Christmas Tales of Terror by Chris Priestley Page B

as a close friend of Stephen’s late father. Doctor Meadows, like Stephen’s father, was an amateur antiquarian. They had both shared a fascination with folklore and ancient history, and had written a book together about a barrow they had excavated at the far end of the village many years earlier. Doctor Meadows was in the process of writing another about the customs and traditions of the local area.
    It was not long before the subject of the greenery came up at dinner. Stephen’s stepfather was telling Mrs Darnley, who ran the post office in the village, in great detail, how he had gathered the holly and ivy for the decorations. Mrs Darnley listened with polite indifference until he mentioned the source of the foliage.
    ‘And you say you took it from Freya’s Hill?’ she said, a little aghast. Those nearby stopped their conversations to listen.
    ‘Yes,’ said his stepfather, oblivious to her tone. ‘Spooky kind of a place.’
    ‘Oh,’ said Mrs Darnley. ‘I wouldn’t go up there for all the tea in China. It’s . . . Well, it’s . . .’
    Mrs Darnley struggled to find a suitable word.
    ‘I think it’s rather fascinating,’ said Reverend Ashcroft.
    Stephen’s mother frowned. She had always thought Reverend Ashcroft far too liberal.
    ‘Really, Reverend?’ she said. ‘I would have thought the Church would take a dim view of such things. You know the villagers still go up there and leave things at the stones, when they want a baby or some such. It’s shocking.’
    Reverend Ashcroft smiled.
    ‘I don’t find it so. God made the trees and the stones and everything we know. A worship of nature is, after all, a worship of God and all his works.’
    ‘Hmmm,’ said Stephen’s mother. ‘Well, I’m not sure the devil isn’t involved. It all smacks of witchcraft to me.’
    ‘Witchcraft?’ the vicar replied. ‘Oh, I don’t think so.’
    ‘We need to be on our guard,’ said Stephen’s mother. ‘Every time we fail to act against these blasphemies, the devil moves a little closer.’
    ‘I hope we have moved on,’ said Doctor Meadows, ‘from the days of persecuting anything we do not understand. Those people are no more agents of the devil than you or I, Beatrice. They may be foolish, but I don’t think they’re evil.’
    Stephen’s mother pursed her lips but said nothing.
    ‘But I’m afraid you have made an error taking that greenery from Freya’s Hill,’ the doctor continued, with a frown. ‘It won’t go down at all well in the village.’
    ‘Pah!’ said Stephen’s mother. ‘Nonsense. My late husband used to pander to that sort of thing, but no more. Freya’s Hill is part of our land. Those people are trespassing! How dare they tell us what we can do on our own property!’
    Stephen looked to the urn on the mantelpiece that contained his father’s ashes. He missed him so much.
    ‘Strange to say,’ said Stephen’s stepfather, ‘there was a chap watching me while I gathered the stuff.’
    ‘Really?’ said the vicar. ‘Someone from the village?’
    Stephen’s stepfather settled back in his chair.
    ‘I don’t know,’ he replied. ‘I don’t think so. He was trying to scare me, I reckon. Did a fair job as a matter of fact, I don’t mind telling you.’
    ‘Scare you?’ said the vicar. ‘How so?’
    ‘Well,’ said Stephen’s stepfather, ‘he was always at the edge of my vision, you know. Whenever I turned to face him, he ducked out of sight.’
    ‘You never mentioned this to me,’ said Stephen’s mother, with an arch of her eyebrow.
    ‘Only remembered it now,’ said Stephen’s stepfather. ‘I thought several times of packing up and leaving, but once I start something I see it through, by George. I had my twelve-bore in the cart, so I knew I was safe enough should things get to that.
    ‘In any case, I felt confident he wasn’t going to physically attack me, that he was only observing. He wasn’t going to stop me, though I’m convinced he would have dearly liked to.