The Churel

By M.J. McAleer

On the edge of the Cynthia Forest,

a 300-year-old evil has awoken...

A Churel, or Chudail, is a menacing female ghost or witch out of South Asian Folkore. She appears as a hideous creature, but has the ability to shape-shift into a beautiful young female. Often, her feet are backwards. A Churel is born when this female dies during childbirth.

The Churel is the story of the young Jameson Family, who purchase a Victorian fixer-upper on a sizable piece of land in New Havena charming town located in Central Pennsylvania. Their land, which resides to the edge of the Cynthia Forest, carries a story of its own. Previously, the Village of New Haven, 300-years-ago, a witch was killed during childbirth where their house now stands. Now, shes awoken, and is hell bent on revenge.

As the family settles into their new home, the stress of the move slowly diminishing, George takes on somewhat of a possession of his own. Things begin happening to the family, which everyone sees but him. All of this saunters toward a terrifying climax which you wont see coming, and sets the tone for an ending that will stay with you for a very long time.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Archway Publishing
• Release date: Jul 27, 2017
• ISBN: 9781480848177

M.J. McAleer

M.J. McAleer lives just outside of Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania with his wife, Melissa, and their three children. In his spare time, he enjoys reading, weight lifting, running, and keeping active. He has written two novels, including The Churel, which was released in 2017.

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Copyright © 2017 a novel by M. J. McAleer.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced by any means, graphic, electronic, or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, taping or by any information storage retrieval system without the written permission of the author except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

This is a work of fiction. All of the characters, names, incidents, organizations, and dialogue in this novel are either the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

Archway Publishing

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ISBN: 978-1-4808-4816-0 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-4808-4817-7 (e)

Library of Congress Control Number: 2017910738

Archway Publishing rev. date: 07/27/2017

For Melissa—my wife, critic, cheerleader, and best friend.

Contents

Epigraph

Prologue

Part I The Victorian

One

Two

Three

Four

Five

Six

Seven

Eight

Part II Sarah And Jocelyn

Nine

Ten

Eleven

Twelve

Thirteen

Fourteen

Fifteen

Sixteen

Seventeen

Part III The Churel

Eighteen

Nineteen

Twenty

Twenty-One

Twenty-Two

Twenty-Three

Twenty-Four

Twenty-Five

Epilogue

A Churel (or Chudail) …

… is a female ghost or witch out of South Asian folklore. She appears either as a hideous creature with long sagging breasts and unkempt hair, or as a beautiful young woman who can charm any man. Often, her feet are backward, and she has an unnaturally long and thick black tongue.

A churel is born when said female dies during childbirth.

EPIGRAPH

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The devil came to me and bid me serve him

-Tituba; March 1, 1692; Salem Witch Trials

PROLOGUE

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1716 – Village of New Haven

A coppery smell filled the cabin, and the old witch screamed. After nearly nine months of a sickening pregnancy, active labor had begun.

As contractions arrested her body, she found her mind wandering to the past century of her despicable life. She had lived in the village ever since she could remember, but the villagers had never accepted her. They had never appreciated what she had done for them, for the safety which she had provided. It came with a cost, sure it had, but they never understood this. It was through an act of trickery that she was even able to receive the seed responsible for this child; and the man whom had implanted it, would pay dearly for what was about to come. For she knew now that the child would not survive, his seed clearly too weak.

She pushed irately, cursing the farmer. Blood-fused tears streamed down her face, zig-zagging through the maze of wrinkles which embellished her skin. Her muscles felt of ice, her body as if it were being stabbed with red-hot knives. She had known that the birth would be painful, for she knew all—she was a witch, after all—but this was far beyond even what she could comprehend. Things had gone wrong. Still, she would not give up just yet. She would birth this bastard.

The boy crowned, as her skin tore with the ease of an autumn leaf. She pushed, and ejected most of the length of his diminutive body. Numbness cloaked her every nerve, the pain suddenly dull and pointless as though it no longer mattered.

The baby boy gasped for air, then let out a long cry. Soon after, he fell silent—the tiny movements that she had felt, now still. Static. Her son had not survived.

The Old Witch’s breathing grew labored, and she cried out forlornly. She became dizzy, knowing somehow that her own death was moments away. But it was not the act of birth that would kill her. It was the loss of her son—the only thing that she had wanted in life. The only thing she had ever loved, from the moment she had first felt his movements. Yet, she felt at peace with this, knowing that this would all soon be at its end, and she would join him in Hell.

This brief period of respite lasted just seconds, as the numbness faded, and the pain returned with the intensity of a thousand burning suns.

The Old Witch’s feet suddenly ached, starting out as a subtle tension that had brought her to an acute awareness. The delicate aches quickly exacerbated to an intensity which her old body could not even grasp—a raging inferno that blasted through her old bones. Before she even realized this had had happened, both feet jerked swiftly in opposite directions, as naturally as if she were just bending her elbow at its joint, but ending with her toes pointing backwards, her heels forward. Bones and tendons broke, cracking with a frightening ease. Her eyes rolled back into her head, and she let out a bellow so lurid that it shook the forest which surrounded her cottage.

Terrified of what she might see, she looked hesitantly down to her feet. After a cursory glance of the horror that had just ensued, she watched as her vision disintegrated into nothingness.

The old witch cried out one final time, as her body let loose a curtain of scarlet blood, which pooled atop of the bed sheets on which she lay. By the time the villagers had discovered her carcass days later, it had gone black.

PART I

THE VICTORIAN

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ONE

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September 2014

T he large Victorian at 211 Glencoe Way projected a charming façade from the exterior, but the inside needed its share of work. The former owner, an elderly man, recently deceased, had maintained the property for the last sixty or so years, though he hadn’t done much in the way of keeping the house in its deserved condition. A real run-of-the-mill shithole it was—perfect for a handyman or just your average American family looking for somewhere to plant their average American seeds.

The Jameson family came across the house by accident, nearly giving up on their search. There were many homes for sale in New Haven during that time, but none in the price range that would fit the needs of a growing family of five. So, it was by sheer chance that they ended up with the Victorian. George, a fairly handy guy, kind of liked the idea of a fixer-upper anyway.

Sarah, his wife, not so much.

I get the big bedroom! Kelsey shouted as she ran through the heavy wooden front door. The excitement in her voice was boisterous. She brushed past George, nearly sending the box of dishes he had been carrying crashing to the floor.

Kelsey! he shouted, but it fell on deaf ears. She was already off exploring her new home.

"Dad, how is that fair? There’s one of her and two of us!" Mikey cried from behind George, holding a small box of his own.

Kelsey suddenly returned from wherever she had gone to settle the argument. I called it first, Daddy! she whined.

No, you didn’t! Mikey shouted in retaliation.

Shut up, asshole!

Quiet, you two. And watch your mouth, young lady! I can’t even hear myself think!

He wanted to laugh but restrained himself. The kids scattered without further argument.

George knelt down, placing the heavy box on the floor of the large foyer, and glanced around. He smiled.

The Victorian had three workable bedrooms (the boys would need to share), three bathrooms, an unfinished dirt-floor basement, and a seemingly unsafe deck cantilevered from the second floor, which showcased a stunning view of the woods behind. Their property line ended where the trees began, walling off the enormous backyard. Past the clearing, woods stretched into the stunning Cynthia Forest, a large woodland that covered a sizeable portion of the state.

They had privacy, land, and a fresh start, but what really made the home charming and unique to George was its history. The locals referred to this part of the forest as Witches’ Hollow, named after some type of witch event that took place in the early 1700s. The hocus-pocus bullshit didn’t bother him one bit, and in fact, he thought it kind of intriguing. He hadn’t told Sarah yet. Hell, he might not tell her at all.

He contemplated all of this a moment, elated at his new purchase, then picked up the box and walked toward the kitchen. He began putting dishes away, becoming lost in his own mind.

His thoughts were pierced when Kelsey screamed from the basement. George threw the box to the floor in a rattle of glass, running the length of the long hallway toward the stairs. He descended, two at a time, and found her standing frozen, pale, looking as though she had just seen a ghost.

I heard a noise, Daddy! she cried, standing on an old chair and looking at the floor. Threads of silky webs decorated the low ceiling beams, just missing her head. The whole scene made George chuckle. He couldn’t help it.

Kelsey, I really don’t have time for this today, and you shouldn’t have been down here anyway, he replied with more amusement than anger. He lifted her down from the chair while simultaneously kissing her forehead. We have an appointment with the cable company at nine-thirty, the realtor again at noon, and then I need to pick your mother up from—

"I think it was a mouse, Daddy! I heard something running around the room. I don’t want to stay here now!" she pleaded.

She pranced her feet up and down, causing little puffs of the dirt floor to go airborne like tiny explosions. The boys had joined them, and they giggled in unison at their sister’s outburst, their hands shielding their faces.

George made a half-hearted attempt to search the room for the mouse, but if there had been one, it would’ve been long gone from the commotion. It’s fine, K. Really.

He brushed a tuft of hair out of her face and admired his four-year-old girl for just a moment. Gosh, she is beautiful. Go and see if you can find something to play with and keep yourself out of trouble while I bring the rest of the boxes in. There’s nothing here that will hurt you. I promise.

Kelsey retreated to the upstairs, with George and the boys trailing behind.

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The move was stressful but reasonably uneventful. Christmas and New Year’s came and went. George and Sarah rang in 2015 with a cheap champagne toast and a kiss at midnight. Their partying days were far behind them.

The kids, fast asleep before the ball even dropped, were oblivious to the change of year—and couldn’t care less anyway. George had carried them upstairs one by one just after ten o’clock, allowing for some much-needed alone time for him and Sarah. Moving was insanity in the truest sense of the word, and they were thankful as hell to just have time to relax.

Lots had happened with the family since they moved in. The two boys had gotten reasonably accustomed to their new school since the fall—Mikey was in first grade, and Charlie in third—which was quite shell-shocking to them. Their recent education had been spent in a small private Catholic school with classes of about fifteen children. However, that type of education was no longer affordable to the Jameson family with their new mortgage payment. While the house was a steal when compared to total square footage and so forth, it was still quite a bit more than what they had been paying to rent. Also, they felt that the kids would benefit, socially speaking, from a public education. More kids equaled more friends, right? An arguable point indeed, but it was their stance.

George, the star sales executive at a sizeable ad agency, was back to work. Most of his time was devoted to creating marketing plans for medium to large businesses. His partner, Larry, who lived in Chicago, accompanied George on some trips. But most weeks, he traveled alone. It was a lonely life, but it paid the bills. And he was good at his job. Really good at it.

George’s absence often didn’t make things easy, but as people say, Absence makes the heart grow fonder, so the home life was respectable. He always felt the travel made his marriage stronger, the whole absence thing again. Yaddah, yaddah, yaddah. Sarah occasionally voiced a complaint or two, but it had never caused any real issues between them. They simply made it work.

But despite his handsome position and respectable income, it was Sarah who held the family together. And she completed him in such a way that created envy among their peers. Seemingly perfect on the outside, they had their share of woes, but all things considered, they had a good life together. They completed each other. She was much shorter than he was, something that she initially found awkward, but it became a sort of signature for their marriage in the recent years. She loved books—that was her thing—and carried one with her wherever she went. Typically, it was of the electronic variety, although she always proclaimed how much she loved the smell of a freshly cracked paperback.

Sarah stayed at home with the youngest of the three children, Kelsey, while the boys were in school. Kelsey would be enrolling in kindergarten in a year or so, but for now, she was enjoying her home time with her mommy. The child had a bubbly personality, which George and Sarah adored, and was an all-around happy kid. The large home overwhelmed her a bit—both parents could tell this—but she was adjusting slowly.

The boys were attached at their hips and most days got along well. Of course, there were days when they beat the hell out of each other, but all things considered, they were best friends. They shared a room in the new home. Mikey was a nightmare-prone child. Strangely, he always referred to the dream, which kind of creeped George out. Mikey did not mind bunking with his older brother. In fact, he preferred it to sleeping alone. Charlie, as one would expect, felt too old and cool for such an arrangement.

Such was the life of the modern-day American preteen. They were good boys and made their parents proud.

George Jameson was living the dream. Things would change—sure they would—but at that point, life had been pretty fucking great.

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Winter went by almost unnoticeably. One cold and windy Sunday night in March—one of the last until the warm weather came—with the house still reasonably new to them, George and Sarah found themselves blessed with an unplanned romantic evening. The kids had all gone to sleep without argument—there wasn’t much for them to do in central Pennsylvania in the chilly evenings of early spring—so George and Sarah connected over a glass of Niagara wine. He was going out of town the following morning for a work trip—his first since the move—so they’d make the most out of the evening. They sat on the couch together, their bare feet stacked on the ottoman, sipping from their glasses.

After, Sarah slipped off her sexiest lingerie and seduced her husband into a night of well-deserved lovemaking. It didn’t last long—it never did—but they both supposed that was a good thing. They still had it. Laying there post coital, sweaty and hot in their unsexy flannel sheets, they chatted about how things had been going.

Four years ago we were struggling to make ends meet, and now look at us, George declared. "Still reasonably new homeowners of this certified dump, with the world as our oyster. I love it!"

I have you to thank for that, you stud, Sarah replied. Mr. top-of-the-charts ad guy, I am forever in your debt, sir. She kissed him as though she was the happiest girl in the world, but he had sensed an edginess about her since they moved to New Haven. Selfishly, he chose to ignore it. He liked this Sarah better.

I couldn’t have done it without you, babe, and you know it. We’re in this together, and we’ll make it work. He put his hands on both of her cheeks, and brought her in for a long kiss.

A light rain fell outside. It was peaceful. Tranquil, even. They slipped away in each other’s arms that drizzly late March night; grateful and exultant. These two emotions hadn’t much presence with the family the year prior, with Sarah’s mom’s sudden passing. She was still grieving from the loss, but the busyness of the months prior had taken her mind away from it. Plus, she was just plain exhausted, and hadn’t been sleeping well. She had told him this on a few occasions, but there really wasn’t much he could do about it, so he left it alone. They both nodded off, George’s arm draped across her stomach, their legs tangled.

The first occurrence at the Victorian happened just hours later, as George awoke sometime just after midnight to Kelsey standing at the foot of his bed, her face just inches from his own. She stared at her father through unblinking eyes. Startled, he jumped back against the headboard, cracking his head off of the oak, and also waking Sarah with the commotion.

"Jesus! What in hell’s name are you doing, K? he shouted at Kelsey, to which the normally overly sensitive girl—the same girl that would cry if George even looked at her sternly—barely flinched. She just stared at him. Unsatisfied with her lack of response, he added, You practically gave me a heart attack!" Still, she stood static.

George threw the covers off of him in one swift motion and placed his feet on the ground, rising into a sitting position. He glanced over his shoulder to Sarah, who was now wide awake, protectively covering her nude breasts. They both stared at Kelsey, exchanging eye contact with each other briefly, waiting for some type of reply.

It came.

There’s a pair of red eyes staring at me in my room, Daddy. Can I sleep in your bed?

TWO

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G eorge didn’t get much sleep that night, something which seemed to never fail the night before he had an early morning flight. Kelsey would share their bed, while George went to investigate, of course, finding nothing, and at this point getting a bit aggravated with the young girl’s insinuations. He had never been one to okay the kids sharing their bed, but this would be an exception. It was either a long night of no sleep, arguing with her to get back to bed—or just giving in. He chose the latter.

After snapping out of her trance, Kelsey described what she saw to him as red eyes, resembling those of a snake. He asked her where she saw a snake’s eyes, more out of amusement than anything, to which she replied, T.V.

Figures.

"Daddy, I saw them! she proclaimed. They were scary!"

Honey, I think you were dreaming. There is nothing in your room. I checked everywhere, he assured her. "I’m going to break our rules for one night only, and let you sleep in bed with us. This is only because this place is still new to us all, and something which you’re still getting used to. A first and a last, agreed?"

She nodded anxiously, though he knew that she would’ve agreed to just about anything to get what she wanted, so the point was moot. George chalked it up to his four-year old’s imagination, and let it go. Kids will be kids.

Kelsey slipped off to soft slumber within a few minutes, as George and Sarah lay in awkward positions in their already-too-small bed. Now with even less room, courtesy of the young Kelsey Jameson. He thought about carrying her into her bedroom after she had fallen asleep, but scratched the idea, in fear of her waking and the argument starting all over again.

I guess this is what we have to look forward to now, George whispered to Sarah. His voice had an irritated shade about it, which Sarah did not acknowledge. Kelsey lay between them, and he spoke over top of her, facing his wife.

Sarah yawned and said, Honey, it’s just one night. I’ll talk to her in the morning, and maybe even ‘monster proof’ her room, she replied, throwing in the air quotes for good measure. This was something she had mentioned before. She had read an article about creating a monster spray, which was essentially tap water in a spray bottle, with a generic ‘Monster Spray’ label. Lies, lies, lies, but it was a genius idea, just the same. He approved.

George tossed and turned after Sarah had fallen asleep, pondering how things would work out, suddenly not so sure about his decisions. Had he bitten off a bit more than he could chew here? With the firm mandating over 50% travel (though he was north of 75%, himself), George found himself away from home most of the time, which left Sarah to deal with the kids on her own. That night’s event was just one of many in the past three months, and even the boys had been having nightmares, though he hadn’t put much thought into them. Children always saw things as being bigger than they were, and the house was uncharacteristically large even to himself, so it should be expected that it would be a difficult transition for Kelsey—and the other two as well, for that matter.

Right?

Nonsense, he thought to himself. They’ll be fine. It’s not like I’ve never traveled and left them alone before. Besides, I have a 7:00 a.m. flight to Portland tomorrow for that big hospital deal, and need to get to sleep or I’m going to be toast for my meeting. And dammit, we need that money now.

He rested, but did not sleep—for a while, anyway.

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George was boarding his plane before the rest of his family had even rose from bed that morning. With his absence, and the boys at school, Sarah and Kelsey entertained their morning ritual of cartoons after breakfast and bus time. Sarah enjoyed the one-on-one time with her little pumpkin, and, lonely already, dreaded the day when Kelsey too would be shipped off with the troops. Sarah considered home school, but didn’t feel that she had the self-discipline for such an endeavor. It had also been her opinion that children needed that social time to grow and work in a group setting. So, she quickly terminated such a preposterous idea.

She lay on the couch, flipping through a paperback copy of Stephen King’s Misery, horror novels being her guilty pleasure. They had a tendency to haunt her dreams later, but boy did she love them. Kelsey watched television.

The house was quiet, apart from the television’s low volume, and she found herself more relaxed than she had been in months. The move had taken a toll on her emotionally, as such a thing does with most people, but very soon things would start to come together. She felt sure of this, but even still she—.

(CRASH!)

Kelsey began crying and ran to her mother, an abrupt noise, coming from the kitchen, scaring the ever-loving crap out of her. Sarah’s skin broke out in goosebumps. Without thinking, she threw her paperback to the ground, and moved toward the sound. The shelf on the north wall of the kitchen, which held her china, teacups, and other such items, had crashed to the floor in a heaping pile of broken glass. The china had been given to her by her deceased mother. After realizing this, Sarah immediately broke into a sobbing fit.

"How in the blue fuck did this happen?" she shouted through tears at no one in particular.

The intensity in Sarah’s voice made Kelsey cry even louder, from which she managed to choke out, "You said the bad word, mommy!"

Sarah scooped her in for a hug, setting aside her own grief, and apologized for the curse. She assured the child that it was not directed toward her. This seemed to sooth her, and after just a few seconds Kelsey scampered back to the living room as if nothing had happened.

Sarah returned to the mess, and her sorrows, reflecting on the cause of them. Her mother Jane fought a short, but tough battle with cancer in the year prior. Having never smoked a day in her life, she was the unfortunate recipient of lung cancer. It took its deadly grip strong and fast. Just a few months after diagnosis, she passed, though Sarah believed it was the chemo that had killed her. She sat on the floor and cried quiet tears that had been longtime coming. She missed her mom terribly, and wished so badly that she could’ve went back and utilized the time that she had with her better.

She thought about the china. Thought material in nature, it was one of the few things that she had left from her mother, and now it was gone too. Her stomach hurt, and she wanted to vomit, but she couldn’t let Kelsey continue to see her in such a despaired state.

Sarah grabbed a dust pan and broom, and began sweeping up the shards of broken glass.

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George walked into the Portland hotel on a steely-gray afternoon, dazed and sleepy from the long travel day. Flying had always fatigued him. He’d usually attempt to get the travel out of the way the day before a big meeting, but it simply wasn’t possible this time with the move. Even though they were a few months in now, boxes adorned just about every room in the new house. With little-to-no sleep the night before, and his mind weighed down by the meeting, it was already proving to be a rough day.

A sharp and sudden crack filled his head, his vision clouded in tiny stars. Howdy! his colleague Larry said. George had been standing in line in the lobby, waiting to check in, and didn’t see or hear him coming. He jumped with surprise. Larry jested, About time you showed up, cod fish! You ready to nail this thing?

Annoyed, but not interested in saying so, George responded, As ready as I’ll ever be. Truthfully, I’m looking forward to putting this behind us, and getting back to Sarah and the kids. This move is killing me, man. I don’t think I’ve ever been so tired in my life. It seems like it just won’t end.

Larry smiled at his partner’s grief. You’re such a girl! We’ll get it done quickly, my brotha, so you can get back to that pretty lady of yours. We all know she wears the pants in the family, anyway.

It was a stupid clichéd joke, and further, one that had no place in the conversation, but George forced a laugh anyway. Larry was an obnoxious son of a bitch some days, he at the end of the day, George liked him.

George checked into his room, and threw himself onto the bed the moment he entered. He left his suitcase sitting by the doorway, handle still drawn toward the ceiling, and kicked off his shoes. They hit the floor one at a time with a ‘clunk’. He stared at the ceiling for a moment, observing the curiously discolored paint of the old hotel, for no reason at all.

He opted for a nap. There was time before the meeting, and he wasn’t hungry or in the mood for anything other than to relax. While he had no recollection of falling asleep, he did so quickly and with ease.

George woke just shy of an hour later to the sound of his phone ringing. It was one of his clients in Pittsburgh, and not a call which he could ignore. He took the call, handled his business, and hung up, tossing his iPhone to the bed. He sort of hoped that it would miss the mattress and hit the floor and break, so the damned thing would leave him alone; but no such luck.

He shaved, showered, ironed his supposed non-iron dress shirt (airline-checked luggage had a knack for creating this little miracle every time), and finished his ensemble with his best black suit. He felt ready.

George and Larry had been working on this account for months, and with the stress of the move, he couldn’t be happier to put the damned thing behind him. The big hospital system wanted his firm to handle their account, and this would be a considerable paycheck if it closed. It was a slam dunk, the meeting itself more or less a formality. But he and Sarah needed the money with the move and mortgage and all, so this sat upon his shoulders with the weight of a cannon ball.

He met Larry in the lobby, and they began the 10-mile drive to the hospital’s office building, in their rented Chevrolet. While Larry talked and joked most of this drive, as was his nature, George tuned him out. Instead, he took in the New England scenery, which soothed his nerves. Maine was God’s country—he had always thought so, ever since he vacationed there as a child. Every other year, his family would make the twelve-hour drive to Old Orchard Beach, where they’d spend the week laying on the beach, building sand castles, taking in flimsy amusement park rides, eating salt water taffy, and so forth. It thrilled him when his job brought him back there, some twenty years later; the nostalgia always putting him in a pleasant mood.

—llo, earth to George! Are you there, George? Larry knocked on his head like he was knocking on a door.

George recoiled. Sorry man, I zoned. He looked around, observing that they were now pulled headfirst into a tight space in a dark parking garage. That was fast.

I’ve been chatting your ear off the whole time and you probably didn’t hear a word I said. I think you need a week off, my friend.

Yeah, that’s for sure. He paused. Let’s do this.

As the elevator skyrocketed toward the sky, George felt butterflies in his stomach, suddenly nauseous and feeling the urge to vomit. The worst thing that can happen to any traveling, breadwinning salesperson, is to pull themselves away from their family, and then not close the sale. So, he couldn’t help but feel anxious. He was a closer ("Coffee is for closers!", he recalled from an old movie), and he mentally beat the shit out of himself when things didn’t happen as they should. That was just part of the game of course, but it didn’t help any.

Get it together, muchacho! Larry said, once again verbalizing his observance of George’s state of mind. He grabbed his shoulders and shook him, pretending to slap him on both sides of his face as well, just for good measure.

I don’t know what’s wrong me, man, George confessed. "I’m never off my game like this. Ever since this move, I just haven’t felt like myself."

Larry ignored this, evidently composing himself now for what was to come.

They continued their journey to the top floor of the building, introducing themselves to the receptionist. They took a seat in the waiting room, and exchanged small talk