The Haunting of Blackwood House

by Darcy Coates

  The deep thud of footsteps on stone told her that Neil was taking the staircase to the house’s lowest level.

  You need to get out of here, the logical part of her mind insisted. There’s something very wrong with Neil, and you don’t want to mess with that. Grab Erica and run.

  No, her human side replied. I can’t leave him at the house’s mercy. He came back when I needed him; now he needs me.

  A loud cracking came from somewhere below Mara’s feet. She couldn’t hesitate any longer. Her mind threw up a hundred horrific ideas about what might be happening to Neil, and completely shut down the part that was campaigning for self-preservation.

  She ran through the dining room and into the recreation room. The door to the basement stood wide open. Mara held her torch high and angled it to shine down the stairs, but it wasn’t able to illuminate more than a dozen steps. She took a deep, aching breath and began the descent.

  The difference in temperature was immediately noticeable. Her parents had often talked about cold spots when she was a child. They were supposed to indicate places where spirits resided though Mara had eventually pegged them all as drafty parts of their house. If the whole basement is cold, what sort of ghost lives there? Or is it multiple ghosts? How many spirits can this house hold?

  The chill tickled Mara’s nose. She pressed her spare arm over it to muffle the sound of her breathing. There was no way to keep her footfalls quiet, though; they echoed around her, bouncing off the stone walls and ringing in her ears.

  The stairs opened into the basement, and Mara hurried to put her back to a wall as she turned her torch over the area. She couldn’t see Neil, but a dark patch at the back of the room caught her attention.

  There was a hole in the opposite wall. Someone had broken through the stones, leaving them littered across the floor in clumps and dusty fragments. Mara’s nerves were wound tight, keeping her ready to jump back at the first sign of motion, as she crept closer. The gap wasn’t wide but was tall enough for a person to step through without trouble. Mara crouched and tried to see through the clouds of disturbed dust as she drew closer.

  The area beyond the wall was much larger than the basement she’d known. The stone walls stretched away for at least twenty meters. Hundreds of sheaths of parchment, coloured with ink and crumbling from age, were stuck to them. Tables and shelves collected along one wall, their contents all desiccated. And near the back of the room stood Neil, facing the wall, hands clasped behind his back as though he were admiring a painting in a gallery.

  “Neil?” The echo made Mara’s voice sound far louder than she’d intended.

  Neil didn’t turn but inclined his head a little to indicate he’d heard. “Come and have a look at this, Mara.”

  Oh, hell no. I don’t care what he’s found; we’re not going into the creepy room. No way.

  “Neil, come back. Erica’s hurt. We’ve got to go.”

  He showed no sign of hearing her. The prickling warnings crept over Mara’s arms, and she switched the torch to her left hand so she could wipe her sweaty palm on her jeans. She tried to keep her voice steady as she called, “I’m serious; get out, or I swear I’ll ditch your sad ass down here.”

  Still no answer. Despite her bravado, there was no way on earth she was leaving Blackwood without Neil. Panicked tears pricked at her eyes as she struggled to breathe deeply enough to keep her limbs supplied with oxygen.

  Don’t go in, her logical side pleaded. She knew she should listen to it. Nothing good could come from stepping through the hole in the wall.

  But Neil wasn’t moving, and she knew he wouldn’t move unless she went to him. And every minute they spent in the basement felt like it increased the risk exponentially. This is a bad choice. But I would make a thousand bad choices as long as they kept him safe.

  Mara climbed through the hole.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN: Supplanted

  Broken rocks crunched under Mara’s feet as she sidestepped through the hole. When she’d first discovered the basement, she’d been bothered by how small it was. There was nothing to disappoint about the extended room, however. It would easily stretch the length of Blackwood, possibly farther. I wonder when it was bricked up? The paper looks ancient, so it must have been around the time the first couple of families came here. But why?

  Mara glanced at some of the sheets pinned to the walls. They held diagrams, scribbled drawings of dark figures, and cursive that was too intricate for her to easily read. She didn’t stop to examine them. All she wanted was to get Neil out of the basement and into their car.

  He continued to face the wall and showed no sign of awareness as Mara drew closer. She hoped he was in shock. There weren’t many other explanations for his behaviour that didn’t carry horrible implications.

  “Neil.” She kept her voice low and gentle. Only a few paces separated them, but he still hadn’t turned. “Take a moment to think. You said the house can affect you. If you’re feeling… uh, angry, or negative, or like you want to do something bad…” she cleared her throat. “Remember that it’s just the building. Come outside with me. I love you, Neil. I want you to be okay.”

  “Love.” There was a strange lilting tone to Neil’s voice, like an accent she couldn’t place. He finally turned to face Mara, and his smile turned her blood cold. “Do you think love can save you? Do you think it will grant you any more mercy than my other guests?”

  This isn’t Neil.

  It was the same angular, handsome face she adored. The same sky-blue eyes. The lips she’d loved to taste, the strong nose she’d run her finger down, the eyebrows that held more good humour than mood. But the expression wasn’t Neil’s, and it arranged his beautiful, good face into something horrible—arrogant, self-satisfied, and malicious.

  He picked an object off the ground, and Mara’s anxious prickles turned into a buzz as she began backing away. When she tried to speak, the words came out as a hoarse whimper. She swallowed and tried again. “Why are you doing this, Robert? What’s keeping you from moving on?”

  “Ha!” There was no humour in the laugh. Neil—or the creature that had taken over Neil’s body—began to pace towards her, eating up the distance she’d put between them. “You’re entirely unaware of your own ignorance, child. Don’t struggle. I’ll make this quick.”

  Neil raised the axe. It was a huge, aged, wicked-looking implement. The handle was dark wood and the silver blade was sharp. It wasn’t a small implement, but Neil’s muscles carried it easily. He swung it towards her in an easy, practiced motion.

  Mara leapt backwards. A gust of air brushed her arms as the blade barely missed her. It made a deep, whistling noise as it moved. Neil stopped the swing and brought it back around far more quickly than Mara had expected.

  She ducked and felt it snag her hair. I can’t fight him. I’ve got to get away—put some distance between us—get back to Erica and hope she’s woken up and knows what to do. Because there has to be a way to reverse what’s happened to Neil. There has to be.

  Mara turned and scrambled towards the hole in the wall. A second’s rumble was the only warning she had before a huge slap of rock tumbled away from the wall and collapsed in front of the gap, blocking it. The impact of the slab hitting the floor shook Mara so badly that she lost her feet and collapsed to the floor. Dust clouds exploded around her, and she choked on the taste. She flipped over and shone her torch through the smog-like particles. She made out Neil’s silhouette pacing closer, axe held at the ready.

  Neil would be strong enough to move the stone slab, but Mara had no hope of budging it herself. There wasn’t another exit. The two of them were trapped in a deadly dance—and she couldn’t envision an end that didn’t result in death.

  Neil came within swinging distance, and Mara staggered to one side. Her shaking torch’s beam highlighted a sheen of sweat on his face. The sight of the perspiration gave Mara pause.

  The axe is heavy, but two swings shouldn’t be enough to tire him. No way.

&nb
sp; “Neil.” Mara fought to keep her voice even as she circled away from the slowly pacing man. “Are you still in there? Can you hear me? I need you to fight, baby. Remember how much I love you.”

  Neil flinched. A drip of sweat ran down his cheek, but he didn’t stop moving. The human reaction gave Mara a flash of hope, but with it came a heavy dread. If Robert wins—if he kills me—it will destroy Neil. I can’t do that to him.

  She bumped against a wall and felt something press into her thigh through her pocket. Mara drew a sharp breath. It was a small hope—a stupid, desperate endeavour—but she seized it. Mara dug the bunch of sage out of her pocket.

  Her moment of inattention was the opening Neil had been waiting for. He pitched forward, moving far faster than she’d expected him to, and this time Mara wasn’t able to avoid the blade. It cut her arm just below the shoulder. The blow was glancing and not deep enough to disable her, but the pain was unbearable. Mara screamed and dropped the torch. She fell back as Neil raised the axe for the killing blow.

  There was no time to think. Mara stuffed the herb into her mouth. Damian had said its smoke was supposed to weaken and dispel spirits, but Mara had no way to light the plant. Instead, she chewed furiously as she threw herself towards Neil.

  Being close to him was risky, but at least he couldn’t bring the axe down on her. Mara got as near him as she could, pressing herself against his chest, and glimpsed the fury and malice in his eyes as she spat the herb at him.

  Neil roared and staggered backwards. He wiped a hand across his face, trying to smear the crushed plant fragments away, then collapsed to the ground.

  Mara backed against the wall. The roaring pain from the cut made her vision swim, and she could feel hot blood running down her arm and dribbling off the elbow. She knew she should apply pressure to stop the flow but was frightened that touching it would make her pass out.

  The torch had fallen in such a way that it threw its light across the left half of the room. She could see Neil crouched on the ground, shaking his head. Brief glimpses of his face showed two sides: the furious, cruel face of Robert but also her Neil—frantic, desperate, and struggling with everything he had.

  “Neil, fight him.” Mara’s voice was cracked, but the words made Neil’s shoulders shake. “Don’t let Robert win.”

  “Not—” Neil gasped then threw himself backwards, his face contorted in agony. He spat the phrase through gritted teeth. “Not—Robert—”

  Not Robert? Mara’s mind—dulled by pain, fear, and shock—struggled with the words. Is he saying he’s not going to let Robert win? No—wait—

  Neil’s hand fluttered to his jacket pocket, then he contorted again, straining as though he’d been run through with a knife. A pained cry escaped him, then he fell limp.

  Mara pressed herself against the wall, barely daring to breathe, as she watched Neil’s still form. He lay motionless for so long that Mara began to fear he was dead, but then his hands twitched, and he drew himself into a crouch.

  “Neil?” she whispered.

  He pulled himself to his feet before turning to look at her. It wasn’t Neil.

  And it wasn’t Robert Kant, either.

  The clues fell into place as Mara stared at the face that was simultaneously so dear and so repulsive. Robert Kant wasn’t Blackwood’s dominant ghost as they’d thought. He was only a pawn for the house’s true master. That was why Erica hadn’t been able to dispel him.

  When she’d sensed the spirit that had held control over Blackwood, Erica had described a tall, gaunt man who carried an axe. Mara had simply assumed that it was Robert, who’d favoured the axe as his primary weapon. But the axe hadn’t been his choice, had it? Instead, it was imposed on him by the entity that used him as a puppet.

  The truth was so obvious that Mara wanted to hit herself for not seeing it sooner. Blackwood’s true master was its original owner, the renowned spiritualist and Mara’s ancestor: Victor Barlow.

  Victor had been obsessed with bridging the gap between the mortal world and the spiritual. Judging by the vast swaths of paper and tools in the basement, he had done significant work towards that goal. He’d chosen Blackwood’s location carefully and built a house that was far larger than what a single man would need, in anticipation of the families that were destined to live in it. Once he was ready, he’d taken the most drastic and dangerous step in his plan: he’d drawn Robert Kant to his house and allowed his own murder.

  From then, Robert had been Victor’s puppet to pull additional lives into Blackwood. Robert had killed five children before he had slipped up and let one escape—possibly even deliberately, Mara thought, to put an end to his miserable existence. Then, instead of fleeing Blackwood, he’d hung himself from the bannister. He’d served Victor in life, and would continue to serve him in death.

  Every other family to live in Blackwood had fallen to Robert’s will. He’d influenced them to use the axe, a tool he was deeply familiar with thanks to a lifetime working as a woodcutter. Each death had increased Blackwood’s energy. To what end, Mara wasn’t sure—though she knew it couldn’t be an altruistic goal. Victor gained energy with every murder. And Mara, charged with years of bottled-up spiritual energy, would be an ideal victim.

  She felt sick. The blood loss was taking its toll, and the adrenaline, having carried her through most of the evening, was failing. And as long as he inhabited Neil’s body, Victor was both stronger and faster than Mara could hope to be.

  But knowing the spirit’s identity gave her a desperate plan. Neil no longer held his axe and was off balance, but Mara knew he wouldn’t take long to collect himself. She ran at the man, praying that she’d guessed correctly.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT: Improvised

  Neil had fumbled for his jacket pocket when he’d broken through Victor’s hold to speak to Mara. She also had a faint memory of Neil promising to remove Victor Barlow’s photo after it had fallen out of the hacked-up bed. Please let me be right.

  Victor hadn’t expected her lunge, and she caught him unprepared. He staggered two steps backwards when she slammed into him, but he didn’t fall. Damn it, Neil, why do you have to be so solid?

  Mara forced her hand into his pocked. She touched something papery and latched onto it as Neil’s hand gripped her neck and squeezed, sending a flare of pain through her already bruised throat.

  “Neil!” she squeaked around the pressure. There was a tiny flash of familiarity in the cold eyes, and the hand loosened a fraction. That was the opening Mara needed. She raised her foot and kicked him in the stomach, using the impact to throw them apart. Mara hit the ground and screamed as the stones scraped her cut shoulder.

  Victor hissed his fury as he straightened Neil’s back.

  Hurry, hurry, hurry! Mara slapped the picture onto the tiles. She had no chalk, but Erica had said the symbols didn’t need to be exact. Mara hoped that meant the art materials were open to interpretation, too, and scraped blood from her arm. She used the crimson liquid to draw as much of the quinet as she could remember.

  A scraping noise warned Mara that Victor had retrieved his axe. She knew she only had seconds until he reached her.

  Mara had almost no idea what she was doing. All she had to go on was the knowledge that she was charged full of energy, and the memory of what Erica had done in the foyer. She placed both hands on Victor’s picture and focussed as hard as she could, searching for the black threads she’d seen floating through the upstairs room.

  For a second, nothing happened. Victor took a heavy step closer and raised the axe. Then something clicked for Mara, and she saw the threads—dozens of them, thin and floating gracefully—rising from the picture. She pinched a bundle of them between her fingers and tugged.

  It was a bizarre sensation. Half of her knew she was touching nothing but air. The other half could feel the threads. They sent tingles through her fingers as though they were filled with a very low electrical charge. She was aware of how fragile they were and innately understood that if she pu
lled too hard, they would break. Gentle tugs. Draw him out slowly.

  She gave a soft pull and felt the tension run through the threads. Neil, axe raised above her exposed back, shook, and took a staggering step backward. Mara risked another tug. A wisp of ink-like smoke floated out of Neil’s chest. The cold malevolence on his face distorted into shock, then horror. She pulled a third time and slowly, carefully drew the ghost out of Neil.

  They split like oil and water dividing. Neil fell backwards while Victor’s smoky spirit form was dragged forward. Mara saw her partner collapse but couldn’t risk diverting her attention from Victor to see if he was hurt. He didn’t move, and that frightened her. The thought that it might be possible to kill a human by forcefully splitting a spirit crossed her mind, but she repressed it.

  Focus. You’re so close. Victor stood before her. He was both clearer and more cultured than Robert Kant. While the serial killer had been scruffy and low-class, Victor radiated intelligence and confidence, from his sideburns to his expensive clothing. Anger flared across his face as he reached for Mara. Now, hurry! She dropped the threads, pressed her left hand to the quinet, and threw her right hand into the spirit’s slimy, unnatural, swirling form.

  She pictured light rising from the quinet just as she’d seen it in the foyer. On command, energy rose through her, burning up her arms and stinging the cut. It was powerful, hot, and overwhelming. She felt as though she’d stepped off a ledge and was in a free fall; her stomach flipped, her heart stopped, and she couldn’t have drawn breath even if she’d wanted to. The power roared through her—out of her core, out of the room, out of Blackwood—and flooded Victor. The black form swelled, and Mara felt a cut of doubt. What if this feeds him? What if this is what he wanted?

  But she couldn’t have stopped even if she’d tried to. The energy moved through her like an electric tornado, pouring into Victor, causing his inky self to billow out as he tried to contain the power. She caught a glimpse of his eyes, filled with uncontrollable fury, then he exploded.