Alice and the Brain Guzzler
This story was first published in the STORYCUTS series by RHCB Digital 2011
Taken from the collection The Spooks Stories Witches.
Copyright © Joseph Delaney 2011
Joseph Delaney has asserted his right under the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act, 1988 to be identified as the author of this work
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Cover
Copyright
Alice and the Brain Guzzler
1. My Name is Alice Deane
2. A Witch You’ll Always Be
3. Nanna Nuckle’s Head
4. Brain Plugs in Apple Juice
5. Seven Big Handfuls
Backmatter
We hope you enjoyed this story. If you want to read more stories by Joseph Delaney, try the original parent collection, The Spooks Stories Witches 9781407050638.
MY NAME IS Alice Deane and I was born into the Pendle witch clans. Didn’t want to be a witch, did I? But sometimes you’ve no choice and things just happen.
I remember the night my aunt, Bony Lizzie, came for me. Like to think I was upset, but I don’t remember crying. My mam and dad had been cold and dead in the damp earth for three days and I still hadn’t managed to shed a single tear – though it wasn’t for want of trying. Tried to remember the good times, I really did. And there were a few, despite the fact that they fought like cat and dog and clouted me even harder than they hit each other. I mean, you should be upset, shouldn’t you? It’s your own mam and dad and they’ve just died so you should be able to squeeze out one tear at least.
I was staying with my other aunt, Agnes Sowerbutts. She’d taken me in and wanted to bring me up proper and give me a good start in life. Fat chance of that!
The day had been a scorcher and there was a bad summer storm that night – forks of devil-lightning sizzling across the sky and crashes of thunder shaking the walls of the cottage and rattling the pots and pans. But that was nowt compared to what Lizzie did. There was a hammering at the door fit to wake the rotting dead, and when Agnes drew back the bolt, Bony Lizzie strode into the room, her black hair matted with rain, water streaming from her cape to cascade onto the stone flags. Agnes was scared but she stood her ground, placing herself between me and Lizzie.
‘Leave the girl alone!’ she said calmly, trying to be brave. ‘Her home is with me now. She’ll be well looked after, don’t you worry.’
Lizzie’s first response was a sneer. They say there’s a family resemblance and that I’m the spitting image of her. But I could never have twisted my face the way she did that night. It was enough to turn the milk sour or send the cat shrieking up the chimney as if Old Nick himself was reaching for its tail.
‘The girl belongs to me, Sowerbutts,’ Lizzie said, her voice cold and quiet, filled with malice. ‘We share the same dark blood. I can teach her what she has to know. I’m the one she needs.’
‘Alice needn’t be a witch like you!’ Agnes retorted. ‘Her mam and dad weren’t witches, so why should she follow your dark path? Leave her be. Leave the girl with me and get about your business.’
‘She’s the blood of a witch inside her and that’s enough!’ Lizzie hissed angrily. ‘You’re just an outsider and not fit to raise the girl.’
It wasn’t true. Agnes was a Deane all right, but she’d married a good man from Whalley, an ironmonger. When he died, she’d returned to Roughlee, where the Deane witch clan made its home.
‘I’m her aunt and I’ll be a mother to her now,’ Agnes retorted. She still spoke bravely but her face was pale, and now I could see her plump chin wobbling, her hands fluttering and trembling with fear.
Next thing, Lizzie stamped her left foot. It was as easy as that. In the twinkling of an eye, the fire died in the grate, the candles flickered and went out, and the whole room became instantly dark, cold and terrifying. I heard Agnes scream with fear; I was screaming myself and desperate to get out. I would have run through the door, jumped through a window or even scrabbled my way up the chimney – I’d have done anything, just to escape.
I did get out, but with Lizzie at my side. She just seized me by the wrist and dragged me off into the night. It was no use trying to resist. She was too strong and she held me tight, her nails digging into my skin. I belonged to her now and there was no way she was ever going to let me go. And that night she began my training as a witch. It was the start of all my troubles.
That first night in her cottage was the worst. Lizzie started off by showing me the crone she used as her servant. The old woman was standing outside the front door, leaning back against the window ledge, and didn’t look too friendly.
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