The Abbey Farm Curse Ch 01

THE ABBEY FARM CURSE.

CHAPTER ONE.

I'm Gareth Hughes, usually known as Gary, and I'm going to tell you a story. Now, you probably won't believe it and in your place I probably wouldn't either, but then that doesn't really matter because belief or disbelief won't change what I know actually happened. It's true that lot of what I will tell you will sound highly improbable and even I find it hard now to believe that such things occurred, but they did. All I can say is that if you can't believe my account; regard this tale simply as entertainment. But if you can, then let it stand as a warning.

The story is set in the rolling Shropshire countryside near the border between England and Wales, and centres on an old stone built farmhouse known as Abbey Farm. This beautiful old building stands at the edge of a low forked prominence, a softly contoured ridge that is really not much more than a long gentle rise in the ground and which was once the site of the abbey from which the farm took its name. The farm stands alone, overlooking the small village that the abbey once owned.

The whole location is old and steeped in history and it's the sort of place that would normally fascinate me, and at first it did. But very soon the farm didn't so much fascinate as terrify me. It became a window onto ancient evil and past debauchery by revealing the wickedness that had taken place there long ago, and in the process it threatened to turn a group of normal, decent, modern people into sex obsessed individuals plagued by unwanted desires. Before it was over we had been added to a long record of sin stretching back many centuries. Despite that it seems that we were the ones with the key to finally end it, for everything came to a depraved finale with us when the abbey seized the opportunity presented by our presence to right its ancient wrongs, almost as if it had lain in wait all this time for suitable occupants and we were they.

This then is the story of the evil we found ourselves innocently caught up in because of our new home. Not that we were by any means the first residents to fall foul of its influence. All through the ages from its foundation as an abbey in the twelfth century there had been rumours and tales of wickedness centred here, right from those first austere monks to the very last tenant farmer. He, gossip told us, was evicted for siring a child upon his own daughter, and soon after that the place was put up for sale by despairing owners who found they could no longer let it. Unfortunately it had gained such a reputation that the local market also shied away from buying it, leaving it unsold and uninhabited for a number of years.

In the end it was put up for auction and then at last it was finally sold, along with its associated buildings and about fifty acres of land, to Janet Hughes and George Thompson, who bought it jointly with the intention of creating an organic market garden and small scale organic dairy farm for when they married later in the year. Abbey Farm was ideal for that purpose, because the top quality cultivated soil had lain unused and untreated for more than the requisite five years and so any crop is therefore potentially ready to be classed as 'organic'. The meadows and hedgerows had not been sprayed or treated for years either and they contained all the wildflowers anyone could wish for. The whole farm is set in a tranquil countryside of chequerboard fields, and a more organic looking place would be hard to find.

Janet was a widow in her very late forties and George a widower of a couple or so years younger and they had bought the farm with the intention of making a new life together in the rural tranquillity of the area. It was to be their dream lifestyle, something that they had separately longed for and which now, thanks to their late partners' life insurances, they believed they could build together. Perhaps if either of them had heard of the farm's long and undeniably chequered history they might have found a better use for their money -- but then if they had, then I wouldn't be writing this story, would I? Why am I writing it anyway? Well, I'm Janet's son and I was one of those at the centre of things. As a matter of fact, this might not be a bad moment to introduce the rest of the cast so to speak.

Janet had two sons, myself, twenty-seven, and Rhys, two years younger and away in the army at the time of the purchase. Both of us, you'll notice, are lumbered with names that nod heavily towards our mother's Celtic ancestry, an ancestry that she is immensely proud of. If pushed for proof of it she simply points to our flaming red hair and freckles, family traits shared by all three of us, except that Rhys has escaped the very heavy freckling that Ma and I carry, but even he has a good scattering across his nose and shoulders.

Maybe I should also mention that at the time the farm was bought I'd just recently returned to the nest because of a nasty smelling divorce and the simultaneous loss of my job as a teacher. Both were due to my involvement with a beautiful raven-haired teaching assistant, which was entirely my own fault and about which I can't really complain. My mother did though; her conservative Welsh upbringing had made her a bit old-fashioned in some ways and she gave me hell for cheating on my wife, telling me in no uncertain terms that I was lucky to be accepted back into the fold. But with no job and no home I could do little else except acknowledge her anger and accept her conditions. She didn't know the full circumstances of course, but she was right in that marriage is supposed to be for better or for worse.

George had a daughter named Angie, a good looking eighteen year old college girl with dark brown shoulder length wavy hair and a very attractive dimpled smile. She's not a tall girl and any more weight would have dumped her into the 'chubby' category, but she had managed to avoid that and her full breasts, slightly rounded stomach and strong legs all made her just 'well built'. Her father is forever waiting for her to grow out of what he calls her 'puppy fat', not realising how sexy it makes her look.

The theory was that I would project-manage the conversion and refit of both Abbey Farm's outbuildings and house before taking up the post of general manager when it was all up and running. So obviously the faster I could get it all done and working, the faster I'd be back in proper employment. I'd been told very bluntly that the job of manager had been intended to be for Rhys after he left the army because he was the more practical of the two of us and I'd already got a long term career. It had only been given to me because of my change of circumstances and if I made a mess of it, then it could very easily be passed to Rhys after all. It was a carrot backed by a very big stick, but that's the way Ma likes to work and besides that I was looking forward to the challenge of proving I deserved the opportunity. I was to be aided and abetted initially by Angie, who was taking a year out to help and to get some practical knowledge of the world before going on to take her degree in media studies. She in turn would be assisted by her 'bestest friend', Willow, who lives up to that name by being five foot eight tall and as slender as a broom handle.

I must add that Willow is also tanned and toned, with luscious blue eyes set in an elfin face and framed by fabulous honey blonde hair. If it wasn't for her age she is just the sort of girl that I would go for. The only drawback is that she's also bisexual with a very pronounced preference for girls, and so out of my reach even if I dared cast an eye in her direction. Luckily Willow's tendency didn't matter much to Angie because they'd been friends since childhood, long before their differing sexual orientation became obvious, and so it's never been an issue to either of them. They were still simply friends.

It wouldn't be practical to commute the hundred odd miles from our current home town each day and so the three of us intended to live on the premises. When these arrangements were made I was warned in no uncertain terms that staying in the old house unchaperoned with two young ladies did not amount to permission to 'be badly behaved', as Ma put it. She also pointed out that Angie would become my stepsister after she and George married and would therefore become definitely out of bounds after that. Any fun and games, she assured me, would instantly put me on the homeless list. I didn't doubt that she meant every word, but I didn't foresee that being a problem as I'd never looked at Angie in that sort of light and in any case she was far too young for my taste. I've always had a leaning towards women just a few years older than myself, not a lot older, maybe just four or five years, but certainly not younger.

Whilst Abbey farm was being made ready it was agreed that Ma would stay in our present home to look after the plants and seedlings that she was growing ready for the big transformation, and keep her old job in her local greengrocers to provide herself with an income. George had promised to provide enough money to keep us going at the farm meanwhile, over and above the money for the conversion itself.

We'd been told roughly the reasons for the tenant farmer's eviction and the auction brochure informed us that the farmhouse itself was the surviving wing of a large and stately Georgian mansion that had stood across the neck of the promontory before succumbing to a fire, but other than that we were innocent of its history. That was something I promised myself to rectify when I got the chance, although it has to be said that in hindsight we would have been better prepared to tackle the hazards and difficulties we faced if I'd delved a little first. But then hindsight is notoriously better than foresight, and anyway I think I've dropped enough hints that things were not going to be quite what they seemed.

For the sake of the story it's necessary for you to understand the layout of the place a little, but I'll try and keep the explanation brief. The farm didn't occupy the very top of the ridge, but stood close to the south side and at right angles to it, while in front of it and to the east, littered across the table of the promontory, were the ruins of the old abbey itself. Something else that I promised myself I would investigate the first chance I got. The house was accessed by an unmade lane that ran below it in the valley and that gave early warning of anyone's arrival with a moving cloud of dust. Fortunately the lane then approached by curling up behind the house and ended in the farmyard that had been built on the site of the rest of the burned out manor, and so the dust of summer and mud of winter remained mostly in the yard.

These buildings were much younger than the eighteenth century house, being typical early Victorian brick and tile structures built around a central stockyard, and much too small for modern farming needs. But, with some modifications, they could be made perfect for a smallholding cum market garden.

As for the house itself I can forget about the ground floor, because that was being totally gutted and remodelled to give it a more open plan layout in keeping with modern living, and to install the new damp course that it so clearly needed. I can ignore the top attic floor too, because this had been the original servant's quarters of the manor house and contained a rabbit warren of little rooms built under the pitched roof that all ran off a central corridor and each other, and which were now to be used for storage.

The middle floor was the important one for the moment because it was the one we would live on while the work was completed. It was served by the somewhat steep and winding staircase near one end that had actually been the servant's stairs of the old manor house and which ran through to the top floor. Now it made a more or less adequate, if slightly narrow, farmhouse staircase. Out from either side of these stairs on 'our' floor ran a corridor, the short part ending in a lovely old south facing window complete with a window seat. This was a fabulous place to go and sit, for it had stunning views down into the valley to where, if your eye followed our little lane back eastwards, the village looked as if it had been hijacked from a picture postcard. There was always something to see from there and no doubt the window seat, an eighteenth century original, had been put there for just that reason.

On one side of this short corridor was the room destined to become the master bedroom but for the moment utilised as our living room, with its future ensuite made into a temporary kitchen. Opposite were two small rooms intended to become the business office and Ma's hobby room - she was keen on both embroidery and calligraphy, which was rather strange because her normal handwriting is hideous to say the least. From the other side of the staircase a longer corridor ran past three rooms on either side to end abruptly at a wall. This had originally led into the main house, but after the fire it had simply been bricked up, with a small plain window let in to it for light.

When the old manor house was intact there had apparently only been one very large room on either side of this corridor. But both of these had been divided up to make tall and slightly narrow bedrooms and as a result the last new bedroom on either side contained a massive carved marble fireplace, while all of them had beautiful plaster cornices on their original walls. In more modern times the middle bedroom on one side had been made into a bathroom, leaving five bedrooms, enough for us to have one each and a spare.

We arrived in convoy, three cars being followed by the removals men along our narrow lane between hedges that still carried end of season may blossom, the beautifully scented little white flowers now edged with rust as they prepared to develop the haws that would give the birds their bright red breakfast in autumn. All of us were keyed up by the challenge that lay ahead, and amid nervous laughter and excited chatter we turned the key in a rather rusty lock and immediately began picking our rooms. No, let me rephrase that - the girls immediately began allocating rooms.

Neither of them wanted a 'fireplace room', allegedly because there wouldn't be enough wall space for wardrobes, so I was given the one on the side with three rooms and in his absence Rhys was given the other for the occasions when he would turn up on leave. I didn't mind, to me the enormous fireplace had a kind of grotesque beauty that complemented the ornate plasterwork above and around it. Angie grabbed the middle of the same side, next to me and opposite the bathroom, and Willow took the last one of the three, leaving the one opposite her as a guest room.

The removals men had stood patiently by while the girls chose their rooms and then, when they were absolutely sure everything was agreed, they glanced knowingly at each other and then efficiently installed everyone into their preferred option. They tried hard to keep the smiles from their faces at our childlike enthusiasm and to be fair they almost succeeded, and maybe they would have done if Angle hadn't remarked that she was like the filling in a sandwich between myself and Willow. I can almost hear the vulgar remarks they would be certain to make as they drove away.

As soon as our various items of furniture and boxes had been lugged up the stairway and placed in the correct rooms we all spent a while unpacking and putting everything where we thought we wanted it. I didn't think I'd brought anywhere near the same amount of 'things' that the girls had found essential to include with that first load, and so I was surprised not to finish first. That honour went to Angie, who called from the corridor to say she'd made coffee just as I hung up the last of my shirts.

'Just coming,' I called back, hearing my words echoed by Willow down the corridor.

We both emerged from our respective rooms at the same moment, and that was when we had the first indication of what was to come when Willow emerged with a frown on her face.

'Do you happen to know if the windows have been draught-proofed?' she asked.

'No idea,' I shrugged, 'but I shouldn't have thought so yet, why?'

Double glazing was definitely needed, but it had a very low priority compared with getting the business going, and so the ancient wooden sash windows would have to do for the near future at least. Replacement windows were on our 'perhaps next year' list.

'Well, I didn't actually feel cold, but look at my nipples, they're standing out like bloody hat pegs.'

It was the sort of blunt and earthy remark that I would have expected from Angie rather than Willow, but it was true. Willow doesn't often wear a bra, simply because she doesn't really need to, and there were two very distinct and very attractive points sticking out of her white tee-shirt front. My cock promptly began to unfurl in my trousers, pushing against my shorts and making me feel distinctly uncomfortable. I was uncomfortable in both senses of the word, from the physical discomfort of a cock trying to become a quart while still contained in a pint pot and from suddenly finding Willow sexually attractive. I'd never looked at her in that way before, even though I'd acknowledged unconsciously that she was beautiful if not downright gorgeous with her pale English rose looks and piercingly blue eyes. Maybe that was due to my knowing it would be pretty pointless, because she was so into girls that she would want me about as much as a synagogue would want a pig sty. She'd recently split with her girlfriend Bernadette, but as far as I knew it was not because she'd gone straight. Nevertheless I found myself looking at her with completely new and disturbing eyes.

'Strange,' said Angie, a puzzled frown on her face. 'I wouldn't have thought it would be cold enough to do that, no matter how draughty.'

On reflection she was probably right. It was almost summer and the weather was mild, warm enough to have had us all sweating as we helped haul boxes and cupboards up the stairs.

'What can't speak can't lie,' Willow said looking down at her chest again. 'Something's made them stand up and they feel like somebody has just licked them and then blown across them, do you know what I mean? And on a day like this I guess a draught would be favourite.'

I knew exactly what she meant, I loved doing it to a woman or having it done to my cock and it almost always had the right effect. I closed my eyes momentarily at the thought and then resolutely pushed it from my mind.

'Have we got any candles?' asked Angie, explaining with exaggerated patience when we both stared blankly at her that the flickering of the flames would guide us to the source of any draught.

I went and found a box in the 'standby kit' that I'd brought with me and for the next ten or fifteen minutes we all wandered around Willow's bedroom, two of us watching the flames intently for any sign of a stray current of air and the third (me) watching equally intently for any sign of bare flesh as they bent and reached while playing hunt the draught. I even caught myself eying Angie up with malicious intent, though her fuller figure was safely contained out of the way in a bra. God, I had a raging hard on and felt as randy as hell. I would have willingly licked and blown any of the four breasts in the room with me, and every time the girls bent over I tried hard to get a peek down their tops. Willow's pert bum in tight pale blue jeans didn't help either.

Eventually we all gave up looking for non-existent draughts or, in my case, out-of-sight nipples, and went into our makeshift kitchen for coffee. Strangely, almost as soon as we had crossed the landing I cooled off, my erection collapsed and I began to wonder what the hell had got into me. Then, as we sat down for our coffee I noticed Willow's nipples were now also behaving themselves and had subsided out of sight. I just shrugged my mental shoulders and put it down to one of those things, but I couldn't quite shake off a strange feeling of illicit pleasure from my unbidden thoughts. I know I'd been celibate since my divorce, but to get that turned on over so very little was completely unexpected.