Psychic Surveys Companion Novels

by Shani Struthers

  Selecting another tumbler that stood next to the decanter, he began to pour the liquid from the brown phial, after which he returned his attention to me.

  “You will keep to your part of the bargain? You will take it willingly?”

  I would, what choice did I have?

  He advanced towards me, holding out the glass.

  “Sip it now,” he said. “There is no urgency. We have all the time in the world. In fact, I rather think the world is ours for the taking.”

  As I sipped at the bitter liquid, which burned my throat, I had yet one more question.

  “Why have you outgrown the society?”

  He leant forward, his breath in my face; one hand reaching up to stroke my shoulder in a manner that made me grit my teeth. “Because, Rosamund darling…” how he dragged that last word out; how he injected it not with love and kindness but with a scathing disgust, “…I want more than ghosts. And I always have.”

  Rosamund Chapter Eighteen

  My mouth was extraordinarily dry. Never before had I tasted whisky, but suddenly I was desperate for it; for any liquor that would reduce this wretched condition I was currently afflicted with. Aside from that, my vision blurred slightly, and I felt nauseous – as nauseous as the laudanum had made me feel.

  Would this succeed? Would I speak only the truth whilst under the influence of this drug? Time would soon tell.

  It was not just the Scopolamine in Father’s carpetbag, it contained his notes as well, and these he studied patiently whilst I was sitting back in the chair, waiting for the drug to do its work. He held various papers in his hand, studying them, and at times tracing his fingers over the symbols etched upon them. All the while he was muttering to himself; the only sound to break the silence.

  Or was it as silent as I believed it to be?

  This was not a house given to groans and creaks. At times, when I lay awake in bed at night, I would wish for some kind of life, but it never came; just silence… and shadows. Yes, there were plenty of shadows, from as far back as I could recall, and they were silent things, too. Why was this? Because they wished to terrify me, even though I acknowledged them only in dreams, appearing as twisted, fearsome things, hence making me shun them further? Or was it because – like me – they were frightened also? They knew I would deny them. For years I was guilty of exactly that; at least my conscious self was, but not my sub-conscious, the latter guiding my hand. Only some shadows had stepped forward, Josie and Miss Tiggs; the others had all waited so patiently.

  Until now.

  From outside Father’s study, in the corridor, there came a scraping sound, then a shuffling. Was it Josie who had returned to help me, or others, growing bolder at last; the past residents of the house of whom I so far knew nothing? There had been so many shadows in the townhouse too; in London itself. It seemed as if the whole world was filled with the dead as well as the living, clinging to whatever existence they could.

  As Father gathered my drawings into a rough bundle and pushed them aside; as he placed his notes upon the table and remained bent over them, still studying them, and muttering, the nausea I felt threatened to overwhelm me.

  “Father, I feel sick.”

  “Be quiet, Rosamund! Allow me to focus.”

  A moment later, he banged his fist upon the table.

  “What is the matter?” I asked, my heart banging too.

  “Some of this is hard to decipher.” He said it more to himself than me.

  “Is it Latin?”

  He did not answer, but scraped his chair back, stalked over to one of the bookcases and selected a book. He thumbed through it, discarded it onto the floor and then selected another, doing this over and over again; the frown on his face growing deeper.

  The noises from the corridor continued, but Father appeared oblivious to them.

  “Damn it!” He said after a while, flinging the latest book from him to join the others in a pile at his feet. “I do not need books. I do not need Latin. I do not need them!”

  “Who?” I asked. “The society?” Was it them he was referring to, his esteemed colleagues, pooling their resources in their relentless pursuit? Father had always appeared to me to be an educated man, but in truth I knew nothing of his education, not having talked of such things. Perhaps he was not as clever as we both believed.

  Kicking aside whatever books lay in his path en route to where I sat, he grabbed the arms of my chair as he lowered his face to mine. “All I need is you.”

  I shrank back from him. He must have noticed, but he said nothing. He was consumed only with himself and his dark desires.

  As he straightened, he reached for the chain of the ceiling gas lamp.

  “What are you doing?” I asked, panic momentarily pushing aside any preoccupation with nausea.

  “We need the darkness, so you can see.”

  “But I cannot see anything!”

  “Do not lie. You must not lie.”

  “How can I lie when you have drugged me to prevent it? I am being truthful. I cannot see anything. Not in here. Please, Father, we need the light.”

  All too speedily it was extinguished.

  There was a moment of quiet and then suddenly he began to speak, not in English, but in a foreign tongue. He knew something of Latin after all, it seemed.

  “What are you saying? What are you doing?”

  Receiving no answer I continued listening. The same words were being used continually, over and over. It was a chant, I realised, a summons. An icy dread prickled my skin and I shut my eyes to yet more darkness, my head spinning now as the drug increased its hold on me; the bile rising in my throat.

  “I shall be sick, Father. I shall!”

  He stopped reciting and hope flared within me.

  “Father, I need a receptacle of sorts.”

  There was only silence – even those outside the door had fallen quiet as if they were as tense as I myself was; listening in, deciding whether to flee rather than witness what was being invited here. Father began again, his voice more urgent this time and punctuated only by the taking of more whisky. He always drank, and often to excess, but his drinking now appeared as frenzied as his words.

  “Voco… deus magnus… abundantia… divitiae… Clauneck… Clauneck… Clauneck…”

  Able to pick up on that last word in particular, I asked what it meant.

  “Not what, who,” Father answered.

  “Then, who?”

  “He is a demon; one who is capable of bestowing great wealth upon his loyal followers. I need to reveal him; I need him to understand that I will bend the knee; that I will serve him with the utmost respect; that I will do his will, in return for riches.”

  I listened with disbelief. “So it is true,” I breathed. “You have become a mad man.”

  “This is not madness, this is truth! Tell me, is he listening? Does he show his face?”

  “If he does, I will refuse to look upon him.”

  “You will refuse nothing, not if you know what is good for you.”

  The threat in his voice was all too obvious. He was my father, but he was also a mad man, a murderer and now a demon-worshipper. Was it possible he would murder me if I continued to antagonise him, again with his bare hands?

  “Tell me what you see.”

  Just darkness. Utter darkness. Oh this nausea! I had to keep swallowing and taking a deep breath, followed quickly by another.

  “What is the matter?” he said, seizing upon my breathing as some kind of gesture.

  “As I have told you, I feel ill!”

  “NO!” On his feet, his fist once again resounded against the table. “Stop lying to me. You can see something. I know it. The phial, where is the phial…”

  “No,” I echoed. “I shall not take any more.” Also rising to my feet, I was amazed at how weak my legs were, barely able to support me. I had to feel for the desk in front of me and lean against it. “I have told you, I am going to be sick.”

  No sooner had the wor
ds left my mouth than it opened further and bile rushed forth, with such a violent eruption that it fouled the desk, the floor and myself. My stomach was aching as well as my head; convulsing as I stood there clutching at it. “Father,” my voice was so weak, “what was that drug? I am so unwell.”

  When he spoke, my entire body flinched. He was beside me, although I had failed to hear his approach. For a moment I remained hopeful that he would not continue in his pursuits if I was sick; that he would allow me to crawl back to my bedroom to lay upon my bed and attempt to combat the toxicity of what had assaulted my system.

  Yet again that hope was dashed as he grabbed my shoulders and swung me around to face his desk; standing at the back of me, one hand holding me against him, the other lifting my head so that I was forced to stare ahead.

  “What do you see?”

  “There is nothing here.”

  “Do not lie!”

  “I swear, there is nothing, not even shadows.”

  “Call his name out.”

  “No… I—”

  “Say his name!”

  “Clauneck.”

  “Again!”

  “Clauneck.”

  “Again! Again!”

  “Clauneck. Clauneck. Clauneck.”

  “Does he hear you? Is he there?”

  “No, Father. No.”

  “You need more.”

  He let his grip loosen as he continued searching for the phial. I turned my head in the direction of the door. If only he had not locked it, I would pick up my skirts, take flight and continue running, past whatever it was that shuffled and scraped – that resided here as well as me – all the way to the top floor, to the attic. And once there, I would push something up against the door, keeping him without and imprisoning myself within.

  Father had found what he was searching for and, returning to my side, grabbed my head as he brought the drug upwards. I clamped my mouth shut as he jammed it repeatedly against my lips, the contents spilling onto my chin and drenching me further.

  With one hand I managed to restrain him and turn my head enough to speak.

  “Drugs open the doors of the mind,” quickly I had to force the words out, “that is the opinion of one of your colleagues. I heard him say so.”

  To my amazement he halted in his endeavours.

  “Father, if that is so, then you take it. See for yourself that I speak the truth. Demons do not exist. This… Clauneck does not exist. There is nothing there.”

  As he released me, I fell back against the chair. I could hear him drink – not from the whisky bottle this time but from the phial, desperation now forcing him to heed my words and act upon them.

  There were tears in my eyes, from not only fear, or the reek of vomit, but – surprisingly – from sorrow too. That it should come to this between Father and daughter; that a relationship that was devoid of emotion could actually deteriorate further. And the medicine I had told him to drink. What if… What if…

  I shook my head, the movement causing more waves of nausea.

  I waited to see… As did the entire household, spirit or otherwise.

  Father had taken his seat; was murmuring under his breath, those same words. Voco… deus magnus… abundantia… divitiae… Clauneck … Clauneck … Clauneck.

  I peered as he peered, into the darkness. Still there was nothing, his chant taking on an almost whining quality – Clauneck, Clauneck …

  Father, how I wanted to say it again; stop this. There is nothing.

  I was afraid of his reaction when he realised this to be true – that there was indeed nothing – as surely he must. Would the madness flee from him or would it drive itself deeper, thereby putting me at even greater risk?

  As it sometimes did at Mears House, time became meaningless. I do not know how long we sat there; it may have been minutes; it may have been hours – and if it was hours, certainly the dark did not lessen; it remained as intense as ever.

  Incredibly, I was growing sleepy. I found my eyes closing of their own accord and wondered if I should simply give in to it. It had been in dreams that I had seen Josie last; might she visit again, to offer the support I so desperately needed? But I had seen other things in dreams too – in nightmares. Did I dare to gamble?

  Sleep is also a drug; one that was impossible to resist. My head fell forwards. There was darkness, but this time it was grey at the edges, and as soft as a blanket. Josie? Josie? Where are you? There was no reply, I called again. Mother?

  A figure in the distance became apparent – a slight female figure, a curious light surrounding her.

  Mother!

  I was surprised to realise how easily hope could diminish dread. I began to run, forward this time, not back – and my feet felt light, as though I was not running at all; as if I was gliding, as Josie tended to glide. The closer I drew, the brighter the light became, but it was not painful, as staring at the sun would be painful; it was a light I wished to enfold me; to protect me; to keep me safe, forever.

  Mother?

  I drew closer, and yet still she remained out of reach. How long until I could touch her? Until I could see her? Gaze upon a face I had only ever seen in a photograph?

  You had red hair and green eyes. I never knew that about you, I never realised. It is such beautiful colouring, delicate even. Is it you?

  That newfound hope refused to abate.

  I want so much to see you!

  Someone was calling my name!

  Rosamund… Rosamund…

  Love as well as light filled my heart – but instead of feeling as if it was going to burst, it simply expanded. I never imagined a heart could be so big!

  I was smiling, widely, from ear to ear. I was old and yet I was young, just like Harry, I felt ageless, weightless, as though I belonged.

  The figure was reaching out and I reached out too. Soon our fingertips would touch for the first time. No, not for the first time, surely. How did you die, Mother? When did you die? Not a word Father had said about her; not one word. Had she held me when I was a baby? Loved me? Comforted me?

  The haze was lifting; she was becoming clearer.

  This woman. Her hair red when mine was dark; her eyes green when mine were brown. This mother of mine, the necklace still in place, draped around her neck.

  “Mother,” I whispered, suffused with joy.

  But that joy was short-lived.

  How wretched she appeared close up; so many lines on her face and suffering etched into each and every one of them; such sadness and such despair.

  No! It was not to be like this! My sense of joy must continue.

  No! No! No!

  How many times had I cried that recently? Too many, and yet it made no difference. No one heard my cries. Not now, not ever.

  But I heard another cry well enough.

  Rosamund Chapter Nineteen

  “Father, Father, what is the matter? Speak to me! What is it?”

  I had woken abruptly and with one hand wiped at my mouth. It felt crusty, ingrained with filth. I looked from left to right, trying to understand what was happening – the reason behind such a commotion.

  Father was no longer sitting; I could hear he was on the move and still crying, “No! No! No!”

  With my dream pushed aside, if indeed it was a dream, I began to strain my eyes, desperate to pick out something; anything.

  Still using the desk for support, I found my way around it, at the same time feeling for the candle that sat upon Father’s desk, praying that the matches were close by.

  “Rosamund,” Father continued and his voice was a shriek. “He is here!”

  “There is no one here.” My intention was to remain calm and collected, although my hands were shaking hard enough as I continued to search. I found my way to the right side of his desk, for that was where I had last seen the candle. My hands reached out and sure enough, there it was; a small triumph, but one I was supremely grateful for. As if afraid it might disappear from my grasp, I kept one hand upon it, the o
ther still scrabbling for the matches. Were they on the desk too or in a drawer? If the latter, would there be time to locate them?

  “He is here!” Father insisted. “I saw him. Hiding in the shadows.”

  The one searching hand becoming frantic now, I knocked over a tumbler and liquid splashed onto my hand, the peaty smell temporarily overriding all the others but hardly preferable. Where were the matches? We could not remain in the dark; we simply could not.

  Here they were – a box that rattled when I picked it up. Another victory!

  I had to work quickly; like Arthur before him Father was spinning out of control. Already I could hear banging and crashing as if he was trying to bat at something.

  I was right. When the wick caught alight, it revealed Father close to the window, with his back to it and his head swinging vigorously from left to right.

  If he registered the candlelight, he made no acknowledgement of it as if he had not noticed it at all; as if it was the one thing he could not see.

  Although afraid, I forced my legs to move; the candle as much a shield as the necklace, which was still in my sleeve; safe. A few steps from him, I held the flickering candle aloft. His chin looked wet, as though it was covered in drool and his eyes were narrow no more, but wide and fit to pop.

  I had been fixated on him, but I also needed to be alert to what else lay in the dark corners of the room; to see what had caused not just fear in my father, but terror.

  There were shadows certainly, but empty shadows, I was certain of it; no one or nothing daring to encroach.

  I reached out and tried to reassure him. “I can see, Father. You know I can. And there is nothing hiding here.”

  Father slapped at my hands, as well as the air around him. “He is here! He is!”

  Again I had to look, wondering if it was I at fault; if my wish had been granted and I was now normal and what ability I had, transferred to Father? An outlandish theory, but was not all of this outlandish? The shadows remained empty.