The Curse.

Chapter 9.

As I set off for the college, heading down the driveway, my mind was working overtime. Could I really believe Sir Francis story about Miss Owens and that she was really a witch, over 500 years old? My mind was flying in all directions. And what of my Dad? What if something should happen to him? Did he really need to know what was going on?

As I was asking myself all these questions, I found that I had arrived at the college but had also decided 'No'. I couldn't back out now as I had made a promise to help, I would see this through to the finish, whether it was good or bad. As it was his family, this woman had cursed, and I'll break it or die trying!

Rebecca.

The interview had gone well, she thought as she walked away from the house, but there was one item that she had never once seen while Mr Fairchild had shown round the house: The painting of Sir Francis Fairchild in his study.

And that could only mean two things:

1, That he had made himself known last night.

2, That the boy (his nephew) believed him.

Otherwise, why would he have moved the painting?

While she was being shown around the house, she had reached out with her mind to try to coax Sir Francis into betraying where the boy had hidden him and got nowhere fast. He didn't answer. The stubborn bastard! 'Well, be like that, but be aware I will find you and soon!' She had mentally sent out to him.

That had enraged her further, but again, she composed herself and continued with this so-called meeting with this absolute imbecile! Mr Samuel Fairchild.

When he had shown her into the kitchen, she had nearly collasped the vibrations from their shared laughter, and happiness hit her like a freight train, knocking the wind out of her and paling her skin, causing dark circles to appear under her eyes and gray streaks to appear in her hair.

She sat down heavily at the table n the centre, causing Mr Fairchild to ask:

"Are you alright. Miss Owens?"

'No. You buffoon! our laughter is killing me!' She thought. But said:

"Yes. Mr Fairchild. I'm fine, I just didn't sleep properly last night, and I'm afraid that I have a headache coming on."

"If you want to, we could finish this some other time?"

"No. Mr Fairchild. I will not hear of it. Do you, by any chance, have any paracetamol to go with that cup of tea?"

"Yes. We do." Samuel turned around and rummaged through what he called their medicine cabinet. He passed the packet to her and then made them a cup of tea.

They had come to an agreement over the tea that she would move into the house at the weekend and that her wage would be three hundred pounds per month. Which suited her down to the ground. The only problem was that she would have to share the bathroom with himself. At least until he had had a little annexe built on the side of the house for her, to which she had agreed.

As she made her way home, she started making plans for the demise of Samuel and Michael Fairchild. She had decided on a slow method but had trouble deciding which.

Anyway, there were still plenty of places she could go to in time to find just the right sort of disease, just for them.

Sir Francis.

Sir Francis had heard her calling and was petrified, but didn't answer as he couldn't dare betray Michael, but he knew now that they didn't have much time to do what was needed to be done. Which was to find a way to kill her.

But first, the boy needed to know just how long she had tormented his family, and he knew the answer would be upstairs in the attic.

'God! I'm such a coward! Hiding in a wardrobe like a frightened child!' He chastised himself as he looked out of the window in the painting.

He sighed deeply and looked at the which was still tightly padlocked as it had been a century before. But wait..... He counted the padlocks. There was one missing!

He looked on the floor, and there it was! It was in one piece with the clasp open as he picked it up, the clasp swung round in a full circle.

'What has happened? What had changed?' He asked himself, walking back to his desk, turning the padlock over in his hands.

He wasn't sure how long he had been sat there, turning the lock over and over in his hands, thinking and trying to understand what had happened or changed to make the lock come unlocked of it's own accord.

When he heard a familiar voice outside. He pocketed the padlock and waited patiently for Michael to take him out of the wardrobe.

Michael.

I had spent the best part of three hours at the college, explaining what I wanted to do and asking about what I needed to enrol onto either art or photography only to be told that I would have to take my GCSE's alongside those courses.

With everything else on my mind, I doubted very much so that I would be able to get anything done. Why hadn't Dad sent me to bloody school? I felt so embarrassed sitting there with the advisor telling her my past history and then having to admit that I had been taught the basics at home but had never seen the inside of a school.

I had never in my life had any reason to be angry with my Dad before now. How in the merry hell was I supposed to tell him that he had unwittingly added another year or two onto an already two year course in art and photography, without blowing my f*****g top!

I had all this going through my mind, too, as I had been buying all of the other things on the list. Oh! The other thing I had been told was that I was too late to enrol this year and that I would have to wait til next year. The latter I wasn't too bothered about as it was what I wanted anyway.

I came home loaded with shopping, but before I went upstairs, I went through into the kitchen and put the bag of bulbs and seeds on the countertop, along with Dad's bank card. I popped my head out of the back door and let Dad know I was back.

"How did it go at the college?"

"I'll tell you when I've put these things away."

"Oh. That bad?"

"You don't know the half of it."

I think Dad could tell that I was angry but was trying really hard not to show it.

"Ok. Then we will talk about it over dinner later. When you've had a chance to calm a bit."

"That's fine by me, Dad." I answered grumpily, going back into the house, carrying my shopping up to my room. I dropped my bags by the door and flopped onto my bed, throwing my arm across my eyes, thinking how the f**k am I going to calm down enough to hold a civilised conversation with Dad let alone with Uncle Francis.

Shit! Uncle Francis! I had forgotten all about him!

I jumped off my bed, searching through my pockets for the wardrobe key. I finally found it in my back pocket along with the key to the chest that I had yet to find in the attic.

I opened the door and retrieved the painting, propping it against the wall and searching amongst my shopping, for the easel that I had bought. I set it up and placed the painting on it.

"There you go, Uncle Francis." I proclaimed, sitting down the edge of my bed.

"Hello. Michael. How has your day been so far? Thank you for hiding me and also for placing me in a comfortable position."