‘It is reputed that the pond of Muchover Westlake had an outlet from a passage leading to the rectory. The tunnel was dug for the priest’s use as an escape route should the destructive might of the Reformation reach the village. The Westlake Villages were miraculously never touched by the ruinous hordes that roamed the land and the tunnel remained unused.’

Connor shut the book with a loud clap. He paced up and down a few times and went to the window. He was itching to go out and search for the entrance to the tunnel. There were still a few official-looking figures hanging around the pond. As he watched, a man climbed up the ladder holding a tub full of dripping detritus under one arm. Connor looked at the clock: it was nearly six pm, he may as well go to the pub for an early supper, it would kill time until it got dark – Connor had a plan he wished to unfold after nightfall.

Much later that same evening, John Whittle was supping his fifth Bacardi and Coke of the night.

“So, Connor. Do you think they’ll be another death tonight?”

Connor had been staring into his pint and only half caught what John had said.

“Say again?”

“Do you think some other girl will end up in the pond tonight?”

“There’s a strong chance, I’d say. Where’s Lara Heale?”

“Under house arrest at her parent’s place, if they’ve any sense in their heads.”

“So you don’t know?”

“Nope.” John finished his drink, rattling the ice around the bottom to chase out any dregs. “Another?”

“Go on then, one for the long journey home.”

“You live fifty yards from the pub door, Connor – it’s not much of a journey is it?”

It was eleven thirty when Connor returned home. He stood behind the bedroom curtains with a confidence-boosting glass of whisky, waiting for the last villagers to vanish inside their houses. Tom the landlord had decided to sweep up at front of the pub and was taking a long time about it. Connor rolled his eyes and shelving his plan for the time being, he went downstairs for another look at the book about the Westlake Villages. He tried to find information about the hanging mob, as John kept calling them. He traced his finger down page after page looking for useful information, but it was mostly details about the buildings in the village. He stopped reading. He’d just turned a page and there was a sketch of Preacher Heale staring out at him. He was a ferrety looking little man, dwarfed under a large, dark hat. The text underneath the picture said he’d been responsible for clearing the village of witchcraft and demonisation. A mischievous stray thought popped into Connor’s mind – what if the murderer was saving the best for last? Or in this case he supposed it would be saving the worst until last. The hoot of an owl at the back of the cottage raised him to his feet. He pulled the curtain back an inch or two and looked across the road. There was not a soul to be seen. After searching for a flashlight, he pulled on a dark jacket over his t-shirt and left the cottage. Connor wondered if the ladder would still be in place at the edge of the pond, it would be too much to hope it was still there, and sure enough it was gone. Connor walked around the edge of the pond looking for a low point on the bank but it was all more or less the same height. He took a step backwards and promptly fell over something. Getting back up to his feet, he stopped and gazed in disbelief at the ladder lying in the grass by a small fenced off area. Grinning, Connor picked it up and slid it over the edge, waiting for the thud of impact. The base of the ladder squelched in the mud as it landed. Connor pushed it down firmly and began to descend the rungs, when he reached the bottom rung he tentatively reached out his foot and felt it sink into the mud. Switching on the flashlight he swooped it over the pond bed, feeling a little anxious in case there was a body down there already. The beam of the light showed only a mire of thick mud and a few bundles of weed as it travelled over the bottom of the pond. Connor began to walk around the edge of the pond, shining the light on the bank as he went. The walls were identical thick mud, except where the roots of trees and bushes still protruded through the earth, although the bulldozers had torn away the living trees, the roots remained firmly in place. He slowly edged his way along, looking for anything different in the pond wall. Suddenly, his foot sank into the mud. He pulled it out, wondering why it was wetter in this place than any of the other parts he’d been through. He swept the flashlight up the bank and back down again. He pulled at a root which kept getting in his way as he searched. The root sprang free and slopped a lump of mud at his face.

“Erghh!” said Connor in disgust, wiping his face clear of the free mud pack. He swung the light back and noticed a fissure in the bank. Picking up the root, he used it to pick at the gap. Stepping back quickly as more mud began to slip down after the disturbance, he swung the torch towards the pond wall. A network of roots had grown across the opening to the tunnel and very gradually the pond had filled them up with silt and pond debris. When he’d cleared enough of a hole to squeeze through, Connor slipped inside, he took a last breath of clean night air before he vanished from the gentle darkness of a summer’s night into the pitch black of a subterranean passageway.

He inched along, praying the batteries in the flashlight would last or he could imagine himself floundering around in the dark for an eternity. He was ankle deep in water, sloshing his feet along the floor checking for any holes in case he plummeted down to a watery death. The beam of his light caught on something. He jolted in alarm, pausing for a second before swinging the beam back. He gasped as he saw the grinning skull lying on the arm of a root that had broken through the brickwork. There were some other smaller bones scattered below it where the roots must have teased them free over time. Connor had come prepared for this and he knew what he had to do. He hated the idea of it, but he knew it must be done. Slowly, carefully, he retrieved as many bones as he could locate, placing each one in a black plastic garbage sack. He walked back up the passageway holding the gruesome burden at arm’s length. When he returned to the entrance and saw the welcome soft darkness ahead of him he breathed a huge sigh of relief.

Connor made his way to the centre of the pond, looked down at the bag of bones and prepared to free them. Unwrapping the neck of the bag, he gently tipped the bones out onto the surface of the mud and  stood looking at them for a few seconds.

“There you are, Eliza. You’re free now and they can bury you properly at last.”

He walked to the ladder and climbed up, drawing it up after him and replacing it in the grass. A rush of terror swept him as he caught a movement when he looked up. Putting a hand on his chest to still his frantic heartbeats, he realised it was just the owl flying low in search of unwary mice and voles, it gave a screech and swooped away through the branches of the oak outside the pub. Connor had just started to walk towards home when he almost screamed in alarm. A ghostly figure was coming towards him, walking slowly as if she were gliding over the road. It was a girl. It was Lara Heald! She was wearing a skimpy pale pink cotton nightdress, her hair  flowing loose instead of being tightly tethered in its usual ponytail. As she came closer, he noticed what he had first taken for gliding was a laboured walk, her feet dragging in the grass as she neared the edge of the pond. Her blonde hair caught a few stray shafts of moonlight as it landed on her shoulders.

“No!” howled Connor, running towards her. Only at the last moment, did he stop himself from shaking her, when he remembered that waking sleepwalkers could kill them, but even worse she may think he was the murderer if she woke up now. Connor ran his fingers through his hair in fear. He didn’t know what to do. If he was right and the restless spirit of Eliza Murcheson had been released by the draining of the pond, she theoretically ought to have stopped trying to exact her revenge on the descendents of the hanging mob and by now she should be passing safely into the afterlife.

Connor looked at Lara, who was standing on the spot swaying. He suddenly had a bright idea.  Grabbing the loose back of her nightdress, he turned her around, pointing her towards her parent’s house. He gave her a little push to send her on her way and watched delightedly as she began to walk like Coppelia down the village street. Connor remained motionless until he saw Lara vanish safely inside the house.

He let out a huge sigh of relief and went home to shower all the mud from his filthy body. When Connor got into bed he could feel his eyes closing immediately and he slipped into a deep sleep.

He found himself on the village green, which looked just as it used to look before the bulldozers had moved in: the pond was once again full of water. An old woman was sitting on the grass, knitting.

“Are you Connor?” she asked, turning a row.

“I am. Who are you?”

“I’m Eliza’s mother. I wanted to thank you for finding her bones. She’ll get a proper burial now. And she’s been avenged at last. All those who put her to death have paid the price. Now I can rest easy.”

“No!” Connor advanced towards her, anguish spreading across his face. “I stopped Lara before she could fall and drown in the mud. She’s safe at home. I watched her go inside the house.” He looked at Mother Murcheson and saw a gleam in her flinty grey eyes.

“And yet, out again she came. Walking across the green and falling into the pond. Oh dearie me. Such a poor little thing, what a shame to die so young. Just like my Eliza.”

Connor tried to wake up, he struggled to grab at Mother Murcheson but his hands just flailed about uselessly, he felt weaker and weaker, his energy draining away as he tried desperately to fight his way out of the dream.

Many hours later the alarm dragged Connor out of his nightmare. He was drenched in sweat and shivering from his exertions. The memories flooded over him and he sprang out of bed, racing towards the window. Connor saw the now familiar crowd of vultures standing on the brink of the pond, his heart filled with dread, a sick feeling descended upon him. With an all consuming sadness, Connor realised he may have managed to release the spirit of the restless dead Eliza, but he hadn’t been able to save poor Lara from her doom.

The End

Copyright Suzanna Stanbury 2009 All Rights Reserved