THE ASHCOMBE CHILD
CHAPTER ONE
The Funeral
SKELETAL FINGERS REACHED out of the abyss, their bleached bones
clawing into the night, longing and searching for the girl. The
twisted limbs of the birch trees creaked as they strained against
the roots that held them to the earth. A summer storm howled
an unholy scream as it tore violently through the leaves. Deep
in the forest stood a small, forgotten chapel; its grey stones
were stained with rust-coloured moss. Its walls had witnessed
the rites of passion and sin that had brought forth the horror
of this night.
A faint flicker of light tried to escape past the rows of saints
trapped in the stained-glass windows; they looked down upon
the chapel with sadness. Rows of pews rested on the stone
floor; they had once carried the heavy weight of the sinners
who sat there long ago. Prayers had been whispered here in
the hope that someone would answer, but in the end, they were
empty words, left to die like the hopes of those who begged for
saving.
God had abandoned this holy place, his gaze forever
turned away from the blasphemy committed here. A sin most
grievous had been committed upon the very altar, a sin born
of passion and lust. She had loved a man who was not her
husband, and from that love would come the evil of this night.
The people of Thornby covered their mouths when they spoke
of this place; in hushed voices, they spoke of the girl and the
curse upon the valley.
A simple altar made of birch stood before the pews. There
was nothing special about it; it was stained a dark colour, with
a cross carved into its face so the parishioners could reflect on
their sins as the priest gave his sermon.
On this night, there was no priest standing before the altar,
no fiery speeches about damnation. Instead, seven men
surrounded it; obsidian cloaks flowed from their shoulders to
their boots, and not an inch of skin was visible. Their cowls
were drawn low over their eyes, as though even God himself
should not be allowed to see the guilt they carried for failing
their one task.
The seven stood in silence. Before them rested a small coffin,
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scarcely large enough for a newborn. There was no lining and
no decoration, only bare pine boards that had been nailed together
in haste. Inside the coffin lay a baby wrapped in a plain
cotton shroud. She did not cry, and not a sound came from her
newborn lungs, yet her yellow eyes radiated a deep hatred for
her tormentors; she sought them out one by one, memorising
their faces.
By the chapel door, wrapped in a horseman’s cloak, something
small slept on, forgotten for now.
The largest of the men raised his hand; it was a slow, deliberate
motion that seemed to cut through the tension of the night.
He pointed towards the girl in the coffin, and the baby’s defiant
eyes challenged him in return.
His voice crashed against the darkness…
“We are gathered here tonight, beneath God’s turned-away
eye…
To commit to holy ground Constance Ashcombe…
Born dead on the 13th day of August 1777, and born again
upon that same day, sixty-eight years after…
Seven iron nails shall bind her to this coffin, each bearing the
name of one of God’s seven archangels, one for each of us who
stood and watched…
The first, in the name of Michael, through her mouth, that she
may never speak her curse again; the rest through each arm,
each hand and each knee, that she may never rise…
Which of you will strike the first?”
His words hung in the darkness, as if afraid of the weight
they carried. To his left, a man pulled back his cowl. Pale
blonde hair fell about a face that was weathered and yet somehow
ageless; his ice-blue eyes gleamed in the candlelight.
There was no emotion behind them, and no hint of what was
to come. He looked down at the girl, and when he spoke, his
voice held no fear.
“I, Garrick Rourke, first of the seven, will strike it.”
His gloved hand creaked as the leather tightened around the
iron nail. It was as long as his hand, black and cold, and the
name MICHAEL had been cut into its head in small, careful letters.
Its weight seemed to drag his hand downwards, as though
it did not wish to be held. Without hesitation, he set the point
against the baby’s lips; there was a sickly gargle as the child
tried to breathe. As he brought the hammer down, he saw it…
