Psychic Surveys Companion Novels

by Shani Struthers

  “I don’t have any choice,” was my reply.

  “Aye, I don’t suppose you do.”

  Finally on our way again, I checked my watch a second time.

  “What’s worrying you?” Angus said, as we sat in the car, the heater turned up high.

  “The light and how it’s fading.”

  “It is. It’ll be full dark soon.”

  “I’m wondering what to do next, find McCarron, go to the graveyard, or visit Moira’s house.”

  “Moira’s house?” he visibly jolted at that. “Why?”

  “Because the Camerons disappearance and her suicide might be linked.”

  “I don’t see how.”

  “Nor do I, but there’s only one way to find out.”

  “Moira’s dead,” he muttered.

  “And guess who can speak with the dead? Come on, then. Moira’s house it is.”

  Thirteen Chapter Twelve

  The further we drove, the harder it rained – battering the windscreen and the side windows, as if livid at what we were doing: stirring things up further.

  “So come on,” Angus said, squinting as he drove. “What’s your theory regarding Moira?”

  I angled my head to look at him. “Angus, you seem slightly het up about my decision to go to Moira’s house. Were you fond of her by any chance?”

  “I told you, she was bonny.”

  “You fancied her, you mean.”

  Briefly he looked at me, his cheeks matching his hair. “You’re incredibly blunt, do you know that?”

  “And you’re transparent.”

  “That’s as maybe.”

  I tried unsuccessfully to suppress a smile. “So it’s true, you did?”

  He snorted. “I don’t know what red-blooded Scotsman wouldn’t.”

  “Redheaded and red-blooded? An explosive combination,” I remarked.

  He smiled too this time. “Aye, well, maybe you’ll find out one day.”

  “Let’s focus on Moira, shall we? Do you have a picture of her?”

  He shook his head. “No, more’s the pity. I’d have liked a picture, but it doesn’t matter, not really, I remember her as though I can see her still.” Once again he described her hair, her eyes, the angel that she was, in his eyes as well as in her parents’.

  “But she had a wild streak?”

  “She was fun,” he insisted. “Old people often confuse the two.”

  “Drugs aren’t necessarily fun.” I might sound like a maiden aunt rather than a young woman, but drugs were taking it one step too far, especially in the circumstances.

  “The drugs may have had nothing to do with her suicide,” he replied, just as insistent. “If that’s what it was.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “It could have been an accident. She could have gone walking too close to the edge, the cliffs round here give way sometimes, and crumble. It’s so hard to believe she’d kill herself; she was always so full of life. It wasn’t just me who adored her, everyone did.”

  “Did you see her towards the end, when she’d supposedly changed?”

  “No.” With that he emitted a heavy sigh. “Tell me, how does anyone get that low?”

  “They just do,” I replied, as he brought the car to a stop. Switching off the engine, he sat where he was, staring blindly ahead. “Are you okay?” I asked.

  “I’m fine. We’re here. This is it.”

  “Really?” I said, squinting as he’d done earlier.

  “You can barely see her house in this weather, but it’s there, a few yards away.”

  Back on the coast, the weather was as wild as it had been the previous night – another storm riding in angrily on the shoulders of the last one. The thought of getting out of the car and exploring didn’t exactly appeal, but if I waited for the weather to clear, I might be waiting until springtime. He seemed to read my mind.

  “It’s now or never,” he said. “This is settling in for the night.”

  “I don’t know how you stand it really, such awful weather, such a lot of the time.”

  A smile dissolved all worry from his face. “You stand it because when the sun does shine, there’s no better place on earth to be. The big sky, the mountains that surround you, the sheer space that’s here, and even weather like this. It’s an extension of the landscape. It’s magical and alive. Aye, that’s what draws you back, what keeps you here – some of us anyway – the magic of it all.”

  “The magic?” I repeated, feeling even colder than I had before.

  “That’s right,” he continued, oblivious to my sudden change of tone, “it gets in your blood. You become a part of it; it becomes a part of you. Man and his surrounds meld.”

  “I need to get out. I need to breathe.”

  “Ness?”

  I was being serious – I did need to breathe. Fresh air, cold air, I wanted to stand in the rain, and get soaked to the skin. Outside, where just a minute or two ago I’d baulked at being, suddenly felt wonderful. Breathing deeply, I tilted my head and let the rain plaster my hair to my face, let it wash over me. I understood what he was saying about magic, but there was good magic and there was bad magic, white and black. In such a beautiful place, something ugly had reared its head. And it wasn’t to do with the spirit world. Suddenly I understood that. There was no point in going to Kilchoan Cemetery to stand over a slab of stone. The ghosts of those who’d been shipwrecked weren’t responsible for this, perhaps not even forlorn Moira. What was responsible was something infinitely darker. Despite that, our trip to the deceased girl’s house hadn’t been in vain. Even if Moira’s spirit had flown – and I sincerely hoped it had – the emotions she’d experienced just before she’d fallen to her death, whilst she’d fallen, were certain to have left behind a residue – and that might give me an insight into whether her death had been accidental or intentional. If the latter, she’d have been in agony. No one contemplates his or her own demise without being in agony. So what had been the cause of it?

  Angus had joined me. “Ness, did I say something—”

  “Let’s go.”

  “Where?”

  “To the house and then the cliff tops.”

  “The cliff tops, in this weather? Are you mad?”

  I ignored his warning and started to walk, having to fight the wind that wanted so desperately to spin me round and send me the other way. There were no other houses nearby; Moira’s stood quite alone. Once again, it was the perfect breeding ground. At the house I peered through the broken window into a dark and abandoned interior. A haven for spiders and other wildlife perhaps, but all furniture, all personal belongings, gone.

  “Can you get the door open?” Like last night I had to shout to be heard.

  “That’ll be breaking and entering!” Angus declared.

  “I need to get in there.”

  “Shit. Well… okay.”

  Although reluctant he obliged, heaving his shoulder against it. Come on, come on, I silently urged. Thankfully, it didn’t take long to give way. Standing aside, he let me enter first and then followed, shaking the rain from him as a dog might, sending droplets flying.

  “I hope this is going to be worth it,” he continued in a peevish manner.

  “Angus,” I explained, “this is a puzzle. My job is to fit all the pieces together, to solve it.”

  “It’s your mission, you mean.”

  “Don’t split hairs, it’s the same thing. Just let me tune in.”

  His eyes widened. “You really think Moira might still be here?”

  “What might be left is a trace of her emotions, her thoughts and her feelings. They’re energy too and energy takes time to dissipate.”

  “It’s been nearly eight years!”

  “A long time, I agree. And yet, in some respects, it’s no time at all. Angus, please, I need to concentrate.”

  Still sullen, he fell silent. Immediately, I closed my eyes, breathed deeply and imagined the light, and the protection it would give me.

  M
oira, are you here? You don’t know me, but I know of you – what a lovely, young, spirited girl you were in life and that towards the end of that life you were troubled. What was it that upset you? Was it enough for you to take your own life? I’m here to help, Moira, not just you, but also others on the island who are living still, and who may be suffering as you once did. If you’re here, come forward and let me know.

  As I’ve said, I wanted Moira to have passed, I’d be glad if she’d escaped her torment, but I was also desperate for some answers. The cottage, however, was benign enough, even in the failing light, no residue tinged with darkness, not downstairs at least. And not upstairs either, I discovered, although in her bedroom my emotional state became somewhat altered: I felt sad, tearful, bewildered and angry, emotions I was familiar with, but which this time weren’t mine.

  Did you see something at the lighthouse, Moira? Visions.

  And if she had, had they driven her out of her house, to the cliff tops, over the grassy edge and into the sea below – where the storm kelpies were waiting oh so patiently?

  I turned to Angus. “Show me where she died.”

  “I’ll take you as close as I dare, but please, listen to me when I say to go no further.”

  I nodded in agreement. I knew about spiritual perils, he knew about the perils of his home turf – I respected that.

  Leaving the cottage behind, Angus securing the door as best he could, we battled our way forwards yet again, heads down, hands in pockets, struggling but determined – at least I was. I could feel it. The closer I got to the cliff’s edge, the more intense it became – a battle of another kind: Moira’s against whatever it was that had launched an attack. Because that’s what it had done, as it had with me and with Ally too. As I’d suspected, she’d opened the door in her mind a little too wide. Her dabbling with LSD had left her vulnerable and this thing liked vulnerable, it fed on vulnerable.

  Another vision came to mind – Moira rushing as we were rushing. She was alongside us, a pale image, her shoulders hunched as ours were hunched, her sobs choking her.

  Oh, Moira!

  I wanted to reach out and hug this tortured young woman, but she was no more than a wisp, a mere memory caught on the breeze.

  I’m so sorry for what happened to you.

  Tears stung my eyes just as the rain did.

  “This is as far as it’s safe to go.” Angus’s voice startled me. For a moment I’d forgotten he was there. “Unless that is, you want to end up like Moira.”

  I shook my head. “I don’t.”

  Standing still, I forced myself to watch what transpired next, heard the words she was screaming in her head. No! No! No! I won’t do it, I won’t. You can’t make me. You can’t.

  Do what?

  “Moira!” I yelled, but it wasn’t her, it was a shade rushing ever onwards, no stopping, no stumbling, with no hesitation at all.

  Angus grabbed me by the shoulders, his expression pained too. “Is she here? Is Moira still here?”

  “No, Angus, she’s gone. Just be thankful she has.”

  Thirteen Chapter Thirteen…

  Thirteen Chapter Fourteen

  Was death the only way to stop these attacks? If so, Ally and her parents were in more danger than I thought, with that danger increasing by the day. Back at Angus’s house, both the night and the storm were in full bloom as we gathered round the dining table, Eilidh serving dinner, whilst I discussed with them the significance of the number thirteen.

  “I think it stems back to the last supper,” Eilidh said, ladling a generous serving of macaroni cheese onto my plate. “There’s some honeyed neeps to go with it too. Dig in.”

  “Do you mean Jesus and his disciples?” asked Angus, also digging in. “Twelve disciples plus Jesus sitting down to eat for the last time, equals unlucky.”

  Eilidh took her seat too. “Well, it was, wasn’t it? Judas was the thirteenth member of the party to arrive and because of him Jesus was crucified.”

  We both nodded, unable to argue with that.

  “But actually, the number thirteen is significant throughout the Bible,” she stated. “I can’t remember everything I’ve ever heard, who can? But, Angus, I discussed this very topic with your father once, way before the game started at the lighthouse.” Having finished a mouthful of food, she looked at me. “Kenneth was very knowledgeable, he used to spend a lot of time reading. I think it’s lovely when a man reads. I wish our son took after him a bit more in that respect.”

  “Och,” Angus dismissed. “I read enough.”

  “You do not, and that’s a fact,” retorted Eilidh, but it was a good-natured jibe. “According to Kenneth, there were thirteen famines in the bible, and in one of the gospels, Jesus mentions thirteen things that defile a person, the evil eye being one of them! Can you imagine? What else did he say? Erm… something about the Book of Revelation, that its thirteenth chapter is reserved for Satan.” She shrugged, nonchalantly I thought considering the subject. “So you see, just like 666, thirteen has its connotations.”

  She was right and it was in that very chapter that God had indeed numbered the beast 666. In contrast, seven was the number of perfection, re-emphasising the former as something flawed or incomplete – to the power of three.

  “Then there’s King Arthur,” Eilidh informed us. “He fought twelve battles successfully, but during the thirteenth was mortally wounded. As for Merlin, he spent years searching for the Thirteen Treasures of Britain. Meant to be wielded by the righteous and the brave, woe betide they should fall into the wrong hands, which of course they did.’

  As she spoke, my frustration grew. Numerology was a vast and complex subject, it’d take years of study to understand more than the basics.

  “Have you got a library on Skye?” I asked, wondering if I could at least get started.

  “A mobile one,” answered Eilidh, “it’s not due for a couple more weeks though.”

  Silently I cursed. The basics would have to do.

  “You know I’ve heard tell,” Eilidh had got the bit between the teeth, “that in some hotels there’s no thirteenth floor, not officially anyway, they go straight from twelve to fourteen. Silly if you ask me, if it’s there, what’s the point in pretending?” She sipped some water. “Also, some streets don’t have a number thirteen either. As for Friday the thirteenth…”

  “Of course!” I reply. “Friday the thirteenth, they’ve even made slasher films about it, reinforcing the taboo.”

  “Have you seen those films, Ness?” Angus asked. “They’re pretty good.”

  “No, I haven’t. They really don’t appeal.”

  “Michael Myers a bit much for you, is he?”

  “Get your films right, Angus. Michael Myers was in Halloween.”

  “Oh damn, was he?”

  “He is, but then… Halloween falls on the 31st October. That’s thirteen backwards.”

  “So it is,” Angus said, almost in wonder. “I’d never considered that. And in a witches’ coven, there’s always thirteen, isn’t there?” The expression on my face clearly gave him cause for concern. “It’s a rhetorical question,” he added. “I’m not asking you specifically.” Before I could smile to show I’d been joking, he rushed on. “I’ll tell you something else, something I learnt in school. You think there are twelve signs of the zodiac, don’t you?”

  I was confused. “That’s because there are.”

  “Aye, but there are thirteen constellations. One got ditched – Ophiuchus – because when the Babylonians invented the calendar over three thousand years ago, they based it on twelve months only. Perhaps they were suspicious about the number thirteen too?”

  I shook my head, also in wonder: I hadn’t been taught anything that cool in school.

  “’I worked out once upon a time,” Angus continued, “that if we had thirteen months as the zodiac suggests, we’d end up with a perfect twenty-eight day month, every month. Mind you, having a birthday in the thirteenth month, I’m not actually sure I’
d fancy it.”

  Lucky for some, it was unlucky for others – myself included once upon a time.

  We’d finished eating, but Eilidh still looked thoughtful. I gazed at her curiously, trying to catch what was on her mind. Sometimes I could do that, read thoughts, but it was a developing skill, and one I hadn’t quite got to grips with yet. I took the easy route, and asked her outright instead. “Eilidh, has something else occurred to you?”

  “Aye, something that Kenneth and I mused upon if you like, when we first found out the kids were playing that game at the lighthouse. He was very protective was Kenneth, Angus is our only son and we waited a long time for him.” At this she smiled indulgently, which he, like only the very loved can, rolled his eyes at. “He never liked them doing it,” she confided, “used to get agitated, whereas I said it was just a bit of harmless fun. More fool me. I’m not sure who liked to think they invented the game, do you, Angus?”

  “No idea. It was just something that… came into being.”

  “Well, whoever it was, maybe they knew about One Hundred Ghost Stories, which is a centuries old Japanese tradition.”

  “One hundred ghost stories?” Angus spluttered. “That’d take forever! Thirteen was sometimes bad enough, especially whenever Maire MacTavish was involved. I’ve told you about her, haven’t I, Ness, the romance writer, the one that went on and on?”

  “Yes, you have,” I answered, before turning to Eilidh. “What’s this tradition? I’d love to hear about it.”

  “A group of people sit in a circle, up to one hundred in number, a candle placed before them. It’s not a game, but a ritual. I can’t remember the Japanese name for it, but Kenneth would. They’d tell a story, blow out the candle, counting all the way to one hundred. Once it’s done, and they’re in complete darkness, a ghost is supposed to appear in the middle of the circle. See? It’s just the same really. The same principle anyway.”

  “Know any horror stories attached to that particular practice?” Angus asked his mother.

  “No, laddie, of course I don’t. Why would I? I just know of it, that’s all, thanks to your very well read dad. What I was wondering is, if whoever started the game at the lighthouse knew of the ritual, if it was their inspiration?”