House of Whispers: Supernatural Suspense with Scary & Horrifying Monsters (Mortlake Series Book 2)

by David Longhorn

  “Why hide it?” Tara asked, rhetorically. “Feel the cold, it’s intense now. We’re close to something—maybe the solution. Ghosts often have unfinished business, according to the experts.”

  Carl nodded, sizing up the wooden barricade, which was covered with faded floral wallpaper. He picked up a hammer and knocked tentatively at a few spots. It didn’t take long to find the doorway, which was dead center. They began to strip away the wallpaper to uncover another layer and another. Carl produced dust masks and goggles for them all. Ellie, still full of energy despite a long day, was assigned to filming duties, using Carl’s iPad. Judging from the way Ellie waved the gadget around, Tara sensed any resulting movie would have a strong found-footage vibe.

  They uncovered a door, unpainted, shabby looking. There was a hole where a knob would have fitted. Carl got a pry bar and worked at the brass hinges, sending splinters flying. Tara half expected some kind of supernatural response now that the room was revealed. But Helen—assuming it was her—had fallen silent. The place was still much colder than seemed right for early on an English summer’s evening, though.

  “Okay,” Carl said, putting the pry bar down. “I reckon that’s loosened it a bit.”

  He raised a steel-capped boot and gave the old door a rounding kick. The whole frame seemed to give way, and the door fell inward, crashing to the floor in a huge cloud of dust. Tara flinched, instinctively covering her face despite her mask and goggles. Then she darted forward, holding back Ellie. The child had now steadied the iPad and clearly wanted to be first inside. But a terrible thought had just occurred to Tara. She did not want to traumatize a child for life.

  “Let me go first, guys,” she said firmly, catching Carl’s eye. “Just in case there’s something in there that’s too disturbing for people who… don’t have my special training.”

  Carl got the message and squatted by Ellie, calmly explaining that Auntie Tara was the expert and people who weren’t experts, like them, had to wait on her clearance. Tara was grateful for his tact but also wished she felt more like an expert. The room beyond the doorway was in pitch darkness. Anticipating her request, Carl handed her a small flashlight from his tool belt. She flicked it on and stood in the doorway, playing the beam around the cramped space.

  There was no corpse in sight. There was no room to hide a body under the tiny Victorian truckle bed or the rickety table with its fly-specked mirror.

  But there was a trunk. A big one. Dark blue and ironbound.

  Tara took a tentative step into the room, examining everything closely, seeing nothing remarkable. The room was bleak, cold, full of shadows that swayed and jumped as she probed here and there with the light. For a moment, she thought she heard whispering but it faded. There was also, just for a heartbeat, a smell of burning, but it too disappeared to be replaced by mundane mustiness.

  Tara poked at the bedsheets, raising more dust, but the bed was certainly empty. There was nothing on the little table but a hairbrush, a comb, and a pot of some cosmetic product. She opened it to find what might have been face cream, long since solidified. On the wall above the bed was a religious picture. It consisted of a single vast eye radiating light and the legend THE LORD GOD SEES ALL.

  Guess that means He must see an awful lot of boring crap, Tara thought. Maybe that’s why He likes to shake things up now and again.

  “Anything in there?” Carl called. “I mean, can we come in?”

  “Yeah,” she replied. “Bring that pry bar. And Ellie, I want you to close your eyes while we open the trunk, can you do that? Just in case it’s real scary?”

  Ellie nodded soberly, persuaded—Tara thought—as much by the grown-ups’ demeanor as her words. She could not believe Helen York’s corpse was packed in the trunk. But she was determined to do this scientifically and that meant accepting all of the possibilities.

  Especially the gruesome ones.

  “Okay,” she said, keeping the flashlight on the trunk. “I guess it might be unlocked.”

  It was, somewhat disappointingly. The lock was stiff, but Carl wrenched it open and flung the lid back. This time, the dust cloud was smaller. What was revealed was an off-white rectangle of folded cloth. Carl picked it up to reveal a dress with a high lace collar. He held it up against himself, gave a smile, and a little curtsy.

  “You shall go to the ball.” Tara laughed in relief. “Okay, Ellie, it’s just old clothes.”

  Ellie made a disappointed sound. The three of them, sneezing despite their dust masks, unfolded a succession of garments and laid them on the bed. Tara posed holding up a set of Victorian underwear, which Ellie captured on video, more or less. After a minute of unpacking, the trunk was empty, and Tara was at a loss.

  “I don’t get it,” she said, leaning on the doorjamb. “What was the point of luring me up here if… Carl?”

  The workman was kneeling by the trunk, reaching inside, laying his arm inside one corner. Then he looked up in triumph.

  “At least four inches,” he said. “That’s either a very thick bottom or a false bottom. Hidden just like this room. Neat.”

  Ellie was still laughing delightedly at Carl mentioning bottoms when Tara grasped the guy’s point. Soon, they were feeling around inside the trunk. Tara’s more slender fingers found the catch, and she lifted the false bottom to reveal a motley array of items stashed haphazardly inside the secret compartment.

  “This is it,” she breathed.

  At first, Carl was unimpressed, but Ellie was fascinated. Tara took out Helen York’s hidden properties one at a time and laid them on the dusty floorboards. There was a tambourine, a kind of old-style speaking-trumpet, and a length of cloth. Cheesecloth, presumably. The stuff seemed nondescript, not something worth hiding. Then they found a doll’s head, creepy in the dim light.

  “Put ’em together, you get a fake ghost, I guess,” Tara said. “Look, here’s the stick that fits to the head. I read they used phosphorus to make the cheesecloth glow, but I guess it would have faded after all this time.”

  “So, she was a real medium but she kept faking it?” Carl said, turning over the doll head. “Why not just admit her—her powers were erratic?”

  “Because the show must go on,” Tara said. “She was really a paid entertainer-slash-therapist for the bereaved. She couldn’t just say ‘Oh, my mysterious abilities aren’t working.’ To earn her keep, she had to perform on time—or, at least, most times.”

  A small black book proved to be a journal, written in a neat but cramped hand. It was impossible to make out the words in the poor light. Tara set it aside and took out some more of Helen’s props. There was something like a small metal whistle. When she blew it, it produced a sound like trilling birds.

  “Atmospheric,” Carl remarked sourly.

  The most puzzling item was a rectangular wooden frame. It was weighty and vaguely familiar. It reminded Tara of a visit to a replica colonial schoolhouse.

  “Oh, it’s a kind of writing slate,” she said and opened it. “See? There’s even a piece of chalk on a string. Didn’t you mention a slate, Ellie?”

  Before the girl could answer, the wooden frame jumped in Tara’s hands. She almost dropped it. A new slate sprang up to cover the first one, flipped into position by some kind of spring.

  “A trick slate,” Tara breathed. “So she could have fake messages written, ready in advance. After she’d gathered some information about the family and so on.”

  “I don’t get it,” Carl said.

  “I don’t either,” Ellie complained.

  Tara smiled, still nervous but now also a little smug at having figured something out.

  “I guess a medium used to close the box, after showing the slate was blank, then hold the séance. Then they opened the box, flipped up the fake message—bingo, Uncle Ernie’s having a great time in the afterlife. All donations gratefully received, no checks or wooden nickels please.”

  She put the slate down and shone the flashlight onto the dark gray surface. A layer of ancie
nt chalk dust had been disturbed, as if someone had just run a wet fingertip over it.

  “Bloody hell,” Carl breathed.

  “She’s gotten a lot less obscure, there’s that,” Tara said.

  The message was certainly clear.

  HELP ME TARA

  Chapter 6

  They packed the props back in the trunk and carried it downstairs. As they negotiated the back stairs, there was no piercing cold. They heard no more bumps, either. The message on the slate was apparently the last manifestation of Helen York’s postmortem powers for now. Carl, however, was not keen to leave, so Tara offered to split babysitting duties. After ice cream, no bath time, and a storytelling marathon, Ellie had to finally give in to sheer exhaustion.

  That was just before eight-thirty. Around nine, their cell coverage returned and messages flooded in. Most importantly, Tim had been given a clean bill of health but told to keep his weight off his injured foot and come back for a follow-up examination. Sonia, who had left the voicemail, sounded imperturbable. In the background, Tara heard Anita not being quite so calm. A follow-up text showed they were already on their way back. Carl could leave.

  “Saturday tomorrow,” Tara said on the threshold, surprised that it was still only Friday. “I guess you’ll be working over the weekend?”

  Carl shrugged.

  “That’s the plan. In the end, the job has to be done, spooks or no spooks.”

  After the workman had driven off, Tara reflected on his words. Here she was, essentially dabbling in the occult. But for the likes of Carl, the paranormal couldn’t get in the way of paid work. Times were hard for people in any honest trade. From their conversation, Carl felt the Garlands were good employers in an area where jobs were getting scarce. He had hit the jackpot, simply by being able to earn a living.

  All the more reason to get my job done, she thought. So these nice people can get on with theirs.

  She tiptoed upstairs again to check on Ellie. The girl was sleeping peacefully in the glow of a night-light that projected faint stars on the ceiling. Tara had never been too keen on kids and deeply resented being asked if she wanted any. She got to deeply resent it a few times a month, on average. Ellie was fun in small doses, and Tara was glad to encounter any child who was both loved and loving. But that didn’t make her feel remotely motherly.

  And it’s not as if there’s a global shortage of people, she told herself for the umpteenth time. I can always try adoption and then I get to send them back if it doesn’t work.

  Smiling at the not-too-shocking thought, she went back into her room and looked around then checked under the covers. There were no wayward toy pandas or lipstick messages. Back downstairs, she made herself some herbal tea and watched Mortlake’s video. She resisted bouncing back a comment about next year’s Golden Globes. Instead, she called him and talked over the find in the attic room. He was fascinated.

  “I’d love to see all that paraphernalia,” he said. “It’s a remarkable find in itself, of great interest to the local museum, I would imagine.”

  “I’m more interested in why Helen York led us to it,” Tara observed. “And what she meant by ‘Legion’, not to mention ‘Hunger’. And burning—I thought I got just a hint of a burning smell when I went into that room.”

  “Ah, yes,” the professor mused. “I do have a theory about that, but it’s far from complete. I’ll save it for later. I could be totally wrong.”

  Tara resisted the temptation to question him, knowing he didn’t like to reveal his brain waves until he had, in his words, poked and prodded them a bit. Instead, she returned to Helen York’s motives.

  “There’s always a driving force behind a haunting like this,” said Mortlake. “Helen clearly wanted to put on a show and be acknowledged. And you say it’s been quiet since you opened up the attic room?”

  “So far,” Tara said cautiously. “But I find it hard to believe she just wanted us to find her box of props.”

  Mortlake agreed. There was a lot more to it, he felt certain. And he was looking forward to, as he put it, sniffing around the house and the surrounding area. He gave her some details of his itinerary then wished her goodnight.

  “Oh, and well-done, Tara,” he added. “An excellent bit of detective work. At this rate, you’ll be overtaking me in a year or two. Good night again!”

  Tara was surprised by how happy his praise made her. Like most Brits, Mortlake was self-deprecating and ironic much of the time. This meant that outburst of sincerity was all the more effective. She felt herself blushing and smiled at the little portrait of her mentor on her phone screen.

  “Thanks, Prof,” she said quietly.

  Tara took advantage of the limited internet at Haslam House to do some more research on spiritualism. It proved to be an even bigger and more complex subject than she had thought. One thing became clear, though. Mediums were often caught faking, yet many reputable observers—including scientists—remained convinced that spiritualist phenomena were sometimes real.

  “Sir Oliver Lodge,” Tara murmured. “Okay, heard of him, famous physicist.”

  Lodge’s involvement impressed her more than the advocacy of Sir Arthur Conan Doyle. The author of Sherlock Holmes had—she discovered to her amusement—been tricked into believing in fairies. Worse, he had been fooled by two schoolgirls who faked fairy photographs simply by cutting pictures out of a book and suspending them in midair on bits of wire.

  “Fairies,” she murmured. “Jeez. Get a grip, Sherlock guy!”

  Harry Houdini, the great illusionist, had been Conan Doyle’s great opponent in the debate. She was fascinated to find that Houdini had, in his younger days, earned his living as a fake medium. He had learned all the tricks and later felt deeply ashamed of the way he had conned people.

  The British author and the American magician had originally worked together, exposing frauds. But they had soon fallen out over Houdini’s insistence that the supernatural was all bunkum. The feud had lasted for years, only ending with Houdini’s untimely death. After decades of intense public and media interest, spiritualism had gone into a long decline from around 1930. A brief revival during World War II had proved short-lived.

  “Okay.” Tara sighed, as the local internet stuttered for the umpteenth time. “Helen died as a little fish in a big pond, gone before she could get famous. Frustrated. Still has genuine powers. Wants to be vindicated. Needs me and the prof to do it.”

  It was a reasonable hypothesis, that the medium with genuine powers sought fame long after her sad death. It might be enough to simply publicize the case, Tara reflected. They could present Helen’s faking as a sad aberration. Perhaps she and Mortlake could co-author a paper on Helen York, make a YouTube video, write a book about the case? She had always wanted to be an author…

  Then she wondered if being too prominently involved with this case would hamper her career as a scientist. She pictured herself in front of a grant committee, trying to field questions about spooks. There would be jokes.

  Leave it to Mortlake, she thought. He can have the glory—I’ll get a nice warm glow of satisfaction.

  She checked on Ellie again then checked with Anita. Even as she sent the message, she saw the lights of the SUV swing into the driveway. Relief washed over her. She had not relished being the only living person awake in Haslam House. Soon, the kitchen was full of chatter. As the Garlands went up to check on Ellie, Tara started showing off Helen York’s props to Anita.

  “Amazing,” said the history student, turning over the slate. “There’s a nice little article to be written about all this stuff. I’ll just have to avoid the whole supernatural thing. It would help with a video presentation if I could find the secret button or whatever…”

  Tara started to protest when Anita pushed the slate with the message back into hiding. But then, just a second later, it flipped back up with a loud clack.

  “That was easy!” Anita exclaimed. “See? There’s a little hidden catch.”

  “Wow,” Tara
said, examining the concealed spring. “Couldn’t find it before. It’s so teeny!”

  Anita smiled smugly, tripped the catch again then wiggled her fingers at her friend.

  “One of my many talents, tactile virtuosity. And, on a totally different subject, is Carl coming back tomorrow?”

  ***

  “Friday night,” Mortlake said, putting his phone down by his laptop. “And tomorrow, we are both going to have our routines disrupted.”

  Opal was winding down after what Mortlake had dubbed her “daft half hour” during which she zoomed around at tremendous speed and pounced on almost anything before running away again. The kitten was now more or less static, merely entangling herself in the laces of her owner’s discarded brogues.

  “Now, tomorrow, when you go to stay with Uncle Monty,” he went on, “you must behave yourself and not annoy Bigglesworth. He’s your dad; show him a little respect.”

  Mortlake had the firm conviction that, though Opal didn’t understand his words, she could still get the emotional gist of what he was saying. And even if she couldn’t, he appreciated being able to prattle on without technically talking to himself.

  “Yes,” he went on as Opal rolled over and waved her outsized paws at him, “I will be far away for a few days, seeking out spooks. But first, I should get a good night’s sleep. Nothing like knocking out a few zeds before taking on a new task, eh?”

  He had put off going to bed the previous night for fear of another nightmare, but apart from some vague feelings of apprehension, he had slept well. Tonight, he hoped for restful oblivion. He deposited Opal on one of his old cardigans then lay down.

  He had plugged in his phone and set it to play some orchestral music at low volume for an hour. It was from a playlist entitled “Perfect Dreamtime Classics” and, at first, it was soothing. He used the method his mother had taught him, first saying goodnight to his toes, his legs, his fingers, his arms…