Ideal for readers of The Last Witch in Scotland, The Witches of Vardo, Bram Stoker or for those with an interest in witchcraft lore, Scott O’ Neill’s novel tells the tale of a curse in 19th century Edinburgh. In this extract, we find out the origins of the curse.

The Witch, the Seed and the Scalpel
By Scott O’ Neill
Published by McNidder and Grace

‘What did she do?’ The question issued from the back of my throat in a dry, nervous rasp. 

‘She did what all witches do when their monstrous intentions are thwarted. She prayed. But she prayed not to our one true Lord God in Heaven, for her heart did not flow with the love and truth of Christian blood. No, her heart was a coal-black stone of hate and spite. So at midnight on All Hallows’ Eve she climbed to the top of Calton Hill, sat herself upon the grass and lit a small fire made from the bones of her most recent victim. With eyes closed and the flames warming her cruel, hideous face, she pushed her hands into the dirt and prayed for her master to appear before her. When at last she stopped her incantations, she opened her eyes and with immense joy she saw the Devil himself standing before her. He smiled, ran a hand through the hair of his adoring disciple and asked why he had been summoned. The Witch McKay begged him to grant her the power to enter the dreams of all Edinburgh’s children so that she might fill their sleep with nightmares of such terror and horror that they would die in their beds of fright.’ 

As Father said this, a little pile of rust-coloured leaves became entangled in a spiralling breeze and were scattered across the hollow. 

‘And did he?’ I swallowed, anxiously. ‘Did the Devil grant her the power?’ 

‘Satan said not a word. He simply kissed the witch on the cheek and was gone. The very next night, from the Castle to the Tolbooth and all the way to the Palace of Holyrood, the air was filled with a terrible noise. A noise so awful it chilled every last soul in the city to their very core. Can you imagine it? The screams of all those infants echoing through the alleys and streets. Can you imagine the sheer terror of all those sleeping children? Their nightmares filled with visions of the Witch McKay, her eyes as red as fire, her teeth sharper than broken glass? Can you imagine them in their beds so terrified that their poor hearts simply burst with fear? That is no way for any Christian child to die. But die they did. In their scores. Eventually the screams faded and were replaced by the sobs of countless mothers and fathers mourning their dear departed children. It was undoubtedly, the bleakest night in all of Edinburgh’s long and cruel history.’ 

My gullible young mind had no difficulty at all imagining in stark, unhurried detail all the macabre horrors Father described. I retreated from the twisted, malformed tree with a shiver. 

‘But the witch was caught, wasn’t she? You said she was executed. That means she was caught, yes?’ 

‘She was discovered hiding in a cave near the summit of Arthur’s Seat by a group of boys not much older than you are now. Margaret McKay tried to scare the boys away, but they were a cocksure and insolent bunch and not easily frightened. 

They had no inkling as to who this strange hermit woman was, living in a grubby hole full of animal bones and foul-smelling potions. It was not until they came upon a horde of strange little boxes piled one atop the other at the back of the cave that they began to understand her true nature. The oldest boy opened one of the boxes and found inside a tiny doll, its eyes closed and little arms folded across its chest, looking for all the world like a tiny body at rest inside a coffin. It was then they realised they were in the presence of a witch and the miniature coffins were in fact the tools of her devilish trade; the very tools used to cast spells on those innocent children who went to bed with their heads full of pleasant dreams until the witch’s curse turned them into the terrible nightmares from which they would never awake. But thanks to those foolhardy lads, Margaret McKay was apprehended before she was able to lay waste to another soul.’ 

Father reached down to gather a handful of the rich, mouldering earth. He brought the little heap close to his keen eyes, studying it minutely. 

‘It was here that the witch was hanged, her body burned to ash and the ashes buried where no one should ever find them.’ 

‘Good. I’m glad. It was no more than she deserved,’ I said, heartily relieved to hear the story had a happy ending. 

‘And yet, the old legend persists…’ he mused in a worrying undertone as he allowed the soil to crumble through his fingers. 

‘Legend? What legend?’ Father brushed the last granules of dirt from his hands. 

‘Perhaps I have said too much already. Your mother will have my hide if she learns I’ve been scaring you with these things.’ 

I tugged insistently at my father’s cuff as he turned to stride for home. ‘I’m not scared. And I promise I won’t tell mother.’ 

‘Very well,’ he sighed, then patting a slab of bulging root, he encouraged me to sit with him beneath the Witch Tree. 

‘Have you ever heard the legend concerning the last chestnut.’ 

‘No. Never. Tell me.’ 

‘Up there. Do you see it?’ said Father, pointing to the top of the Witch Tree. 

Try as I might, I could see nothing out of the ordinary amongst the curling brown fronds and the healthy crop of chestnuts hanging from its branches. I shrugged in defeat. 

‘There, just beneath that jay. See it? The big one?’ 

And there it was. The highest in the tree. A monster of a chestnut. As large as the bird perched immediately above. 

‘I see it!’ 

‘You’ll find it growing there every year without fail on that very same branch. Despite being substantially larger than all the others, it is always the last to fall. There is a legend that says this strange chestnut is imbued with a dark magic.’ 

‘What kind of dark magic?’   

‘Witchcraft,’ said Father. ‘It is said that should any person catch the falling chestnut before it touches the ground, the ghost of Margaret McKay will appear and bestow the catcher with abnormal strength and longevity and grant their every wish and desire.’ 

‘Like money and gold. Or endless cake?’ I said, excitedly. 

‘All the cake you could ever eat!’ he laughed. I stared unblinkingly at the tempting bauble, willing it to fall. 

‘Have you ever tried to catch it?’ 

Father lowered his rueful gaze and idly swept a boot back and forth, brushing aside the carpet of leaves and twigs. 

‘Oh, I have spent many a day sitting under this tree waiting for it to drop,’ he said. ‘As have many others over the centuries. Alas, no one has ever managed to catch it.’ 

‘Why don’t we climb up and pick it from the branch?’ 

My suggestion, which I thought a perfectly reasonable one, was received with a sour twist of Father’s lips. 

‘Ah! Firstly, the legend insists the chestnut must fall of its own accord and not be plucked by an unworthy hand. Secondly, it is far too dangerous. To fall from that height is to fall to your death. I fancy the chestnut is like Excalibur waiting to deliver itself into the hands of one possessed of true virtue. And as your mother will readily attest, I am no King Arthur,’ he smiled. ‘Speaking of your mother, it is time we returned home before we risk a fate far graver than any witch’s curse.’ 

The Witch, the Seed and the Scalpel by Scott O’ Neill is published by McNidder and Grace, priced £9.99.