Psychic Surveys Companion Novels

by Shani Struthers

  “Don’t want it!” I declared.

  Mum didn’t react initially. She continued to stare and then she placed her glass down and picked it up instead. “It’s just a notepad and pen,” she mumbled before tucking it into her bag, out of sight, out of mind again.

  The gift soured lunch. Even far from it, the house was having an effect. We did a bit more shopping afterwards, waited for night to fall so we could admire the lights the Council had strung up in the city centre, which weren’t that impressive to be honest, and then we trundled home to have cheese and biscuits for dinner – something of a family tradition on Christmas Eve. I think I shook all the way back to Blakemort, Mum taking it easy on that long dark country road that led to the house, the trees towering over us to form a tunnel. Even in daylight the sun had a hard time trying to filter through. As we travelled, I glanced at Ethan. He was biting his nails, a dreadful habit of his, right down to the quick.

  Pulling into the gravel driveway, a crunch beneath our feet as we exited the car, the house reminded me of a spider, waiting to strike. It’s strange with Blakemort. It didn’t want you there but it didn’t want you gone either – it fed on you.

  Keeping my eyes on the ground, we walked to the front door, all of us taking our time, no one in a rush to get inside. Mum was going to light a fire in the drawing room, where we’d erected a Christmas tree a few days before, and had already stacked up logs beside the coal bucket. They were neat no more. As we entered that room, single file, Mum groaned. “Who the hell did that?”

  The logs were scattered everywhere, some of them charred, as if they’d been burnt already.

  “What a mess. What a bloody mess!”

  I don’t think I’ve ever heard Mum swear so much as when she was in that house.

  “They probably just took a tumble,” Aunt Julia replied. “Let’s get it cleared up and the fire sorted. It’s freezing in here.”

  Which was strange as it was a mild December and certainly not freezing outside.

  “Brrr,” Aunt Julia made a show of hugging herself. “Doesn’t your heating work?”

  “It does, when it wants to,” answered Mum irritably. “Which is hardly ever.”

  I looked at the Christmas tree, half expecting to see it dashed to the floor too, but it was intact. Incredible really come to think about it, as it was such an obvious target. But that tree, once adorned, was never felled, not in all the years I lived there. The ghosts, the spirits, the entities, they were more original than that.

  Mum and Aunt Julia coaxed the fire into life whilst we went upstairs to change into our pyjamas. Mum never put the presents under the tree until late on Christmas Eve; she knew we’d never be able to leave them alone otherwise, continually prodding and poking at them. Usually, she hid them in her bedroom. They were certainly safe there, from me anyway, but Ethan wanted to go in.

  “Come on, they’ll be under her bed or in the wardrobe or something.”

  “No. Mum will get cross.”

  “Mum knows we go in and look, we always do.”

  “No,” I said again.

  Ethan screwed up his face. “What’s wrong with you, you used to be fun.”

  “I don’t like Mum’s room.”

  ‘Why not? It’s fine.”

  “It’s not.”

  For a moment Ethan was quiet and then he moved forwards and grabbed my arm. “What’s wrong with it, tell me.” And then slightly more agitated, “What’s wrong with this house, Corinna?”

  So he knew, like me he knew.

  “It’s—”

  There was a huge crash, coming from the direction of one of the spare rooms – the one next to mine.

  Ethan’s eyes widened. “What was that?”

  Before I could answer Mum called up the stairs, asking the same question. Hearing no response, she started climbing, Aunt Julia behind her.

  “It wasn’t me,” Ethan said, when she reached the landing. “It came from in there.”

  The door to that particular room was shut and had been since the day we’d arrived, only briefly had we all taken a look in there. It was one of the storage rooms.

  “Oh, for goodness’ sake.” Mum was still irritable. “I never said it was you, did I?”

  Without hesitation she opened the door. I stood rigid, expecting a figure of some sort to come rushing at us. It’s funny isn’t it, how a figure as familiar as a human being can be so damned terrifying. No such thing happened, but there was another mess to be cleaned up. A mirror – large with an ornate surround, French apparently and an antique – had crashed to the ground and glass lay in smithereens.

  “I don’t bloody believe it,” Mum declared. “I just don’t.”

  “Point me in the direction of the dust pan and brush and I’ll do it later,” said Aunt Julia. “Right now, we need to eat, the kids must be starving.”

  We were. The burger we’d consumed had been hours ago.

  Without changing our clothes, we all went down to the living room, the fire was roaring but not lending much warmth. It was still cold. Mum cursed again then left us and went into the kitchen. When she returned her face was like thunder.

  “What’s wrong?” asked Aunt Julia.

  “It’s the cheese,” she replied. “I only bought it yesterday, but already it’s gone mouldy. And before you say it, no I’m not talking about the blue, I’m talking about the cheddar, the Brie, the manchego, everything. It’s all sodding gone off!”

  * * *

  Ethan got his skateboard and I got my bike. Dad had also sent lavish presents. ‘… trying to make up for his absence,’ I heard Mum say to Julia, ‘… for the damage that he’s done.’ We must have thought so too, because somehow his gifts seemed to elicit no joy, only sadness, no matter how shiny and new they were.

  After all the gifts had been opened, Mum and Aunt Julia went off to prepare Christmas lunch – roast turkey with all the trimmings. Ethan and I remained in the living room, but not for long.

  “Bring your bike and let’s go to the music room,” Ethan suggested. “It’s a great place to skateboard.”

  My heart sank but how long could I keep saying no to him? Besides it’d be all right, wouldn’t it? Everything’s all right at Christmas.

  As I followed him towards it, I was sure I could hear whispering, but it was very faint. Ethan was right, the music room was perfect for hammering up and down, the expanse of floor space too tantalising to ignore. We could have gone outside I suppose but it was raining again – which was such a disappointment as we’d prayed so hard for snow – and neither one of us fancied getting wet. Ethan started practicing immediately and I did too, not hard really as my bike had stabilisers.

  “Take them off,” Ethan called over his shoulders. “Practice properly.”

  I ignored him and continued to peddle.

  There was laughter from the kitchen – good laughter – the sound of Mum and Aunt Julia getting on again. I smiled to hear it.

  “Take the stabilisers off,” Ethan called again.

  I rolled my eyes at him.

  “Go on, don’t be such a chicken.”

  “I’m not a chicken,” I protested at last.

  “You are, you’re a chicken,” he retaliated, but it wasn’t with his usual venom, he sounded cheerful. “Chicken, chicken, chicken.”

  “I’m not,” I said again, but cheerful too. The day wasn’t turning out so bad.

  I gripped the handles harder, peddling fast, really getting the hang of my lovely new bike with its pink and white frame and white leather handles. Mum had spared no expense; this was the bike I’d set my heart on. Peddling faster, faster still, I was on my fourth or fifth run, approaching the door that led into the garden. I had to brake, or I’d be in danger of going through it. I wasn’t overly panicked though; there was still some distance left. Beside me, Ethan was keeping apace. My hands closed around the brakes and I squeezed. Nothing happened. Frowning, I squeezed again… and again. Why weren’t they working? They’d been just fine before.
Even so, I continued hurtling forwards. We were both going to go through the door! I took my feet off the pedals – that would work surely? But they continued spinning.

  “Mum! Mum!” I yelled, panic setting in, unlike Ethan, who was laughing, enjoying the thrill.

  “MUM!”

  “Chicken, chicken, chicken!” Ethan was at it again.

  The glass door – the one I hated so much, loomed closer, ever closer. I had a sudden vision, of my face cracked and bleeding, shards of glass sticking out like some hideous mountain range. And my eyes! Oh, my eyes. They’d been ripped to shreds. The vision caused me to scream, startling myself but also Ethan, who lurched towards me, knocking me off my bike just a fraction or so before we reached the door. It sent me flying into the wall instead, only my bike continuing onwards, bang smack into the frail pane and shattering it completely.

  “Oh, good God! What now?”

  It was Mum, at the entrance to the music room, wild-eyed, Aunt Julia the same.

  A blast of air enveloped me, icy in its embrace. Ethan, who was on top of me, pushed himself off, one fist striking out as he did, cursing me for having screamed, for toppling us both.

  “Don’t you dare hit her!” It was my champion, Aunt Julia. She grabbed him and hauled him to his feet. “Don’t you bloody dare, you brat!”

  “JULIA!” Mum yelled.

  Aunt Julia whirled towards her. “You’ve lost control, Helena, completely.”

  I was wailing, Ethan was wailing. The ghosts, they started laughing again.

  Mum snatched Ethan to her whilst Aunt Julia knelt down to see to me.

  “Is she okay?” Mum asked, her voice as brittle as the glass.

  “She’s fine,” Aunt Julia muttered. ‘No cuts or bruises that I can see.”

  “Good. But I’m afraid I can’t have you staying here any longer, Julia, I’d like you to pack your bags and leave. Children, go into the kitchen now. Dinner’s almost ready.”

  Part Two

  The Second and Third Christmas

  Blakemort Chapter Eight

  Our first Christmas was over and it had been a disaster. Aunt Julia did as Mum asked and readied herself to leave, giving only me a kiss goodbye. I was inconsolable but Mum was not in a soothing mood. Instead she tried to patch the broken pane with cardboard and whilst she did dinner was ruined. None of us had an appetite anyway.

  We didn’t want to play any more with our bike or skateboard either – like the presents Dad had got us, they’d lost their shine.

  On the twenty-seventh we went to Dad’s and then, a few days later, it was the New Year celebrations, Mum allowing us to stay up and count down the minutes on the TV as one century yielded to another. A momentous occasion – screams and cheers poured into the room courtesy of that tiny box. Yet to me, it seemed anything but. Rather, I clung to what was gone and could see nothing to look forward to. Time was a strange thing in that house. It passed, as it always did, but slowly, so very slowly. It only ever went fast when we were outside the house, at school perhaps, or out shopping, or with Dad on a Saturday. Then it seemed to be on a spool, winding us swiftly back towards it, whereupon it would move at a grudging pace again.

  The days, the weeks and the months passed. Lots more happened, but as I’ve said, for the purpose of this retelling I want to focus on the main events – principally Christmas. Even so, throughout the year things went wrong. The pane in the music room door had to be replaced, costing Mum money she could ill afford. The heating continued to play up, either not coming on at all or going into overdrive. One time I touched the radiator, even though I’d been told not to and it burnt my hand. I couldn’t believe it; it was like touching flames leaving a sore red patch that took its time to heal. Light bulbs overhead kept fizzing and popping. Mum said they cost a small fortune to replace. The milkman used to leave two pints a day but too often the milk was sour, so Mum finally cancelled the order. Strangely enough though, the milk she bought from the supermarket soured just as easily – she never could work it out. But I could. Nothing could thrive in that house – food, plants, even us. As a family we failed to thrive and Mum lost work. She was good at what she did, previously in demand but clients got fed up with her failing to call them back. “But I never got your message,” she’d protest. “Are you sure you left one?” Of course they had, but nothing was ever recorded, the answer machine wiped clean as soon as the last sentence was uttered. With less money coming in, we couldn’t buy as much food and I swear we began to look ill, the three of us – our pallor grey. I’d been quite plump before we moved to that house, a good covering of puppy fat on my bones, but by the time we left my ribs jutted out. As I said, the hauntings continued, the scraping noises above in the attic where I hadn’t dared venture again, the low, cruel, laughter, the sensation of being followed wherever I went, the eyes that were always on me. And the flies. I haven’t yet mentioned the flies. They were incessant. No matter what Mum did, what sprays and repellents she bought, or how many times she swatted at them, there were always flies in that house – swarming over everything. The writing too, that wasn’t a one-off incident. Whoever had guided me had more to say.

  Having turned six, it was imperative I learnt to read as soon as possible so I could understand what was being scribed. We think the young don’t know much. We assume their common sense is fairly limited, but when I reflect, I was mature beyond my years. What was happening forced me to grow up fast. I had a sense that if I learned what was being said, it would empower me in some way. Mum couldn’t believe how eager I was to have extra-curricular lessons with her – she was stunned in fact. ‘You’ve had a long day at school, darling,’ she’d say, ‘why don’t you just relax instead, go and watch the TV.’ I’d shake my head and insist, ‘I have to learn, Mummy, I have to.’ She’d give in then, spend hours with me at the kitchen table, going over and over again simple storybook words until they lodged in my mind – until those strangely mysterious scrawls known as letters began to make sense; until something clicked. I could read! It was like I’d performed a magic trick of my own. I overtook Ethan who hated reading and wouldn’t dream of picking up a book of his own accord. ‘It’s boring,’ he’d say. Not for me it wasn’t. It was a lifeline.

  It was coming round to Christmas again, our second in the house and the first of the new millennium. No Aunt Julia to visit this time as she and Mum were still angry with each other – a fact Mum seemed slightly dazed by as if she couldn’t quite believe their feud had lasted for so long. As Mum had had us last year, Dad was supposed to have us this year, just for the day. We’d have Christmas Eve at home at least and then Boxing Day, but still I was upset.

  “What are you going to do, Mum?” I asked. “Whilst we’re at Dad’s?”

  “I’ll be fine, darling, I’ll watch TV and stuff myself with far too many mince pies.”

  “But I want to be with you.”

  “I know, but it’s only one day and besides, we’ll make Boxing Day our Christmas Day, so really you’re very lucky – you’ll have two Christmases!”

  I didn’t feel lucky.

  Christmas Eve came and went – uneventfully – and on Christmas morning we were up early, washed, dressed and waiting for Dad. He never showed. We waited and waited until eventually the phone in Mum’s office started ringing. She rushed to answer it.

  “Oh, I see, the car won’t start. Well, I could drive them to you. No? Why not? It’s too late? It’s not too late, it’s not even noon. Paul, have you been drinking, is that what this is all about? You have haven’t you? You’ve been drinking. Started the celebrations a bit early haven’t you? Don’t tell me not to raise my voice. I’ll shout if I bloody well want to. You have no say in what I do. You gave up any entitlement when you walked out on me, on the kids, when you let us all down. And don’t tell me not to start on that again. You’ve been partying all night with that girlfriend of yours and now you’re so hung-over you can’t even get out of bed. Talk about a mid-life crisis, you’re pathetic, do you know that,
a pathetic specimen of a man! And no you can’t have them on Boxing Day instead. We’ve got plans for Boxing Day. Believe me, if I had my way you wouldn’t have them at all. You don’t deserve them.”

  I’d been standing in the hallway with my brother, listening. In my stomach a peculiar mix of emotions churned but chief amongst them was relief, I’d hated the thought of her spending Christmas Day in that house alone. Ethan, however, was a different story. Not just his face, his entire body crumpled – honestly I’ve never seen him look so distraught, either before or after. That’s another thing that haunts me – Ethan in that moment. No boy should have his heart broken. Tears began to form in the corner of his eyes, a few of them escaping, racing down his cheeks to fall on the floor. I laid my hand on his arm and tried to comfort him but of course it was useless.

  “Get off me,” he yelled. Turning on his heel he ran to the staircase and raced up it.

  “But Ethan what about our presents?” We could open Mum’s at least.

  “I don’t want any presents!”

  That stunned me. How could a child not want presents?

  Mum eventually came out of the morning room. Her eyes were red and sore, as if she’d been crying too. Seeing me, she forced herself to brighten.

  “Change of plan, love,” she said. “You’re staying here today, Daddy’s not feeling well.” She looked from left to right. “Where’s your brother?”