‘Many. You heard tell of Mrs Dore from St Monan’s? She burned as a witch, as did Maggie Moran over fifty years ago. But there are others and younger than yourself.’ He let go of Peter’s hand, pleased to see the boy had reached for him before his fingers retreated under the covers. He rose and shut the door, then settled back into his chair. ‘Have you ever heard tell of the lass Christian Shaw, from the Bargarran Estate to the west of here?’

Peter frowned then shook his head.

‘Och, well, let me tell you what happened to that poor wee lassie.’ The reverend gave a crooked smile, sighed deeply, and took his time. ‘Christian was only eleven years old when a group of witches cast a terrible spell upon her. Like you, her body twisted and contorted. She shook like a trapped coney, flapped about on her bed like a fish brought to land and there was naught anyone could do to stop it.’

‘W… why not?’ asked Peter, bunching the blankets in his fists.

‘At first, because no one knew what caused such fits, and she became worse. The doctors could do nothing. She lost the power of speech, she couldn’t hear what was being said and even went blind briefly.’

Peter gasped. Patrick drew himself up. ‘After a while, she began to vomit up the feathers of birds, hair, coal cinders the size of chestnuts, and even bones.’

‘Bones?’ squeaked Peter.

‘Aye.’ Patrick paused, allowing the lad to absorb what he said. ‘She couldn’t bear to have clothes upon her body, for beneath them, she was being pricked and bitten by unseen imps who’d been called upon by the devil to torment her. Her body was marked by scratches and bites, terrible marks that sent her into agonies.’

‘But… why?’

‘Why indeed. ’Twas a spell, a charm cast upon her by ungrateful servants — witches by any other name — who together summoned up a demon, or even a few demons, to possess her and torment her until she was deceased.’

Peter swallowed. ‘She died?’

‘Nae, lad, brave Christian Shaw lived and does even now as we speak. But those who tormented her are dead. They were burned to death, as all those in league with Satan should be. As all witches must be to protect others from their evil.’

‘You think what’s happening to me is because of witches?’ Peter’s knees were drawn up, he clasped his hands together as if in prayer.

‘I’ve nae doubt.’

Peter gulped. ‘But, sir, there be no witches in the Weem.’

‘Nae?’ Patrick Cowper stared earnestly at Peter Morton. ‘There have been in the past. Why not now? Think carefully, Peter. Did you not tell me yourself that Beatrix Laing cursed you when you wouldn’t give her any nails?’

‘Aye, but —’