So here is my first account. It will tell the story of how I came to become involved in what Tom Ward calls “spook’s business.”

I chose my future job after the day that changed my life forever—the day I met my true mother.

I’ll never forget that afternoon. I was hurrying away from the market with my groceries when an old woman approached me. She wore a shawl over her head even though the day was sunny and warm, and walked with slow, shuffling steps.

“Good day to you, daughter,” she wheezed, looking up into my eyes. “Would you be willing to listen to me for a while?”

I smiled at her, wondering how best to get away without offending her. I was in a rush to get back and make the evening meal. I’d stayed at the market too long, and my father got very angry when his tea was late. Although it was more than a year since he’d last taken his belt to me, I was still scared of him. The previous week he’d trembled with rage when I simply dropped a spoon, clenching his fists so that the veins on his arms bulged in purple knots.

“You’re not too old to feel my belt, girl!” he’d roared.

I had decided that if he hit me again, I’d leave home. But to think it was easier than to do it. Where could I run to? I’d no relatives to offer me shelter. How could I pay my own way in the world?

“I’m afraid I have to get home,” I said to the woman apologetically. “Perhaps we could talk next market day?”

“I may not be here next market day, daughter,” she said, a little breathlessly. “I think it best that we speak now. This may be our only chance.”

It was then that our eyes met for the first time and I noted with a shock that her eyes were like mine—the left one blue; the right one brown. I wondered if people sometimes stared at her as they did me and made cruel remarks or whispered behind their hands. Most folk didn’t like it if you were a little different.

The woman’s face was lined and yellow, and suddenly I saw that she was not old at all. She was just very ill.

“Shall we go and sit over there in the shade?” She pointed to a bench against the church wall in the shade of an old elm tree.

Despite my fear of the consequences of getting home late, I nodded and followed her. There was something strange and compelling about this woman, I thought. I just knew that it was the right thing to do.

We sat together on the bench and turned to face each other. Our eyes locked again, and I shivered. Suddenly, in the shade of the tree, I felt cold.

“Twice I have named you ‘daughter,’” said the woman. “It was not merely a manner of address that might be used in friendliness from an older woman to a younger one. You are indeed my daughter. I am truly your mother. You are the flesh of my flesh. My blood runs through your arteries and veins.”