by Sammi Cox
'Well, Jean, I am not a paranormal investigator, you know.'
'Does that matter?'
'Well...yes, yes it does.'
'So you won't do it?'
'It's not really the sort of thing I do. I don't often take on hauntings.'
'But I was counting on you...I was depending on you to fix this so I can live in my house.'
'I don't think there is anything I can say that might make you feel a little less disappointed, I'm afraid.'
'You could come to the house and take a look. On seeing the problem you might change your mind.'
'I rather doubt it. I'm sorry.'
'Oh, don't worry,' Jean whispered, getting to her feet. 'I suppose I can always live in my car. Thanks for your time, Miss Jones.'
'Wait. Did you say you were living in your car?'
'When I can't stay on friends' sofas, I'm having to sleep in the car. Most of my money is tied up in the house in Steping. And from the sound of it, if you refuse to help me, I can't use it and it will be hell trying to sell it.'
Mac was starting to feel extraordinarily guilty. She really felt for the woman. She had been wronged by a man who was supposed to love her, she had lost her business and now she was being tormented - apparently - by a haunted house. Mac's resolve started to waiver.
'So you won't help me?'
'It's not that simple.'
'Of course it is. You're one of them psychic witches, so why can't you help me? Oh, what am I going to do?!' Jean dropped back down onto the chair, hard. Her head fell into her hands and she began to sob violently. 'Why, oh, why! I don't know where else to turn. If you can't help me, no one can!' Then the poor woman broke down completely.
It looked like Mac was going to help the woman after all.
Mac followed Jean's old blue Vauxhall in her purple VW Beetle. It was a fifteen minute drive to Steping Town, not particularly long, but Mac spent the entire journey wondering whether she was doing the right thing in agreeing to visit Jean's house. She didn't want to give the woman false hope. She was no paranormal investigator.
Yes, I have seen a few ghosts and spirits. Yes, I can sense paranormal presences, but that is only because I have a sensitive nature. I am clairsentient not clairvoyant. I have been known to be clairaudient on occasion, but this hardly qualifies me for the job, at least in my current, shaky condition, a condition in which I am next-to-useless.
Mac was aware that in the majority of cases, there was a non-paranormal explanation for what felt like a paranormal problem. And yet, it was hard to convince people of this. No one wanted to admit that they had seen a ghost or heard voices, so when they do open up and are told that in fact it was a bit of 'background noise' playing with their mind, they get angry, upset and embarrassed.
This, Andromache thought, was why River Gardens Mystical Service usually avoided this sort of paranormal case. There were often too many pitfalls - and egos - involved to complicate things.
Steping Town was the closest decent-sized town to Bramblesgrove, so those in the surrounding areas flooded here to shop in 'High Street stores' and big 'super-chain supermarkets'. The outskirts were populated with the usual new housing developments and business parks, one looking very much like any other. They drove through the older area of town until the houses started getting further apart, and the streets became lined with poplar and lime trees. Jean pulled up outside a very grand-looking home, off a quaint-looking side road. The house had obviously been neglected for a while. Two skips part filled with rubbish sat in the driveway that curled from the open iron gates at the roadside and swept in an arc to the front door. The garden either side of the drive, Mac noted, had recently been cleared.
Mac parked her car behind Jean's and then got out. The weather had turned cold again, so she grabbed her long coat from the back seat, before walking towards the blue car. She noticed that Jean remained where she was.
'Aren't you coming?' Mac asked, opening the drivers side door.
'I am most certainly not...I am not stepping one foot in that house until that...thing...has gone.'
'Jean, be reasonable, please. Why not come in with me? I won't leave you alone in there.'
'Miss Jones. I am not going in there. I have been in that house with other people and the same things have happened. I have had two work crews walk out on this renovation because of what's in there.'
'Two work crews?' Mac couldn't be sure whether Jean was telling the truth or embellishing her tale.
'Yes, two work crews...that is a dozen tough looking burly men...just dropped their tools and refused to come back.'
'Well, you neglected to mention all this in Bramblesgrove.'
'I thought it would put you off.'
'I might have taken you a little more seriously if you had said.'
'I'm sorry.'
'Is there anything else you forgot to mention?'
'No, Miss Jones, I give you my word,' Jean swore solemnly handing over a set of keys. 'You will need these to get in.'
Mac took the keys from her prospective client and then turned away, walking up the driveway. The car door banged closed behind her.
As she moved towards the house, she studied the building closely. It was built out of the local red brick, like all the other houses in the street built during the same period. It was double-fronted; each side of the large front door - painted black, with brass trimmings - had sizeable bay windows set into the walls. The windows themselves looked original; sash in style, the paint from the frames having peeled off long ago and the exposed wood was now in the process of being eaten away. Higher up the house, Mac could make out another two storeys before the house terminated in the roof, there being two tiny windows set under the eaves.
Mac concluded that given the fact that the house had been empty for years, in conjunction with its Gothic, neglected appearance, most who arrived at this house would automatically wonder whether the house was haunted; it almost felt natural to assume that it was. However, Mac didn't make assumptions, not unless she had to. It was going to take more than some chipped paint, Gothic architecture and rotten wood to convince her that there was a ghost to be found here.
Placing the key in the lock to the front door, she pushed it open, making it swing noisily inwards as she did so. Again, she noted, the creaking door was another point on the Hollywood Horror check list. Mac stepped over the threshold and closed the door behind her. She now found herself standing in a wide hallway. The floor was tiled in red and black. Many were broken in situ, whilst a few were missing altogether. The walls would have been papered at one time, but no trace of the original coverings remained. Immediately to either side of her were two doorways, leading to the two front rooms of the house. She stuck her head into both, but they were empty and in the same condition as the hallway: damaged floors and stripped walls. One object of note did catch her attention: a piano standing on broken legs, but that was it.
Returning to the hallway, she came to the staircase and another set of doors. As she pondered for a moment which to investigate first, she realised that there was an absence of presence in the house. She could not sense anything malevolent in the atmosphere. She could not sense the presence of any spirit at all.
Was Jean's story exaggerated? Fanciful? Or made up? Were two work crews ever really here?
Of course, only having explored two rooms, she could not allow herself to make any judgements yet, but there appeared to be nothing to account for Jean not entering the house.
The next room she went in appeared to be a parlour. An open fire-place sat nestled into the brickwork at the far side of the room, and here at least, a little of the original colouring remained. The wooden floor was covered in a dark patterned carpet but it was mostly threadbare now. The walls were half faux dark wood panelling, above which traces of burgundy could be seen. An ancient settle and two matching chairs were positioned close to the fire place. A thick layer of dust indicated that they had been there some ti
me.
There was nothing paranormal in nature to note in the kitchen. However, the original features were amazing. Flagstones covered the floor. An open range was set into one wall. A mangle was turned on its side. A shelf full of copper pots lined a section of the wall. But still there was nothing to suggest that there were any ghosts here. At the far end of the kitchen were a number of doorways, so Mac went to see where they led. One led outside, another led to a pantry, and the last one led into a small corridor. She entered the corridor; it was much narrower than anywhere else she had been in the house. It definitely was the domain of servants. There was an entrance to two small empty rooms, probably a work room and laundry, Mac guessed.
At the end of the corridor was a narrow, twisting staircase. There were no windows; it was dark and the air was close and stale. Curiosity drove Mac onwards.
As she ascended the stairs, Mac wondered how on earth servants would have rushed up and down them, no doubt laden with baskets of laundry or wood or coal or travelling chests. It would not have been an easy task, Mac thought, not an easy task at all. Out of nowhere, or at least, that was how it felt, another door appeared, but the stairs continued on. Mac decided to try the door, but found it locked, so she chose instead to follow the stairs up, rather than retracing her steps back down.
After she had climbed the same amount again, another door appeared, but the stairs did not end. They continued up to what Mac guessed would have been the servants quarters at the very top of the house, in the roof. Reaching for the handle of this door, she was not overly optimistic that this one would open seeing as though the other one did not, but just as her hand was about to touch the handle, she saw a shape move over the knob in the dark shadows of the staircase and instinctively withdrew her hand, recoiling.
Mac gasped, in panic. Fear rose up in her, which she did her best to get under control.
A spider, that was all, just a small spider, Mac breathed to herself, trying to catch her breath. Ghosts, spirits, demons...none of these bothered Mac, not in the least, well...not compared to that which truly terrified her: spiders.
The spider fell off the handle and Mac took the opportunity to try it quickly and to her surprise the door opened and she scrambled through.
She found herself in another wide corridor, but this one was well lit with large sash windows; a stark contrast to the dark servants staircase. A pane in the window closest to Mac was broken. Mac proceeded to check the rooms on this floor; they were all bedrooms, full of original features but nothing more.
She followed the corridor round, checking each room systematically as she went, but still could not find anything that could explain why on earth Jean Pottersworth had been so determined to engage Mac and her abilities in this house. There is nothing here! she silently exclaimed. What is going on?
When the rooms on that level had been checked she took herself back to the main staircase, with the only option to go back down to the floors below. The top floor could only be accessed by the backstairs, hidden from the sight of the gentlefolk who had lived here. Mac pondered whether she should go back to explore the uppermost rooms, or to descend one floor and have a peak down there.
And yet... Mac did wonder if there was any point.
She knew that she didn't need to actually encounter a presence to know whether there was one in the house.
And Mac felt nothing. She sensed nothing. She could hear nothing. She could smell nothing more than damp and dirt.
And it perplexed her.
Chapter Five: A Peculiar Twist
