It was a dark and stormy night ... well, actually, yes, dark, with a heavy overcast, but only light wind and no rain. Okay, it was in the city, so there were street lights, too. But it seems to me there are certain conventions involved in supernatural stories. Another one is the old, neglected house, dark, with an overgrown garden. Sorry, the house looked pretty good too. But perhaps I ought to start further back.

I came to the city as a naive student, a nominal ‘Christian’, with limited social skills. Got drunk at the end of my first term, made some friends, and at the end of my first year had to move out into digs with one of them. I think the occult was a ‘thing’ in those days. So our group of friends were in the habit of going to the Friday night ‘horror’ films, shown in a small city-centre cinema, the Classic. To be derogatory, it would probably be described as a ‘fleapit’, though I’m pretty sure no fleas were involved. But those films, and group seances with an Ouija board, were a staple diet. Honestly, I don’t think I actually believed in any of the stuff, but it certainly affected my subconscious. I wasn’t fond of the dark, at least when alone, and had some moments when I was sure there was something lurking.

Move on to leaving college. I got involved with a church – yes, a girl was involved at the beginning – and being the way I am, ended up (not immediately) as a lay preacher, a ‘Reader’ in Church of England terms. That took longer than usual in view of my employment, initially in a bank, a couple of other brief spells in other occupations, then training as a nurse, but I got there in the end, and was in a church with ‘charismatic’ leanings. Faith certainly helped me to sleep, and gave me a moral compass that I had lacked before. However, my background was such that I was – still am – less rigid in my interpretations of Scripture, merely emphasising the need for a personal relationship with God, and an honest approach to moral and ethical questions.

I wanted to move closer to the church, and bought a derelict cottage less than a quarter of a mile away, then spent every spare moment and every spare penny putting it to rights. It was unusual, as most of the surrounding properties were large, with large gardens. Of course, in keeping with a general decline in the demographics of the area, many of those houses were in multiple occupation, care-homes, or in commercial use.

I have an ambivalent relationship with the Church in general. It seems to me that many expectations of members are about a social construct, rather than anything genuinely scriptural or ‘God required’. Men wearing women’s clothes and vice versa, yes, that’s there in the Bible, but ‘women shouldn’t wear trousers’? I notice no-one challenges Scottish men about wearing a kilt. But I wore a robe in church, which is hardly conventional European wear. I don’t understand some other aspects of church life – infant baptism, okay if the parents are practising Christians, but for random unbelievers who just want their baby ‘done’? I don’t think so.

But whatever my reservations, I could not deny certain personal experiences I had, of a spiritual nature. Additionally, as a minister, if only a layman, I encountered situations which can not be explained by the secular training I had as a Registered Nurse. The profession was, at the time, dominated by a sceptic, almost atheistic, philosophy. Lip service was paid to religious affiliation, but that really only applied to non-Christian faiths. Let’s not go there, or I’ll be tempted into a rant.

Part of the ‘charismatic’ aspect of the church is a belief in divine healing and, more controversially, demonic possession. I was personally involved in a couple of ‘exorcisms’ in church – we called it ‘deliverance ministry’, rather than ‘exorcism’ – which had the effect of permitting the individuals to live a life free of, in one case asthma, and in another ‘paranoid schizophrenia’. At least, that was her diagnosis. The latter had spent a lot of time in hospital being drugged to treat her ‘psychosis’. Five years later I saw her again at a church event. She was positively glowing and free of psychiatric treatment. I do not believe that all illnesses, dis-eases, mental health issues are demonic in nature. In fact, that can be a very dangerous way to act. But in some cases, a spiritual treatment can ‘cure’, where a secular approach does not.

Enough background. Just to say that my ambivalence toward the institutional Church in time led me to step back. So I worked, lived in my renovated house (which will never be completely finished), and from time to time attended a service.

As I mentioned, my little cottage, actually originally a lodge, is one of the smallest dwellings in the area. Of the others, inevitably one gets to know the permanent residents and learns the patterns of their lives. The transients, mainly students here for a year, perhaps, well, one recognises them for students. They are really only noticed when they have loud parties or come home from night clubs at three in the morning talking at the top of their voices.

But there is one house which is an exception. Let’s call it number xx. It doesn’t appear to be in multiple occupation. There is no sign of student activity. There are no cars parked in the grounds, though they could be out of sight, of course. The grounds are tidy, though I have never seen anyone working on them. The structure of the house looks well maintained, but I have never seen anyone carrying out maintenance. And I never saw any lights in the windows, or anyone coming or going. It was and is an enigma.

It’s amazing what can be found out by the curious – read ‘nosy’. The area I live in was originally the estate to a large house. The large house still stands – offices now – but the estate was developed in the early nineteenth century. Large, upmarket, stone houses, occupied by well-off families, out of the smoke and pollution of the industrial centre of the city – town, at the time. Each access point, four of them, was gated, with a small lodge, of which mine was one. Originally, every property was leasehold, paying ground-rent to the property owner, but in the fifties changes in legislation resulted in the leases being purchased. The point being that it is possible to trace the history of each plot of land.

The house which had piqued my interest was an early build, 1833. As far as I could tell, ownership had not changed since, though the lease had been purchased at the first opportunity. Other than that, well, apparently there were a couple of protected trees. According to the Electoral Register, there was only one occupant in the very large house. There had always been one occupant, which was strange – one might expect a staff, at least until the Great War, even for just one person. The name was the same, too, except for being followed by numbers – the current named occupant was ‘the sixth’.

It was only much later that I – and a friend whom I haven’t mentioned to this point – connected some dots that weren’t obvious at first.

Oh, yes – the friend. Remember, I was, nominally at least, a Christian. A Christian minister, moreover. But in the course of my research into the history of ‘the house’, I noticed another person wanting the same materials, and we got to talking.

“Richard Bradshaw,” I introduced myself. “It seems we have an interest in common.”

“Indeed we have,” she smiled. “Jessica Sinclair.”

That was the start of a strange association which, over time, became a strange friendship. Why strange? Because during our third meeting, several weeks after the first, I was informed, “I am a witch.”

Now, some of my co-religionists, especially the ones I was closest to, would have immediately refused any further contact, though they would probably have prayed intensely for the salvation of her soul. At the other extreme, some would have accepted her quite happily, but dismissed any relevance in her beliefs. This is, of course, an over-simplification, but it sums up the range of responses. As for myself, I raised an eyebrow. As you’ll have gathered, I was not without experience in the realm of the supernatural. On the other hand, I refused to condemn one who exemplified the Golden Rule.

Jessica – how can I describe her? – brown hair and eyes, average height, slightly more weight than is fashionable these days, nicely balanced figure. She wore ... wears ... loose clothes in earth colours, often tie-dyed, which conceal her shape without reducing her attractiveness. I suppose I must agree that her appearance was an excellent reason for befriending her rather than dismissing her, but I would hope I’d have treated her the same were she like the proverbial ‘back end of a bus’.

So my response to her declaration was a raised eyebrow and a cocked head to invite her to continue. “You do not reject me?”

“Why should I?”

“You are a Christian, are you not? Witchcraft seems to usually be dismissed as evil.”

“There is in scripture, Paul’s letter to Romans, a verse which says, ‘those who have not the Law, yet do what the Law requires, are a Law to themselves.’ He was writing to those who would condemn without consideration. ‘Judgement is mine, sayeth the Lord’. Or, again, ‘by their fruit ye shall know them’. I acknowledge the spiritual realm, and unlike some of my co-religionists, can respect those of different beliefs.”

That was the beginning. We got together, usually at least once a week. We shared what we’d pulled out of the records and what we thought about it, though Jessica was holding something back, I was sure. We also discussed faith and beliefs, having more in common that one might expect. She declined to visit the church, at the time anyway, but she took me to visit a little known stone circle out on the moors above Ladybower Reservoir. If you didn’t know it was there, you’d walk right past, as the stones are laid flat, not upright.

We walked through woodland, and she had me hug a tree or two, and we dabbled our feet in the streams from the moorland. Removing boots from tired feet and feeling the cold water wash over them is amazing.

It was a couple of months before she revealed what she had been holding back.

“I ... I am worried about that house,” she said. “I think you are, too, in a way. You’re not just curious, are you?”

I thought about it. “I suppose I’m... uncomfortable... about it.” I said. “There’s nothing I can pin down, but nothing I know about it makes sense.”

She nodded. “I dreamed about it,” she said, grimacing. “You’ve got some experience with the occult, haven’t you?”

I nodded. “You know that.”

“A child, standing terrified in a pentagram, candles at the points, someone chanting.”

“That stuff is outside my experience.”

“Me too. But you and I have some protection if we have to deal with such.”

“We do?”

“Rick, you’re a virgin, aren’t you?”

“Yeah. I never felt comfortable going all the way unless with someone I wanted to marry.”

“And you’re in good standing with the Church?”

“Insofar as I don’t entirely agree with some of the rules, though I obey them.”

She nodded again. “I’m a virgin, too, and I have some knowledge of protective spells. But we’ll be trying to protect an innocent life.”

I took a deep breath. I’d never before been in a position where my life, or perhaps more importantly, my soul or spirit, was at risk.

“Is there anything I need?”

She didn’t respond immediately, but after a moment’s thought, “Do you have a cross you wear?”

“Sure. A couple, in fact. A wood one, about three inches tall on a leather thong, and a metal crucifix, much smaller, on a braided wool thong.”

“Could you obtain holy water?”

I shrugged. “I could. Actually, though I’m not officially ordained, I believe I could bless some water myself. If I may baptise – which I am entitled to do – I think such water should be holy enough. I also carry a small pot of blessed oil.”

“That, and a memory for certain psalms would be an adequate weapon, I think.”

“And yourself?”

“Herbs, amulets, water from a holy well. Holy, that is, to the Spiorad na háite.” She grinned then, “If you prefer, Πνεύμα του τόπου, Spiritus loci, or Geist des Ortes.”

I was okay with the Latin and, after some thought, with the Greek. I nodded. “Wells were often considered holy long before the introduction of Christianity, or Islam for that matter.”

“Just so.”

Several times we walked together past the house. I am sure that my secular colleagues would dismiss what I sensed as mere suggestion, but each time I experienced a greater feeling of unease, increasing as we approached, fading as we passed the property. The worry occupied an increasing proportion of my devotions. I wonder if you, the reader, has ever experienced that ‘little voice’: call it conscience if you like, but the feeling which is often too easy to ignore, that one should do, or say, something. That little voice said to me, ‘pray with your friend’. My (internal, unspoken) response, without thinking, was ‘but she’s a witch’. Then, I ‘heard’, ‘nonetheless, she is a spiritual person, like yourself’.”

The vicar – a new man, of ‘liberal’ bent – actually smirked when I asked him to bless a bottle of water. “Whatever for?”

I hesitated, as I could easily detect his scepticism. “It seems I may be facing a challenge,” I said, “of occult nature.”

“What on earth are you up to?”

“We fight not against flesh and blood, but against the powers, the authorities, the principalities of this present darkness. There is, it seems, an unholy presence in one of the big houses near mine.”

“I’d think that would be a job for the Diocesan Exorcist,” he snorted. “I wouldn’t think a bottle of water is going to do you much good at all.”

I shrugged. I wasn’t at all sure that any words he spoke would sanctify anything. “Never mind, then, Mister Carruthers. As you say, it’s more the responsibility of the Diocesan Exorcist.” Actually, I believe in the Priesthood of all believers, and that I could bless the water quite as well as our worldly minister. Hubris? Maybe. You judge.

Jessica invited me to a meeting with a group of her friends. Several of them were, shall I say, hostile to the presence of a man, who, horror of horrors, was also a Christian! However, at some point I had been gifted with ‘tongues’. It never occurred to me that the gift was anything but a help in prayer, so it was a shock when I opened my mouth and, instead of English a gabble emerged which I didn’t understand – and pitched above my usual tones. The women did, or some of them anyway. Jessica told me afterwards that I’d spoken in Gaelic, the gist of which was ’shame on you, women, you who complain about being judged by Christians. You are judging one who has never offended you, one who is pure of heart and wields a spiritual power greater than all of you together. He will enter the gates of Hell with your sister, while your only responsibility is to hold them in prayer.’ As I say, I had no idea of what I was saying. However, most of the women went very pale.

Jessica smiled. “See, sisters? And I think this is but one part of the gift he wields.”

One of the pale women looked at me, “Cé hé tusa?” I must have looked blank – she’d asked in Irish Gaelic, ‘Who are you?’, and, of course, I had no idea of what she’d said. I opened my mouth to say so, but the sound that emerged was higher pitched than mine.

“Tá mé ar cheann a mhaíonn tú go bhfuil a fhios agat, a adhradh.” (I am one you claim to know, to worship.)

“Do phardún, a Mhuire.” (Your pardon, Lady.) She looked me straight in the eyes. “I beg your pardon, sir. Pray forgive my arrogance.”

I smiled, “Certainly, lady. I really do understand. I hope that we can work together to solve a problem which may be beyond either of us separately.”

She took a deep breath and nodded, then looked around at the others, who were each nodding in response.

Over the next few weeks we met together and shared meditations, comparing beliefs and experiences. I was unsure what I, what we, were waiting for. Like many men, I wanted to forge ahead and confront ‘the problem’, but that little voice said ‘To everything there is a season, son. Wait for the moment’.

The moment came, evening of the last day of October – of course. ‘It is time, Richard.’ Soon after that, Jessica appeared at the back door. We looked at each other. “I have heard the call,” I told her. She just nodded solemnly.

“I, also. I am ready, Richard.”

It was dark, as I began to say, despite the street-lighting. Late, too, the last trick-or-treat children gone home, or so we thought.

“Excuse me...” We turned to see a distressed woman, wild-haired. “Oh!” she sighed, “It’s you Richard.” I recognised her, despite the poor light, like myself an occasional attender at church. “Have you seen my Susie? She should have been home an hour ago.”

Jessica and I looked at each other. “We’ve not seen any children at all.” I spoke for the two of us. “Susie is a little blonde cutie...” I told Jessica, and turned back to Laura, “Susie’s what? Seven?”

“Eight, just turned. But she’s usually so good. I shouldn’t have let her out on her own, but it’s so quiet round here normally.”

“We’ll keep our eyes open, Laura. You might like to call the Police, though, just in case.”

Laura’s eyes, already wide, grew even more. “You don’t think...?”

I shrugged. “When it’s a child, can we be too careful?”

She nodded, turned, and almost ran home.

When we reached the big house, I reached out to the gate, but it was as if my arm was lead, and pushing through thick mud. Jessica began to chant quietly, and I found I could move more easily. The gate opened, reluctantly, with a groan, and we slipped inside. That’s not quite accurate. It was difficult to move at all. I felt Jessica take my hand; she was still chanting, sotto voce. But we had to move towards the house. Didn’t want to. Almost overcome by a desire to turn and run, we pushed ahead.

Dark. Little light percolating through the trees from the street lights. The front door of the house. But no handle. Not even a keyhole. We continued, walking as if through heavy mud. “We should have called the Police,” Jessica whispered, pressing close.

“No justification for a warrant,” I reluctantly dismissed the idea. “Besides, this isn’t something in their remit.”

Back of the house it was even darker, if possible. I took a deep breath and reached for the handle of the back door, which turned easily. The door swung back and I stepped inside, Jessica right behind me. Dark. Zero light. I rummaged in my pocket for my phone.

“Hang on,” Jessica whispered. “Haven’t tried this before, but...” More words under her breath, and a glow from her left finger-tips. “Gosh, wow. It works!” More muttering, and the glow intensified; enough, in that situation, to get an idea of the layout of the room.