Ann Pilling - The Witch of Lagg

Colin stared at him. He could just imagine what Angus Ross would say if a small boy asked him to dismantle a newly-repaired stone wall, to pacify a nonexistent witch.

They were still sitting there, looking at one another in blank confusion, when the door burst open and Aunt Phyllis appeared. She was not pleased.

“Ten thirty,” she snapped, consulting her watch. “What’s this, may I ask? A mothers’ meeting? Colin, Prill, off to bed at once! Lights out, Oliver, you know the rules. Have you cleaned your teeth?”

“Yes, Mother,” said a muffled voice from under the eiderdown. “ And brushed my hair.”

He listened to Colin’s door bang shut, then to Prill’s. Ten minutes later he heard his mother climb into bed. They had adjoining rooms and the walls were very thin, only plasterboard partitions dividing up what had once been a vast storage area in the basement.

Soon she was snoring steadily. Oliver got out his diary, switched a little torch on, and re-read it. Then he lay back, thinking about witches, and about Aggie Ross and Granny MacCann.

Ma wouldn’t let him read spooky books, and she’d be very disturbed if she thought that he was getting seriously interested in witchcraft. She was a devout woman and the Bible warned against meddling with what it called “the powers of darkness”. But the text was there, on that sampler. What could it mean?

“ Save me, Oh God, for the waters are come in, unto my soul .” Oliver had written it down in small neat capitals. The words filled him with sadness for Hugo Grierson, shut up all alone in this ugly old house. Why did he torment himself so? And why did he use mirror-writing? That struck him as extremely peculiar. Witches did things backwards. It seemed that the beauty of the sea and the woodlands of Lagg, instead of gladdening the man’s heart plunged him into black despair. It was a lovely place, but there was a kind of brooding sorrow about it all.

Oliver was tired, but he always read a little at night, to get himself off to sleep. He grinned as he heard his mother’s even snoring, and shone his high intensity pocket torch on the pages of his book. He’d smuggled it up here without her seeing it. It was The Bumper Annual of Great Horror Stories .

At the other end of the stone passage Prill had just sat up in bed. She was annoyed because it had taken her a long time to get off to sleep after that conversation with Oliver, and her hot water bottle had gone cold – a hot water bottle in August – but it was chilly in the dungeons at night. Then, just as she was drifting off at last, Aunt Phyllis had woken her up again.

When she’d opened her eyes she’d been dimly aware of footsteps coming and going, shuffling sort of steps, the kind you make if you slither along in flat rubber shoes. Aunt Phyllis had several pairs. She was obsessed about not making any unnecessary noise. Then Prill heard her singing softly to herself.

What on earth was the woman doing? She’d go mad if any of the children went round singing at one in the morning. She’d report it to the management (Dad), who’d warned them all that Mr Grierson was a funny customer and had to be handled with care. Yet here she was, singing at dead of night, and creeping up and down. Was she looking under all their doors, perhaps, to check that they’d obeyed lights out? Prill couldn’t understand it.

As she listened, though, she realized that it couldn’t be her aunt singing. It must be the radio, or a tape perhaps. But that didn’t make sense. Nobody had brought a tape recorder and they certainly didn’t broadcast church services in the middle of the night … Prill began to feel uneasy.

She crept out of bed, stood in the middle of the room, and listened carefully. The voice was a woman’s, young and sweet, and it had a distinct Scots accent. She was singing a hymn, very slowly and mournfully, something Prill had never heard before:

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