Psychic Surveys Companion Novels

by Shani Struthers

  I was Constance, brave, tragic Constance; different, as I was different; who embraced both the darkness and the light, as I must now embrace them myself.

  I was Mother; a woman who had meant for me to know her, in some guise at least, and who was with me even now, offering what protection she could.

  And I was Father, who had taught me perhaps the greatest lesson of all; to deny my fear; to push it back inside me; to contain it.

  All valuable lessons when you could no longer run.

  Taking a deep breath, I limped forwards.

  Instinct told me that whatever lay before me, I was not to nourish it further. I might be connected to some in the non-material world, but to others there was no connection at all, and nor should there be; in spite of how much they might seek it.

  I hobbled on, bearing down upon the leaves; listening to their brittle crunch as they disintegrated beneath me.

  How dark it was; how loud the screams.

  “No more,” I said. “No more.”

  I was so close now. I could have reached out and touched the mass as just minutes before I had wanted to do. It hovered ahead of me but, I noticed, it seemed to do so with uncertainty.

  How I smiled to see that. How it bolstered me further.

  I continued walking, straight into it.

  It was cold inside – colder than a December’s night could ever strive to be; a cold to stop your heart; to suck the life from it. And it would. It surely would. Had it not been for the necklace, I would have fallen to the ground, a husk, to rot amongst things that already lay rotten there. But Mother’s necklace was warm, and its warmth was as hungry for the cold as the cold had been for yet more cold; as relentless.

  In the heart of yet another hell, I saw what ugliness existed – every fear; every terror; every depravity and selfishness; every perversion; every murderous intent and all the anger and injustice which it encouraged; every petty, jealous thought that man had ever entertained, going around and around, endlessly, trying to make sense of itself; to become more substantial; to find something, someone to infect, to cling onto. I saw it and I continued walking, emerging the other side.

  Knowing what I had just done, and that I had survived, caused all that I had carefully concealed within me to pour forth. I fell to my knees, the pain in my ankle no longer unfelt as great gulping sobs burst from my lungs.

  I had done it; I had faced evil, the sum of all my fears, but was I the victor, truly? The things I had seen… what man was capable of… what could dwell so deep, if not within a person’s soul then the cavities of his heart…

  The darkness is a part of life; just as love is a part of life. You cannot escape it, but you can try and understand it, perhaps better than I.

  To whom did that voice belong? Where did it come from?

  “Constance?” I longed so desperately to see her. “Where are you?”

  She was not anywhere and – miraculously – neither was the mass; it seemed also to have reached its conclusion.

  All was quiet; there was no more screaming; no more cries; no one calling for me.

  The darkest hour was over. Dawn broke to bring light back into my world once more.

  Rosamund Chapter Twenty-One

  It was not done yet. I still had Father to find, and he had run ahead of me. Why was he so quiet? What state would I find him in? And now, as imagination took over, as a series of visions once more flitted through my mind, he was a bloodied red thing; mere pulp, having been torn apart and ravaged; fed on as a creature feeds upon another in the wild, with nothing remaining to identify that he had ever been human.

  Dread filled me. Again, I felt compelled to turn around, put as much distance between us as possible. How much could one person be expected to endure? But to turn my back would be to act as he did, and so I forced myself onwards.

  What I saw shocked me even more than what I had imagined.

  There was not a mark upon him. The only altered part of him was his hair. Always so dark, it was now white; pure white. I had read that this phenomenon could happen following deep shock but had not believed it to be true. He lay as still as the morning air, and the expression on his face – dare I say it? Dare I even hope it? – it appeared peaceable enough.

  I had travelled to Hell and back and I had survived. But in spite of this fact, I was not invincible; I was not immune to all I had experienced that night. As I stood gazing down upon Father’s face, his eyes closed forever, I could feel my body stiffening.

  I was sixteen years old, soon to become seventeen. I fancied myself on the threshold of womanhood, but in that moment I felt very much the child, as lost as all those that had gone before me, my father especially. Had that which tormented him, the demon that he had called Clauneck, gone? Certainly, there was nothing here that caught my eye; no fleeting glimpse of a body, a creation of some sort, hiding behind a tree, ready to come rushing at me once again. But had I ever really seen him? Or had I merely reacted to Father? In conclusion, was that all this demon was: a creation. Something dredged up from the depths of a greedy man’s mind – his mirror image, in other words? And if that was indeed the case, did that make him any the less dangerous? A demon was a demon, no matter where it originated. The wisps, however, I had seen them in their entirety. They had felt real – as real as Josie – attracted to all that was negative in me, whereas she… she was attracted to everything that was joy.

  I could ponder it no more. I was spent.

  Unsure of what to do with a dead man’s body – for certainly I had not the strength required to drag him from his resting place – I embarked upon the journey back towards Mears House, alone. I came upon the edge of the woods soon enough, the mist not above the trees anymore, but covering the ground in thick layers.

  For a moment I stood there, as I had done so many times before and looked towards the house with its many windows; its eyes. Yes, there were shadows at them, and there always had been – spirits I decided to call them, rather than ghosts, as it seemed more respectful, somehow – the shades of those who had long gone but who had also left something of themselves behind; their essence. I was not afraid. I had lived with them for years. Once human, they were only spirits. There were far worse things, I knew that now: born of the human mind, but never quite a part of it. Soulless, chaotic, desperate entities; as were all things born of negativity.

  The mist soaked my boots and the hem of my dress as I drifted rather than limped through it, almost as if I too were a spirit. One day perhaps, Rosamund, but not now. When I died, would a part of me remain behind, forever attached to Mears House?

  There was so much to think about; so much to discover. And I would face it, the unknown. I would make it my business to know it.

  I reached the door to Mears House, still standing wide open, and continued to drift inside. There she was, Miss Tiggs, as sour-faced as ever. I stopped to address her. “You never did take to me, did you?” Her expression did not alter and so I shook my head. “I did not take to you either.” There was only acceptance in my words.

  As the townhouse had been, the entrance hall was crowded with people toing and froing: ladies, gentlemen, butlers, housekeepers and servants. It had never been this way in my lifetime, but it had been once, and this was proof. I could not make out these figures as tangibly as I could Miss Tiggs, but I could sense them well enough; how busy some were; how others tended to saunter; their happiness; their sadness.

  Would I see Josie as I climbed the stairs? Would I see Mother?

  On the landing, as I turned toward the corridor that led to another smaller corridor, I could hear the rattling of doors which drew something of a weak smile from me. All the times I had acknowledged the sound of it and attributed it to Josie, Miss Tiggs, Father or Father’s friends, it had been none of them, but the others, all along. I fancied they were the closest I had ever known to having an extended family.

  Behind me a door shut; a sudden sound that ordinarily would have caused me to jump or at least flinch. Now,
however, it appeared normal, albeit differently normal.

  There it was at last – the hidden staircase that led to the attic. I had caught Josie lingering at the bottom of it once.

  I came to a halt in the exact place where she had once stood.

  “Josie,” I whispered. “Josie.”

  There was no reply.

  If she had ever been there, she was now gone.

  If, Rosamund?

  Oh, why continue to doubt myself? There was no ‘if’.

  “You achieved what you set out to do,” I said instead. “You equipped me.” For the battle at least, the one I had recently fought. How many more battles would I face, however? Was I equipped well enough for them too?

  I gently eased open the attic door and entered.

  The little window at the back, to which I had often gravitated, allowed the light to penetrate; an extraordinary amount, considering its diminutive size. I had never once been in this room at night; surely there would be no light then; it would be as black as the rest of the house. I could not imagine it somehow. There would always be light here.

  I needed to find a spot to sleep or risk collapsing where I stood. Already my eyes were closing of their own accord.

  At the rear of the attic, the shaft of light pleasant upon my face, I finally settled with my back to the wall; my knees once again hugged to my chest. The door rattled once or twice but I ignored it, succumbing to my body’s desire to rest; simply rest.

  I do not know how long I was oblivious to all around me, but I awoke to the sound of my name being called.

  “Rosamund. Rosamund.”

  “Mother?” I said, blindly reaching out, but no, it could not be her, and not Josie either. This was a male voice.

  I thought fear was done with me. Clearly it was not. It enlivened my senses and pulled me rudely back to consciousness.

  “Rosamund?”

  “Father?” I said, my eyes snapping open. In death was he more daring?

  But it was not Father that crouched down before me; a realisation that brought only mild relief, for it was one of them; the society.

  “Stephen?” I said, pushing my feet out in front of me, kicking with them, as I tried to escape him. What a maddened thing he looked with his blackened hair; there was black around his eyes too, the whites of them so stark in contrast. A demon. He was a demon. Another. The nightmare continuing… perhaps… perhaps it had only just begun. As I managed to push myself up onto my feet, my mouth fell open to scream as Father had screamed, savagely; but not a sound came forth. Instead, only darkness filled my mind, and as I fell, I fell into his arms.

  * * *

  “My God, Rosamund, what has happened to you? Am I too late? I’m sorry, so sorry. I should have entrusted my instinct; I should have endeavoured to get here sooner.”

  When I regained my faculties, it was to find myself on the attic floor, cradled in this man’s arms. Initially, as I swam my way back to awareness, I felt a sense of relief, of peace even; but then I remembered who it was holding me – the young man, Stephen Davis, a member of the Society of the Rose Cross, the group I held responsible for Constance’s death, and nearly my own. I began to struggle, my legs kicking out once more, my arms flailing.

  “You… you… fiend,” I spat. “Get away from me.”

  “Rosamund, I mean you no harm!”

  Managing to put at least a small distance between us, I protested. “You do! All of you do. If you associate with mad men then you must be mad yourself.”

  “Mad?” he whispered. “Rosamund, where is your father?”

  “He… He…” Although there were no windows punctuating the wall, I looked in the direction of the woods. “He is dead,” I said finally.

  “Dead?” If I could see the colour of Stephen’s skin beneath the soot, I knew it would be ashen. “Did you…?”

  “NO! It is not I that is the murderer here!”

  Sobs began to wrack my body.

  “Rosamund…” Stephen crept closer and dared to put his arms around me again. I wanted to kick and punch; I wanted to scream for him to let me go, but I simply had no fight left. Instead I let him hold me, surprised to find that, once again, there was comfort in the circle of his arms. He clung to me and I clung to him, and suddenly it was lighter at the back of the attic – or perhaps it was that I felt lighter. Perhaps the two are inextricable.

  Eventually I pulled away and looked into his soot-rimmed eyes, noticing for the first time that his scorched hands were bandaged.

  “You are safe,” I whispered.

  “So are you,” he whispered back.

  I remembered now how he had treated me. “You are not one of them?”

  “Not now. Rosamund; there is merit in their aim, but not in their methods. There are some that take it too far; that do not know when to stop.”

  “Like Father.”

  “And like Arthur.”

  Fleetingly, defiance returned. “That man sacrificed his own daughter!”

  Stephen shook his head. “She came of her own free will.”

  “But I did not! You tied me to the chair.”

  “I stood against that,” he protested, reaching out and taking one of my hands in his. “Rosamund, hard as it is to believe, there are good men in the society, wanting only to understand the material world with which the spiritual appears to be so entwined. They are doctors, surgeons, and they are men of science. I myself am studying medicine. I work at a hospital in London and if you had seen as I have, patients near their hour of death; how they reach out to loved ones from long ago; how they insist they are present in the room; how joyous they become at this realisation, no matter their agony; how all earthly trials are simply… forgotten, then… we cannot but wonder; try our hardest to make sense of it. That is all I was attempting to do. But men… even the best of men… and so easily the worst… can become…” again he hesitated, “…desperate. I am new to the society, but after Constance, after you, I am finished with it. I want only to live in this world; to help the living as I do. Perhaps it is only at the hour of death that we are meant to see.”

  Not always, I wanted to say, not for some.

  “Why have you come to Mears House?”

  “When I finally emerged from that burning room; when I ventured outside, I expected to find you there. I searched and I searched, but there was so much commotion. Finally I begged your London address from one of my colleagues and made my way there. At the door, I was told that you had left immediately for Mears House. I… I am ashamed that I turned back at that, thinking there was no more I could do and returned home.” His eyes as he looked at me were so intense. “I roughly bandaged my hands – the burns are superficial, I assure you – and, exhausted, I fell on my bed and slept; but some hours later I awoke, and I knew… I just knew you were in danger. I had no time to clean myself up as I called for my driver to bring me here. It was unforgiveable that I had allowed myself to even sleep.”

  “How did you know where to come?”

  “I have visited before, on just the one occasion.”

  Of course! He was the fair-haired man Josie and I had noticed when we had stood together in the drawing room and gazed from the window.

  “Rosamund,” his grip became tighter. “I am so sorry that I delayed.”

  “It matters not. You could not have prevented it. Not at the end.”

  “Prevented what?”

  I shook my head as more tears began to fall. “I cannot explain now.”

  “Of course not. You have been through too much. Rosamund…” how gentle his voice was when he said my name, “…come back with me. To London, I mean.”

  London? Again?

  “There is no need to concern yourself with me,” I answered. “I am not alone here.”

  “What?” How perplexed he looked.

  “I am not alone,” I repeated, my voice barely above a whisper.

  To my surprise, he released my hands and once again hugged me to him. Oh my sobbing, would it ever cea
se?

  “Come with me, Rosamund, please. I will tend to you, I swear it. Our house is similar to the Lawton house; there are plenty of rooms in it. And Constance, what happened to her – how the society tried to shun responsibility for her death – I was against that too. I shall see to it that justice is done, and for her mother too of course; but those most responsible are already dead. Please, please come with me. I cannot leave you here. I cannot.”

  “I would be a burden to you.”

  “Far from it. It would be my family’s honour to welcome you.”

  I pulled away and stared just as intently at him. “Why?”

  He smiled, his teeth as white as his eyes, accentuated by the blackness of his face. “We can discover all the reasons why in the years to come.”

  A shiver ran through me when he said that, but it was quite different to that which I had experienced before; it had an edge to it, but strangely no sharpness.

  My instincts told me not to stay at Mears House; that this chapter in my life was over, but to go with him, to trust him – the man that had come racing after me, albeit with only the best of intentions.

  I nodded and allowed him to lead me from the attic, along the corridor, down yet more stairs, past the hustle and bustle that only I could sense; the laughter – there was definitely laughter; a tinkling sound; a bright sound.

  Miss Tiggs was at the entrance as we passed through, as we left the house of my childhood. I chanced a smile but it was not returned. Outside, Stephen’s driver was waiting for us, huddled deep in his coat, the loud snores he was emitting disturbing an otherwise quiet morning. We listened for a few seconds and then we looked at each other and laughed, part of me marvelling I was still capable of doing so. Eventually, my laughter subsided as I remembered who lay cold in the woods.

  “My father. What are we to do about him?”

  Stephen thought for a moment, his brow also furrowing. “I will inform the authorities upon our return to London.”

  “They may hold me to account,” I said, afraid again.