📖First Chapter: One Foot in the Ether: Whispers of the Pendle Witches by Kayleigh Kavanagh #FirstChapter

Title: One Foot in the Ether: Whispers of the Pendle Witches

Author: Kayleigh Kavanagh

Publisher: Independent

Publication Date: September 29, 2005

Pages: 400

Genre: Historical Paranormal Fantasy

Format: Kindle

Demdike and Chattox, famed witches of Pendle Forest, might be dead, but they’re not gone. Bound to their bloodline, they’ve spent the past two and a half centuries watching over their descendants, waiting for when they’ll be needed. 

When 14 year old Yana comes into her psychic abilities and inherits the ‘eyes of the Chattox family’, she can see the long-dead witches, as well as an encroaching evil. But even with this foreknowledge, she’s trapped by marriage interviews and being unable to see her own future, and more importantly, whoever her future husband will be. 

Demdike’s healing gifts are alive and working in Claire, a mid-30s midwife well renowned for her skills and holding her tongue. The Secrets of Pendle are safe with her and her midwives. However, when surgeons looking to make standardisation the norm encroach on her territory, she soon realises how, even a respected woman is vulnerable in a patriarchal system. 

The two descendants must come together to protect the ones they love from an ancient evil, all whilst balancing their lives and the cruelties of being a woman in a man’s world. Set in late 1800s NW England, this book has all the elements of the area: strong, hardy people, atmospheric horror and days as unpredictable as the weather.  

One Foot in the Ether: Whispers of the Pendle Witches is available at Amazon.

First Chapter:

She hadn’t known what to expect from death. No one did. Still, none of her previous thoughts could have come close. This, and she was definitely having an atypical experience. For most souls, death was a release from the mortal coil. Complete separation from the life they’d once lived. She hadn’t been so lucky.

Some parts of the system had been the same. Her soul had been scooped up. Taken somewhere. She vaguely recalled going over her life and having events explained. Gaining an understanding of the why; to the point she was no longer angry about things which had once made her furious. However, the entire encounter was now a blur. 

The powers that be had done this on purpose, but the awareness lingered instinctively. Either way, she knew she’d died, gone to the other place, and then thrown back. Before they could send her along to wherever she should have gone next. There’d been an issue. A snag. One which stopped her from moving along to the happy, bliss-filled world of the nether realm. Said snag bore one name: Chattox. Even in death, her frenemy was still causing her bloody issues.

“Hey, Demdike, how’s non-life treating you?”

Demdike didn’t answer, suddenly filled with the desire to bludgeon the other woman. However, she knew from experience it would be pointless. They weren’t physical beings any longer—even if they were still tied to the physical world. Unless she was willing to destroy the other’s soul, the spirit could reform. A tempting idea some days; this non-life was enough to make even the most patient saint a little homicidal. However, even in her worse moments, she wasn’t willing to land the final blow.

“The same way it’s been treating me for the past two and a half hundred years,” she eventually returned. Still not looking at the other, less she finally indulged her violent impulses.

“They’re having a bake sale soon, at the local church. Gods, I miss cake.”

Demdike sighed. The sad part was she couldn’t even get rid of the other. Without Chattox, she would be entirely alone in this exhausting existence.

“Their cake isn’t anything like the one we used to have. They have more access to sugar, for starters.”

Demdike wasn’t even going to comment on the reasons why. King James I’s and his ilk had done more than destroy her life. Stretching his greedy grip across the world. From the supposed lands of gold to the continent of darkness, James I’s influence had impacted many. She couldn’t help but feel for the poor souls stolen from these other countries. Their plights differed from the witch trials, but suffering was a universal language.

She would’ve liked to aid them, but she couldn’t even help herself. There was no one to hear her, anyway. Well, other than Chattox, but as she was in the exact same situation. It was no different than voicing her words to the void. Except the void didn’t reply. 

“Aye, I know, but it doesn’t mean I don’t miss the little pleasures. Few and far between, though they were.”

Demdike hummed. This was a conversation they’d had many times. When their new existence was mostly just the two of them, they often spoke of their past. Their past life, to be specific. A lot of it seemed funny now. Maybe it was their time in the decompression zone post life—or maybe it was simply the effect of being so removed from what they’d once been—but matters of life and death were suddenly much less dramatic and far funnier when you were already dead. Fighting over coin, linens, and food were memories they could now look back on and find humour in. 

Though she also missed cake, death was a lot simpler. Mostly. There was no fighting for survival when you simply just were. No hunger to push you forward or pain to keep you still. As much as she’d once lived with one foot in the ether, having both on death’s side was much simpler. If you ignored the limited company. Or how she feared her own mind and sense of self were slowly eroding over time. As though, without a physical body, she was slowly dispersing into nothingness; it was just taking a little longer.

Another reason she didn’t simply do away with her companion, even if Chattox drove her to distraction, at least she helped her still feel like a person. Still feel like Demdike. Elizabeth Southerns died many years ago, but Demdike had survived even past death. For better or worse.

“I think I miss a good warmed ale more than our cake, though,” Demdike piped up.

“I preferred wine myself. Still, I wonder if we’d tasted these newer versions. Which would be better?”

“Well, the newer cakes have sugar instead of just honey, but the newer ale’s don’t have any honey at all, so I doubt those would be much of a contest.”

Chattox made a clicking sound with her mouth. Neither agreeing nor disagreeing.

They might no longer have physical bodies, but they still retained their human shapes. Acted in human ways. Maybe they were a bit blurrier around the edges and looked younger than when they’d passed, but mostly, however they saw themselves, was how they projected their being. A fact she would have loved to have known whilst still alive. Could have saved her a whole heap of trouble when dealing with the spirit realm, if she’d understood these little nuances. But hey-ho, live and learn. Or not live and still learn, as the case may be. 

Demdike wasn’t sure if this new way of being classed as life. It wasn’t life in the physical sense, and she definitely died to get here, but she’d also argue there was more freedom in this new state. She didn’t feel dead. Maybe she wasn’t part of the living any longer, but she wouldn’t call herself unalive either.

It was more like departing from the body meant her soul was now on another plane (one she’d regularly interacted with whilst alive), and now things were simply different. Like she’d relocated to a foreign country. It’d taken her a moment to assimilate, but now this strange ‘culture’ was a part of her new normal.

“I think little Yana saw me the other day.”

It took Demdike a moment to process the words. Yana, the nickname for little Mary-Anne. One of Chattox’s descendants, and part of the reason they were stuck like this.

“Really?” she probed, finding herself genuinely interested in something for the first time in—a good few years.

“Aye. She shook her head immediately after, so I’m not sure she believed her eyes, but for a moment…”

Their families were still a touchy subject. They were the entire reason the pair were still here. Still bound to the physical world rather than free to move onto the next part of the journey and eventually return to the reincarnation cycle. It was Chattox’s fault, something she’d reminded the woman of many times. Demdike didn’t really blame her (other than on her bad days). She knew Chattox hadn’t known this would be the consequence of her spell. Neither of them had. The spell demanded their lives; they hadn’t realised it would cost them in death, too.

Yet another reason why she also thought this was technically just another part of existence and she couldn’t be classed as dead. If the spell demanded their afterlife as part of the payment, it meant the magic still recognised them as living. Half living. 

Chattox’s spell might have technically been on the greyer side of their craft, but if Demdike had known the full cost, she’d have labelled it as forbidden and stayed well away. The ritual had demanded their lives to save their family gifts. To keep the bloodline going and the ancient magics present in the physical realms. The gifts of foresight and healing were still strong in Pendle because of their sacrifice.

However, their actions hadn’t merely cost them their lives. Yes, their deaths fuelled the spell’s start, but it was the act of protecting future generations which accidentally bound them to their family members, even after death.

From this side of the veil, they couldn’t break the spell. Though even if it was offered to them, neither woman was sure they’d accept. A peaceful existence in the embrace of what came after was a welcoming thought, and one she often wished for, but Demdike could also sense they were still needed here. How fate, the gods, or some other powerful being needed them to help. They were now spirit guides to their families, and eventually they would be called upon to do exactly that—guide. 

The problem (or one problem, as there were a few), was how the cunning folk were all but gone in England, or the United Kingdom, as it was now known. The witch trials had eradicated most of their people, if not by killing them directly, then from keeping others from the path. Within a few generations, this meant a great many of the skills they’d once held were all but gone from the world. Even if her own descendants technically had her gifts in their blood, they had no idea how to use them.

Demdike and Chattox had both tried reaching out to their kin at various points throughout their time stuck here. However, the results were the same. The people were scared, felt insane, or believed they needed an exorcism. When little Jennet’s grandson had called the priest to banish her, Demdike hadn’t known whether to laugh or cry. The irony of being on this side of the equation hadn’t been lost on her. As much as the holy water and chants had done nothing to her (as a blood bond was far stronger than a weak-willed man with a fragile cross), she’d still stepped away. 

When she’d tried to reach out again to other descendants later, she’d become a bit of a folklore in her family. They didn’t know her, but they called her ‘the demon’. None seemed to be aware of their connection to her, or how she was the famed Demdike of the now somewhat infamous Pendle Witches. Though someone had figured out she ‘haunted’ their family and it was because of some ‘curse’ on their line. Not entirely accurate, but not exactly inaccurate either.

Chattox had fared little better. The church had demonised having gifts like the sight and psychic abilities in general, making her own descendants attempt to reject their innate talents. Praying away their blessings and hoping to be ‘cleansed’ of the evil within them. It broke both their hearts to see what would once have been celebrated and be embraced become a source of sheer terror to their families. 

Especially the young girls. Neither woman could explain it, but the gifts were just stronger in females. Maybe it was their connection to the divine. Having the ability bringing life from one state of being into their realm must have created a deeper connection, but whatever the cause, they’d both had to watch on in horror as their daughters were tortured and tormented by both the living and the dead.

Of course, as spirit guides, they could stop malevolent beings from getting too close, but they weren’t around every descendant at all times. As much as both of their families still largely resided in the Pendle borough, many had gone further afield. Up to Scotland. Over to Yorkshire. Down to London. There was even a branch of her own family now in France. Neither could be everywhere at all times, and those with the strongest connections took priority. It meant some people slipped through the cracks. Sometimes, by the time the women even discovered they needed to intervene, the damage was already done.

Demdike would never forget Beth. She was her great-great-great granddaughter and only a small child, but the gift had been strong in her. She wasn’t quite the wild child like Alizon had been, but there was definitely an echo. The young girl had somehow befriended a fae—which an alive Demdike would have been terrified over—but now in the spirit realm she’d merely been glad there was a benevolent (if mischievous) being watching over the child. Thus, she’d left to visit another family member, believing the child safe and happy.

The time scale was blurry when there wasn’t anything to match it against. Days and years became one when she was an outsider looking in. When she’d become fully conscious of the world again, it was due to a dramatic tug on her core. Someone crying out for help.

Demdike followed the pull, flashed across the ether to where in the physical world the call came from. This was the first time since death one of her descendants had reached for her. Chattox had claimed it happened to her once, but Demdike hadn’t fully believed the other until she’d experienced it firsthand: like the anchor of a ship was dragging her along. As much as she could resist, she hadn’t wanted to. Followed the pull, only to be met with a heartbreaking sight: Beth, now a young woman, laid in rags on a cot.

Hair shaved off in patches and body so thin the bones were poking through. The room was filled with crosses and iron. To keep any spirits and fae away. Though neither was strong enough to keep out a bloodbound spirit guide. She doubted anyone outside the cunning folk and perhaps the odd shamans and traveller folk would even know where to begin with keeping her at bay. However, these people, who had bound and harmed a little girl (as twelve was definitely still a child) would never know how to keep Demdike away.

To this day, she wasn’t sure if she helped or hindered the situation. She’d tried to soothe the young girl. Tried to give her the love of spirit and assurance that whatever was happening, she was stronger than it. However, when the people returned and tried to harm the girl again, she may have lost her temper a little bit. Interacting with the physical realm as a spirit was difficult. Difficult, but not impossible. Demdike had fought with vengeful spirits many times, and when she’d passed over, she’d quickly understood how they’d managed. 

Like when fighting as a cunning woman, she needed to condense her spiritual power into a smaller, compact shape and hit. Many creatures chose something sharp to cut and liked to leave scratches. Demdike, however, had always preferred using her fists. She might not have the strength to throw people across rooms, but a few good blows to the stomach had the people soon leaving.

It weakened her. As a wise woman, she soon recognised her actions had not been wise. The abusers—which she later learned were part of a sanatorium connected to the church—then took their anger out on the girl again. This time she could only watch, as helpless as the child. Beth later succumbed to her injuries. As someone on the other side of life, death seemed like a mercy. But still, it broke her heart to know one of her daughters had been treated as such. 

Beth wasn’t the only victim of a corrupt society, and she wouldn’t be the last. Whether it was the church enforcing their standards of what was acceptable, men taking liberties (as they always had) or society making judgements, little had changed since her death. Except now, her family didn’t even have the protection of being part of the cunning folk and using their gifts. 

Demdike had maybe become a little hopeless over the years; constantly watching the suffering without being able to intervene. It wasn’t all doom and gloom of course. There were genuine moments of happiness and levity between the hard stuff, but as beautiful as a new birth was, or as happy as a wedding could be, she couldn’t really enjoy those either. 

Maybe if her family embraced her, and she could feel useful by doing her job—teaching and guiding the younger generations in her craft—she might have been happier. However, she’d spent over two hundred years from the outside looking in. Being half alive. Half a person.

These were thoughts she didn’t share with Chattox. They’d both commiserated their fates and screamed at the unfairness of it all, but still, they both knew—in the way the cunning folk often just knew things—their time was coming. Knew their reason for still being here would reveal itself soon. Then maybe they could feel more like themselves again. 

About the Author:

Kayleigh Kavanagh is a disabled writer from the North-West of England. Growing up in the area, she learnt a lot about the Pendle Witches and launched her debut novel around their life story. Her main writing genres are fantasy and romance, but she loves stories in all formats and genres. Kayleigh hopes to one day be able to share the many ideas dancing around in her head with the world.

Her latest book is the historical fantasy, One Foot in the Ether: Whispers of the Pendle Witches. 

You can visit her on Facebook, Instagram, Goodreads and Tiktok. 

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