by Shelley Day
Stella backs off, her hand clamped firmly against her mouth. She is going to be sick. She can’t be here, in this house, alone, any more. Frank, horrible as he is, at least he is someone, alive and breathing. In this house there is nothing but death. Stella puts both hands to her face and tries not to breathe. In that cracked old bag were the hideous instruments of destruction. In that cupboard with its smells and its darkness and the terrible potions for desperate women, poisons all lined up along the dusty old shelves: Mugwort, Pennyroyal, Blue Cohosh, Laudanum, Chloral, Chloroform, death. Death has seeped into the walls of this house, it is in the air that Stella is breathing. She smells it, she tastes it, she feels it clasping at her throat, seeping its cold, malignant hyphae into her bones.
What a fool she is to have come back here, to have allowed herself to even think she could be free of all that happened in this house. She should have known better. Is it too late? Too late to get away?
Stella wretches with such force that vomit spurts out between her fingers and spatters down the wall and onto the floor, covering the instruments she’s tipped out of the medical bag. She hasn’t the will to stop the next lot from going all down her clothes.
She gropes her way to the chair by the fireside and tries to sit down, but she can hardly breathe for the thick smell of vomit and soot in the fireplace, the fumes from the cupboard. In the dim light she sees only shadows. Stella is sweating, dizzy and so very, very tired. She wants only to lie down, close her eyes, shut it away, blank it out.
It was easy, oh so easy, to hide things away from herself when she was young, but it comes harder now, so much harder. Stella can no longer block the memories from crowding in, one on top of the other, filling her up, taking her over.
It’s all happening again, Stella knows it. She’d thought all that was behind her. Her heart thumps wildly like an animal trapped inside her, she can actually hear it scraping to get out. Something at her throat is trying to garrote her. The cloying taste of vomit is stuck to her teeth, waves of it well up inside her. She retches again and again, splattering vomit all over the fireside, all over the carpet. Exhausted, Stella wipes her mouth on her sleeve and sits back in her grandmother’s chair, drenched with sweat.
This, Stella knows, is only the beginning.
Chapter Eighteen
Stella may have slept for moments, minutes, hours – she cannot tell. She has a strong desire to get up and go, get away from this house, be anywhere but here. But something is holding her down and won’t let her get up. Her legs are weak, they won’t let her stand. She can’t fight any more. Stella is tired, so very tired. The house hasn’t finished with her. She’s drifting away again. It’s too late.
In the front room, the sound of the piano playing.
Abide with me; fast falls the eventide;
The darkness deepens; Lord with me abide.
When other helpers fail and comforts flee,
Help of the helpless, O abide with me.
The start of the Sitting. Stella is being called. She’ll have to go.
Stella stands up, still unsteady, and feels her way along the dark passageway, her footsteps slow, cold, deliberate, echo on the lino. She passes the door of her grandmother’s room. It’s tight shut, just as she left it. She walks as though pulled by an invisible rope towards where the piano is playing.
As she reaches the front room, the door swings open, it brushes across the carpet, lets her in, and then bangs shut behind her. Stella stands with her back to the door and breathes in familiar smells of candle wax, incense, soot and ashes. The bang of the door has set the chandelier in motion, made the windows rattle. The mirror over the fireplace swings from side to side. One by one, candles around the room flicker into light, their flames long and smoky, shivering shadows on the walls.
The lid of the piano has settled in the open position. It stops playing the hymn. The loud pedal is down, the melody’s gone and the notes are all wrong, they’re all discordant, running into each other, a clamorous noise. Stella jams her hands against her ears, but she’s can’t block the sound out. She’s being carried away on the notes, pulled into another world. The lid of the piano bangs shut and the noise stops.
Here comes little Stella Moon, fourteen years old. Looks a lot younger, thin little thing. She sidles into the room, in her hand the special silver cross cloth she forgot to bring when she came in before. The child stands there, holding the silver cross cloth, trying to keep it neat, desperate not to crumple the edges. Stella stands there, wanting the Sitting to be over, wanting for the dried-up ladies with their crinkled faces, for creepy Mr Fanshaw, for fat Mrs Bradley with her bad breath, for them all to go away, for her mother Muriel to come back, to come back and take Stella away to the Beach Hut and never once let her come to the Sitting again.
Grandma Willoughby, all in black, sits at the piano, her face lit by candles in little elephant holders, one on either side, her thick feet working the pedals, her thick fingers moving across the keys.
Swift to its close ebbs out life’s little day;
Earth’s joys grow dim; its glories pass away;
Change and decay in all around I see;
O Thou who changest not, abide with me.
Grandmother Willoughby nods towards Stella. Stella walks to the piano and turns the pages of the hymnal as Grandma Willoughby plays.
Behind her, the assembled Ladies – not many today – are taking off their bristly black coats and their furry fox collars and hanging them on the coat-stand. Their neat hats, secured with fierce pins that glint in the candle light, remain perched on alabaster faces. The Ladies smell of lavender water and mothballs. They suck at indigestion tablets and shift their teeth about. They snap shut the little golden clasps of their stiff black handbags that they hold like shields with both hands in front of their hollowed bellies. Their knees are not visible and never have been. They are concealed in thick woollen stockings and hidden under heavy cotton undergarments and rough tweed skirts. Like the ones that hang on the Mary Jane in Grandma Willoughby’s room.
Here comes Mrs Bradley. She’s the last to arrive. She’s the medium. She’s got a new woman with her, that one from the Church. Grandma Willoughby looks round and nods as they come in. She continues to play.
I fear no foe, with Thee at hand to bless;
Ills have no weight, and tears no bitterness.
Where is death’s sting? Where, grave, thy victory?
I triumph still, if Thou abide with me.
Mr Fanshaw is joining in this week. He’s been away, in a big moody about something or other, Stella doesn’t know what. But he’s back now. He’s in the good books because he’s brought Grandma Willoughby’s car back; she says he’s got his tail between his legs. The ladies and Mr F take their places around the table. In a moment the Ladies will start to sing, their thin voices straining at the top notes, setting their sinewy necks vibrato. Mr Fanshaw doesn’t sing, he never sings. He stands behind his chair, holding onto it as though it might float away. He’s wearing a suit.
In the sweet by and by
We will meet on that beautiful shore…
Smoke sizzles up through the clinker, the fire coming to life. Grandma Willoughby looks up at Stella. Stella leaves the piano, unfolds the cloth with the silver cross and uses it to cover the mirror that hangs over the fireplace. She walks forward, takes her place at the table, hangs her head and closes her eyes. Like everyone else, Stella pulls on the white cotton gloves and lays her hands on the table, palms down flat, and breathes slowly.
The singing over, Grandma Willoughby closes the lid of the piano quietly. She sprinkles a small vial of holy water over the table, a few sage leaves newly crushed between her fingers. She too takes her place at the table, pulls on the gloves, hangs her head, and closes her eyes.
‘Make the circle,’ says Ruby Willoughby after a moment or two of silence.
White
gloved thumbs are pressed together round the table, little fingers outstretched and touching, completing the round. ‘Keep the circle,’ Ruby says, her eyes still closed, ‘you know the rules.’
Nods and murmurs of assent.
‘Let us pray.’
Waiting, breathing calmly, eyes open now and focused on the flickering candles. Ruby nods to Mrs Bradley, who begins the Prayer of Protection in scarcely more than a whisper.
Divine white light of the Holy Ghost and all the Angels, surround our Circle; the love of God protect us; the light of God shine down among us; the power of God watch over us and keep us safe in His eternal glory. Lord, we come to you in peace and friendship. In the name of God the Father. Amen.
Amen. A pause, the sound of breathing.
Our beloved friends on the other side…
Mrs Bradley closes her eyes and speaks softly into the silence.
Commune with us dear friends departed. Commune with us…
Barely audible voices round the table repeat the invocation three more times.
Commune with us, dear friends departed, and move among us. Spirit friends, make your presence known…
Stella feels words clogging in her throat, tangible words, they’re filling her mouth, starting to spill out. She can’t swallow. She’s biting down on the words but they won’t go away, they’re coming all the more, there’s nothing she can do to stop them.
Spirits from other worlds and times long past, a voice that is at once Stella’s and not Stella’s comes spattering out of her mouth. Spirit friends from the Other Side, come close to us… we welcome you in to move among us. Be guided by the lights of this room to visit upon us... Join our Circle, dear friends…
The candles flicker, as though a draught has rushed through the room, their flames shrink small then grow taller.
The spirits of the past are moving among us. Friends departed, make us aware of your presence.
The room grows very cold. The sash window that was slightly open scrapes on its cord and crashes closed.
Ruby looks at Mrs Bradley.
‘Shush, now,’ Ruby says, closing her eyes more tightly, ‘quiet now.’ A tension runs through the white-gloved hands that rest around the table, reaching Stella.
‘Keep the circle,’ Mrs Bradley hisses, her mouth hardly opening.
Spirit friends, you are with us, Stella continues in a voice she does not recognise. A spirit friend is joining our circle… Welcome, welcome to our circle, dear friend of the spirit. Your presence is felt. You are coming through to me now. What is it you wish to say to us?
The room is icy. There is a strong smell of something decomposing. For a moment, Stella has a sense of something covering her face, a feeling of not being able to breathe.
‘Stella!’ Ruby begins to say, but Mrs Bradley interrupts.
‘Keep the circle!’
‘Our Stella…’
Stella continues to speak in short, breathless bursts, what comes out is only a rasping whisper.
Yes, yes we know that you are walking among us
Stella’s eyes are wide open and staring.
We feel your presence
Tortured, incoherent noises are hissing out of Stella as though from the depths of her. The felt cloth with the silver cross on that Stella used to cover the mirror now falls and, as it falls, slides into the fire. A noisy gush of flame flies into the room as the cloth ignites and burns.
The room is pulsating, the smell of something decomposing is overwhelming, Stella can barely breathe. The rasping voice is still trying to get out of her with every laboured breath.
Ruby, alarmed, stands up, her hands still pressing on the table, the circle not yet broken.
‘No, Ruby!’ says Mrs Bradley. ‘Let it take its course. To do anything at all is dangerous, we could lose her…’
Mrs Bradley looks around the table. The fear is palpable and visible in every tightened face.
‘Please, everyone, keep calm. It’s absolutely essential that we all stay calm. Keep the circle and this thing will pass.’
Mrs Bradley closes her eyes. As though speaking to someone inside her head, she nods and mumbles under her breath, ‘Alright, yes, yes, I hear you…’ She nods again, a look of intense concentration on her face. ‘Spirit friend,’ Mrs Bradley begins, ‘you have come to us, and we ask now that you leave us.’ Mrs Bradley breathes heavily. ‘We ask now that you leave us,’ she repeats, more firmly. ‘Please leave us. Leave us now.’ Mrs Bradley’s hands are shaking and it is with obvious effort that she is keeping them on the table. ‘You must leave us. You must leave us now.’
Stella is rasping out more words that make no sense, she’s making strange noises she doesn’t recognise as human. Her whole body is trembling, her consciousness wavering. She is going outside herself, she’s leaving her own body… she can’t get back…
Stella looks down and sees herself sitting at the table. She sees her mouth opening, her pale lips stretching back from her teeth. She hears the most terrible wailing coming from deep down inside her and echoing round the room.
‘It’s not working!’ Ruby is shouting now to make herself heard above Stella’s screaming. ‘Mrs Bradley…do something! Stella! Stella! Stop it now! Stop that now!’
Stella’s mouth is wide open, her wide eyes are staring, the scream has turned into a hoarse croaking sound that goes on and on, it sounds as though she is choking.
‘Everyone keep calm, please keep calm. Don’t break the circle. We could lose her,’ Mrs Bradley shuts her eyes. ‘I’ll try again,’ she says. ‘Chant,’ she commands, ‘everyone, everyone together.’
The circle of white-gloved hands tenses once more around the table, as everyone begins to chant in phrases after Mrs Bradley.
Divine white light of the Holy Ghost and all the Angels, surround our Circle; the love of God protect us; the light of God shine down among us; the power of God keep us safe in His eternal glory.
Before they finish the prayer, the room fills with a stifling heat. Stella’s mouth is wide open, but she’s really choking this time, she’s gasping for breath.
Mrs Bradley begins to speak again, steadily and fast, in a monotone.
Most glorious God of the glorious Heavens, defend us in our battles against the rulers of the world of darkness, give us strength to defeat the spirits of wickedness, free us from the tyranny of the devil. May the Holy Church ever be our Guardian and our Protector. The God of Peace crush Satan that he may no longer hold us captive. The mercy of God’s light shine down upon us and be with us. Cast out the devil into the wilderness that his power be removed and that he remain without power for time eternal. In the name of God the Father.
Amen, says everyone together. Amen, says Mrs Bradley again.
As she finishes, the mirror falls from its chain and smashes on the fireplace. The gasping fades. Stella begins to breathe again.
Then she begins to speak.
‘Baby Keating has not gone missing,’ she rasps, ‘Baby Keating has not been abducted.’ There is froth coming out of Stella’s mouth as she struggles to get the words out. ‘Baby Keating is dead.’
A sharp intake of breath around the room. Then silence. No-one moves.
‘Don’t you hear what I’m saying?’ Stella is yelling now. She snatches her hands up from the table, breaking the circle. ‘Did you hear what I said? The baby’s dead.’
Still no-one moves. ‘Is nobody listening to me?’ Stella shouts, ‘Baby Keating is dead. His body is buried at the back of the civvy.’
Stella slumps forward and lies motionless across the table.
Chapter Nineteen
Stella wakes up on the couch in the sitting room. She has no idea whether it’s morning or night. The blackness is the same whether she opens her eyes or not. She lies still, her thoughts jumbled and disjointed. She tries to jam them together but they’r
e bending and cracking like pieces of a jigsaw that refuse to fit together. Stella has woken up angry. Very angry. She lies still, her eyes closed, and counts back slowly in threes from 101, the way Marcia taught her. She listens to Marcia’s rhythmic counting and feels the light pressure of Marcia’s hands on her shoulders, Marcia’s breath in her hair, the sound of Marcia’s voice surrounding her.
But Marcia’s not here. Marcia’s not real, not any more. Here, Marcia’s getting lost in the fear and the dark and the crowding in of memory. Marcia’s lost, like Stella is lost.
Inside Stella, a scream is taking shape, a scream that begins somewhere deep inside, that wells up to strain against her vocal chords, that comes out as hardly more than a whimper. Stella knows that scream. It can fill her mouth till it’s wide open for minutes on end, with no sound coming out, no sound at all.
Stella tries to get up, but her limbs no longer obey. She shifts on the couch, straightens her back and stretches her legs, aching all over. There’s a nasty, sour taste in her mouth. Her clothes are covered in sick. The rancid smell of it brings on new waves of nausea. Stella knows now, she has to get up, she must get up and get out of this room, out of this room and out of this house. She throws herself from the couch and half stumbles, half crawls across the room and pulls the door behind her till it bangs tight shut. It’s all she can do to make it to the passage. Her back slides down the wall and she slumps to the floor. Collapsed in the passageway, Stella drifting in and out of consciousness, floating among fragments of memory, blurred distorted images, the taste of chemicals, the smell of vomit, powerless to stop any of it.
Silence had fallen as the words left Stella’s mouth. They were all looking at her, she could feel their penetrating eyes. She’d wanted to speak, but couldn’t: she was drifting away. Then there was Frank, there were the Ladies round the table, standing up now. Stella’s grandmother, Mrs Bradley, all staring at Stella, saying nothing. At that same moment, the door crashed open and Muriel burst into the room.
‘What’s all this hocus pocus bloody baloney?’ she shouted. ‘And you,’ she shouted, prodding her finger at Ruby, ‘how many times have I told you not to involve our Stella in your sinister goings on? She’s only a kid, for Christ’s sake.’
