clerical collar that he wore standing out in sharp contrast against his dark jacket. ‘You’re too young to be a vicar,’ she said accusingly.

  ‘That’s what my congregation say,’ he smiled. ‘I have been here for five years and before that St Mary’s in Poole. He stepped into the hall. ‘I don’t think I have ever seen you at any of the services.’

  The 15th century church was just a few minutes’ walk away from Queenie’s home and which she resolutely avoided even though her friends and neighbours were regulars at the services.

  He blinked under the cold scrutiny from the old woman’s pale blue eyes. A strange freak of nature, he thought to himself, to be that pale, almost white in fact. ‘I’m sure I would have noticed you,’ he said meekly, glancing at her bright pink frizzy hair.

  ‘And I am sure Gladys would have told you why I do not attend church,’ she retorted as she closed the door behind him.

  ‘Well,’ he replied, following her back into the dark cluttered room, ‘she did tell me that you are rather... unusual, shall we say?’

  ‘You can say what you like,’ Queenie replied, gesturing to an old armchair. ‘Sit down, Vicar.’ She settled in the opposite chair. ‘I’m a witch, is that what you wanted to say?’

  ‘I believe her words were, ‘familiar with the occult and paranormal’, although you are not wh
at I was expecting.’

  Queenie snorted. ‘I bet,’ she said rudely. ‘But I am a witch... an expert in all things witchy and spooky. And in case you’re wondering I do not and have never ridden a broomstick. So, now we have got that out of the way, what can I help you with?’ Queenie smirked faintly. ‘It’s not often that I am called on to help a member of the clergy.’

  ‘And I would have never thought that I would be asking for help from somebody such as yourself, no offence,’ he said quickly, raising a conciliatory hand.

  ‘None taken,’ Queenie said, settling back into her chair. ‘So...what’s the problem?’

  He rubbed his hands across his knees. ‘Well, I’m not sure where to start.’ He thought for a minute then began, ‘I had a visitor one night last week, it was very late and I was reluctant to let her in but the woman was distraught. She lives here, just up the road from you at The Green, but I hadn’t seen her before nor heard about her daughter. The girl had committed suicide a few weeks ago and Mrs Cochrane, her mother, found the body, the poor woman... I thought that perhaps she had wanted to discuss the funeral arrangement. But it wasn’t that at all... Emma has already been cremated. But the mother has been experiencing strange things happening in the house. I have never had to deal with something like this and I don’t know where to begin. I thought at first that it was just the shock that was affecting Mrs Cochrane but now I am not sure.’ He smiled uncertainly at the silent woman. ‘Is this making any sense, Mrs Beresford?’

  Queenie nodded. ‘Go on. You said strange things were happening in the house.’

  ‘Yes, Mrs Cochrane,’ he continued, drawing a deep breath, ‘became convinced that somebody was in the house, things being moved, noises, etc. She said Emma’s room was the worst. The lights would go on and off all hours of the day and she could hear bumping and strange dragging noises at night. When she went in there was just Emma’s doll, sat on the bed. And now she insists that it is possessed. When I heard this I thought she must be on the verge of breakdown.’

  ‘A doll?’ asked Queenie, looking intrigued.

  ‘Yes. Mrs Cochrane became hysterical when I tried to reason with her and demanded that I take the doll and perform an exorcism on the thing. I refused of course.’

  ‘Does she think that Emma’s spirit inhabits the doll? Why?’

  ‘No, no, you misunderstand me,’ he said quickly. ‘She said the doll was evil; she hadn’t liked it from the day Emma brought it home.’

  ‘So when was that? I had assumed you meant it was just an old toy that belonged to her daughter.’

  ‘Well, I could have understood if Mrs Cochrane was fixated on the doll because it had been Emma’s as a child but she had bought it a couple of weeks previous to her death. And since it had entered the house Mrs Cochrane said her daughter had changed, she wasn’t her usual self. She became moody...’

  ‘Was she a teenager?’ asked Queenie, with a slight grin.

  ‘No! Emma was a young woman and just started work at a local school. That’s why she was living with her mother, until she found a place of her own. According to her mother, Emma was a quiet, gentle girl, not moody or aggressive, until the doll arrived.’

  ‘So if at first you didn’t believe her what happened to change your mind?’

  ‘Because I agreed to keep the doll.’

  ‘And where is it now?’

  ‘It was at home, in the vicarage.’

  ‘Then why didn’t you bring it with you? I would have been interested to see it.’

  ‘It’s gone,’ he said, rubbing a hand over his face. ‘I locked it in my desk and when I went to get it this morning the drawer was empty. It was still locked but no doll!’

  ‘Why did you lock it in the desk if you thought it was all nonsense?’ Queenie asked, her eyes narrowing.

  Paul stood and began pacing about the room. ‘I have three daughters,’ he began in a rush. ‘They took it from my study and I found them playing with it in the garden. Such a strange game...it worried me and I was annoyed that they had taken it without asking. It’s not like them, to behave in that way, they are usually so good.’

  ‘Children will be children,’ replied Queenie wryly.

  ‘But it was so unlike them, they just stared at me as though I was a complete stranger and didn’t say a word, didn’t offer any explanation as to why they took it.’

  ‘So you took it away from them and locked it in your desk, and now it’s gone.’

  ‘Yes. I was asking my wife if she had seen it when Gladys came into the kitchen. I was rather upset so she must have realised something was wrong.’

  ‘And that’s when she recommended me?’

  ‘To my wife, not to me. I guess she was worried how I would react.’

  Queenie shrugged. ‘Understandable; it’s not often that the clergy get involved with the local witch unless they’re burning her at the stake.’

  ‘So can you help?’ he asked, ignoring the jibe.

  She sighed and ruffled up her pink hair. ‘You haven’t given me much to go on.’

  ‘Well...’ he said helplessly, ‘what else do you need to know?’

  ‘I’ll go and put the kettle on,’ she said, standing up, ‘ and then you can tell me in detail, and I want details... everything... about the game the children were playing and,’ she paused in the doorway, ‘what exactly happened to Emma.’

  Paul nodded miserably. ‘Right.’

  ‘Another thing...do the children know you are here?’

  ‘No,’ he replied, surprised at her question. ‘Should I have told them?’ He winced at the look on Queenie’s face. ‘No, I suppose not,’ he added weakly.

  ‘No, definitely not,’ came her voice from the hallway.

  Paul stood and wandered uncertainly to the door way. ‘Can I help?’ he called.

  ‘I’m not that old that I can’t boil a kettle, young man.’

  He peered down the dimly lit hall after her; a worn carpet led the way to the kitchen, brown painted panelling covered the wall to waist height and above that faded floral wallpaper that was peeling in places, showing older paper beneath. The whole house looked like it hadn’t been touched since the Victorian era. On the left, narrow stairs led the way up to the first floor, all was dark and quiet; the smell of cabbage mingling with a strange scent that he didn’t recognise. Curiosity finally got the better of him and he trod slowly down the hall to the kitchen door. He could see Queenie bustling about in front of an old gas stove and he stepped inside.

  ‘Come and choose some biscuits,’ she suggested, without looking round. ‘Over there,’ and gestured to a pine cupboard at the back.

  Dark linoleum covered the floor and a cracked Belfast sink with a wooden draining board stood near the back door. The small window looking out onto the back yard was almost entirely obscured by glass shelves full of strange potted plants. The only one that he recognised was a pot of Basil.

  ‘Have you been here long?’ he asked, gazing around the antiquated kitchen.

  ‘We moved here in the late ‘60’s, it still had an outside toilet then,’ she said. ‘Not so convenient in the winter.’

  ‘No,’ he half smiled. ‘I can imagine that would have been a problem.’

  ‘In those days we didn’t think anything of it; we just made the best of things and got on with it.’

  ‘Do you have any children Mrs Beresford?’

  ‘No,’ she said abruptly and put the tea pot down on the tray. ‘And if you have found those biscuits Vicar, you can carry them through with the tray.’

  ‘Of course,’ he replied meekly, feeling that he had erred in some way. He selected a packet of digestives from the cupboard. ‘Will these do?’

  Queenie nodded and led the way back to the front room. ‘We had better put some lights on,’ she muttered and quickly snapped on a few of the lamps that were dotted about the room. ‘I didn’t realise it was so late.’ A fire lay smouldering in the grate; a box full of logs lay to one side with a pile of old newspaper on the other.


  ‘Isn’t that a bit of a fire hazard?’ he ventured, staring at the fireplace.

  ‘Just put the tray down there,’ she ordered, gesturing to a small table near the window. ‘You’re here to discuss your problems not my housekeeping.’

  ‘Of course, Mrs Beresford, but I deal with the elderly all the time and I would be failing in my duty if I didn’t point out that it was dangerous.’

  ‘But I am not elderly Mr Goodfellow ...I may have a few years on you but I am still quite hale and hearty, thank you!’

  ‘Of course Mrs Beresford, I wasn’t suggesting that you weren’t,’ he said meekly. ‘Shall I be mother?’

  Queenie’s lips twitched. ‘If you wish.’

  He poured the tea carefully into the delicate bone china cup and saucer and added a drop of milk.

  ‘Sugar?’

  ‘Three please. So,’ she said, taking the cup from his hand. ‘You were going to tell me what happened to Emma.’

  ‘I am afraid this might upset you,’ he warned.

  ‘Don’t worry, I have strong nerves,’ she replied coolly.

  ‘Very well, I will try and recount it as Mrs Cochrane told me.’ Gathering his thoughts he began, ‘She had been at the local Bingo hall for the night and she had heard from one of her friends that Emma hadn’t turned up for work for several days so she rang home to check and see if it was true. When Emma didn’t answer any of her texts or calls; she became worried and left early.’

  ‘So she went home?’

  ‘Yes. When she got there all the lights were off and she assumed that Emma was out. She was in the kitchen when she heard noises coming from upstairs. Thinking it was her daughter she called out and receiving no reply she went up to Emma’s room,’ he paused, staring down at the rapidly cooling tea in his hand. ‘Poor woman,’ he muttered. ‘Emma was on the floor in front of the mirror, she had cut her throat with a shard of glass.’