“You think that’s enough?” Eilidh was frowning slightly.
“I think it’s a good start. When it’s up and running as a guesthouse, that’ll be even better. Angus, if you’re in charge, it’ll be a happy place to visit.”
He flashed a shy smile at me. “I hope so.”
So did I. Balskeyne had been run as a guesthouse for a period of time too, but what was there, what had been conjured by a man if not mad at the time, certainly on the brink of madness, still remained, although in a much subdued form, Shelley the overseer, the keeper, the guardian making sure it stayed that way. I looked at Angus, still with that shy smile on his face, his red hair as scruffy as ever, and placed my trust in him too.
* * *
I was thankful for a good night’s rest, with no dreams – or none that I could remember. It wasn’t the lighthouse I drove to first; it was Moira’s house, even though all that I’d sensed there, and the image I’d seen rushing headlong towards the cliff, was residual. Moira may be at peace, but the negative energy she’d left behind needed cleansing too. The weather was on my side this time, and the sun was shining again. It’s amazing what a blue sky can do; it can lift even the dullest of hearts, inspire confidence even. Certainly I felt confident today, despite Shelley, or perhaps in spite of her.
Good thoughts form the backbone of good intent, Ness.
I ought to listen to myself and cleanse my mind too, not contribute to any negativity.
Moira’s house was easy enough to get into. Angus had secured the door he’d shoved in with his shoulder, but actually it was slightly ajar when I reached it. I was hesitant for a few seconds and shouted, “Hello, hello,” as I entered, just in case someone was in there – and it could be anyone: an estate agent perhaps, come to value it at last; a farmer checking one of his flock hadn’t raced in here for shelter during the storm and then found it couldn’t escape when the more clement weather came. No one answered, and there were few places to hide. Checking upstairs was empty too, I returned to the living room and set to work, calling on all four elements – Earth, Air, Fire and Water – to heal and to balance the house. As I’d found before, sadness was the dominant emotion, in the wake of Moira’s suicide – I had to fight hard to stop it from overwhelming me again. Afterwards, I sat in Angus’s car, in the driver’s seat, gripping the steering wheel, just staring out at the cliff top, wondering if I’d see her, the shade of Moira, in perpetual flight. But all there was on the horizon was a flock of sea birds that swooped and soared, freer than I’d ever be, as free as the dead, hopefully.
At last, I put the car into gear and drove to Minch Point Lighthouse, occupying the same parking space that Angus had when we’d visited before. Making my way to the cabin, I stopped briefly to admire a view that I hadn’t had the pleasure of seeing previously, thanks to the darkness and the weather. The sea was calm, glittering in the sunlight, and beyond it, there were silhouettes of yet more islands, Lewis and Harris, the Western Isles – their presence on the horizon mythical almost. It was so hard to believe that anything bad could taint such a hallowed spot, but looking at the cabin in front of me, and the lighthouse tower and the keeper’s quarter slightly higher on the hill, I’d better believe it, not allow myself to be fooled or sucked in.
The cabin was in worse shape than I’d realised. Its rough rendered walls had big chunks missing, and guttering hung precariously from the roof. All the windows were smashed, as if someone had diligently sat and thrown pebbles at each and every pane. It was hard to swap the majesty of the outside to venture back in there, but that’s exactly what I had to do – lay down the foundations for change.
As it was such a tiny dwelling, at least I wasn’t in the cabin for long, half an hour at most, after which I made my way up the gravel path to the main house. Like the cabin, it was painted in white with a buff trim, but coated in the grime of years, the tower that stood beside it a classic piece of maritime architecture. Again I stopped to admire it, almost defiantly this time. Built to be a guiding light, shining brighter than stars in the darkness, how could it have ever failed? It was lonely, a doomed romantic hero mourning the loss of its raison d’etre. I felt sad, sadder even than when I’d been in Moira’s bedroom. To witness such silent doom was terrible. There was no sound, nothing at all, not the crashing of the waves, or the birds as they’d screeched on that stormy night.
At the front door to where the Camerons had lived, I took all the time I needed to feel grounded, hugging my chunk of obsidian close to my heart. I was about to take a step forward when I thought I did hear something: a shuffling.
It’s probably just an animal, darting for cover.
The last thing I needed to do was let my imagination get the better of me – in this scenario it was a weapon too. There’d be some who’d argue that what was happening at the lighthouse was in fact solely the product of over-imaginative minds. I envied that view. If you held no belief in the spiritual world, could it ever harm you? The American couple that had run Balskeyne as a guesthouse might well have been protected, purely because of their disbelief. On the other hand, if you did believe, if you knew…
Deciding to stop philosophising and get on with the job, I entered the main building. All was still inside. The first thing I did was cross over to the windows, pulling aside or yanking down what curtains remained. The difference was immediate – the gloom losing some of its opaqueness. I tried to open the windows next, but they were all stuck and, unlike at the cabin, the glass panes were intact. Deciding to rectify that, I picked up a stool and, utilising one of its wooden legs, took great delight in smashing a few. I really wouldn’t consider myself a vandal, but there’s a saying: needs must when the devil drives. It was essential to change the air inside this place, not let it fester any longer.
Having done all this, it was time to begin the ritual cleansing, again harnessing the power of the natural elements, which were so abundant on Skye. Kicking a tide of debris out of my way as I walked, I was surprised not just how calm I was, but at how calm it was in the lodgings too. Things were different in daylight; I knew that, but so different?
Visualising myself as well as this entire structure at Minch Point blanketed in a white glow, I practised the symbol of Cho Ku Rei, enticing the power of the universe to enter this domain, to reside here, and for balance to be restored. Throughout the entire area downstairs I practised this symbol, feeling the power of my energy, and how it flowed, creating another shield against the threat of attack. Having finished downstairs, I climbed the stairs, any trepidation I harboured successfully packaged up and stowed away. I repeated the process in the main bedroom, Niall’s bedroom, and finally headed to Caitir’s bedroom. My breathing still deep and even, I pushed the door wider, Cho Ku Rei, Cho Ku Rei repeating in a loop in my mind. It was so quiet inside, the curtains closed at the window, which I opened straightaway. Rather than break another windowpane, I struggled with the sash. Eventually I managed to open it an inch or two, imagining fresh air like a Pac-Man, rushing in, and devouring all that was stale. I turned around and walked to the centre of the room. There were several candle stubs on the floor, along with glass jars that had once housed them, most broken, but some intact. There was general litter too, left behind from many teenage gatherings, even an item of clothing – a girl’s red cardigan – which I picked up and handled, checking for any vibes that might still cling to it. There were none and so I dropped it.
Benign; it was all quite benign.
Chanting out loud, I called on the universe to work with me, not against me. If black magic had been practised here, then white magic was going to cancel it out.
“And soon there’ll be life here again, lots of energy, love and laughter. Because of that, any negativity will diminish, become insubstantial. Whatever you are, I’m not afraid of you, I’m the antithesis of you, and my word is true. You do not belong here in any significance. If you’ve been conjured by vain, inglorious men, I’m sorry for that. But you cannot stay.”
R
esolutely, I stood there – a lone challenger. If it attacked, if it tried to force-feed me a diet of terrible visions designed to bring me to knees, it wouldn’t work. Last time I hadn’t known that would happen. This time I’d closed my mind against such infiltration. My lack of fear would be the thing that would frustrate it, that and my belief in myself. I could do this. That was the entire reason I possessed this gift – to help. If I could help, it made sense of it; it helped me to cope with how different I was.
Different?
Ness, shut up, don’t think anymore…
It had to be the reason – if not, then why? So much persecution it had cost me, by strangers as well as those that were supposed to love me, my family…
Ness!
But it was true; I had been persecuted. Only now, in my mid-twenties, was I coming into my own, doing things like this, standing in an abandoned house, one that was reputedly haunted, the smell of something sickly sweet in the air, the haven of mice, rats, spiders – and me. It was laughable, so damned funny, so why wasn’t I smiling?
You’d think I’d be smiling.
NESS!
I blinked, came to, shaking my head vigorously. What had just happened to me? I’d gone into a reverie of some kind, negative thoughts doing their utmost to entrap me.
Breathing slowly in and out, I clenched and unclenched my fists. This thing, it was clever, I’d give it that. It was canny.
“Even so, I’m not frightened of you,” I reiterated, “or the games that you play, because that’s all they are. And all games must come to an end.”
Laughter! I definitely heard laughter. Was someone here after all?
I darted forward in the direction I’d heard it – the hallway – and looked from side to side.
Breathe, Ness. Keep your cool.
In case someone was hiding – someone living that is – I called out, just as I’d done in Moira’s house. “Is there anyone here?”
No reply, but my sense that someone was spying on me intensified.
“If there is, show yourself!”
And have a good laugh at my expense. How can I blame you? Look how stupid I am, an idiot, trying to face a demon on my own, to fight it. How can I ever hope to succeed, when I’m just as bad? When I’m a demon too? I’d have to be to do what I did, to cause so much shame, more than I’d caused already. Officially mad, that’s what I was. How can I continue to deny it? I’m not worthy. I’m a freak. I’m the one who should be banished.
As though I’d received a blow to the stomach, I doubled over, the bitterness of bile scorching my throat. I hadn’t been physically attacked, but I almost wished I had, it would be far easier to bear. Those thoughts, they weren’t mine, surely they weren’t. They’d simply formed in my head, sentences running on and on, crashing into one another. I had to get out. There was nothing benign about this place, or what was in it.
Oh, look, poor me, feeling sorry for myself, I can’t seem to stop. I’m always feeling sorry for myself, I’m such a victim, such a martyr, a curse, and an abomination. I can’t even bear to think of what I did, to acknowledge it. And at such a young age too. Thirteen, only thirteen. Of course it would have to be: a cursed age for a cursed child.
Doing my utmost to straighten up, I ran for the stairs, practically blind with tears. I only wished I could shut off my hearing too, silence that laughter, which wasn’t mine, but was so like mine. I could hear it still and knew without doubt it would soon turn to wailing – something I couldn’t bear to hear, not again, not after I’d tried for so long to shut it out.
“You’re dead,” I hissed, “you and mum both.”
At the top of the stairs I hesitated. Was there someone at the bottom, a crone-like figure, staring up at me? I wiped at my eyes. Although I’d torn the curtains down, although it was barely noon, there was so much darkness – obscuring the figure, or hiding it. One minute it was there, the next it wasn’t. Would it reappear when I got halfway? Would it fly at me, and smother me with the weight of hell as I lay screaming?
I had to control my imagination. There’s nothing there, nothing!
Why am I denying it? Why am I pretending? For so long, I used to say the same thing: there’s nothing there, nothing. Try and convince myself. But there always was. Always. ‘Only a witch can see what you can see, an evil, stinking witch.’ That’s what she told me once, that bitch of a mother, that crone. ‘And you know what happens to witches, don’t you? No? Well you should. We rid the world of them. We don’t want them.’
“For God’s sake, stop this,” I cry, feeling in the grip of madness more than I ever had. The laughter was changing, just as it had done in my dream last night, no longer soft and sweet, it was becoming more stilted, a sob creeping in, becoming more pronounced.
If I stayed here…
I couldn’t. It knew my weakness too well.
Having checked the bottom of the stairs again, that there was no one lurking, I practically threw myself down the steps, praying I wouldn’t fall, land in a heap and injure myself. If I did, I really would be at the mercy of what was here. It could toy with me further, take its time, and really enjoy the game. Thankfully, I reached the bottom in one piece, refusing to look anywhere but ahead, hurtling myself forward as the wailing began.
Pain shot through my fragile heart.
At the front door, I grabbed the handle and yanked it open. Again, I couldn’t believe what I was seeing: the weather, so beautiful before, had turned – either mourning alongside me or mocking me. Such hard rain they have in Scotland, the clouds closing in, encircling me – a shield wall, so much more effective than the one I’d built.
The car, I had to find it, get out of here, and not be stranded. The thought of being stranded…
Coward. I can add that to my list of glowing attributes. I’m a born coward.
I wouldn’t listen anymore, I refused to – those were not my thoughts, they were being planted in my head. Or were they? Because I had thought along those lines before, many times, thoughts like that had once plagued me. I pressed forwards through the rain, my eyes peeled for the car. Where the heck was it? A little green Fiesta, not new, but as scruffy as anything, as its owner. Would Angus be safe here in the future, the guardian of Minch Point Lighthouse? Would anyone? There it was! The car hadn’t been spirited away as I’d half-expected, it was where I’d left it. I felt in my pocket for the key, found the chunk of obsidian, retrieved it and held it to my chest again, drawing what comfort I could, but it was the key I needed. That was in the other pocket. Thank God.
In the car, it took several attempts to insert the key into the ignition, my hands were shaking so much, but finally I succeeded. Quickly putting it into reverse, I pressed my foot to the floor, the tyres screeching. Back on the road, I drove away, taking bends and corners at the speed only a native would. As I drove, another thought occurred, this one very much my own: the cabin, the gravel path leading up to the house, the west-facing house, and the isolated location: it had exactly the same qualities as Balskeyne.
Thirteen Chapter Eighteen
If I’d hoped to find respite at Eilidh’s house, I was wrong. As soon as I entered the front door, I sensed commotion, even a non-psychic would have been able to – the atmosphere so tense you could slice through it with a knife. Hurrying up the hallway, I heard voices coming from the dining room, several of them, speaking in hushed but agitated tones. Sure enough, when I stood at the threshold, I found not just Eilidh and Angus in situ; Craig’s father, Mr Ludmore, was also present and another man, that I hadn’t yet met.
Seeing me, Angus shot to his feet. “Ness! You’re all right! I was about to borrow Ben’s car and drive out to the lighthouse to look for you.”
“I… erm… who’s Ben?” I asked.
The man who was a stranger to me stood too. “That’s me, Ben Mowbray, I’m Amy’s father, one of the teenagers who was at the lighthouse the night something happened to Ally, happened to them all. The thing is, Ally’s taken a turn for the worse. She an
d her parents are at the medical centre in Broadford, waiting to be taken to Raigmore on the mainland. That’s when they can move Ally that is.”
“When? Why? How has she got worse?” My own predicament shelved, I wanted to know as much as possible. “When did she deteriorate?”
“Sit down, lass.” It was Eilidh. “You looked flummoxed enough when you entered the room, let alone after. We’ll tell you everything and then… we’ll decide what to do about it.”
What had happened was even worse than I thought. Molly had heard banging and crashing coming from Ally’s room, not an unusual occurrence – she’d already told us that Ally was sometimes given to fits of rage – but this time it was accompanied with the most terrible screaming. Her husband was at home too and both of them rushed upstairs to find out what was happening. Ally hadn’t barricaded herself in this time; on the contrary, she’d left the door open. They rushed inside and that’s when Ally attacked them. She had a knife, which she managed to stab her mother with before her father got her under control.
“She stabbed her mother?” I gasped. “How badly is she hurt?”
“Not badly, thank goodness,” Ben replied. “It’s an arm wound, but she’ll be going to Raigmore for treatment nonetheless. I live along the road from them; I was passing, on my way to the village, when I heard the commotion. After having to bash the front door down, I raced up the stairs, made my way to where all the noise was coming from and I’ll tell you, the sight that met me… All I could do for a few seconds was stand and stare.” He shook his head, clearly still in shock. “They were always such a normal family, the Dunns, a nice family, you know? What’s happened to them, to all of our kids? I don’t understand it. In Ally’s room, the walls were covered in the number thirteen. She’d written it everywhere. I’ve heard that some of the others have done that too, och, not on the walls or anything, but on paper. They sit there and they write it over and over. It’s like they’re obsessed.”
Psychic Surveys Companion Novels Page 29
