Psychic Surveys Companion Novels

by Shani Struthers

  Should I lie – say no?

  “Corinna?”

  It was bad to lie wasn’t it?

  “CORINNA!”

  “Yes,” I blurted out. I couldn’t lie. I shouldn’t.

  If only I had.

  I was confined to my room for the rest of the day – a beautiful day, full of sunshine, we’d been promised a trip to the beach but that was cancelled, as I had to learn that ‘violence will not be tolerated in this house.’ But violence was tolerated at Blakemort, all the time. Because no one believed it was being administered.

  The wall – for want of a better description – forced me all the way onto the bed, lowering itself, coming closer, closer still. I held my hands out to fend it off but they were forced back too. It was bearing down, the feeling similar to being buried alive, or at least how I imagine that to be, as suffocating. Panic flooded through me; fear too, wiping away any boldness that might have surfaced, obliterating it entirely. I couldn’t breathe. I was going to be crushed. Surely I was going to be crushed!

  I won’t tear the paper up. I won’t.

  Still the weight was on me.

  Promise. I promise.

  Was this it? Was I going to die? Upstairs, in the attic, that’s what I’d been told was going to happen, but so soon?

  Please listen to me!

  I was going to die. This thing was going to kill me. My chest seemed to cave as air was forced from my lungs. Everything was going black, my sight failing too.

  “Ethan, Corinna, come down and see who’s here!”

  I heard the words but they were so far away.

  “Come on, we have a visitor!”

  We had a visitor? Well, I had a visitor too – an unwelcome one.

  “Ethan! There you are. What have you done to your hair? It’s all over the place. Get it combed. Where’s your sister? Fine then, if you won’t tell me, I’ll go and find her myself. She must be in her bedroom. Oh, this is so exciting!”

  Just before consciousness deserted me, Mum burst into the room.

  She took one look at me and hurried over.

  “Darling, this is no time for a nap. Come on, Aunt Julia’s here!”

  * * *

  “Ethan! Corinna! Come and give me the biggest hug.”

  Aunt Julia was different to Mum, even though they were sisters. Mum, whilst not petite was of medium stature, but Julia was tall. Amazonian I think you’d call it, with blonde hair that was straight rather than red and wavy. She had a sprinkling of freckles on her nose but no more than that and this wonderful warmth to her that I always responded to. Running, I leapt into her arms. If she noticed that I smelt peculiar, that I was damp, she didn’t say, didn’t even so much as wrinkle her nose, she just hugged me close, and to this day, I’m grateful that she did. That she realised how much I needed hugging in that moment. What had happened, the battle that had been fought upstairs, it was over – for now. But I hadn’t won it. Oh, no. That piece of paper – I wouldn’t tear it up, I’d keep it. I had to keep it.

  “Oh, sweetheart, how lovely to see you.”

  With one hand Aunt Julia was stroking my hair. Ethan hovered close by, clearly waiting his turn but I didn’t care, he could wait. He’d left me in the attic, had shut me in and I hated him for it – despised him.

  Finally, I was released and Ethan saw his chance, stepped forward, and elbowed me aside. I might be making this up in retrospect but I think my lip curled and I snarled at him, actually snarled. But like I say, I could be making that up. I’m sure if Mum had caught me snarling, she’d have smacked my legs. Talking of which, Mum finally noticed there was an odour.

  “Darling, have you… you know…?”

  Shame returned with a vengeance.

  “I… I…” But how could I explain? How could I possibly explain?

  Mum’s face fell. “Oh, dear,” she said, reaching for my hand, but I didn’t reach back. I didn’t want anyone to hold my hand again.

  “Come on,” she prompted, wrinkling her nose.

  Aunt Julia looked over Ethan’s shoulder. “What’s the matter, Hel?”

  Mum gestured towards me. “She needs a bit of a wash.”

  “A wash?” Aunt Julia turned towards me too, my face burning as she did. There was laughter again, coming from the direction of the music room – no one to hear it but me. She let Ethan go. “I’ll take her upstairs if you like, run a bath and whilst I’m at it, she can show me around.” Focusing on me, she added, “Would you like that, sweetie? You and me together exploring this big old house?”

  As much as I relished time alone with Aunt Julia, no I didn’t want to go exploring. I wanted to run, as fast and as far away as I possibly could.

  Pushing Ethan gently away from her, ignoring his disgruntled look, she held out her hand. I was happy to take hers at least. As I did, the laughter died down.

  Aunt Julia was Mum’s younger sister and the reason they looked so different was because they had different dads – neither of them took after their mother, my Nan, who had died when I was a toddler. I sometimes wonder if the fact she came from a broken home meant Mum accepted the break-up of her own family so readily. But what do I know? Nothing really on that score, because Mum never talked about it, not then and not now. She just… accepted it. Still, I couldn’t help but wish she’d tried harder with Dad. If she had, we wouldn’t have had to leave our house. We wouldn’t have ended up at Blakemort – all that had happened would simply cease to have happened. That’s what I thought anyway. Now I wince. Why do we always think it’s the woman who should try harder? Why not the man? They get away with so much.

  Aunt Julia wasn’t married and neither did she have kids. That’s why she loved us so much, I think. She doted on Ethan and me, if I’m truthful me especially. Stepping aside, she let me lead the way and so I did, again seeing no option but to carry out the wishes of others. Mum asked Ethan to come and help her in the kitchen, but he was disgruntled about that too – reckoned he’d drawn the short straw. If only he knew.

  I didn’t want to climb those stairs again and face what was there. But was downstairs any better? Earlier, when Mum had dashed into my room, whatever was holding me down had disappeared as quickly as that which had swooped in the attic – another magic trick. I was able to sit up again and breathe, although not hide the shock and bewilderment on my face. Little matter, as Mum didn’t notice anyway.

  I showed my aunt around, hesitating at Mum’s bedroom again but she went in anyway, declared it ‘nice’, nothing more, nothing less, left it, and headed for the bathroom instead. The bathroom was a cold room – even submerged in hot water you’d shiver. Whenever I had to use it, I tried to do so as quickly as possible, never lingering. Aunt Julia ran the taps and I half expected dark matter to gush out but it was only ever water – albeit water that had a slight tinge to it. ‘It’s because of the piping,’ Mum had already explained to me. ‘It must be as ancient as Blakemort itself’, but somehow I never bought that. Despite scrubbing at myself with soap and a flannel, it was impossible to feel clean in that house.

  After I’d been bathed and wrapped in a towel, and with Mum and Ethan still busy downstairs preparing dinner, we walked to my room.

  “I’m dying to see it,” Aunt Julia declared, her choice of words not the greatest under the circumstances.

  On entering, she said it was ‘lovely’ but it was just a room with cream walls, the paint patchy in places and fluttering curtains at the window. It was far from lovely.

  “Let’s get you some clean clothes,” she continued, walking over to the wardrobe.

  In the centre of the room I stood still, steadfastly refusing to look at the piece of paper on my desk, to acknowledge it. There remained a trace of boldness in me despite what had happened. But it began fluttering too, capturing the attention of my aunt. Instead of opening the wardrobe doors, she turned her head towards the desk.

  “What’s this?” she said, beginning to change direction.

  “No, don’t…” I began, but t
oo late.

  She had reached the desk, picked up the piece of paper, and read the words I wasn’t able to. Her eyes widening as she managed to decipher the scrawls, she grew stormy when usually she reminds me of a bright summer’s day.

  “Corinna?” she questioned, waving it in front of me.

  I did what I always did in awkward situations at that age – I burst out crying.

  Immediately she was all concern.

  “Oh, it’s okay, it’s all right, sweetie,” she said, clutching the piece of paper but hurrying over to me. “I know it’s not you that’s responsible. You can’t write yet, surely.” Her lips pursed, much the same way as Mum’s did. “And even if you could, you wouldn’t write this.” She paused again and tried to make sense of it. “It must be Ethan,” she declared. “That flaming Ethan! This is taking teasing to a whole new level.”

  Abruptly releasing me, she marched out of my room and back downstairs. That was the day before Christmas Eve. On Christmas Day, she left.

  Blakemort Chapter Six

  On the way down, I tried to tell Aunt Julia it wasn’t Ethan responsible. As angry as I was with him it wasn’t fair that he should be blamed for something he didn’t do. She wasn’t listening. Perhaps that was just as well. After all, who was I going to say did it – a ghost? I could imagine the look on her face if I did.

  With me behind her, now running to keep up, she barged into the kitchen, waving the offending piece of paper in front of her. Mum, who was stirring something, or rather had her hand over Ethan’s hand, making him stir it, looked sideways at us.

  “What’s the matter, Ju–?”

  She didn’t get much further as Aunt Julia erupted.

  “This! This is what’s the matter, Helena. She’s a five-year-old girl for God’s sake. What the hell is Ethan doing writing this sort of stuff and leaving it in her room? I don’t even care if she can’t read it yet, it’s not right. It’s… weird.”

  “Ethan?” Still Mum was thunderstruck.

  “Yes, Ethan!”

  Before I could interrupt to try and save Ethan again, Aunt Julia slammed the sheet of paper onto the yellowed worktop and said, “Take a look, go on… see for yourself why I’m so upset.”

  Wiping her hands on her apron, Mum did as she was asked, her expression growing even more bewildered as her eyes scanned what was laid out beneath her.

  “What? I don’t understand. Ethan?” She shook her head as if to try and shake from memory what she’d seen. “Why’d you write this?”

  “Write what?”

  “THIS!”

  Mum shouting made both my brother and me jump.

  “I didn’t write anything!” he yelled back.

  “Don’t lie.”

  “I’m not.”

  “He didn’t!” My voice was small compared to theirs and easily lost.

  “This is…” Mum screwed up her nose. “Horrible!”

  “I’ve done nothing wrong,” Ethan continued to protest. And then, still indignant, he pushed past Mum and started to read aloud. “House, Dead, Hate, Hurt, Kill, You, You, You.”

  As Mum said, horrible words – a horrible sentiment – but there was a strange relief in hearing them at last.

  “I know they argue, Hel, but honestly, this is beyond the pale.”

  Tears were springing to Ethan’s eyes. “I didn’t write it!”

  “Of course you did!” Aunt Julia responded.

  “Hang on,” Mum turned on her sister. “Ethan’s my child, let me deal with him.”

  But Aunt Julia was just as fiery as Mum. “I think you’d better, Helena, this is bullying of the worst kind. I can’t think why you haven’t nipped it in the bud before.”

  “Don’t tell me how to bring up my children.”

  “I’m trying to help.”

  “Coming in here and shouting the odds. You think that’s helping?”

  Mum squared up to Aunt Julia, the two of them standing face to face, the difference between them even more pertinent – Aunt Julia, a warrior woman, Mum, a red dragon and capable of breathing fire.

  “He’s my son, Ju, and if he wrote those words, I’ll deal with him, not you.”

  Ethan was crying in earnest now and I have to say, I couldn’t blame him.

  “I just want to help,” Aunt Julia insisted. “Things have obviously got a bit much for you lately.”

  “I’m on top of my game, thanks.”

  “It’s hard being a single parent, I get that—”

  “I don’t need telling.”

  “Then let me help.”

  “YOU’RE NOT HELPING!”

  Mum’s voice seemed to cause a mini-earthquake as pots and pans began to rattle, and the drawers too. The smell of burning filled the air, and that’s what finally distracted Mum. “Oh, God, the chilli!”

  No longer in a fighting stance, she rushed over to it, but it was ruined apparently, sticking to the pan. “But I turned the flame down,” she was muttering. “Didn’t I?”

  The kitchen implements stilled. No one seemed to have noticed what had happened to them but me, but then Mum and Aunt Julia were focused only on each other, and Ethan, he’d been staring at them in terrified awe. Once again, the spirits had played to the gallery – the gallery with only me standing in it. Mum was furious.

  “Look what you’ve done with your wild accusations, you’ve ruined dinner.”

  “I wasn’t the one who left the heat up high.”

  “Nor did I!” Mum screeched before once again turning to Ethan. “Did you turn the flame up? It was you, wasn’t it? Who else could it be?” She was accusing him as readily as Aunt Julia had. Poor Ethan. Hot tears seemed to sizzle on his cheeks as he ran from the room. I had to dart out of his way or he’d have mowed me down. He ran up the stairs crying over his shoulder as he went. “I hate you, I hate all of you.”

  That house, so easily it inspired that emotion.

  Mum kept blinking her eyelids, trying not to cry. Even Aunt Julia looked shocked. “I’m sorry, Hel, I shouldn’t have come in here shouting the odds as you say. I should have talked to you privately.”

  “Damn right you should,” Mum mumbled, doing her best to resurrect dinner.

  “It’s just… Look at that paper, look at it. Those words seem carved onto it. If it was Ethan, and I don’t know who else it could be, he’s really troubled. You know, what with the divorce and everything…”

  “Don’t you think we all are?” Tears fell from Mum’s eyes now, a torrent of them, like a dam bursting. “Like you said, it’s hard, Ju, bloody hard!”

  “Oh, I know, I know.” Aunt Julia bridged the gap between them and tried to hug her. At first Mum was having none of it.

  “You don’t know. How can you? You’ve no bloody idea.”

  “Hel, come on.”

  “No!”

  But Aunt Julia was bigger than Mum and more determined. Against her wishes, Mum was enveloped in her sister’s arms and, after a moment, she stopped resisting, needing that hug as much as I had earlier.

  I looked on, hoping that was it. That we could just get on and prepare for Christmas. That someone would take that sheet of paper and destroy it. No one did.

  * * *

  Christmas Eve is almost as good as Christmas Day isn’t it? I think it’s the anticipation, there’s so much to look forward to, so much to hope for. After the argument, we ate burnt chilli with soggy rice and then we went to bed, all of us exhausted. Aunt Julia was staying in my room on a mattress on the floor. It was her idea, but after what had happened I was so pleased she was beside me. She’d sort of made up with Ethan, apologised to him, told him to speak to her if he had any ‘issues’ but Ethan had that look in his eyes – that ‘unforgiving’ look. It didn’t seem to worry Aunt Julia but it did me. I tried to speak to him too, to tell him I’d never said it was him who wrote on that paper, but he just brushed me off, too lost in his own fury. As for that paper, at breakfast the next morning – on the hotly anticipated Christmas Eve – it was gone. When Mum te
mporarily left the kitchen, I opened some drawers, searching for it, and sure enough it had been stuffed into one of them, shoved down the side – out of sight, out of mind, but not my mind. I couldn’t forget it.

  Mum came bustling back in, Aunt Julia and Ethan trailing in separately behind her. For breakfast she whipped up scrambled eggs and we crowded round the table to eat it. At first the atmosphere was sullen but gradually it lifted and Aunt Julia, determined to atone for yesterday, offered to take us shopping. She wasn’t flashy, Aunt Julia, but she was stylish with close fitting clothes, and perfect hair and make-up. Mum, on the other hand, liked loose skirts and blouses, just a hint of lipstick and lots of bangles on her arms. It’s a look I loved, reminding me of something exotic, a gypsy woman, and one I adopted when I grew older, although I added a bit of an Emo twist. I think with our Titian curls, we dress to suit our hair! But I digress. As I said Aunt Julia wasn’t flashy, but she had a good job in finance, and a flat in London, she could afford to spoil us a bit. In some ways she was everything Mum wasn’t, but I’d never seen resentment between them, never witnessed an argument before – only ever in that house.

  And there was more to come.

  Blakemort Chapter Seven

  Leaving Blakemort, we all piled into Mum’s Volvo and headed into Brighton. First on the list was a visit to Santa, who was holding court in the shopping mall. Ethan refused to go in but I was beside myself, the wait in the queue nothing less than excruciating. I almost wet myself again, but this time with pure excitement. I must add here that Ethan and I knew most of our Christmas presents came from Mum and Dad, they encouraged us to believe in the magic of Santa but not that he spent a fortune on every child! Rather it was visiting him in his grotto that was of the utmost importance, the sheer thrill of it. Not that Ethan thought so, hence his refusal. It was so different to how he was last year, when he’d been as eager as me, if not more so.

  Afterwards, we headed to Browns Restaurant for a burger and a milkshake – another treat. It was there that I opened the gift Santa had given me – Mum had told me to wait until we were sitting down, to savour the moment, rather than rip into it. As the waitress brought our drinks over, I retrieved the gift from her handbag, my fingers trembling as I peeled back layers of cheerful wrapping paper, resplendent with reindeers and striped candy canes. What I saw caused me to tremble for different reasons. It was a notepad and pen, an innocent enough gift; some might even say a welcome one, but not me, not after what had happened. Everyone around the table stared at it for a few seconds before I threw it from me.