Hobb's Cottage: A Short Story Read Free Page B

the sitting room.
    You’re being ridiculous, it’s the cat, Phoebe told herself sternly.  But the room was deserted; only the moon was peeking in.  There was no sign of her mysterious new feline friend. Mice then? 
    She was icy cold and her breath clouded before her eyes.  The scratching was becoming faster now and although it sounded as though it was coming from the fireplace there was nothing to be seen.  Was she going mad?  Had the strain of longing for Alex finally driven her insane?
    With a half sob Phoebe could bear it no longer.  Snatching her drink, she fled up the narrow stairs to the attic room where she buried herself beneath the duvet. She didn’t dare stir again until the pearly dawn stole through the windows.
    When she eventually crept back down into the sitting room Phoebe was almost unsurprised to find a skeletal hand in the hearth, the fingers clawed against the stone as though they had been desperately digging into the granite.  Hanging from where the wrist should be was a piece of frayed red ribbon.  With a cry of horror she backed from the room, her hand pressed over her thumping heart.  This was far, far more than her imagination…
     
    Crone, crone before my time!  Body misshapen, bones snapped away from flesh, scattered and desecrated!  Such darkness.  Bundled into boxes.  Hidden from the light.  Strung up and prodded, mocked, abandoned and eventually forgotten, no longer Tilly Penhalligan who laughed at the moon and threaded wildflowers through her hair but a dusty dry pile of bones in a box, nameless and shunned.  Set me free!  Let me see the stars again and feel the rain on my face.  Let the tempests come and welcome me back into the storms.  Place me with the flesh of my flesh.  But do not leave me alone and forgotten.  Oh no, not when memories are simmering and ready to boil over!
    Pain.  Agonising pain.  Hours?  Days?  I knew not.  All I knew was that I howled and shrieked, little caring whether my cries carried down to the villagers.  Blood as dark as night pooled around me, secret and vile and staining the cottage floor.  Then nothing but fragile bones.  Still and dreadful he lay in my arms, eyes wide as though surprised that life had been ripped away so swiftly.  I held him close to my breast and wept.  Hot salyt tears that trickled onto his face, running in tracks through the gore.
    Then I kissed his brow and placed him on the hearth.  They would come for me.  Witch and whore.  Even now they would be lighting the lamps and climbing the hill.  But they would not take my babe.
     
    Phoebe tore down hill so fast that she tripped and grazed her knees but she didn’t notice the stinging.
     “Come on!” She raised her fists again, hammering on the salt swollen paint of the museum door. “Open up!”
     “Can’t keep away from me?” smiled Dan but the banter died on his lips when he saw how pale Phoebe was. He didn’t ask what was wrong but, with an arm around her trembling shoulders, led her into the office and sat her down while he brewed tea so strong that the spoon could stand up and salute at them.
    Phoebe was relieved it was Dan who was there to listen as she choked out her story.  Lucy would have looked at her as though she was mad, and maybe she was?  The mind can play strange tricks.  But some instinct told her Dan would understand.  Without speaking she reached into her rucksack and held out the hand, still clenched as though clawing at the stone.  She’d been surprised just how hard she’d had to tug to pluck it from the heath. It hadn’t wanted to let go.
     “Tilly,” breathed Dan, gently taking the hand in his own.  His dark curls fell over his face as he caressed the bones tenderly with his forefinger. “You’re back, are you?”
     “You don’t seem surprised,” Phoebe said. In spite of the sugary tea she was still trembling.
     “I’m not.” Dan smiled at her.  “But I’m glad that we finally know for sure who she