Sarah Laker

7 - Bedtime Stories

Neil Laker was dreaming. He had to be. If it wasn't a dream then he really was too far gone now to stand a chance of fighting back. Sarah was still in danger. Laying in his bed, the sheets tucked so tightly that even wiggling his toes was an effort, his mind drifted away to where it felt it needed to be. Anywhere from here and now.

1989 had started off as a promising year. Sarah had found a group of friends at college and no longer spent so much time at home. He'd seen the way the blonde boy from the Tyler's farm looked at her, but even at eighteen, she still showed no intention of romantic involvement. Being free of the house had done her good. She smiled a lot more then.

It had taken only a single moment of distraction on his behalf to hash things up. He'd completely lost his temper when his father had talked about Sarah and her friend Clara playing 'Bloody Mary' in the bathroom mirror. Of all the reckless things the teens could have done in that house. And in that mirror! The girls had no idea what they'd been messing with.

His father had found them badly shaken up, and instead of giving them a good old clip round the ear, he'd taken the girls downstairs for cocoa and cozy stories.

Well, that was the old man down to a tee - always one to simplify and smooth things over. He could only remember his father being angry with him a handful of times. The time he'd found the witch bottle in the fireplace was the clearest. Probably buried there by his great grandfather, the bottles were supposed to entice then trap the evil sprites and spirits sent out by witches curses. The pee and herbs to tempt it, the bottle to trap and the nails to kill. They were used a lot in the days before science came to light. When Neil found one, his father had totally lost it and smashed the antique against the hearth. The foul contents splashing out onto the stones, rough-hewn nails rolling in every direction. That night he boarded the fireplace over for good.

Neil had listened from the kitchen while his father talked with the girls in the living room. That's how he'd discovered what they'd been up to in the bathroom. It had been easy to picture the aging man, sat in his armchair, subduing the two teenagers curled up together on the sofa. His naturally deep, loud voice carried through the house. The sweet aroma of cocoa lingered in the air. It embraced Neil, as he sat there on the cold floor, his back against the kitchen cupboards.

He could still smell the cocoa.

Clara had covered her nerves by giggling. Sarah had sounded wary and tense. His father soothed their fears with stories of the family.

"Well, that was your great grandfather you see. He was crazier than a ferret in heat. Never ate before midnight, just in case the 'sprites' had put a spell on his food."

"How does that make any sense?"

"It's the midnight moonlight that kills the evil. That's what he used to tell me. Of course, your great grandmother was made of stronger stuff and she'd bashed him with a frying pan for being such an old fool."

Clara's giggle had echoed round the dining room, bouncing its way to his ears, while sweet Sarah had remarked, in her shaky voice.

"Great grandpa George must have had a reason to think so."

There had been a pause, leaving Neil to wonder if he could sense the battle that must have been going on in his father's mind. Would he allow himself to tell the girls the truth about the curse or would he just cover it over with some lame old wife's tale of sprites and witchcraft? What his father said next confirmed his deduction.

"Old George was obsessed with stories from his own grandmother. She used to make him swear to protect his children. She would make up these ceramic jars of pee with metal pins and pine tree needles - called witch bottles - then put them into the ground outside, by each corner of the house."