Hidden Company

by S E England

  They shouldn’t have rented this out if it made them so darned jittery, should they? Perhaps it was as Branwen suspected, and Mervyn was being pressured to align with a medical practice in town, and if he didn’t agree it could leave both him and Lorna without an income. However, if he did agree then that would leave other doctors potentially opening his books, so to speak. So they needed the rent in order to carry on both running and guarding Lavinia House. What could it be that was so bad? Surely the past was the past?

  The minutes ticked by painfully slowly. Isobel moved around the house from room to room, keeping in the shadows, peering through gaps in the curtains for signs of prowlers, ears straining for footsteps. The fog had closed in so completely that on occasion, the sight of her own face in the glass appeared as a spectre, making her catch her breath.

  Had Lorna gone to get reinforcements? Would a mob arrive as they had for Branwen’s poor great-grandmother all those years ago? Imagine, God imagine the sight of all those torch-bearing men outside demanding your blood! She shuddered. How terrible to look outside and see the hatred on their faces, see the rope…

  Eleven-thirty. Branwen would be here soon.

  Jumpy with nerves and still muttering to herself about Lorna, she decided to prepare for the ritual now and roll back the lounge carpet. Cheaply laid with no underfelt or grips tacked around the edges, it peeled back easily, releasing an immediate waft of damp and decay. She then set about moving the table against the wall and hunting for matches. God only knew what would happen next. Would Branwen arrive safely? Would this work? Would it reveal anything? Oh God, so many unknowns…her stomach was squirming.

  ***

  At quarter to twelve a text flashed. Branwen. ‘BACK DOOR’

  She let her in, hastily locking and bolting it again.

  “Nice and foggy out there, is it? Mind you, I was sure there was someone behind me. If not from this world then from the next. I don’t mind telling you I’m nervous, lovely.”

  “Have you done something to keep them away? I’ve had Lorna here banging on the door.”

  “Don’t answer. Don’t let her in and don’t speak with her.”

  “I haven’t.”

  “Good. We don’t need any weakening of energy. Yes, anyway,” Branwen continued, as she eased off her wellies and threw an anorak over the kitchen table, “the Payne and Ash boys will be housebound for a while, a bit groggy with a nasty bit of blindness thrown in.”

  “Blimey, how do you do that?”

  “I’ll tell you one day, lovely, but right now we’ve got our work cut out. Oh, well done rolling back the carpet. Stinks a bit, is it?”

  “Damp, I expect.”

  Branwen stood transfixed. “No, it’s more than just damp earth and wood rot. That’s the smell of death that is, like a graveyard.”

  “You said it had been a morgue.”

  “Yes, hmm…Anyhow, it’s all good because that’s what we need for this ritual. A place of death.”

  “Gulp. Okay, right, tell me what you need me to do.”

  Branwen was unpacking a rucksack full of candles, phials of oils, and little tins. “We haven’t got long. I need to have this in place by midnight. Once I’ve drawn the circle you must not, absolutely not, whatever happens, move outside of it. Isobel, promise me! You must stay within the circle at all times because this is a binding ritual and it can be dangerous.”

  “Yes, I promise.”

  Branwen set to work, talking Isobel through it as she cast the circle and quickly salted the circumference. Three candles were then positioned in a triangle - one red, one white, and one black - with a blurred sepia photograph of Olivia in the middle. Taken when the woman was quite elderly, her eyes were hooded and unreadable, the angular planes of her face gaunt and somewhat masculine. Other than that her appearance was unremarkable. Although, as Isobel stared at the image, it did jar on some level, dislodging a sense of déja-vu.

  While she was trying to recollect the ghost she’d seen in the parlour, assuming that was where the recognition came from, Branwen started smudging the room with rosemary before beginning the ritual. The sweet smell of the herb was intoxicating, and although it was meant to both cleanse the area and draw the spirits towards the circle, it also induced relaxation, and Isobel had to check herself from drifting into a dream.

  Finally Branwen lit incense of wormwood and black henbane, inhaling the smoke and asking Isobel to do the same.

  It hit her more powerfully than any joint she’d ever smoked in her life. “Whoa!”

  “You all right, lovely?”

  “Yes, wow, powerful stuff.”

  “Now don’t forget what I said - on no account must you move out of this circle.”

  “I absolutely promise.” A shiver crept up her spine. “I think someone’s here, I’ve gone cold.”

  “Okay, sit tight now. I need you to note images, emotions and messages. Anything and everything no matter how small or insignificant you personally think it might be. If we’re right and these spirits were blocked by Olivia then remember I’ve got all her attention whether she likes it or not. So don’t get drawn into the darkness. Don’t listen to lies or tricks. People like Rhys and Lorna exist on the other side too. So if you see an image of your late grandmother it’s not her, okay? Let me handle the dark side.”

  “Okay.” Doing her best to unravel the knots in her stomach, Isobel crossed her legs and closed her eyes, holding her palms upwards.

  “Here – let me just put some of this on your forehead. Hold still, it’s myrrh, to help you connect. And a bit of this one on the nape of your neck. Same for me. Okay, now are you ready? You know what to do? Ignore me and my ritual. Just tune into the spirits that come forward.”

  “Yes.”

  Branwen placed the smudge stick back on the floor, its fragrant smoke curling into rings, then lit a stick of mullein and walked widdershins three times around the inside of the circle.

  “Hecate, Great One, Mistress, Goddess of the Underworld, You of Many Forms...Come, Hecate of The Three Ways, You who with your fire-breathing phantoms oversee the dreaded paths and harsh enchantments. Come Hecate, I ask for your guidance and assistance.”

  Filling a chalice with lavender and dandelion mead, she then offered this to the Goddess before taking her place next to Isobel.

  “Colpriziana, Offina Aha Nestra, Fuaro Menut! Olivia Fox-Whately, the dead whom I seek, thou art the dead I seek. Spirit of deceased, arise and answer my calling! Berald, Beroald, Balbin, Gab, Gabor, Aagba ! ARISE! I charge and call thee!”

  With the yew wand she made an ‘X’ sign in the grave dirt she’d collected. “Olivia Fox-Whately, I call thee. Allay Fortission, Fortissio Allynsen Roa! Allay Fortission, Fortissio Allynsen Roa!"

  Over and over the words were repeated, her voice deeper and more powerful with every command.

  Through the haze of smoke and incense, Isobel was reminded of the drugged feeling she’d had many times as a disturbed teen. The ceiling was whirling, walls undulating, and a swill of nausea was rising in her throat. The vague notion came that someone was offering her a blood soaked rag, but it flickered only for the briefest of moments like a dream already fading. She shook her head. Had she fallen asleep? This was weird - the floor was rising and falling like a boat on the swell.

  It must be the incense.

  A girl appeared before her.

  But I have my eyes closed…

  Take note of everything you see…no matter how small or insignificant…

  She was young, wearing a white nightdress, and very busy with her hands as if knitting furiously. Her words made little sense, like jabberwocky, but her eyes were imploring as desperately she tried to make herself understood.

  Who are you? What is your name?

  It sounded like Die!

  You are dead, yes.

  The spirit stamped her foot. Again it sounded like Die. The girl clutched at her tummy and, exactly as had happened with the girl on the stairs, blood began to seep through
the girl’s dress, dripping down her legs until it flowed in a torrent and pooled on the floor. And the sound of a baby crying filled the room – from every corner until it was screaming through her head.

  You had a child. We are talking about a baby - yours?

  The screaming quieted.

  Again the girl’s eyes and hands frantically gesticulated.

  You were a patient in the asylum? You gave birth while you were in there? Did they take the baby from you or did you die in childbirth?

  Frustratingly the image vanished, immediately replaced by another – a creature with a malevolent cackle, who skittered around the outside of the circle on all fours, gathering things from the floor. Before one by one her limbs snapped off like chicken wishbones and the vision dissipated.

  The room was black now. The air crackling with static.

  Suddenly an apparition appeared at such close range Isobel jumped back.

  The old woman’s appearance was highly disturbing, her eyes white and blinded. Despite that, there was the queerest feeling that the woman could see – not her face but rather into her thoughts, her mind. A moment of transmission, and then her whole body began to respond with waves of heartbreak, grief tearing through her in shards that ripped into emotions, leaving them exposed, raw and howling. And then the visions came in their hundreds - lightning quick flashes - bars at windows, lines of emaciated down-trodden creatures in filthy nightdresses, stick limbs being thrashed with nettles, tubes rammed down throats, freezing water dowsing shivering bodies, lungs full of ice…

  Her body thrashed around on the floor, the screams stuck in her throat, tears streaming down her face.

  Trying desperately to concentrate her mind, she threw questions in. Who are you? What happened here? Where do we look? How do we help?

  On and on the scenes played as if a memory were being projected directly onto her own. She had to wrest control. Please how do we help you? We are here only to help.

  One word. One word floated in on the chaos, as finally the energy level abated and the old woman faded.

  Flora.

  And it was this name, still echoing around the bones of her skull, that she was repeating when Branwen’s voice broke through. “Tell me where the bodies are! Tell me where the registers are! You will tell me!”

  “Flora! Ask her about Flora, Branwen. And an old suitcase…battered leather...against a wall, somewhere dark and cold…”

  Instantly, a piercing metallic screech loud enough to burst eardrums had them both clamping hands to their ears. And a scraping noise behind them indicated the table was moving across the floorboards. Shocked, Isobel turned around in time to see it picked up by invisible hands and hurled across the room. Then she was slammed onto her back and to her horror found her dress being hitched up. Callous hands she couldn’t see were touching her, violating her, a foul breath in her face. She couldn’t get her breath, could not inhale. Her lungs had turned to iron. Worst of all the man in black had appeared, and was now standing the corner of the room, the tip of his cigarette flaring in the dark.

  The urge to break free of the circle was overwhelming.

  Over the demonic screeching, Branwen’s voice shouted, “Stay with it, Isobel. We are stronger.”

  At this all the candles snuffed out, and from out of the engulfing blackness a pulsating, palpable presence loomed towards the edge of the circle. Later, she could only recall the hatred, as whatever or whoever it was, leapt towards them repeatedly, flying at their faces with savage claws that left both of them bleeding from scratches. It picked up everything that was loose and threw it – candlesticks, a stapler, books – aiming directly for their heads. Prowling around the circle it re-iterated threats of eternal damnation and hellfire, of plagues and bad dreams, of running sores and madness. An echoing welter of bestial howls emanated from the creature’s mouth, instilling oppression and terror, compelling them to weaken and run. On and on and on the presence circled – reaching in to pull at hair, rip claws down spines, spit and hiss.

  You common little witch, how dare you!

  “Tell us where the graves are! Tell us where the papers are!” Branwen shouted.

  Her neck snapped like a wishbone and everyone cheered. All the people you think are your friends and neighbours, even family, they all cheered!

  “Tell me where the graves are, you evil bitch! Tell me where the papers are! Tell me what your father did!”

  Then quite without warning Isobel caught it. While Branwen battled with the force of hatred in the room, names and images came to her. Although they were faint – little more than vague impressions - she grasped enough to understand. But her strength was draining away rapidly. It had been hours. Her body slumped and her head pounded.

  Flora!

  The girl on the stairs was Flora. The image was just a flash, but a highly vivid one. Bound and gagged, a girl in a hideous flowery dress lay spread-eagled on a filthy mattress in a padded room. And on top of her lay a rough looking man with greasy hair and a reddened face. Flinching, she began to shut it down. This was a rape. A horrible rape…

  Look, look again…more carefully…

  Using every last vestige of concentration she made herself examine the finer details of the scene. Yes, there was a lit cigarette at the tiny window in the door. Someone watching. Someone witnessing the assault. A mentally unwell girl was being raped in a place where she was supposed to be cared for. And this person was watching. Someone who must have authority to be there…

  That image. And the face shown to her earlier….Was that it? Had the doctor sanctioned this? But why?

  “Tell me you’re getting something because I want to send this bitch back to hell,” said Branwen.

  “Something to do with Flora – a girl called Flora! A suitcase, very old, shabby and box like. And there is someone hiding….a cupboard under the stairs.”

  Scrambling for a tin of powder, Branwen tore it open and hurled a handful of dust into the dark. Immediately the most disgusting stench of ripe excreta made both of them dry retch. With her eyes streaming, Brawnen began to chant once more. “Go, go departed shades by Omgroma, Epic, Sayoc, Satony, Degony, Eparigon, Galiganon, Zogogen, Ferstigan. I license thee to depart onto thy proper place, and be there peace evermore.”

  Slowly the light of the room lifted and the candles flickered back into flame.

  “What was that?”

  “Don’t ask. Got rid of her, though, didn’t it?”

  “I’m not surprised. Oh God, that was horrible. I can hardly believe it happened. I feel terrible, wrecked.”

  “What did you get?”

  “Olivia was terrified, absolutely out of her wits. That’s what makes people as angry as that, isn’t it? Usually fear or insecurity, someone making them feel inferior or jealous? And I think it has to do with a girl called Flora. Lots of girls were raped here. I don’t know why except it seems to have been sanctioned by the doctor. Nor do I know where the bodies went or why they never left the asylum. But I do know the key is a girl called Flora. All the spirits told me that name. I also got a cupboard, or enclosed place where someone was hiding, and the suitcase again….papers of some sort, or letters perhaps.”

  Despite the fact that a whole night of intense psychic attack had passed, Branwen’s green eyes were all aglitter. “Someone burned the asylum down looking for something they couldn’t find. I think that’s why they’re so bloody nervous about the whole estate. One day someone is going to stumble on either a mass grave or a pile of papers that show how hundreds of people just vanished. I think Edgar kept the fees paid to him while pretending the patients were still alive. And I also think he had girls raped then sacrificed the babies.”

  “I really don’t know about sacrifices. But I saw a heavy, ugly man. An uncouth sort that must have frightened those poor young girls to death, and he had really bad breath. I think he was the rapist”

  “What did he look like? Tell me while it’s fresh in your mind.”

  “Ruddy face, bul
bous nose, bad teeth – like pegs sticking out–”

  “Sounds like Hywl Ash. Rhys Payne’s bessie mate. And both of them had grandparents who worked at Lavinia House.”

  “But the thing I don’t get, in fact my head hurts trying to work it out, is why. Why all the rapes and deaths?”

  “I told you. Sacrifice.”

  “For what?”

  Branwen stared her down. “The fae, Isobel. The Fox-Whatelys destroyed hundreds of acres of wild forest for the mine, then dug up ancient pathways and built a ruddy great wall across it.”

  “But how, I mean I don’t understand how–”

  They were quiet for a minute. Suddenly, Branwen said, “Can you smell burning?”

  ***

  Chapter Thirty-One

  Flora

  All Hallows Eve 1893

  Oh, but she fair stops my heart.

  Stepping out of the cover of darkness, her face catches in the fiery glow - features chiselled as if from porcelain, long black hair coiling around her shoulders like a wild gypsy girl. More arresting than any physical beauty, however, is the powerful gaze from those glittering eyes. Startlingly direct, she takes in my pathetic appearance, prowling in a slow cat-like circle as she nears.

  She is a heathen. A savage on her way to some ritual. I cannot run. I cannot…

  Expecting the woman to lunge, to force me along to where people will laugh and torment me, I flinch and cower. I am breathless, too weak to fight. And yet her voice was soft as she watched from the edge of the woods, and she watched my flight. Perhaps she knows compassion? Oh dear God, please let her have compassion.

  Drawing level with my face now, she peers in close. A more handsome woman I have yet to see. Those eyes are pale jade, the skin luminescent, the curves of her body strapped into a bodice of jet satin and lace.

  “I…I need to make haste, I–”

  She nods, her accent strong with the local dialect. “I saw you.” It is quite as if she can read my mind for suddenly she throws back her head and laughs. “Escape!” Then without warning she grabs my hand and urges me to follow. “Come. Quickly.”