Psychic Surveys Companion Novels

by Shani Struthers

  “I believe in Jesus, Mary and Joseph. I believe in God. It’s what normal people believe in, self-respecting people. I don’t believe this world is full of ghosts, of people long gone, that they walk alongside us, that they try and communicate, that they’re lost somehow, that they need our help. It’s not true, none of it. You’re a liar, and you always have been. You just make it all up. I don’t believe I’m capable of producing something like you.”

  She’d said something this time, not even someone. Anger overtook despair. “But you did though,” I replied, shaking with the injustice of it all. “You produced two of us.”

  “DON’T YOU DARE TALK ABOUT WHAT HAPPENED!”

  I could see my twin. She was standing beside my mother, staring down at her, with such sadness in her expression. “Look,” I said, lifting my hand to point. “She’s there right now, my twin sister, she’s standing beside you and your words, they’re hurting her too.”

  “The filth that comes out of your mouth.”

  “It’s true! Look up. Can’t you see her? Can’t you sense her? Look at where I’m pointing!”

  I don’t know if it was something in my voice, a thread of steel perhaps, but she obeyed and for a moment, a brief moment, I thought I saw her eyes widen.

  “You can see her, can’t you? What’s her name, Mum? What did you call her? She wants to know so badly.”

  Slowly, very slowly, my Mum turned back. Her voice when she spoke was loaded.

  “I will continue to clothe you, I will continue to feed you. I will do my duty, as the state requires. But the minute you’re old enough, you leave. Do you hear? I want you gone.”

  All anger, all defiance spent, despair engulfed me yet again.

  I took another step back and then fled from the room, leaving my mother, my twin, and another sibling who’d never live in this world, but who hadn’t lingered at least; who’d had the good sense to fly back to where he or she had come from: a better place than this.

  Because this – my home – was nothing less than perdition.

  Thirteen Chapter Eleven

  “Another cup of tea, Ness?”

  “No thanks, Angus. I’m done now, I’m okay.”

  “You sure? You still look really pale.”

  “I am pale,” I replied, smiling a little. “My skin never seems to tan, not even in the height of summer. Seriously, I’m fine. It’s just… I’ve things on my mind lately.”

  “The mystery of the lighthouse?”

  “That’s certainly one of them.”

  Having escaped Ally, I’d managed to pull myself together, heading downstairs, past all those smiling photographs of the perfect family, ignoring every one of them, using the time I had to compose myself instead. The last thing I wanted was to burst into the living room looking as shaky as I felt. Ally wasn’t to be blamed for what had happened, she was an innocent being used as a pawn. Molly was, of course, curious as to how I’d got on.

  “I need to find out more about the lighthouse,” I’d said to her, “speak to other parents of the teenagers involved, get a more rounded picture of what happened.” I hadn’t looked at Angus when I said that, I was too embarrassed. That had been his suggestion after all.

  “And then what?” she’d asked.

  “Then I perform a cleansing.”

  “An exorcism?”

  That wasn’t a word I tended to use. “A cleansing is more of an holistic approach,” I explained. “I’ll use light and love to combat whatever it is that hides at the lighthouse.”

  She’d frowned at that, not as impressed, I suspected, than she would have been if I’d admitted to an exorcism. I explained further than it was the Catholic Church that tended to carry out exorcisms and if she didn’t want the church involved, the authorities…

  “Okay, okay,” she said. “I understand what you’re trying to say. But this cleansing, is it as effective?”

  “It has been in the past.” And it was true, but no two cases were ever the same. People were unique, so were spirits.

  Having said goodbye to her and climbed back into Angus’s car, my façade crumbled, tears stung my eyes as I screwed them shut. As he’d been when Molly had got upset, Angus was all concern. “What’s wrong? Come on. Come here. You need a hug.”

  How much I needed it he’d never know.

  Once he released me, I dried my eyes and he’d driven us to this café, a short way from Ally Dunn’s house, and plied me with tea, brushing aside any apologies I might have.

  “Right,” he said, watching me as I pushed my cup away. “Is it the lighthouse you want to go to next or to see a few more parents?”

  “Not the lighthouse, not today.” I needed to be more stable than this before I returned there. “Let’s piece together what we know already, and try and make some sense of it.”

  “Sounds like a plan,” Angus agreed.

  “Angus,” I said, worried suddenly. “Are you okay to help me? I don’t mean to sound rude or anything, I’m grateful for your help, but don’t you have a job to go to?”

  His face fell slightly. “Actually no, not right now. You could say I’m in between jobs.”

  “What did you do?” I asked. “And what are you going to be doing?”

  “I was working in an architect’s office, in Edinburgh actually, as an architectural technician. But it’s not my true calling. Uncle Glenn said I could manage Minch Point when it’s a guesthouse. I like meeting people, I like being on Skye. I thought I’d give it a whirl. To be honest, I couldn’t wait to ditch my job. ”

  “So you’ve a vested interest in this case too?”

  “Aye, well, yes, I do now. I’m counting on it. I’d like there to be a steady stream of guests, but also, I don’t want the lighthouse to suffer from an ill reputation any more than my uncle does. We’d be finished before we even got started. For my uncle it’s an investment opportunity, but for me it’s much more than that.”

  “I wish you all the luck.”

  He smiled. “I wish us both luck.”

  My smile was a little more strained. “Okay, back to basics. We know that the Camerons lived at the lighthouse, that they abandoned it a decade ago, that it’s been used as a playground for kids ever since, and that those kids, including you at one point, played a game there: Thirteen Ghost Stories. It’s become something of a ritual.”

  “All correct,” Angus replied.

  “Around two months ago whilst playing the game, Ally Dunn, and even a few of the others, experienced something. They’ve been different ever since.”

  “Aye, the others are more subdued, but they still manage to get up, go to school and socialise to an extent. It’s Ally that’s been affected the most.”

  “I wonder why that is?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “And none of them have been back since?”

  “Not that I know of.” He paused. “Ness, what happened when you went to see Ally? You haven’t really said.”

  “It’s not easy seeing a kid so distressed, you know,” I replied, palming him off a little.

  “I understand that. But did she say anything… you know… to upset you?”

  This man, was he as fey as his mother?

  “No, it’s fine. It’s just… A lot of negative energy clings to Ally, it can have an effect.”

  “Oh aye, I’m sure,” he conceded, nodding gravely.

  “We also know that whilst the cabin boy, Liam, moved away soon after his dismissal, his father, Ron McCarron, lives here still and, despite what you said about finding him sober, I’m going to need to speak to him, see if there’s any way I can contact Liam.”

  Angus didn’t look too sure. “It’s a long time ago that Liam worked for the Camerons.”

  “That’s as maybe, but he lived there, alongside them, at the lighthouse, he’ll have more of an insight than anyone.”

  “Aye, I suppose. It’s worth a shot.”

  Anything was at this particular point in time, because whatever was happening in this corner
of Skye, it wasn’t getting any better.

  * * *

  The afternoon was spent visiting the parents of Isabel Croft, Craig Ludmore, and Grant MacIver. Considering prior arrangements to do so were hastily made by Angus via a phone call, we were greeted amicably enough, even keenly I’d say, certainly by Isabel’s mother and Grant’s father. When we were ushered into various living rooms, the story was the same – their children, all of whom were still at school during our visit – were much quieter than usual, they’d lost their spark, their zest, they were more nervy instead, jumping at anything and everything. Isabel’s mother, Beth, had also found sheets of A4 paper in her daughter’s room, reams of them, the number thirteen inscribed on every inch of space, the paper jagged in places where she’d gripped the pen so hard.

  “She’d hidden these sheets of paper,” Beth explained as Angus and I sat on her sofa, “on top of her wardrobe, in her wardrobe, under her bed. Why would she do that?”

  “Did you ask her why?” Angus enquired.

  She shook her head as if the thought had never occurred to her. “No, no, I didn’t. I suppose I felt… it would upset her somehow. I put them back where I found them. She’s added to the pile since, there’ll be no room for anything else in her room at this rate.”

  Grant’s father told us how, when his son came home from school, he shut himself away in his room, only emerging to grab dinner and use the bathroom.

  “At least he goes to school,” Angus tried to soothe.

  “Aye, that he does. But he used to be a sociable lad, sitting with his family in the evening, telling us all about his day, and what he’s been up to. I miss him you know. We used to go fishing together at the weekend. Suddenly he doesn’t want to do that either.”

  “It could be just a teenage thing,” I venture.

  “He’s been a teenager for a while now,” was Mr MacIver’s reply. “As I said, this is a sudden change, ever since that business at the lighthouse.”

  “It’s an odd place,” Craig’s father told us when we visited his house. “You know about the shipwreck, don’t you, which happened soon after the lighthouse was built?”

  Angus nodded. “You think it’s relevant?”

  “I never used to, but I’m beginning to wonder.”

  “Mr Ludmore,” I asked. “What happened exactly? Did many people die?”

  “Oh aye,” he said, “all those on board. Thirty-six to be precise, the bodies that were recovered either sent home or buried here on the island. I think the youngest deckhand was recorded as being no more than thirteen. A tragedy it was, and no matter that it was so long ago, the weight of that tragedy remains. The lens, a Fresnel lens too, supposedly one of the best – it either failed that night or the clouds were just too thick for the beam to penetrate, no one knows for sure. It’s not a great beginning for a new lighthouse, is it?”

  It wasn’t – it was dreadful. “Any other shipwrecks of note?”

  Mr Ludmore shook his head. “A few incidents, but no more deaths.”

  Mrs Ludmore, who’d been in the kitchen, came in to join us, a laden tray in her hands. “You talking about the shipwreck, Alan?” She exhaled heavily as she put the tray on the table in front of us and began to pour into china cups. “The blue men at work again.”

  I was lost. “The blue men?”

  “Aye,” she said, handing me a cup, “the blue men. Storm kelpies, in other words. It’s said they inhabit the waters around here, playing havoc with sailors, and causing boats to overturn. There’ve been several people who’ve sworn blind that they’ve seen them in the past, when the weather’s fine, just floating on the surface, sleeping. But they can conjure storms too, whenever the mood takes them, when they want fresh bodies to feast on.”

  “Och, Meg, away with you!” chided Mr Ludmore. Looking at me, he shrugged as if in apology for his wife’s flight of fancy. “It’s a myth that’s all, but aye, there’s many around here that believe in the blue men well enough.”

  “Belief is a powerful thing,” I said. And perhaps not to be dismissed, nor all this talk of conjuring. Certainly something had been conjured at the lighthouse, perhaps feeding off any negative energy that remained from so many deaths – thirty-six of them and the youngest victim only thirteen. That number, how it kept recurring.

  “Is the boy buried locally, the lad who died because of the shipwreck, do you know?”

  “Aye,” Mr Ludmore answered, “he’s got a headstone at Kilchoan Cemetery, in Glendale. Angus, you must know it? It’s in your neck of the woods.”

  “Aye, I know it.”

  “Perhaps we can stop off there on our way home?” I asked Angus.

  “Of course, if you want to.”

  I did, I planned to touch his gravestone and see what I could glean from it.

  Still on such a delicate subject, I remembered something I’d asked Angus the previous day, to which I hadn’t yet got an answer. “Aside from the shipwreck, have there been any more known deaths at the lighthouse? In more modern times perhaps?”

  Mr and Mrs Ludmore looked at each other and then at me. “Are we talking murder here?” Mr Ludmore said.

  I inclined my head a little. “Not necessarily.”

  “There’s been no more deaths that I know of,” he replied.

  “Not at the lighthouse anyway,” Mrs Ludmore added. “But there was another death. What was it, three or four years after the Camerons left. Not murder but not natural either.”

  My ears pricked up. “Oh?”

  “A few miles from the lighthouse, following the coastline to the north, it was to do with a young girl. She threw herself from the cliffs, committed suicide in other words.”

  “How old was she?”

  “Young, not even twenty.”

  “Do you know why she did it?”

  “Not even her parents knew that. They were devastated, moved away soon after, wanting a fresh start, I should imagine. The one thing they did say was that she’d changed, and that that change had been quite sudden. She’d become moody and withdrawn, had stopped communicating with them. The lighthouse was empty by then, as you know, I’m wondering if she went there with her friends too, if something happened to her like it did to Ally, and to our kids. Oh God,” her eyes widened, as her hand flew to her chest. “I’ve only really just put two and two together. What if, what if—”

  Mr Ludmore immediately tried to soothe his wife. “No child of ours is going down the same route, don’t worry yourself, lass. Don’t even think it. And that girl, Moira her name was, she was a wild one. Och, I know her parents thought she was meek and mild, but come on, love, you know as well as I did that she had a reputation. She’d been giving them cause for concern for a long time, it didn’t happen as suddenly as they claimed.”

  Angus broke into the conversation. “We shouldn’t speak ill of the dead. Moira, she was… She was all right.”

  I turned to look at him. “You knew her?”

  “Aye, I was a kid, barely sixteen when she died. Hung about with her sometimes in a big group, not that she ever noticed me.” He paused and gave a wry laugh. “You couldn’t help but notice her though. She was beautiful with long blonde hair, a tinkling laugh, and eyes that would sparkle.” He fell into a silence, and not just any silence, it was mournful.

  Gently I probed further. “Angus, did you hang about with her at the lighthouse?”

  “On one or two occasions. Moira wasn’t long into drugs before she died. They weren’t easy to get hold of back then, not here, not on Skye, but there were rumours that she was dabbling, that somehow she’d found a supplier.”

  “Do you know what kind of drugs?”

  “Again it was rumour, but I did hear mention of LSD.”

  I was surprised. “Wasn’t LSD out of fashion by then? Heroin’s more popular now.”

  “Scotland isn’t like the rest of the UK,” was his answer. “I heard it was LSD.”

  “Okay,” I conceded. “When you were with her, did you ever suspect she was high?�
�

  He shook his head. “No. Whatever she did, she didn’t do it around me.”

  I sighed. All drugs were dangerous, but LSD was one to be particularly wary of. It could cause nonstop hallucinations, and depending on the dosage, they could be either subtle or severe. If she was hanging about at the lighthouse, if she was ever high whilst she was there, she could have seen what I’d seen, what Ally had seen, she could have opened the door in her mind so wide it had been impossible to shut again.

  “The house where Moira lived, is it still there?”

  “Aye,” Mrs Ludmore said, “it’s still there.”

  “Who lives in it now?”

  “No one.”

  “It’s abandoned too?”

  “It is. There’s no shortage of houses on Skye, or land to build them on. Why live where there’s been trouble?”

  The people on Skye clearly believed in karma as much as they believed in the blue men. Superstitions and fears ran deep. But it wasn’t just here. It was everywhere I’d ever been.

  Having finished my tea, I checked my watch. It was nearly three o’ clock – the day was already on the wane. We left the Ludmores’ shortly afterwards, and they, as Mrs Grant and Mr MacIver had done, agreed that we could come back and talk to their children if it proved necessary, although Mrs Ludmore showed more reticence than the others.

  “I wish you the best,” she’d said, “in tackling what’s out there. I don’t doubt for one minute that you’re as gifted as you say, I’ve known one or two similar to you in my time, but…” and here she’d paused. “All that talk of Moira, I’m more worried now than ever. I want to protect Craig, not involve him any more in what’s happening.”

  Mr Ludmore had spoken next, his blue eyes beseeching. “What exactly is happening, do you actually have any idea? Because I’ll tell you something, I’m flummoxed. Is it a ghost? One of those who was shipwrecked, or all of them perhaps?”

  “I don’t know what it is,” I answered, standing on their doorstep, shivering with the cold. “But one thing I want you to know is I’m doing my best to find out.”

  Mrs Ludmore shuffled slightly. “It must be hard, having the sight. I wouldn’t want it.”