Freya’s senses were overwhelmed as if she was inside the whirlwind again. Her thoughts rushed to make sense of the chaos around her. What had she seen on the gravestone? She breathed deeply and coughed, her smell sensitive but it wasn’t the autumnal, damp leaves she could smell, it was the dry grass from the hot summer, the pollen in the air, the faint hint of burning. She couldn’t hear anything above the rush of blood in the ears. She could taste something metallic, like blood. Her eyes blurred, she raised her hands heedless of the wet mud covering them and rubbed at her eyes, wincing she pulled her fingers away as something stung her eyes.
Freya took another deep breath trying to slow her breathing. She felt herself coming back. Could feel a painful stone underneath her knee and a dampness seeping through her trousers. Her eyes stung but she opened them cautiously and stared at the headstone once more. It hadn’t changed. Her senses took her once again and she screamed, scrabbling backwards trying to get away from whatever this was. Somewhere her brain reasoned it could be someone else’s gravestone. It couldn’t be hers, how could it be. She wasn’t dead, if the pains in her body were anything to go by. She stumbled and nearly tripped over another raised gravestone as fear too hold and she started to run down the narrow pathway. She had to get away. Freya knew she had to get out of this place. Something was coming for her, she couldn’t explain it. Something dark. Something malevolent. She could see the end, the light waiting to embrace her, to make the darkness go away. To save her.
Gasping she kicked open the gate she fell against a giant cherry tree, her hands gripped the bark trying to ground herself in reality, hoping for this madness to end.
“You alright there love? What’s happened? Shall I call a doctor?” an elderly voice enquired. Freya screamed, before clasping a hand over her mouth and turning she saw a grey haired old man in gardening attire leaning on a spade with a frown on his face. Where had he come from?
“Sorry. No… it’s okay, I erm… just got a bit scared back there. Daft really, don’t know what’s wrong with me,” Freya replied, starting to feel silly. What must she look like? She wrapped her scarf around her and rubbed mud and leaves from her clothes, as cold seeped into her bones. A menacing mist rolled down the side of the hill and she shivered. She couldn’t shake the feeling of something coming. Something coming for her.
Freya started to straighten her clothes to make herself look presentable and the man reached over and dusted some leaves off her coat.
“Thank you,’ she smiled gratefully at him and looked back but all she could see was the tree lined pathway, the normal sunlight glinting off the stone path. No wind rustled the leaves. Everything was still again. No fox. No squirrels. She winced as she tried to wipe the dirt off her jeans and shocked to see blood on her hand.
“Looks like you’ve hurt yourself. Let’s have a look.’ The elderly man knelt in front of her, pushing his tartan flat cap back on his head as it slipped forward and inspected a jagged hole in her jeans, just below her knee.
‘That looks nasty young lady, I think you better get someone to look at that. Wait a minute. I think there is something sticking in your leg. Brace yourself.’
Freya gasped as she felt something cold and sharp being pulled from her flesh.
‘Well would you look at that.’ He stood up and showed her the mud encrusted object he’d pulled from her leg, ’You’re going to need a trip to the hospital just in case that gets infected.’
Freya took it from him and wiped away the dirt and blood.
The man peered into her hand, ‘looks like one of them old fashioned hat pins. I wonder how that got in the church grounds?’
A gnarled hand reached out and settled under her elbow, Freya pulled her gaze away. She felt otherworldly, as if she wasn’t really here in this moment and someone else was in her body.
The old man looked worried, ‘Listen love, my truck is just in the grounds over there. It’s only a short walk. Let me take you to the hospital to get that cleaned up.’
His grip felt solid and reassuring and she was grateful for his presence. He felt grounded to the earth. She couldn’t let herself be torn away. How odd she thought. Why would she think that. They walked the short distance over the field to a gate in the old stone wall which Freya hadn’t noticed before. Relief washed over her the further they moved away from the church. So strange, she’d never once felt threatened in a church yard. The kindly old man helped Freya into the battered old seat of the Land Rover and whistled.
Moments later, a scraggy and very dirty small dog bounded up to the truck and jumped into the footwell and instantly curled around Freya’s wellies.
‘Well, you are honoured. Our Eris don’t like many people. A bit like my wife.’
‘I’m sorry,’ Freya said, leaning down to stroke Eris’s head, ‘I was just going to say Eris is an unusual name for a dog and then I realised I don’t know your name and you’ve been so helpful. I’m Freya by the way.’ Grateful she was noticing her surroundings once again and remembering her manners.
The man groaned as he slammed the door and turned to her as he settled his long coat.
‘I’m just plain old Bob. Eris here was named by my wife. Tells me that means Eris is the name of Goddess of discord or strife. Which is just about the best damn name I ever heard for a dog. Fits her to a T.’
He chucked as Eris barked her agreement.
Bob fired up the truck and they were soon at the local walk in centre.
Later, Bob described the day to his wife as Eris was curled up in front of the fire in their cottage down the hill from the church.
‘Beautiful young girl that Freya, beautiful name. He would remark how her hair was wild about her face, her wide eyes in shock, but she had an air about her – a mystery, something he couldn’t explain. Something supernatural. His wife would laugh at him and tell him the winter sun had gone to his head again. Working in that graveyard had made him superstitious. But later that night after Bob had gone to bed and Eris was asleep at the foot of the bed as usual, his wife returned downstairs.
To the side of the fireplace, she felt for the lever hidden inside and flicked it down. She reached inside and took out the candle, paper and ornate glass ink bottle. At her desk she carefully removed the small piece of parchment. It had to be the right type of paper for the spell to work. She dipped the quill into the blood ink and wrote one name, Freya.
Please note: this story is just a bit of fun and writing practice for me. It hasn’t been edited so if mistakes send shivers down your spine then don’t read anymore. Find a better story to read…. one which has been edited 😉)
C.L. Peache 