The Haunting of Blackwood House

by Darcy Coates

  “Go ahead.” Mara found she cared far less than she would have expected as she watched Erica distribute her talismans across the table. Damian moved around to take Mara’s seat, placed one of the candles in front of him, then took Erica’s hands to begin the session.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO: Focus

  “This might take a while,” Damian said as his companion closed her eyes. “Make yourself a cup of tea or something. You look pale.”

  Mara was feeling queasy but didn’t want to miss any of the meditation process. She leaned against the wall, imitating the pose she’d caught Neil in that afternoon, as she watched the mediums. Whereas the afternoon session had included chanting, this time the couple hummed. As far as she could see, they were keeping their promise of cutting out the theatrics.

  Time stretched on. Erica’s face was completely blank at the session’s start but gradually darkened. Perspiration stood out on her forehead and began running down her cheeks. Damian remained calm but occasionally opened his eyes to check on Erica.

  Mara shifted uneasily as the footsteps in the attic joined the rocking chair. Neither Damian nor Erica flinched when a door slammed.

  At the ten-minute mark, Mara began pacing. At fifteen minutes, she sat on the ground and pulled her legs up under her chin. The wait seemed painfully, inordinately long, and despite having company barely five feet away, she was starting to feel isolated. Erica and Damian were wholly focussed on each other; Mara doubted they would notice if she spontaneously combusted. She ached for a companion of her own. Neil.

  She was nearly at the point of getting the suggested cup of tea when Erica opened her eyes and sucked in a lungful of air. She was shaking, but a smile spread over her face. “Oh, wow; this place is intense.”

  Damian rubbed Erica’s hands as Mara quickly pulled up the third seat. “What did you see?”

  “There are a bunch of spirits here—mostly women and children—but the dominant one is a man. He’s tall and thin and carries an axe. That axe is super important; it’s almost like a part of himself.”

  “Robert Kant,” Mara supplied. “The axe was his signature weapon—so much so that the media called him The Chopper.”

  “That’ll be our ghost, then.” Erica looked elated but exhausted. “If we can get rid of Robert, the rest of the ghosts should flow out easily. Just like unblocking a drain.”

  “Most of the other murders in Blackwood were also committed with an axe,” Mara said. “Is that normal?”

  “It means Robert was possessing or influencing the perpetrators,” Damian said. “Which isn’t surprising. It would be extremely unusual to see so much violent death in one house if there wasn’t a powerful spirit orchestrating it.”

  “Why?” Mara asked. “What does he get out of this?”

  Erica shrugged. “He’s probably just a sick puppy. Deranged and violent in life, deranged and violent in death.”

  The footsteps above them finally fell silent. Mara imagined the smokelike man plunging to his death for what could have been the thousandth time.

  “Now we just need something connected to Robert,” Erica said. “Preferably something he was emotionally close to and frequently carried, but I could probably make do with an object he’d held a few times if it came to it.”

  Mara raised her eyebrows. “What, are you expecting me to magically produce one of Kant’s favourite keepsakes? I don’t want to disappoint, but… no.”

  “There’s got to be something,” Erica pressed. “Did he use the cutlery here? It’d be a weak connection, but I bet I could make it work.”

  “Sorry, the cutlery belonged to the last people to own this house. Six families have lived here since Robert. I really don’t know how much would be left over from his time.” Mara gazed about the room. “Could you use the house itself…?”

  “You mean like touching the walls? Not really, unless you can identify a specific part of the wood that he was in frequent contact with. And it’s got to be more than just leaning on it—I need skin contact.”

  “Jeeze; you’re fussy,” Mara muttered. Damian snickered. “Uh… he hung himself from the bannister. I’ve seen his ghost there a couple of times.”

  Erica almost burst out of her seat. “Really? You’ve actually…? Wow—it usually takes years of practice to see ghosts. Not even I—though I guess the energy hotspot is helping a lot. Still… have you ever considered a career as a spirit medium?”

  Mara cringed.

  “Focus.” Damian tapped Erica’s arm, and she settled back into her seat.

  “Oh, yeah, right. Knowing where his ghost hangs out will help us if we want to communicate with him, but it’s no good to dispel him. I’ve got to touch something.”

  “Ugh.” Mara rubbed at her face. “Sorry, but I’ve only lived here for, like, five days. I have no idea if anything would have come from Robert’s time, let alone which items he was fond of.”

  “We could ask one of the spirits,” Damian suggested.

  Erica’s face lit up. “Yeah, great idea. Let’s do that.”

  “What, it’s really as simple as that?” Mara glanced towards the now-still rocking chair. “We just say, ‘Hey there, Mrs Ghost, got any gossip you want to spill?’”

  Damian grinned again, but Erica crossed her arms and puffed her cheeks out. “Of course it’s not that simple. As the lead ghost, Robert will probably still be quite intelligent. But the others might be nothing except a bundle of impulses—the last emotions and motives they experienced as humans, replayed every night. Still, there’s a chance they can lead us to something, or give us a hint, if they have much awareness about them. We’ll have to go about it carefully, though.”

  “All right, all right.” Mara took a slow breath to calm herself. “Which ghost would you like to try first?”

  “Got any suggestions? Not Robert—he probably doesn’t want to be dispelled and is just as likely to attack as help. Otherwise, the more active, the better—and they’ll be more likely to cooperate if they still had their wits at the point of death.”

  The lady killed in the master bedroom was clinically insane for a year before she was killed. The woman in the rocking chair didn’t have a diagnosis, but if my dream can be trusted, she was also unhinged. That leaves…

  “The spirit in the attic. He paces up and down its length before throwing himself through a gap in the roof. I can’t guarantee he was sane—it was a grief-prompted suicide—”

  “Let’s try him.” Damian rose from his chair. “Do you know of anything that can summon him? Does he follow a pattern?”

  “He’s already gone through his routine twice tonight, but the last few nights, he appeared between eleven and eleven thirty. He only stays for a couple of minutes, though.”

  Damian checked his watch. “It’s ten to eleven now. Let’s get up there.”

  Mara led them to the attic. The familiar jumble of furniture, shed cloths, and clotted shadows greeted her. She scanned the area, but it was still and quiet. Mara waited for her companions to join her then shifted her torch’s light from the furniture to the hole. “He usually completes a couple of laps before crawling through there.”

  “Have you seen him?” Damian asked.

  “Yeah, earlier tonight, actually, on a webcam we set up.”

  “Did he seem angry or aggressive?”

  Mara strained to remember. She’d been almost hysterical at the time of the encounter, and the images were faint. “No, I don’t think so. He seemed sort of blank, like he’d been driven to the point of exhaustion. The police report said he took his own life after his last child died and his wife killed herself, so my guess is he was probably in grief.”

  “That’s okay,” Damian said. Mara thought he’d relaxed slightly.

  “Is it important?”

  “Eh…” He shrugged. “Normally a spirit’s emotional state isn’t an issue, but in a house as charged as this—well, if a ghost is angry or resentful, it might lash out at any interference—even a human one.”

&nb
sp; Mara frowned, and her hand rose to scratch the spot on her arm where the woman in the master bedroom had grasped at her. “Ghosts can hurt us, can’t they?”

  “They can if they have enough energy. And you’ve been feeding them your excess energy since you arrived.” Damian dusted off a discarded cushion and offered it to Erica, who still looked tired after the meditation. “That’s why the supernatural events become stronger each night. The spirits gain power the longer you stay here.”

  “Damn,” Mara muttered. “Is there any way I can… maybe… not do that?”

  “You could learn to control your energy with some practice. But, for tonight, I’d recommend you try to remain calm. The more frightened or anxious you become, the faster you’ll radiate energy.”

  That explains why my worst nights were when I was alone. I felt safe when Neil was around.

  Damian checked his watch. “Shouldn’t be long now. How’re you doing, Erica?”

  “Nearly there.”

  Mara started and turned to see the other woman crouched in a patch of floor she’d cleared. Erica had produced a stick of chalk and was scribbling strange shapes and runes on the wood. Mara took a half step away. “What’s this for?”

  “It helps focus her energy.” Damian indicated some of the shapes. “These attempt to wear down the barrier between the human world and the spiritual realm so that she can mediate between them.” He pointed to another group. “Those ones are supposed to act as protection. And those”—he gestured towards the last group—“will enhance her power.”

  Erica finished by drawing a circle around the odd collection of shapes then knelt on the cushion in its centre. “Do we have everything? I’m not—ugh, the sage!”

  “Do you think you’ll need it?” Damian checked his watch. “It’s two minutes past eleven. I could run down and get it…”

  For the first time, Erica looked anxious. “No, I want you here. We’ll make do without it tonight.”

  “I could get it,” Mara said, and Erica swung towards her.

  “Would you—? Thanks heaps. It should be on the table.”

  “Be back in a minute.” Mara turned to the trapdoor. She slid down the stairs, ran along the length of the hallway, and took the steps to the ground floor two at a time. Her skin was prickling. Something big was coming, and it wouldn’t wait for long.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE: Sage and Rope

  Mara kept her footsteps light as she moved through the foyer and the living room and into the library. She didn’t know how important sage was to the ritual Erica had cooked up, but if it could offer even a little protection, she wanted to grow a garden of it. Or at least learn what it looked like.

  I never expected this to be one of the downsides to kitchen ignorance. I bet Neil would recognise sage. Damn it—put him out of your head, Mara. Get through tonight so you have the chance to apologise tomorrow.

  The three candles still burning on the table cast flickering shadows about the room. The rocking chair began groaning again, but Mara ignored it as she sifted through the trinkets. Half-hidden under a cat skull was a bunch of small, soft leaves. Mara raised the herb to her nose and inhaled. This better be the sage.

  She pushed the bunch into her pocket and turned to run through the living room but snapped back when she reached the doorway. The rocking chair, groaning softly on its struts, was occupied. The large, red-haired woman faced the window as she kicked her toes against the floor.

  Crap, crap, crap. Mara’s stress spiked. She knew she was supposed to stay calm, but her heart felt as though it was trying to leap out of her throat as she pressed her back to the wall. This is fine. You’ve got sage, remember? And—and that’s probably useful—somehow—

  The woman didn’t seem to be aware of having company. She was faced away from Mara, hiding her expression, but the pose was relaxed and the rocking gentle. She wasn’t completely solid but made up of the same swirling mist as the spirit in the attic. Mara began to slink around the edge of the room.

  Faint snatches of the foreign lullaby floated through the air, but it seemed somehow wrong, as though the woman was no longer able to hit all of the notes.

  Mara was nearly at the foyer’s doorway when she hit a creaky floorboard. She flinched, clenching her teeth, as the wood groaned.

  The woman’s feet fell still, stopping the rocking chair’s motion. She turned slowly, and Mara pressed a hand over her mouth to smother her cry.

  It hadn’t been immediately noticeable behind the thick hair and dress, but the woman was severely decayed. Clumps of translucent flesh had sunk around her eye sockets and sloughed free of her cheeks. She seemed to be grinning, but it was hard to tell without any lips to frame the teeth.

  Mara squeezed her eyes closed and stumbled backwards until her shoulder hit the corner of the doorway. When she opened her eyes again, the woman was gone. The rocking chair shifted, as though it had been recently vacated, then came to a halt.

  Cold sweat built over Mara. She backed through the doorway, reluctant to take her eyes off the chair and prepared to run at the slightest sign of motion. Sickness rose in her stomach, but she swallowed it.

  Two stories above, someone began pacing through the attic. The steps were too even and too familiar to belong to either of the mediums. “Damn it.”

  Mara turned to run for the stairs, but before she could take a step, something dropped in front of her eyes and snagged around her throat, tugging her back. She grunted and tried to shake the object off, but it was heavy and scratched her skin. Her blood chilled as a deep, cracked voice whispered into her ear, “Surprise, sweetheart.”

  The weight around her throat was suddenly much, much tighter as bony hands tugged against it. Mara struggled to pull free, clawing at what she now realised was a coarse rope, but it was already cinched. She opened her mouth to scream, but a sharp jolt pulled her towards the stairs and her feet left the ground.

  No! Her throat was forced closed. She kicked, but her legs only touched air. Make noise! Call for help! She opened her mouth, but the only thing that escaped was a stifled gurgle. She couldn’t breathe, let alone speak. She stretched a hand out. Her fingers grazed the wall, but it was too far away to beat against.

  A heavy, slow footstep reverberated behind her as Robert Kant circled his prey. She couldn’t see him, but she felt his icy hands brushing against her back as he toyed with her. “Why don’t you scream, sweetheart?” he purred.

  Mara scrabbled at the rope, but it was too tight to get her fingers under it to reduce the pressure. Her lungs burnt. A high-pitched ringing echoed through her head, and darkness bled into the edges of her vision.

  Do something! Think of something!

  A voice seemed to be trying to break through the ringing sound, but she couldn’t make out the words. She couldn’t see, and her fingers felt numb as they scratched at the rope with increasing sluggishness.

  Then an arm wrapped around her waist and lifted her. The pressure across her throat slackened enough for her to suck a thin gasp of oxygen into her starved lungs. The voice was speaking to her, but the words seemed garbled.

  A blade pressed against her throat. Mara impulsively twitched back, but the knife didn’t cut her. Instead, it wormed between her skin and the rope and began sawing at the fibres.

  “Hold still, Mara. Don’t struggle. I’ll have you out in a moment.”

  I know that voice. I know these arms. He came back.

  “Neil,” she croaked.

  “Shh, shh, hang on—”

  Her hands, too oxygen starved to hover around the rope any longer, dropped to his shoulders. She could feel the muscles, taut under his shirt, as he fought to hold her weight and cut the rope at the same time. Every rub of the blade against the noose increased the pressure around her throat, but there was just enough slack in the cord for Mara to breathe around it. Then the last strand broke with a quiet snap, and Mara tumbled forward.

  She didn’t have the strength to raise her hands to brace herself against a fall, bu
t it wasn’t needed. She came to a halt, wrapped in the thick, strong arms she loved so much. Neil’s calloused fingers massaged at her throat as he murmured, “Breathe, sweetheart. You’re okay. Just breathe.”

  Air had never tasted so sweet. Mara forced her eyes open and found Neil hovering over her, his face sheet white and eyes wide with fear. She tried to smile but wasn’t entirely certain what expression her face made. “You came back.”

  “Shh, don’t try to talk.”

  His fingers trembled as they massaged her aching throat then moved higher to brush strands of hair out of her face. Mara tried to stroke his chest, but it turned into more of a weak pat. “Why’d you come back?”

  He shook his head, but his eyes never left her face. “I know—you don’t want me here—you can yell at me as much as you want later, I promise—just relax—”

  “Don’t you dare leave me ever again.” Mara’s face cracked into a wonky grin. The relief and gratitude and fear boiled together, and before she realised what was happening, she was crying. She couldn’t stop it; the tears came hot and fast, and all she could do was clutch Neil and hope he didn’t think she was completely deranged.

  The arm behind her head and shoulders raised her a little and pulled her close. His other hand alternated between rubbing her back and wiping tears off her cheeks when he could reach them. “It’s okay,” he whispered into her hair. “You’re safe now. I won’t let anyone hurt you.”

  “We can hire that priest you wanted,” Mara managed between gulps and hiccups. “We can hire the whole Vatican. Install the pope in the spare bedroom.”

  Neil’s body shook as he laughed. His hands were all over her—in her hair, stroking her cheeks, and caressing her arms. “Mara, Mara, Mara,” was all he seemed able to manage. “I’m so sorry.”