Psychic Surveys Companion Novels

by Shani Struthers

  Rosamund, you must at least try!

  Heeding my own instruction, I began to run, but the path ahead was far from clear – it was strewn with tree stumps and branches. My foot snagging on something, I felt myself topple, certain that as I hit the ground the tendrils would have formed a mass all of their own; that they would fall upon me to either devour or suffocate me.

  “Help!” I screamed again, but in complete despair. Who was there to help me? Who was there to even believe me? This was nonsense, pure imagination… or madness. Indeed, it might be that.

  “Miss! Miss! You’re safe. Take my hand.”

  More bewildered than ever, I looked up. There, in front of me was Josie, her red hair still tucked beneath her cap; a shawl covering her thin shoulders.

  “Josie, what—?”

  “Come on, miss. Let me help.”

  I reached up. Her hand, as it took mine, was so small, but it was warm; that registered straight away, and I was entirely glad of it.

  Back on my feet, I fixed my eyes ahead, only ahead, refusing to glance behind me. Josie, it seemed, did the same. I offered no explanation as to why I had fallen and she offered none as to why she was so deep in the woods. She simply put her arm around my shoulders and, because of the pain in my knee where I had fallen and struck the ground, I leant against her. Together we limped back to the house.

  Rosamund Chapter Eight

  The cut on my knee was worse than I had realised. Once inside Mears House, we hurried to the drawing room. Ordinarily, I supposed we would have gone to the kitchen. Josie had indeed suggested that, for after all, water would be more readily available there, but I had refused. I had no wish to see Miss Tiggs; to witness a face that could not care less that I had hurt myself, or that I had been so frightened. But Josie cared – her expression made that known. Even when she sat me down on the sofa, she would not let me go, her grip on my shoulders remaining firm.

  “All is well, Josie,” I tried to assure her, “but if you could bring me some rags, it will help to stem the bleeding. Silly me,” I muttered. “I am so clumsy.”

  “You’re no such thing,” was her response before she left me at last, returning promptly with not just a collection of rags stuffed into the pocket of her apron but a bowl of fresh water, which she held between her hands, as though it were a sacred chalice. She laid it upon the table, having to push aside my sketches to do so. Again I noticed her glance at them, her hand moving one or two in order to gain a closer view.

  “Did you tell Miss Tiggs of my accident?” I enquired as she knelt in front of me, lifted my skirt above my knee and gently removed my stocking. I flinched as she had to peel it where skin and wool had melded, but her hand was steady as she worked diligently away. When it was done, the green of her eyes met the dark of mine.

  “What did happen, miss?”

  “What where you doing in the woods?”

  She laughed a little and I did too when I realised how absurd we sounded - meeting each other’s question with one of our own. At this rate we would accomplish nothing!

  Having bandaged my knee, Josie turned to stoke the fire. Even so, there was still such a chill in my bones. As the flames began roaring I decided to answer her question, although in truth I was not entirely sure where to begin.

  “I had simply gone for a walk, just to the woods, where I often go.”

  Josie nodded her head at my words, rising to stand before me.

  “Please,” I insisted. “Take a seat.”

  Obliging, she perched on the chair opposite.

  I took a deep breath, still with no clue as to how I should explain what had happened. I winced inwardly, unsure if I wanted to remember, and then, quite suddenly, as though my lips were as strong-willed as Constance’s, words poured from me.

  “There was a mist; I could see it clearly hanging over the trees, and then it was somehow in the trees, curling around the branches – little wisps, tendrils, as I thought of them.” I shook my head. “Or a lover’s hand, but one with cruelty in it, because quickly they began to grasp and snatch; darting here and there as if searching. The more I stared, transfixed, the more defined in shape and substance they became. So many tendrils. They grew darker and darker, not like mist at all now, but something else; something abhorrent. They congealed – that is the only description I have – to form something separate, and I knew… I knew that if I continued to stare at them, if I grew even more frightened, they would turn their focus on me rather than the trees.”

  I had begun to sob – loud wracking sobs that may have had my father come running had he been home to witness this commotion. Thankfully, only Josie and I were in the house, and Miss Tiggs of course, but she could not hear, being far away in the kitchen. Even if she had, she would ignore me and continue to sit by the fireside, supping her beer and warming her over-inflated body, thinking nothing of it.

  “I am sorry, so sorry. I do not understand why I am suddenly overcome.”

  “There, there, miss.”

  Josie’s sweet words only made me cry more and so she stopped, waiting for the outpouring to run its course. When at last it did, she handed me another rag so that I might blow my nose. I apologised again as I wiped my eyes.

  “When you…” Josie hesitated, her eyes downcast for a moment, her teeth gnawing at her lip. She took a deep breath before continuing. “How were you feeling when you saw what you did?” She tapped at her chest. “In here, I mean.”

  “Well…” I tried to remember. “Scared. Of course I was scared. I have never witnessed such a thing before. And sad, definitely sad.”

  “Why sad, miss?”

  “Because…” Was there shame in admitting it? “I felt that no one loved me… my Father…”

  “What else?”

  “What else?” I queried. Was this not enough? “I felt… I felt… angry.”

  “Just angry?”

  I shook my head, confused by her intent to probe deeper and deeper. And then I realised, it was more than anger that I had been feeling; it was rage, it was bewilderment; it was loneliness and it was terror. They were all there within me, even when I was unable to acknowledge them – when I refused to – bubbling below the surface. Extreme emotions, negative emotions; they characterised me.

  There was realisation on Josie’s face also.

  “That’s why you saw what you did, miss,” she said before slowly rising to her feet, touching me lightly on the shoulder and seemingly drifting from the room.

  I did not call her back; I did not ask that she elaborate. There was no necessity.

  I knew what she meant.

  * * *

  “Rosamund! Rosamund!”

  I awoke to my name being used; a whispered sound, but urgent. I had been deep in sleep and I struggled to lift my head, turning towards the voice.

  “Father? Is that you?”

  There was indeed a figure sitting on a chair in my bedroom; a hazy outline, almost as black as the room itself. The figure was perfectly still, staring at me.

  The sight gave me the impetus required to push myself up into a sitting stance.

  “Father?” I said, trying to make sense of what was going on; to remember the events that had led me here.

  I had fallen in the woods, hurt my leg, and then later on, had sat for hours by the fireside, Josie bringing me some food from the kitchen, although I was uninterested in it and had pushed it aside. All this had happened yesterday after… after I had seen something. When she had returned with my food, Josie had sat with me again, her presence such a comfort. We did not talk as we had talked earlier; there was simply no need; we understood each other, she and I, although how that could be, I was quite unsure. But there was a new ease between us and I felt happier to know she lived at Mears House too – the house and I both benefited from her presence.

  But this presence – the one who had come into my room; who sat and stared at me; who whispered my name – made the house feel dour again; chilled.

  With a speed that was p
reternatural, the figure rose from the chair and arrived by my side, bending over me; forcing me to lie back down.

  Was it a dream? Another nightmare? I had so many nightmares; sometimes they plagued me. Little wonder, I supposed – this lonely house, hidden as it was, was a house that bred nightmares.

  I could bear it no longer. I closed my eyes, screwed them up tight, wishing I could somehow shut off my other senses too.

  Whisky – it has such a sour smell.

  That alone confirmed the identity of the figure. When had he returned? Certainly, I had retired to bed later than usual and there had been no sign of him.

  How I wished I could scream, for Josie; for some sort of protection. But there was nothing and no one.

  “Father?” I tried so hard to disguise the whimper in my voice.

  “Like her,” he slurred. “You are so like her.”

  “Who?”

  “She taunted me. As do you.”

  “Father, I am tired. Yesterday I had an accident you see—”

  “It shall not happen again.”

  Despite myself I was curious. “What, Father?”

  “I shall make sure of it.”

  “I am not sure I understand what you mean.”

  “Arthur says to tread carefully, that you could go the same way. But all is well for Arthur; all is not well for me. Arthur be damned!”

  His hand shot out, a blackened thing, to grab me by the shoulder. His grip was tight at first and I flinched, but then it grew looser. This brought only temporary relief, however, as something more alarming began to occur. With his fingers, he stroked the cotton of my nightshift, and his mouth came even closer.

  “So like her,” he continued to murmur. “So like her.”

  “Father, please…” I found myself begging yet again. “I really am so very tired. I was trying to tell you that I fell in the woods yesterday and hurt my knee. Josie was very kind, she tended to me, but it is still sore, Father. Father, stop, let me go!”

  I slapped his hand away from me and with my legs pushed myself backwards out of the bed, falling to the floor.

  “Come here, you little wretch,” he called. “You are mine to do with as I wish.”

  Quickly, I got to my feet, and as I did, Father hurled himself at me.

  I had to defend myself; drink had turned him into a beast, the worst I had ever seen him, and although the darkness cloaked his eyes, I could sense well enough the intent in them. Thankfully, I was close to the fireside. I lunged towards it, snatching up the black iron poker and brandishing it in front of me.

  “Stay away! I beg you. Just… stay away.”

  He came to a halt. “You would dare to strike me?” he questioned, such cruel laughter in his voice.

  “You would dare to touch me?” I said, determined that he would not.

  Again there was a peel of laughter, but I noticed he did not move further. In truth he could have torn that poker from my hand quite effortlessly.

  “Father, the whisky; I think it has taken its toll on you tonight.”

  “Oh? You are now an expert on such matters, are you?”

  “I do not wish to fight. I just want to be left alone to sleep.”

  “What is it about you, Rosamund? What was it about her?”

  His words were such a mystery to me.

  “Why do you deny it? WHY?”

  As he screamed at me, my legs threatened to buckle.

  “You would do better to put that poker down.”

  If there had been any respite from his approach, it was now over. He was advancing on me again and even with a weapon in hand, I felt defenseless.

  Tears began to fall from my eyes as I first held up the poker, and then lowered it. I could not hit out. It was not in me to do so. I knew then I was a victim – his victim.

  “That is better. Much, much better,” his voice had taken on a soothing quality that made my skin crawl. “If you would only do as instructed, Rosamund, all will be well.”

  His breath, oh his breath! I turned my head to the side as the poker dropped from my hand and crashed to the floor; repulsed by it, by him. In me there was only resignation as I succumbed to whatever my fate should be.

  Only resignation, Rosamund?

  As his hands grabbed my shoulders again, as he dragged me closer to him, I remembered my conversation with Josie. She was quite right. There was not only resignation in me, or fear. She had made me realise this. There existed a whole host of emotions, and of these, my rage at least matched his.

  I allowed it to rise upwards; indeed I coaxed it to crawl out of whatever recess it lurked in. I allowed it the freedom to conquer all other emotions; to drown them out entirely. I focused not on Father’s hands as they began to paw at me, but on my anger. It was a living thing, I was sure of it; a thing apart. It had such energy!

  I heard it first – the rattling.

  And then he heard it.

  Both our heads turned towards the door.

  “Josie?” I breathed.

  “Who is that?” Father questioned, becoming stockstill.

  Still the rattling continued, reminding me of how it did that on occasions when I was in the attic. I had always presumed it was Father coming to find me, but only daring to venture so far. I was safe in the attic, but not safe here, in my bedroom. This time it was clearly not him, but if it were Josie or Miss Tiggs surely they would call out or announce themselves. Next came a banging – a fierce banging, like so many fists pummelling, pummelling – and the door shuddered in its frame as a consequence. Whoever was responsible would come tearing in soon, surely, having torn it off its hinges. Though alarmed, I was grateful for the sudden commotion and for how it had distracted the man grabbing at me. It had caused him to step away from me, his breathing coming in short sharp gasps, his chest heaving.

  “What the devil?” he was saying. “What is it? What have you done, Rosamund?”

  What had I done? Nothing! I had done absolutely nothing.

  As abruptly as the rattling had started, it stopped.

  I said not a word, and nor did Father. We stood there for an age; mute.

  Eventually he turned towards me, making an attempt with shaking hands to straighten his cravat. “We are to return to London.”

  “When?” was all I could think to ask.

  “We shall leave tomorrow.”

  Having informed me of this, he left my side and returned to the door, reached for the handle and tentatively opened it. As he did so, I flinched and I am certain he must have done the same, myself half expecting more of those tendrils to come pouring through; to grab me as Father had grabbed me, and this time there would be no escape. When nothing of the sort occurred; when all that met us was the darkness of the landing beyond, his sigh of relief was as audible as mine. Before he disappeared out of sight, however, he stopped, once more a hazy distant figure.

  “Arthur be damned,” he repeated. “It is time.”

  Rosamund Chapter Nine

  Tired and bewildered I rose early that morning, retrieving my suitcase from my wardrobe and laying it upon the bed. I had not managed to sleep a wink after Father left, too distressed by all that had occurred. Strangely, much as I was looking forward to seeing Constance and hearing all about any further escapades with James, I was dreading it too. As well as Father’s actions, his words had stuck in my mind. It is time, he had said. Time for what? There had been such an ominous note to his tone, all slurring and signs of drunkenness suddenly gone. As I watched him leave my room, a thought had crossed my mind – should I run to the attic and hide there? I did not know what kept Father from that room, but something did – something that by contrast, welcomed me. He was becoming more and more unpredictable. Last night… I shuddered just as the doorframe had, remembering it. What had possessed him? For that is what he had seemed, a man possessed.

  The knock on the door gave me cause to yelp.

  At once I reminded myself who it was – Josie, come to assist with my morning ablutions.
/>   “Enter,” I called, and the door opened. There she stood, her smile yet again tinged with sorrow.

  A part of me longed to rush and throw myself into her arms; glean some comfort, any comfort, and she would oblige – as much a friend to me as Constance – but I desisted. Another part of me wanted no one to touch me ever again.

  Her gaze moved from me to the suitcase. “You’re going back then, miss?”

  “Yes,” I replied.

  “You’re not happy about it?”

  “I am. I am just… tired. Josie, was it you that tried my door in the night?”

  I knew not why I asked. It was not her. I had previously made my mind up on that.

  “No,” she said, coming fully into the room. “Was anything amiss?”

  My bottom lip trembled. Indeed, everything was amiss, but I held my nerve, lest I disintegrated into a blubbing mess. “I really must pack,” I said instead.

  We passed the next hour doing exactly that until all my new fine clothing was folded and neatly stowed, all apart from my travelling dress, which Josie helped me into before sitting me at my dressing table and brushing my hair until it shone.

  “You’ve such pretty hair,” she murmured, almost to herself as much as me, and the compliment – so genuinely delivered – threatened to produce tears yet again.

  I must be strong.

  “You must be strong.”

  Her next words – an exact echo of my thoughts – startled me.

  I jerked my head away from the brush as I asked what she had meant.

  “In London, be careful,” was her steady reply. “I’ve heard such tales.”

  Although I was sitting with my back to her, I could see her face well enough in the mirror, and perhaps it was because the mirror’s silver was tarnished, that she looked almost as grey and hazy as Father had looked the previous night. But unlike Father, it was not darkness that surrounded her; she appeared to shine, as though illuminated by London’s new electric light. I blinked two or three times before asking what tales she referred to. Had she read such stories as I had myself? If so, I was surprised she could read; or, and this was more probable, had she been told these tales?