This is my 'day 4" blog post for October Frights Blog Hop 13 October 2024.
The hand Gauvin used to shake mine was dry, calloused and ingrained from years of using mortar and plaster. “You found the book interesting, Roberre?” he asked.
I winced at his French pronunciation of my name. “I did. Had to get it translated, but it was well worth the effort. Have you read it?”
“Only the first few pages. Not really my interest, witches and things.”
“Is your company still working on the chateau?” I asked.
“Yes, there is still much to be done. We will be there for a few more months. Doesn't help with my painter falling from a ladder, last Thursday. No idea how he fell. He broke a leg, so I'm without a key-worker for two months.”
“Have you had many things go wrong on this job?”
“You're telling me. A fire in the kitchen last week destroyed valuable tools. Several items of electrical equipment have burned out from no apparent cause. We thought there might be a fault with the wiring, being an old house, but found nothing yet.”
“Do you get the feeling that the house might be haunted, or cursed?
Gauvin chuckled. “I thought ghosts and demons, witches and warlocks was just something you horror writers use to scare your readers.”
He looked thoughtful for a few moments, before continuing, “Now you mention it, though, two of the guys refused to work in the place after the first week. One of them said he saw a ghost in one of the bedrooms. The other, I persuaded to continue working. He's the painter who fell.”
“I believe the bones of this witch remain bricked up in the cellar of the house, and you will have bad luck as long as they remain there.”
“That's where you are wrong. There is no cellar. We thought it odd; a place like that without, but assumed it was because the floor would be below the level of the lake and continually flooded.”
“I assure you there is a cellar. There is reference to it in the text. I guess you would be concerned whether there is damage, rot or decay that could cause problems for the rest of the structure.”
“We certainly would. But how do we find the entrance?”
“I'm pretty sure I know.” I thought, he might not be so impressed if I explained the ghost of a witch informed me. “I need to have a look around to be certain. Would it be possible for me to see the house?”
“We'll be there tomorrow morning. If you come to the chateau about ten, I'll show you around.”
***
The road across the forested slopes of Morvan was easy to follow from Gauvin's directions. I soon saw the glittering waters of the lake between the trees from the higher ground. Traversing the two kilometres of road beside the lake in both directions, I searched for the entrance to the chateau without success. On the third pass, and with plenty of time in hand, I parked the car under the trees to walk down to the water's edge.
Apart from the steepness of the descent, I enjoyed walking beneath the early autumn canopy of orange and gold leaves, with the damp, earthy smell of moss and morning song of birds. Emerging from the tree-line, I saw the chateau on my left. It was at the far end of the lake, which curved back on itself, making the position of the lake's end deceptive from the road. The distance of a kilometre and a half from where I stood, looked an easier walk than trying to make my way back up the slope between the trees.
A castle of thirteenth or fourteenth century construction, with black conical roofed towers at each corner, gave the place a fairy-tale romanticism. Two tiers of four windows overlooked the lake with a spectacular view across the water. Three small windows, probably enlarged from the original narrow slits, through which the castle's defenders would fire arrows, looked out along the side of the lake where I walked. From their height above the water, I assumed them to be on the second floor. Several meters above them rose the crenelated edge of battlements.
On the landward side, an iron portcullis, rusted from decades of non-use, hung in a tall archway. The centre of the arch rose into a point showing the Gothic influence of the architect. Beyond the arch was a courtyard with an ornamental fountain, now dry, the stonework sculpted with water nymphs and sprites.
From an open door came the sound of an electric drill and intermittent hammering. A young man wearing stained blue-serge overalls stood beside a white van smoking a hand-rolled cigarette. Hearing my approach over gravel, he turned toward me.
“Bonjour,” I called.
“Monsieur Read?” then “Bonjour,” in response to my affirmation. He continued, “Gauvin phoned to say you were coming. He sends his apologies that he will not be in this morning, and asked me to show you anything you need.” He squeezed the glowing tip of the cigarette between thumb and forefinger to extinguish it before dropping the unsmoked remainder into a tobacco tin. “I am Marcel. Where would you like to start?”
“I'm certain I know where to find the entrance to the cellar, so if you could show me to the kitchen.”
“Follow me.” He led the way through the open door and turned through a door on the right into a long dining room. At the far end, another doorway led into the kitchen. A huge open fireplace was built into the far wall, with an oven constructed from stone blocks beside it.
“There should be a small room off from here, a pantry,” I said.
“I expect you mean the door on the left. The other leads to a staircase and the floor above.”
He opened the door, switched on a light and stepped back allowing me room to enter. The room felt cold. Several wooden shelves and cupboards needed replacing before the place could be used for the intended purpose of storing food.
“There should be a stone in the floor that is not fixed,” I said.
“From what I saw working in here, the flagstones are all cemented. If you wait a moment, I will get a brush to sweep the dust away.”
“You see?” he said after briskly sweeping. “The stones have all been cemented in place.”
I had to agree. A grey sealant was packed into the joints. I knelt for a closer inspection.
“Look Marcel. Here and here.” He knelt beside me. “Do you see where the stones have been cut to make a key into the neighbouring stones. These were cut by a skilled mason, a master craftsman. There is no way they are going to move once fitted. So why would they use cement as well? Do you have a knife with a sharp blade?”
He reached into his pocket and pulled out a Swiss Army knife. I slid the blade into the narrow crack between two adjoining stones and extracted fine silt. “It's compacted dust and dirt,” I said, “not cement.”
Still on my knees, I leaned back on my heels to view the wall beside the door through which we entered. “That stone?” I pointed to the left of the doorway near the floor, “the one that is much longer than the others. Do you think that might be a lintel? A support for the wall above a doorway.”
Not waiting for an answer, I inserted the blade into the crack between floor and wall. “There you are, Marcel.” I relished in my triumph. “There is no key cut into this or the surrounding stones. This one is not supposed to be locked in position. All you have are these two square notches. I think they are for some sort of levering device.”
“You may be right.” Marcel stood. “Let me get a couple of crowbars and some of the other guys to help.”
***
He returned with two more of his colleagues. Within minutes, they had the block of stone raised to rest against the wall, revealing a black hole and the top two of a flight of worn stone steps leading down into darkness. One of the men went to fetch a reel of extension cable and an inspection lamp, while Marcel lit a small ball of paper and dropped it into the hole. “Just to make sure there is oxygen down there,” he said.
The paper rolled down five or six steps before coming to rest. It burned brightly for a half minute before the flame died.
“It seems all right,” he added. “You found the place, would you like to be the first to enter?”
Nervously, I took the lamp. Imagining the horrors the darkness could conceal, I stepped down. The stench of damp decay took my breath away. I reminded myself it could not be caused by decomposing flesh, not after all this time. Marcel followed me down, and I heard him gasp for breath too. The lamp shed a yellow opaqueness into the gloom to filter through an area of about fifty square meters. The floor was littered with the debris of an historic past. To me, it was bent and broken pieces of metal and rotten wood.
I counted ten steps to the floor. My attention was drawn toward several barrels held in a frame of timbers. A second light from above added to the glow from my single bulb. The man carrying the lamp joined me.
“Wow! Three hundred year old brandy?” He tapped one of the casks with the handle of the lamp. “Sounds like full barrels too. They must be worth something today.”
“Or you could hold a massive drinking binge,” I said, laughing. I made my way along one wall, looking for an alcove that had been bricked up. The stones were damp, but showed little ingress of moisture through the centuries. Small alcoves of around two meters square opened into the wall at regular intervals. An iron-barred door hanging at an angle on a broken hinge reminded me this was once a dungeon. Several of the alcoves contained rusted chains and manacles embedded in the walls. One also held a selection of rusted implements the use of which would cause intense pain and suffering. How many horrific deaths had these walls witnessed?
I found the bricked up room at the far end. The main wall was cut from solid blocks of stone. This section was constructed from hand-made, clay bricks, many of which, and most of the mortar, had crumbled. Taking Marcel's knife from my pocket, I cleared away the remaining cement from one of the bricks at head height.
“What have you found?” Marcel asked as he joined me.
“I think it's what I was looking for. Can you help me remove some of these bricks?”
We removed a dozen. After the first, the rest were easy to lift out to give enough room where I could hold the lamp through the hole and insert my head to look around. As the dust cleared, I saw chains dangling from the far wall. I followed them down to where they ended in metal shackles looped around the mummified arms of a human figure. The rest of the skeleton sprawled in a sitting or kneeling position with the head lolling to one side. Wisps of long, colourless hair hung around the shoulders. Dark, empty sockets that had once been eyes stared back into the light. The mouth was open as if, even in death, she—for she it most definitely had been—was crying out in pain or for help.
“What can you see?” Marcel asked.
“I'm not sure you will want to look. It is pretty gruesome.”
“I can handle gruesome,” bravado in his voice.
I stepped to one side while still holding the lamp in position. He pushed his head into the opening, remaining there for no more than three seconds. I first heard a gasp, then a sharp shriek. He jerked his head out of the gap with a thud as his scalp caught the jagged edge of the brickwork. I pulled the lamp back from the hole and turned it so I could see him. His face had lost its ruddy colour. He held one hand to the back of his head from where blood oozed between his fingers, while the other pressed against his throat as he retched. Turning away toward the corner of the room, he vomited.
Several moments passed before he could speak. The other two men picked their way through the scattered debris to see what the commotion was about. “What were you looking at?” The one carrying the other lamp—Marcel had called him Henri—moved toward the hole.
This action galvanized Marcel into speech. “Don't look in there!” His voice was higher in pitch than I remembered. “It's alive!”
“Nonsense,” I admonished. “She has been dead for three hundred years.”
“Yes? Then how come her hands are waving as she tries to get free. They clawed at the air, then her head turned. She turned to look at me. Those empty black holes looked into my eyes. I felt her sucking the life out of me.”
Amused by Anna Maria's obvious sense of humour, “It must have been a trick of the light,” I replied. “Perhaps the lamp's movement.”
The other two men were backing away, muttering and making the sign of the cross over their chests. It never ceases to amuse me how the local population in this area fall back on their religious upbringing when confronted by something out of the ordinary, paranormal even.
“Come on, chaps. I need to get the rest of these bricks out,” I said.
“Why would you want to do that?” Marcel asked. “You are mad! What I saw was pure evil. We are getting out of here now, even if I have to drag you out by the neck.”
His intent clear, there was nothing more I could do for Anna Maria, for the present. I walked slowly back to my car. The time was moving toward 11:30. At 12:00, France closes down for a two hour lunch break. Everyone takes lunch; the whole country grinds to a halt. Assuming Marcel and his colleagues were not too careful in locking doors or windows, I would have two hours to work uninterrupted.
At five minutes to twelve, I sat in the car. If I waited until five minutes past, they should have gone.
At two minutes past, I saw the white van approaching. I ducked down out of sight until it passed. Having arrived at the chateau on foot, they should have no reason to connect a nondescript Renault with me. As the van disappeared around the curve between the trees, I started the engine. Three minutes later, I pulled into the courtyard and parked. I assumed entry would have to be made through an unlocked window, but decided to try the door on chance. It was not locked. Inside, a selection of tools lay scattered on the floor. I chose a large hammer and a masonry chisel.
The reel of cable with the lamp connected was still beside the door to the pantry. I paid out the cable as I descended the stairs and negotiated the rubbish on the floor. Less than forty minutes passed before I had sufficient bricks removed to squeeze through the opening. Seeing the shrivelled remains in close proximity, I felt remorse at the suffering she endured. Forced to remain in a kneeling position by clasps shackled to the floor, her arms reached above her head, held by the manacles and chains on her wrists.
The chains were rusted, and took only one blow with the hammer and chisel to shatter the clasps. The ankles I did first, then, kneeling behind her, released her wrists. Her shoulders fell backwards and her head lolled in my lap. She appeared to be looking up at me through misty, gray eyes. Again, I saw her as she wished to be seen, not as mummified bones. I wondered at what age she was when she died. Most times a spectre will appear as it was in the last moments before death, but this is not always the case.
Folding her arms, I crossed them over her chest, then took her head between my hands. I knew what I must do. Those who suffer a traumatic death, drawn out and with immense pain, can find their spirit trapped within the body, unable to escape from this physical plane, continually reliving the agony of death. My eyes closed, her long black hair felt soft to my touch, the skin, smooth and warm. Was she breathing? I could believe she was.
With a sudden twist, I jerked the head to one side. Vertebrae in the neck broke free with a snap and I could lift the head, now just an empty skull. Coded reference of decapitation to release a spirit can be found in the Grail legends, the Kabbalah, and occult wisdom from earlier still much of which I am familiar.
“Hey, everything all right down here?” A voice from the stairs roused me.
Placing the head in the cusp of the crossed arms, I said, “Rest in peace, Anna.” Then emerging from the alcove, "Hi Gauvin. Yes everything's okay now. The others went for lunch, so as I'd nearly finished here, I said I'd wait for you.”
He approached the remains of the brickwork. “Is that her?”
“Anna Maria Laurent,” I confirmed.
“Then we need a priest to bury her.”
“Not necessary,” I replied. “She's now at peace. I advise putting a few bricks across this alcove and covering her with concrete. I only need to take the head to bury separately to ensure the curse is lifted.”
***
From the bookshelf beside my computer, a human skull bathed in eerie green light, glares at me through empty eye sockets. He who possesses the head of one who met a violent death at the hands of another holds the power to summon the spirit of that person in rituals of necromancy. I cannot suppress the sly smirk that curls the corners of my mouth. Although I have not yet found the necessity to use the ritual, it is the price Anna Maria Laurent must pay for her release.
Author’s Note:
Necromancy – A ritual used for communication with the spirit of the deceased to obtain information, wealth or power.
The Mountains of Morvan with its Celtic hilltop fortress really is a region near to where I live, and the story of the mothers of Morvan is a historical event that did occur, although any connection with witchcraft has never been proven.
The horrendous tortures used to obtain confessions from those accused of witchcraft and heresy, the worship of ancient gods construed as Satanism, is fact.
Really great story!
A fantastic story.