by Allan Watson
I lived in a flat roofed maisonette that had a top landing for access to the roof where my mum hung her washing in the summer. In the winter no-one bothered us up there and we would light our candle and commune with the dead. We had been told that if you pushed the glass to give false messages, the spirits would wait until you were all alone and come and get you. Mostly it was garbled rubbish, but Neil once claimed his dead uncle was speaking to us and he verified names and dates the spirit gave us. It seemed a harmless game with just enough of a sense of danger to draw us back time and time again. I wanted to go a bit further though. I was going to use the pigeon skull to up the stakes.
When Gran Crone died, the council wanted to re-let her house, but because Grandfather Crone's name was on the rent book there was a hold up. Although he was in a mental hospital, he was there on what was loosely termed a ‘voluntary basis’ which meant legally he could discharge himself and return to live in the house. Mum had the keys to the house and every couple of weeks I would be sent along to check it hadn't been broken into.
It wasn’t a task I relished. Usually I would open the front door, do the hundred metre dash up the hallway where I would have a quick peep into the living room before beating a hasty retreat back through the front door. Although I had been at Gran Crone’s funeral and knew her physical remains were only so much ashes and chips of ground bone, I harboured the notion that the sheet wrapped body would still be in her bedroom, just waiting for a nosey boy to poke his head around the door. The thought of having my friends with me diminished the fear however. My plan was a simple one. I wanted to hold a séance in Gran Crone's bedroom and attempt to get in touch with her spirit. The skull seemed to be a talisman of occult power which I would wield to call up the dead. I saw myself as a juvenile Shaman controlling unspeakable forces.
It was a Friday evening when mum handed me the keys and told me to go check on Gran Crone's house. I had been expecting this and had already briefed my friends. The very idea of holding a séance in the home of the notorious Grandfather Crone had left them almost speechless with excitement. When I met them I was surprised and shocked to see June McCaully with them. June had never been included in our séances. We had never even mentioned them to her in case she laughed and thought us childish for believing in such nonsense.
From the sheepish expressions on my friends’ faces it was obvious that they had already told June what we had planned. To my relief there was no sneering look on June's face. Instead her eyes glowed with barely contained excitement. I think this was the first time we had ever managed to impress her. My shame at not being able to complete the Death Walk was forgotten as I relished the moment.
Gran Crone's house was in a block of flats and it was relatively easy for us all to get in unnoticed. Her neighbours on the landing were used to seeing me go in occasionally, but the sight of five scruffy kids trooping in through the door with a Ouija board would have set off alarm bells. Mr Kinsey, a retired policeman across the landing would have taken an especially dim view of our escapade. I just hoped that he wasn't picking that particular moment to take a peek through the spy-hole on his door.
Once safely in the house there was much stifled giggling and whispering. I led them straight into Gran Crone’s bedroom. Un-aired for the past few months the room smelled musty like a crypt, but it added to the already supercharged atmosphere. There was no draped corpse on the bed, but the carpet still bore the dark stain of my spilled Coca Cola. I pointed it out to the others and lied that it was blood that had spouted from Gran Crone's mouth as she had taken her last dying breath. I saw genuine fear on their faces and the sharp intake of their breath made me feel almost delirious with pleasure. I directed Neil to close the curtains while Alex set the Ouija board on the bed. Billy lit the candle and fixed it in a saucer on the dressing table. The scene was almost set.
I remember looking at June and seeing her eyes sparkle with undisguised zeal for what was to come. She was twisting long strands of her hair into corkscrews and kept crossing one foot over the other as if she was dying to pee. I felt like a ringmaster must feel just as the drums roll and the circus gets underway. I waited until everyone was sitting on the bed before playing my ace. Reaching into my pocket I took out a crumpled wad of tissue paper and slowly unwrapped the pigeon's ivory white skull. There were more intakes of breath as I proudly held it up for inspection. If Gran Crone really was there that night I expect even she must have been impressed by my necromantic showmanship. I let them pass the skull around while I stood beaming like a new father showing off his first born child. Inwardly I was also terrified that one of them might drop the fragile thing to the floor and shatter it. Eventually, to my relief, it was returned safely into my keeping.
If we had started the séance at that precise moment the spirits would have jammed the psychic switchboard so great was the feeling of expectation. Even at ten years old I intuitively knew that unshakeable belief counted for everything when dealing with Ouija boards. It created an ethereal net with which the roaming spirits could be snared. I had to go that little bit further though. There was one thing left to do that I thought would forever elevate me to unimaginable heights in my peer group's opinion. One small final gesture.
Holding the skull by the delicate needle-sharp beak, I turned and waved it through the candle flame. It was a bad mistake. The porous bone must have absorbed some of the bleach and within seconds, black, acrid smoke began filling the room. At first it probably looked like a brilliant piece of theatrical illusion, but the smoke made our eyes sting and our throats burn. In the end Alex had to pull the curtain aside to open the window, and all my painstaking groundwork drifted out into the evening sky along with the reeking fumes. To make matters worse, I had dropped the skull when it began breathing fire and then trod on it in the confusion. All that remained of my prize was a handful of soot covered bone splinters. I could have wept with misery.
When we were finally ready to start again, something had been irretrievably lost. No-one was taking it as seriously as before. I caught Billy and Neil smirking at each other and felt a dull, burning anger. Inevitably with the mood having being broken, nothing happened when we put our fingers on the planchette. No matter how many times I asked the age old question, 'Is there anyone there?' the planchette sat unmoving upon the Ouija board like the dead piece of plastic it was. Billy and Neil began making jokey remarks while Alex, being my best friend remained diplomatically silent out of loyalty. June looked almost as annoyed as I was and she demanded to know why it wasn't working. Neil sniggered and said that perhaps the spirits would only come if we took off all our clothes like those witchcraft covens that sometimes got written about in the News of the World. That set Billy off into gales of laughter and even Alex put his hand over his mouth to stifle a giggle. June however looked completely serious when she said, 'Will it work if I just pull my pants down?'
The laughter evaporated like a drop of spit in the middle of a desert. We all stared at June still not knowing if she was merely joking or not. Apparently she wasn't as she took our silence for assent and in one fluid movement peeled her jeans and knickers to her skinny ankles. So it was by the light of a flickering candle, while sitting in my dead Gran's bedroom, that I got my first ever look at what a girl kept hidden between her legs. I remember being transfixed by the sight of that bare slit like a doomed rabbit caught in the headlights of a speeding truck. If I had stared at it any longer I would have been squashed flat by the sheer weight of the moment. There was a dull, heavy feeling in my belly that felt like I had swallowed a large stone and my breathing was as jagged as broken glass.
June didn't even seem to be embarrassed about displaying her pre-pubescent charms to us. All she said was, 'Well, get on with it then.' Our fingers were shaking as we reluctantly turned from that cloven mystery and tried to once more call Gran Crone forth from whatever shadowy realm she now inhabited. I don't think we cared a hoot for ghosts or spirits at that point. For a the briefest of seconds the planchette trem
bled and was about to move when a loud crashing noise came from the hallway. It was the sound of the front door being forced open. My heart, already beating triple time, felt as though it was going to explode and I could do nothing but sit there on the bed as footsteps pounded down the hall towards the room. In those few brief seconds before the door swung open I numbly wondered if we had inadvertently called up the Devil himself. Skulls and sex rituals. The twin keys to the gates of Hell.
In retrospect it might have been less frightening if it had been Satan come to welcome his new acolytes to the inner circle. Instead, I shall always be haunted by the cadaverous vision of Grandfather Crone standing grinning in the doorway, his small head turning back and forth like an inquisitive insect as he took in the scenario before him. His false teeth clicked loosely in his mouth and strange high pitched whistling sounds emerged from his throat. Mum told me later that he had simply walked out the front doors of the mental hospital he was residing in and somehow found his way home.
His beady little eyes ran over us until they tracked in on June McCaully, where they stopped and moved gleefully down to the vee of June’s skinny thighs. Grandfather Crone began to lick his lips and his palsy ridden hands fumbled at the front of his trousers. He was like a huge praying mantis in the doorway. I remember June was crying, attempting frantically to cover herself from the drooling monster in the doorway. My own sexually charged fire had been doused by the deluge of utter terror which crashed upon me in black waves. There was no way of knowing how any of it was going to end until Mr Kinsey, the retired cop from across the landing suddenly appeared behind Grandfather Crone and hit him over the head with a chair leg. That might have been when we all started screaming.
CHAPTER 12
Teri and I arrived back from the hospital on Tuesday morning to find St Andrew’s under siege from an army of ghosts. Clad in grey and white they had swept in from the sea during the night and now marched in a grim phalanx through the streets. It was nothing more than a sea mist caused by the heat of the day before. I thought the sun would burn it away later on, but I was to discover ghosts are more resilient than I ever imagined.
Alice was sitting on the window seat with her nose against the glass. ‘Daddy, are we inside a cloud?’ she asked.
‘Yes, something like that,’ I answered back. I had no intention of explaining the laws of meteorology to a five year old who still retained notions of magic. It would have been like telling her there was no Santa Claus. Over Alice’s shoulder, I looked down into the white shrouded street. The mist was very impressive. You could barely see more than ten feet in any direction. Streamer like tendrils reached up to the window as if to berate us for talking in their presence - for not showing enough respect to the spectral army of occupation.
I stroked Alice’s silky black hair, twisting it through my fingers. I wondered if the old man had done the same thing while he sat with her in the Garden of Remembrance. The thought made me angry and my fingers tightened unintentionally. I only became aware of what I was doing when she yelped and pulled away, leaving a few strands of hair behind. Alice screwed her face into a scowl and her own small hand clutched at the spot on her head where I had pulled out her hair. ‘Mummy! Daddy’s being mean to me. He pulled my hair!’
Teri was slumped in an armchair like a dishevelled mannequin and she barely looked up. The revitalised woman who had greeted me at the door on Saturday morning was long gone. Teri looked awful. The night spent in the hospital waiting room had almost been too much for her. In contrast to her pale complexion, the dark pouches beneath her eyes looked painted on. Her hair was greasy and stuck up in jagged tufts. Her whole body posture spoke of despair and abandonment. She could easily have been mistaken for a homeless, malnourished woman in her fifties, rather than a woman in her mid thirties. Her lifeless eyes flicked briefly at Alice and her lips moved inaudibly before her gaze returned to the sanctuary of her lap.
Receiving no sympathetic response to her complaint, Alice pouted her lips and sulked. I picked her up, avoiding her swinging feet as she tried to kick me. ‘Right, young lady, it’s time you went for a nap.’
Alice struggled wildly. ‘But it’s morning, Daddy. It’s time to get up, not go to bed.’
I spun Alice upside down making her giggle. ‘Yes, but you’ve been awake most of the night. Mummy and I are going for a sleep too. Isn’t that right mummy?’
Teri made a low unintelligible grunt that could have been anything.
‘See,’ I said. ‘Mummy says get to bed straight away.’
‘No she didn’t. She just made a funny noise. Is mummy sick like Denise?’
I swung Alice the right way up and began carrying her up the stairs. ‘Mummy’s just tired,’ I told her. ‘And don’t you go worrying about your sister. She’s going to be fine. All those nice doctors are going to make her better, you wait and see.’
Alice smiled and I wished that I was as easily reassured as she was over Denise’s strange sickness. When we had left the hospital, she was cocooned inside an oxygen tent with a forest of tubes and drips keeping her tethered to the mortal world. Alice had been astonished by the oxygen tent and I had told her that Denise was playing at camping. In a sense what I had told Alice was a half truth. As the ambulance raced to Ninewells hospital in Dundee, Denise had slipped into a coma and I had an image of her soul striking off alone into the wild, dark yonder, left to survive in the hinterlands on her own until the doctors could find a way to bring her home again. The thought made me shiver and I prayed the sun was shining in whatever strange land Denise now explored.
I put Alice into the bed I had slept in the night before and bent down to kiss her. She was already yawning and her eyes drooping half shut. I tucked her hands beneath the covers and straightened up, feeling my own tired joints creak in protest. On impulse I bent again and put my mouth close to Alice’s pink shell of an ear. I knew the police had warned us against asking Alice any questions concerning her abduction, but I couldn’t help myself. The temptation was too great.
‘Alice,’ I whispered. ‘Do you remember the old man who took you for a walk to the park yesterday?’
Alice opened her eyes and I saw a darkness in their depths that made me feel afraid. For a few seconds it was like someone else was looking back at me, someone old and cunning. Mocking me.
‘Did he tell you his name Alice? Did he?’
Alice blinked and once more it was merely the brown eyes of a five year old girl who contemplated me sleepily.
‘What old man, Daddy?’
I kissed her brow and ruffled her hair. It was obvious she remembered very little about the previous afternoon. I left her to sleep. On the way out the room I found myself again turning the handle of the locked cupboard where the bad smell emanated from. Not surprisingly it remained locked. Standing beside it I caught the faintest odour of shit. Then it was gone and I slipped from the room and went downstairs.
I made two cups of coffee in the kitchen and carried them through to the living room. Teri however was no longer sitting in the armchair. While I was making coffee she must have quietly gone up to her room. I shrugged and stretched out on the couch. To be honest I was actually relieved that Teri had gone to bed. The coffee tasted good and its heat warmed the aching chill in my belly. I checked my watch and saw it was half past eight. Outside in the street I could hear sounds of activity as St Andrew’s came to life. Its townsfolk no doubt shaking their heads at the thick fog which greeted them on their front doorsteps.
Sipping the coffee, I let my memories of the night before swirl down the drain of my subconscious. I dimly remembered sitting in the back of the ambulance as it raced across the Tay Bridge that connected Tayport with Dundee. On the stretcher, Denise had bled freely from the bizarre marks on her face and body as the paramedic clamped an oxygen mask over her nose and mouth. At one point she convulsed violently as if some crisis point in her malady had been reached, and in hindsight I realised that this must have been the moment Denise slipped into the co
ma.
Teri spent the entire journey weeping and clutching at Alice as if afraid that a second daughter might fly beyond her reach. We arrived at Ninewells hospital with a screech of brakes and a wailing siren. Within seconds Denise was taken away from us while we were shepherded into a waiting room with comfortable chairs to begin the start of our latest vigil. This time the razor wire felt like an old friend. A harried looking young Indian doctor sat with us for a while asking questions about Denise’s medical background. Did she have any previous history of allergies or convulsions? Had she ever been diagnosed as epileptic? Did she suffer from headaches? Eczema? Dermatitis? The list seemed endless. Although he was probably into the twentieth hour of his shift, the doctor was patient and gentle with us as we ground out the answers.
Eventually he left us in the hands of an auxiliary nurse who led us into a more private room and advised us to catch some sleep in the soft chairs provided. Alice dozed in Teri’s arms, but neither Teri or I so much as blinked as we waited for news of Denise’s condition. It was five o’clock in the morning before another doctor came to let us know if our daughter was alive or dead. This doctor was as tired looking as the last and brought coffee with him in little plastic cups. He was completely candid with us. Denise’s condition had them baffled. Blood tests would have to be carried out to pinpoint exactly was wrong with her. They had never seen anything like her illness before. He said that a specialist in such matters would be arriving first thing in the morning to examine Denise.
The only good news he brought, was that although Denise was still in a coma, her vital signs had stabilised. The bleeding from the lesion’s on her body however continued unabated. He explained that a consent form would have to be signed by both of us in case a blood transfusion became necessary. He saw the new concern on our faces and reassured us the risk of Denise catching AIDS or hepatitis was now extremely remote due to the advanced screening methods employed by blood donor agencies. We had no other choice but to sign his forms. Refusing would have condemned Denise to die through blood loss.
