Psychic Surveys Companion Novels

by Shani Struthers

“He’s upstairs, he’s crying.”

  “Crying? Oh, is he? I’ll, erm… I’ll go and see him.”

  “But what about our presents?” I whined again.

  She only glanced at me as she walked past. “Your presents will have to wait.”

  * * *

  We did open gifts later that day, when Mum was finally able to coax Ethan downstairs. Again it was a sombre affair. There was no tearing the paper off with eager hands, desperate to see what was inside, and no breathless excitement. In fact, Ethan had to be persuaded to open some of his – he just couldn’t be bothered. One present that managed to incite a degree of enthusiasm, in me at least, was a tall rectangle, such a familiar shape. My smile faded, however, when I saw that the Barbie doll inside it was the wrong one. I had to try really hard to hide my disappointment, particularly as I’d taken pains to write on my Christmas wish list the Argos catalogue number of the one I wanted. How could Mum have got it so wrong? She’d also forgotten to buy batteries for the games we’d received so they couldn’t be played with until the shops opened again – they just sat there, useless bits of plastic with no life in them. Dinner was okay but the gravy had congealed, making me feel a bit sick, and afterwards Ethan returned to his room and holed himself in there. Mum tried to entice me to a game of cards, sitting in front of a roaring log fire but her heart wasn’t in it. We played a couple of rounds of snap but then she got bored, stood up, and decamped to the kitchen to start the cleaning up.

  I stared into the fire for a while, enjoying the vibrant colours when I thought I saw something else in it, something that wasn’t so pretty. I blinked a couple of times and peered closer. There was definitely a shape – a face, long and thin, as black as soot but with eyes that were red and its mouth kept twisting and turning, stuck in some kind of perpetual scream. At the same time as the vision I was aware of a depression on the sofa next to me. It was in the exact same spot as the first time I’d sat there, on the day we arrived. I jumped up in fright, knocking over an occasional table that had the cards on it and they scattered everywhere. Above me the light flickered ominously. My arm drew outwards and I watched in fascination as it seemed to lift of its own volition and then a hand slipped in mine. I knew what it wanted – for me to start writing. Could I disobey? Flee to the kitchen instead? I was too scared to try.

  Slowly, I walked forwards, one foot in front of the other, reached the staircase and began to climb. In my bedroom, a pen and paper were laid out on the desk as they’d been laid out before. Sitting down, I picked up the pen and started to write.

  Long time ago. Long time. Many of us. Many. Many. Evil. Death. House built on death. Ground soaked in death. Bad place. Bad bad place. You can’t leave. Never. Every brick. The land. Lost. Some hide. Some follow. Evil. Evil. Evil.

  The words became a scrawl, became unintelligible. Soon my hand was my own again, I was able to flex my fingers and make them obey my will. I tried to read what I could. There were some words that I struggled with, but I got the gist. Believe me, I got the gist. I knew too that Mum couldn’t see this, or Ethan. They were both sad enough already. I didn’t want to make them sadder. I dragged my chair over to the wardrobe. Standing on it, the paper clutched in my hand, I placed it on top with the other sheet of paper I’d retrieved from the kitchen drawer. I kept them safe.

  Blakemort Chapter Nine

  The third Christmas we spent in that house, Aunt Julia came back. By then I’d written plenty more. I still had trouble reading some of it and had since ceased trying – as long as I wrote, the thing that forced me didn’t attack – that was incentive enough. Aged seven (nearly eight), I was surviving alongside the dead, turning my face away from those that stared outwards from dark corners, acting deaf when there were knocks on walls in the dead of night or footsteps running up and down the landing that belonged to neither Ethan nor me. As for the flies, I kept batting at them, praying they wouldn’t land on me whilst I was sleeping and lay a multitude of eggs.

  I was beyond happy to hear that Aunt Julia was coming – that she and Mum had put an end to their stupid argument. Mum was pleased too. Despite her worries over money – which seemed to have aged her since we’d been here, with lines that I’d never noticed before now apparent on her face – she seemed lighter, and took to humming. One song in particular, or rather one hymn; the one that she had hummed the first Christmas we were here: Silent Night. I preferred more jolly festive tunes. This one was too melancholy. She hummed it constantly and again it annoyed me. It annoyed the house too. I could feel its fury surge when she started but how could I tell her to stop? First, I didn’t want to spoil what little happiness she possessed nowadays; and secondly, to explain that the house hated that song – despised it – would make her angry too. There was no point in adding to the mix.

  Aunt Julia was arriving the same day as before, the day before Christmas Eve, or Christmas Eve Eve as Ethan and I used to call it in an attempt to string the holiday out, to make it another magical day. It certainly would be with Aunt Julia on the way. I couldn’t wait to see her and hoped she hadn’t forgotten me in the time she’d been away, but of course she hadn’t. She rang the doorbell and I made sure I was there to open it, my aunt looking delighted to see me, scooping me up in her arms.

  “Oh, I’ve missed you.” She breathed the words into my ear. I didn’t need to look at her face to know she was crying.

  When at last she put me down, Mum stepped forward and she and Aunt Julia stared at each other. They were tense moments and I wondered whether they might change their minds about such a grand reunion. A huge sigh of relief escaped me as they hugged each other instead, both of them sobbing and saying how sorry they were, that they didn’t know what they’d been thinking. Ethan hung back – lurking in the shadows as so many did. Mum started to coax him forwards but Aunt Julia said it was okay, to leave it to her. She had a bag slung over her shoulder and she reached into it and brought out a big pack of jelly beans, the really expensive ones that we’re rarely allowed to have and, even better, the ones that contained all the vile flavours: smelly socks, rotten egg, canned dog food, the works. Each nasty ealiz is matched with 10 look-alike tasty flavours and you have to take potluck when you pick one – believe me, you don’t want to get one of the ‘bogus beans’, they really do taste disgusting. We’d only played the jellybean game once before and it had been a lot of fun. As she wriggled the box enticingly at him, I looked on enviously and then all envy disappeared as he broke into a huge grin – that was like a present in itself, seeing Ethan happy.

  He came racing over, took the box, and then gave Aunt Julia the hug that she wanted. Things were good; we’d made them good, despite everything. Christmas 2001 was going to be our best ever. Dad and Mum had made up too, albeit tentatively and he was taking us out for the morning on Christmas Eve. But it was Christmas Eve Eve as I’ve said and we were eager to get Aunt Julia – who was staying until the day after Boxing Day – all settled in. She wasn’t staying in my room this time; Mum wanted her in with her. “Let’s share, like we used to when we were kids.” Accusingly, she added, “God knows, my children don’t want to anymore.”

  I felt like stamping my foot and crying, demanding Aunt Julia in with me again, but somehow I knew it would do no good, they only had eyes for each other. It was years later that I learnt Mum and Aunt Julia had never argued before, not even as kids. Up until Blakemort they’d always got on.

  Because Aunt Julia was coming, Mum had bought an extra big Christmas tree and we’d made loads of decorations to hang from its branches. Proudly we showed them off and she made the appropriate gestures, oohing and ahhing at everything. We’d also hung up tinsel and paper chains, and popped leaves and pinecones that we’d glittered ourselves on every surface available, even the music room, which was still largely empty. It was just a big old room with glittered pinecones on the mantelpiece and a brand new windowpane. Mum had draped tinsel over the picture in the parlour too, the one that was always crooked, but every morning when
we went downstairs, it would be in a heap on the floor, as if it had slid off. Eventually, we just left it there, stepping over it, with Mum citing ‘subsidence’ as the cause. Thankfully there were very few pictures elsewhere in the house, although there were faded patches where pictures had once hung. I remembered those in the attic; the ones turned towards the wall and a shiver ran through me.

  We helped Aunt Julia unpack the small suitcase she’d brought with her, trying to ignore a much larger bag, the one with our presents in she said and therefore strictly off peeking limits. Afterwards we went downstairs for supper – Mum had made spaghetti carbonara, a family favourite, perfectly cooked because she didn’t take her eyes off the saucepans for a minute. She poured wine for both her and her sister and Coca-Cola for us as we happily settled round the table to catch up on news, the children included in the conversation as much at the adults. We laughed, me perhaps more than the others, keen to replace cruel laughter with the real thing – I regarded any time we did that as a small triumph. The dinner eaten, we retired to the drawing room to sit in front of the fire to chat and play cards, me keeping my gaze carefully averted from the flames all the while, lest I see faces in them again.

  The night continued to pass in a peaceful manner. No one forced me to write anything and only one fly buzzed close to my head, and even that disappeared after a while. The following day we went out with Dad and he spoiled us rotten, taking us to McDonald’s (don’t shoot me but it was a real favourite back then) and to an ice-cream parlour for chocolate sundaes. On the return drive to Blakemort, his presents for us bulged tantalisingly in the boot of the car, any trepidation I had at returning home outweighed by the sheer excitement of what was in them.

  Dad carried the presents into the house and Mum offered to help him. They were civil to each other, even kissed each other on the cheek in greeting but Mum wasn’t as relaxed as she normally was. She held herself a little taller, the smile on her face not quite reaching her eyes. Dad had been to the house before to pick us up but never lingered. This time, because Aunt Julia was there, he hung around a bit longer. Dad always liked Aunt Julia; said she was a laugh. She was civil to him too, but as she spoke her words were slightly clipped.

  “My, what a lot of presents you’ve got them,” she remarked.

  “Well, they’re worth it,” Dad replied, ruffling Ethan’s hair, who was looking up adoringly at him. “Where shall I put them, underneath the Christmas tree?”

  “Might as well.” It was Mum who answered. “It’s late enough in the day now.”

  “Looks lovely in here,” he said, noting the log fire. Even so, he shivered as if he was cold not warm. “Very grand isn’t it?”

  “I suppose, we’re used to it now, it’s just home.”

  “And Carol, have you heard from her?”

  Mum looked genuinely perplexed, “No, I haven’t actually. Not for a while. But, as long as the rent’s paid on time she’s happy, I suppose.”

  “I hope she’s well,” Dad continued.

  “Yeah, me too. Erm…” Mum looked at Aunt Julia as she addressed Dad as if she needed her approval, “would you like to stay for hot chocolate? I was just about to make the kids some.”

  That was news to me – welcome news!

  Dad hesitated too, and also glanced at Aunt Julia for approval, he must have been so nervous! “Erm… yeah, yeah, okay, that’d be lovely.”

  I couldn’t believe my luck, we were all going to sit round the kitchen table together, Mum, Dad, Aunt Julia, Ethan and me, having hot chocolate. Could it get any better?

  Mum piled the whipped cream on our drinks, the marshmallows and the sprinkles; it was like a taste of heaven. Dad deliberately gave himself a cream moustache and we all giggled to see it. Mum’s smile relaxed. She seemed happy in his company and he in hers – so happy that it was hard to believe they weren’t together anymore. But I refused to think about such sad things, I was simply going to pretend they were. I was getting good at that: make-believing all was well.

  When Dad got up to leave even he looked sad about it. He said goodbye to us kids and then Mum walked him to the door.

  “Have a good Christmas,” I heard her say.

  “I will, and you. It’s nice that Julia’s come to stay.”

  “It is, we feel very lucky.”

  “Ethan was upset by the rift between you—”

  “Yes, well, that’s all over now,” Mum interrupted. “We’re starting afresh.” And then as if she couldn’t resist, “Something you know all about.”

  There was a pause, in which I held my breath.

  “I miss the kids,” Dad returned, and his voice sounded like Ethan’s, lost. “I miss you. Do you think—”

  “No, Paul, I don’t.”

  “No, no, of course not. Sorry, I… I didn’t mean to offend you. Look, I’d better get going, Carrie will wonder where I am.”

  “I’m sure.”

  “She’s nice you know. If you met her you’d like her. If the kids were allowed—”

  “They’re not, I’m warning you, Paul, I don’t want them meeting her.”

  “No, okay, she makes herself scarce when they come over. Don’t worry about it.”

  “I’m not worried, I’m just saying.”

  “I know, I know.” Another pause. “You’re always just saying.”

  “What’s that supposed to mean?” Mum’s voice had risen slightly.

  “Nothing, nothing at all. Happy Christmas, Hel.”

  “Happy Christmas, Paul.”

  The door closed, not only shutting Dad out but some of the magic too.

  Blakemort Chapter Ten

  It’s amazing how resilient children are, how we can bounce right back. Ethan had overheard the conversation too but before he could react, Aunt Julia grabbed us both by the waist, and yelled ‘It’s Christmas!’ in true Slade style. How could we not react positively to such enthusiasm? We whooped and we cheered and when Mum returned, she smiled to see it, the haunted look on her face quickly dissolving.

  “More hot chocolate?” Aunt Julia teased.

  “No, Ju, absolutely not!” Mum countered. “Not unless you want them up all night vomiting into a bucket. Come on, it’s getting late, let’s go upstairs, get bath time underway and then we’ll pile into Ethan’s room for Christmas stories.”

  Christmas stories? Brilliant! We’d had them last year, but they’d been so half-hearted, as everything about last Christmas was. This year they were sure to be better. I hoped for lots and lots, with Mum and Julia taking it in turns to read them.

  We settled into Ethan’s room, picking our way through all the Lego on the floor – huge amounts of it, used to build tanks, cars, towers, spaceships, and castles. As Mum opened Christmas at the Carters we snuggled up to the adults, listening to the soothing lull of their voices. All was quiet except for that – gloriously quiet. Content, I found myself growing drowsy and fought to stay awake, not wanting to miss a moment of the story but my eyelids felt like they had weights attached.

  As I drifted, I became aware of another voice alongside Mum’s – faint at first, barely a whisper. I couldn’t work out what it was saying, and I wasn’t overly concerned, as it didn’t sound threatening at all. Rather it was benign – quite benign – repeating one word over and over. Eventually, I opened my eyes to find myself in darkness. How strange. When you open your eyes the darkness fades. What was going on? Mum’s voice faded too as the whispering became more insistent.

  “Who’s there?” I asked, my own voice an echo. “What are you saying?” I caught movement to one side and turned my head, but could see nothing. “Where’s Mum?”

  There was only laughter – hissing laughter.

  “I want Mum!”

  More movement, but this time it was on my other side.

  Gone.

  “Mum’s not gone.”

  Dead.

  “Mum’s not dead!”

  You.

  “I’m not dead either.”

  Dead.

&
nbsp; All of you.

  Dead.

  Dead.

  Dead.

  I opened my mouth to scream but no sound came out. I took a breath, tried to speak at least.

  “Don’t like you, don’t want you.”

  I was so frightened I thought I was going to wet myself again. That would have been the worst thing ever – showing them how afraid I was.

  “Leave me alone. Go away.”

  Dead.

  You’re dead.

  All of you.

  There were definitely shapes in the darkness and the more I stared the clearer they became. We were in a room – a long room and there was a mantelpiece in it – I couldn’t see much more than that because of the figures but there might have been furniture too, an old piano to one side. There were so many figures, all heights and all ages, some just kids, like me, some much older, older than Mum and Dad even, ancient they looked, their clothes like no clothes I’d ever seen before. Rags. Just rags. I stared and I stared. I couldn’t tear my gaze away, but oh, how I wished I could. There were so many of them, and their eyes… There was such hatred in them, as if they wanted to reach out and tear me apart. As if that would please them. I was going to wet myself. I knew it. They were edging closer, ever closer.

  “Who are you?” It was my voice that was a whisper now. “What are you?”

  Dead.

  Dead.

  Dead.

  Yes, they were the dead, and this room, the music room, was the gathering place.

  Tears sprung to my eyes. There was nothing I could do, and nowhere I could go. There didn’t appear to be a door behind me anymore, it was at the far end, between two sets of windows, and there were faces against that too, pressed up against the glass. Amongst those inside was a boy, his face in shadow but spiteful nonetheless, the boy that I would scream at later in the year and who would throw me against the wall and watch me slide down it. He caught me staring and opened his mouth wide, wider still. Everyone copied him, in his thrall. What were they going to do, deafen me with screams? I waited, braced myself. There was no screaming. There were flies. Millions and millions of them I swear, pouring out of their mouths and heading towards me like a big black cloud, writhing, poisonous, wanting to consume me whole, to feast on my flesh, my blood, my bones, my soul.