Mortlake felt his limbs growing heavy and sighed pleasantly.
Then the music changed.
He recognized the new tune immediately. It was “Danse Macabre” by Saint-Saëns. Mortlake opened his eyes and rolled over, groping for his phone. The sprightly tune was the opposite of restful. And Mortlake knew the composer had written it as a “tone poem” based on the old belief that the dead emerge from their graves and dance on Halloween. The cellphone’s screen had gone dark, of course. In his pitch-black bedroom, he almost knocked the phone to the floor before grasping it.
“And they call this progress,” he mumbled. “Progress my arse. Better off with a transistor radio…”
The voice spoke as a cold firm hand grasped his wrist.
“Can’t sleep, darling? Let me help relax you.”
Mortlake tried to pull away, but the fingers locked tight. The grip was painful, and he felt his wrist becoming numb.
“Let me go!”
The bed creaked slightly, and he felt the duvet being lifted. He struggled, writhing away from the intruder. He recognized her voice, knew who it must be, but still denied it, told himself he had slipped into sleep and the world of nightmare. His hand was freed just as he collided with the wall.
“Got you trapped now,” said Cassandra, still invisible in the night. “Nowhere to run.”
“Get away, you’re not real!” Mortlake said firmly. “This is a dream, or a hallucination, or some dirty little trick. Hypnosis, maybe.”
A cool hand touched his face, and he flinched again. Cassandra giggled, and he felt her moving closer. He felt cool breath on his cheek. He jumped up and bounded off of the bed, heading for the door. He collided with the wall in the dark, cried out in pain, but then found the door handle and wrenched it open. The living room curtains were thinner than those in the bedroom, and he fled into a dull gray gloom.
“Come back to bed, darling!”
Her voice was playful, slightly mocking, intensely seductive.
“You know you want to, Marcus…”
He reached back inside the bedroom and flipped the light switch by the door. It revealed an empty single bed, a duvet flung aside in a heap on the floor. Something soft touched his bare ankle, and he yelled, leaping aside in raw panic. Opal padded a few inches into the bedroom, tail twitching, then froze. The kitten stopped, fur erect, and then shot back into the living room and hid behind the couch.
So that’s the Opal-o-meter registering strongly, he thought, running a shaking hand through his bed hair. But maybe something a little more scientific will help.
He put on the living room light then got out what he informally called his bag of tricks. He took out a small plastic box with a digital display and a few simple controls. It was an EMF and temperature meter, a standard ghost-hunting tool. Switching it on, he checked the living room first, sweeping the gadget around in the direction of the bedroom door. There was a brief spike of electromagnetic force, then it subsided to background levels.
“Inconclusive, Opal,” he said. “Whatever was here, it seems to be gone for now.”
He advanced slowly toward the door, glancing down at the readings but keeping most of his attention on the bedroom. Nothing. He was sure that something had manifested itself, that he was not hallucinating or experiencing a waking dream. He was half convinced that it was the ghost of Cassandra Tallantyre. But there was something about it that belied the usual haunting. For a start, the supposed ghost was not tied to the place of her death, but to him. That was odd. Not unprecedented but still distinctly strange. And then there was his outdoor vision of the vast strange game board…
“Mystery piles on mystery.” He sighed, feeling his heart rate slowing to something like normal.
Opal emerged from behind the sofa, short tail still bristling. She looked up at him, mewed, and wove a tickly figure eight around his ankles.
“Seems like the visitation has passed,” he said, bending down to pick her up. “I suppose I could just go back to bed, hmm?”
Mortlake and Opal spent the rest of the night in a large easy chair, covered in a rug and facing the bedroom door. Mortlake did not get very much sleep. When morning came, he tentatively went back into his bedroom. There was no evidence of an intruder. He checked his phone, noted without surprise that his soothing bedtime playlist did not contain “Danse Macabre”.
“One problem at a time,” he said wearily as he dressed. “Tara needs help.”
***
“No bumps in the night?” Tara asked. “I didn’t hear any screams, so I’m guessing not.”
It was just after eight in the morning. The two met outside the bathroom, Tara emerging while a bleary-eyed Anita was on her way to the shower.
“No, I slept like a log,” her friend said, then yawned massively. “The old brainbox was working overtime, then suddenly I just dropped off. Must be the fresh country air, mixed with the panic rush to the casualty department.”
Tara had slept well, too, and attributed it to coming down from an adrenaline high. After they’d dressed, the two went down to find that the Garlands had been up for a while. Tim and Sonia had finished breakfast, but Ellie was lingering over a crunchy puddle of cereal. There were inevitable jokes about students, general banter, all overlaid with a sense of relief. Sonia’s view was that yesterday’s incidents could have been much worse.
“Perhaps that was the point,” Anita said, waving a forkful of scrambled eggs for emphasis. “To get our attention with a show. So maybe the answer is to put on the show she’s familiar with and hold a séance?”
“What’s a séance?” asked Ellie at once.
“Good question,” Tara replied and tried to explain.
Ellie took in Tara’s words and nodded sagely.
“Talking to ghosts in the dark while you hold hands,” she said, summing it all up.
Tara was conflicted about Anita’s idea, but she could see the logic. Helen had revealed herself to them, told much of her story. But she had not been able to speak to them directly, apart from some sporadic messages conveyed via Ellie. There was a certain logic to using spiritualist methods to speak to a long-dead medium and vindicate her. And yet, it raised serious questions. They could hardly use Ellie as a medium. So it was up to Tara to take the lead. Helen had asked her directly for help after all.
“We’d better wait for the prof,” Tara suggested. “I’m almost sure he’ll be okay with it, but he’s the expert. He seemed to think there might be more to the haunting than just one ghost with issues.”
Anita was impatient to try contacting Helen at once. Tim was more cautious but in favor of anything that would reduce the risk of more mishaps. Sonia, as always, focused on immediate practical matters and ordered Ellie to finish up in time for her lessons. Tara understood why the Garlands would want to get rid of a troublesome presence, given that time was money. And she found it hard to say why they should delay.
“I’ll call the prof, see what he thinks,” Tara said, taking out her phone.
She was still waiting for Mortlake to answer when another voice was heard.
“The lady wants you to sit in a circle,” Ellie said suddenly, dropping her spoon into the cereal bowl with a decisive plink. “Holding hands in the dark. She thinks it’s important.”
Sonia put a hand on her daughter’s shoulder, protective, worried. Tara wondered how worried the blonde woman was under her no-nonsense manner. Ellie was unharmed, and the little girl was apparently on good terms with Helen’s spirit. But that might change…
Mortlake answered. He was in a cab on the way to the airport. He told Tara he would probably get there around one at the earliest as his flight had been pushed back at least an hour after some kind of bomb alert. Tara outlined the situation. There was a short pause, then Mortlake asked who would be involved in the séance.
“Me, Anita, Tim, Sonia, and maybe Carl,” she said. “They are quite keen to try it.”
Ellie started to protest, but Tim gently shushed her. Sonia sai
d firmly that she would look after Ellie and not take part. Tara noticed Sonia’s hand had strayed up, toward the cross at her throat, before the woman stopped herself.
“Well, I don’t see why it should do any harm,” Mortlake said. “Look, it’s not my house that’s being troubled, and I have no right to boss strangers about. It is rational to think Helen wants to be heard clearly. And maybe this is the right way to go about it. I would rather you waited for me to take part, that’s all.”
Tara ended the call, shrugged at Anita, and told them what the professor had said.
“I vote we wait,” finished Tara, but it was clear the others wanted to go ahead.
She could hardly blame the Garlands, none had even met Mortlake. And in a perverse way, Tara’s own success had led to this point. She could hardly complain if they saw her breakthrough with Helen as a sign that their problems were nearly over. And, if she was honest with herself, she felt slightly pleased that she had achieved so much on her own.
“I’ve already Googled the whole séance thing,” Anita was saying. “All you really need is a table in a darkened room—for a genuine sitting, that is. And that’s what Helen wants, right? No tricks, no hidden props, just the chance to communicate.”
Right on cue, a strong vibration passed through the table, shaking crockery and cutlery. It built up until the table started to move, creeping across the kitchen floor. Anita and Tara both leaned back. Sonia grabbed Ellie and whisked her into a corner.
“She’s getting impatient, I guess,” said Tara. “Guys, I’ll lead this séance for you if you like. No guarantees I can do the business, but I’ll try. It’s up to the owners of the house, right?”
The shaking subsided just as they heard the toot of the horn of Carl’s van. As Anita said, now they had a quorum, if Tim and Sonia were willing.
“Okay,” Tim said, hugging his wife and daughter to him. “I’ll do this, I’m sure Carl won’t mind. But if it gets too intense, we stop. Right, guys?”
Again, Sonia’s hand crept up toward the little gold cross. She caught Tara’s eye but said nothing. Instead, she knelt down and explained to Ellie that they were going to go out and play with Trixie in the garden.
Chapter 7
There was no cold spot in the room as they heaved the old dining table into place and unfolded its wings. After some thought, Tara had torn pages from her notebook and marked them with letters of the alphabet, plus numbers zero to ten, and the ever-useful Yes and No. After distributing the pages in a rough circle, she upended a wineglass on the middle.
“Will this work?” Carl asked. “I mean, I’ve seen it in films and that, but I always thought, in real life, it was just somebody, you know, messing around. Pushing it.”
Tara explained that a spirit was supposed to take possession—to some extent—of one or more people and move the glass through slight changes in muscular tension. Helen York had not used this method as she contacted spirits directly. But, with no medium, they were forced to fall back on this method.
“Well, if it gets rid of the spook, I’m all for it, I guess,” Carl said.
Anita was clearly excited by the prospect of the séance. The history student had been doing very little hair flicking and eyelash fluttering, despite Carl’s presence. This suggested to Tara that her friend was task focused to an unusual degree for her. But she had also chosen to sit next to Carl in a darkened room. Tara shoved such uncharitable thoughts aside and tried to focus.
Tim stood by the curtains as the others took their places. Anita sat with her back to the window, with Tara to her left, then a place for Tim, and finally Carl to Anita’s right. Tara still had some reservations, but she kept them to herself. Tim switched on the main room light, turned the dimmer way down then closed the curtains before taking his seat. He put a small flashlight on the table, explaining that if the main light failed for some reason, he didn’t want to end up in pitch darkness.
“Amen to that,” added Carl.
“Okay,” Tara said, “you’ve seen the movies, but just in case, this is how we do it. First, everyone, put your finger on the glass. Then try to clear your mind of all extraneous thoughts. Just let your mind go blank.”
She had studied the methods of the early spiritualists and found they were fairly basic. Stripped of trickery, a séance was simply a call to the spirits of the dead to make themselves known. But first, there was some mental preparation.
“Take deep regular breaths,” she said. “Close your eyes if you like, try to relax. Empty your minds.”
“Easy for some of us,” joked Carl.
“Take it seriously, mate,” Tim murmured. “This is your job on the line.”
“Quiet, please, and relax,” Tara repeated. “Silence is golden.”
She closed her eyes and saw the usual flickering blurs of orange and green. She heard respiration. Someone was breathing heavily. She felt almost sure it was Tim and wondered if he was in more pain than he let on. Another distracting thought to suppress. She took a breath and spoke the familiar lines.
“Is the spirit of Helen York present in this room?”
Tara felt like a prize idiot saying the words in spite of the overwhelming evidence that the question made sense. She had seen so many cheesy movies in which this situation led to mayhem. But the restless spirit of Haslam House had made its wishes very clear in the kitchen at breakfast. Surely, Helen wouldn’t be a no-show after all she’d put them through?
“Helen York,” Tara said, more loudly this time. “Helen, will you communicate with one of us here?”
The inverted glass started to move. It slid very slowly and erratically to YES. Tara sighed. She could move on to the next question on her list.
“Somebody’s pushing,” whispered Carl. “That was too fast.”
He was shushed by Tim.
“Are you trapped in this house?” Tara asked.
The glass moved back and forth, remaining by the word YES.
“Why can’t your spirit leave this place, Helen?”
The glass was still for a few seconds. Then it started to slide over the table. It reached F then moved along to I, then crossed over to R, then recrossed the table to E.
“Fire,” said Anita. “I don’t get it.”
“She wasn’t killed in a fire, was she?” Carl said softly.
“Not that I know of,” Tara replied.
She raised her voice again.
“We do not understand, Helen. Can you tell us what you mean?”
The glass was still a moment then slid over to NO. There were sighs, mutterings, a curse from Tim. Tara felt Tim’s easygoing nature was fraying at the edges. He had probably staked a lot on getting the problem sorted. Now they were faced with confusion, ambiguity, possible failure. Tara took a deep breath.
“What do you mean by fire?”
The glass moved, gathering momentum, picking out letters decisively now. Nobody spoke as it slowly spelled out LINK HANDS.
“Oh boy,” Tara said. “Not great.”
“She wants us to recreate a séance like the ones she held,” Anita said. “Well, we can hardly refuse.”
Already people were lifting their fingers from the glass and reaching out to their neighbors. Tara held up her hand, however. She had several objections.
“Helen was a genuine medium, which means she was possessed by the dead—they talked through her,” Tara pointed out. “Do you want that to happen to you, Carl? Or you, Tim?”
The men looked doubtful but then Anita spoke.
“Come on, girl, you’re the one with the paranormal powers. We all know that. We’ve seen the stuff online. You had poltergeist manifestations just a few years ago. If anyone’s going to channel Helen, it’ll be you.”
Tara felt angry at her friend and confused. She had talked to Anita about her experiences as a teenager and more recently, with Mortlake. She had trusted her friend not to blab or at least to be discreet. Now, it seemed that Anita had been gossiping to her family.
“Don’t be
upset,” Tim said in a placatory tone. “She didn’t tell us a lot about you, really, but your name is out there. There’s a lot online. We were bound to look up your record, weren’t we? That’s just how it is, nowadays.”
Tara nodded grudgingly, not trusting herself to speak for a few heartbeats. She would have done the same, if she was honest. She turned to Anita, who was smiling hesitantly in the gloom. Tara reached out her hand to Anita, gave it a little squeeze. Then she took Tim’s hand and inhaled deeply, closing her eyes.
“Okay,” she said. “If everyone wants to try this, let’s do it. Tim, you can turn out the light. Total darkness from now on. Clear your minds of all thought, if you can. Close your eyes. Visualize something serene, like a tropical beach or a beautiful forest. Breathe deeply, regularly…”
Tara was improvising, half wanting this to fail. The thought that Helen York might possess her was beyond merely creepy. She pondered simply ending the séance and insisting they wait for Mortlake. It would be unpopular, perhaps even cast a pall over her friendship with Anita. But it felt like the right thing to do.
She heard a sharp intake of breath and felt Anita’s hand grow limp. Then a small plaintive voice spoke.
“I am here now.”
It was very like Anita’s voice but weaker and higher pitched. Tara felt the person speaking was smaller or perhaps simply not so robust. The voice you might expect a working-class Victorian to have, Tara thought. Helen York would probably have been raised on a bad diet in overcrowded, disease-ridden tenements. She took a breath and asked another question.
“Helen, what do you want us to do?”
This time, Anita seemed to suck vast amounts of air into her lungs.
“Help me, help me get away!”
There was panic in the voice now, as if some imminent threat were looming.
“Get away from what? From Haslam House?” Tara asked.
“Yes, yes, get away from the darkness, from the shadows, from the burning!”
House of Whispers: Supernatural Suspense with Scary & Horrifying Monsters (Mortlake Series Book 2) Page 9
