by Dean Cole
As I walked, new camera in hand, I noticed her rubbing her arm and grimacing. ‘What’s the matter?’ I whispered.
‘This nicotine patch is useless. It’s doing nothing for my craving.’
‘You’re wearing a nicotine patch because you can’t smoke for two hours?’
She lifted the sleeve on her other arm to reveal another patch adhered to the skin beneath.
‘Two?’ My voice shot up a key. ‘You’ll poison yourself!’
Hearing us, Matt glanced over his shoulder to investigate. A curt nod and a smile satiated his curiosity, and he looked ahead once more, continuing to lead the way. Kat dismissed my concern with a wave of her hand, as if she’d been censured for something as harmless as eating one too many biscuits.
‘Hun, no one ever got a waistline like mine eating food. And nicotine is the only thing keeping me from stuffing it in my face.’ She flicked her hair and continued to rub the patch.
Maybe she’d developed a superhuman tolerance after years of inhaling her poison. Maybe she’d be dead herself before the night was out.
Approaching the stairs, I spotted the staff who looked after the manor, slipping into coats and scarves as they headed off home for the evening. Mrs Brown, fitting a bucket hat on her head, spotted me staring and waved. I waved back, trying to catch a glimpse of Dracula amongst their group. Hopefully he’d be joining them, not lurking around the manor overnight like a bad omen. But there was no sign of him.
As we moved higher up the building, there was an almost tangible feeling of anticipation between the ghost hunters. Their camcorders followed our every move, ready to catch any paranormal activity — orbs, shadowy figures, footsteps and other noises, Norman informed us. My senses became heightened. The team carried an air of professionalism that was quite impressive. You couldn’t be in their company and not feel that the activity they spoke of was as commonplace as any other occurrence. It was both unsettling and intriguing.
The tension really accelerated when Annie, the location researcher, a woman who liked to talk a lot, started telling us about previous ghostly happenings reported to have occurred in the manor — random guffawing believed to be the disembodied voices of barons and lords, cooking smells wafting from the kitchen in the middle of the night, guests hearing whispers in their ear as they lay in their beds, and, most ominously, a woman in a black dress who had been seen and heard multiple times marching purposefully up and down the corridors, cackling maniacally. As if that wasn’t terrifying enough, it was believed witchcraft, including the dark arts, had been practiced near the property for centuries. Maybe that wasn’t too surprising, a building steeped in as much history as this one, until she told us that crows had been found nailed to trees in the dense woodland behind the manor — and in the not-too-distant past.
She was telling us about a demon dog regularly seen and heard around the grounds, that had a vicious growl, red eyes and a foaming mouth, when I forced myself to tune out. My own experiences over the last few months might have given credence to the possibility of an afterlife, but the tales Annie was telling us were simply a scare tactic. And it worked. Once you started associating the stories with the house, the imagination began to run rampant. Every little noise, every shadow, became something more sinister. Was that scratching noise along the corridor a pesky rat or the demon dog scratching to get inside? Was the creak beyond that doorway the lady in black, ready to come marching out and scare the life out of you?
As much as I reminded myself all this stuff was just local myths, the acts of creative pranksters and the fantasies of vivid storytellers, my skin was still covered in goosebumps and my hair was standing on end by the time we reached the second floor.
Things only got weirder when we were led into a room filled with children’s paraphernalia. There was a tale that surrounded this room, too, involving a possessed doll and a young girl it had purportedly tormented, but I tried not to listen to Annie as she embellished every chilling detail to a bewitched-looking Ash.
‘Everyone gather in the middle of the room,’ Giles instructed us, and we did, forming a circle on a large oval rug decorated with flowers, animals and the letters of the alphabet.
Kat, who had been diligently jotting in her notepad, rapped me sharply on the forehead with her pen.
‘Ow. What’d you do that for?’
‘We’re not at a museum. Stop daydreaming and start taking photos.’
With a scowl I switched on the camera. A play around with it earlier had helped me figure out the basics. I peered through the viewfinder and searched for a suitable shot.
Perhaps for nostalgia, or some odd custom I didn’t want to know about, the room had been kept to look like a nursery. Though it was obvious no modern day child could have resided within its walls. An old rocking chair neighboured an equally outdated crib, conjuring images of translucent beings rocking back and forth as they read stories to children that no longer lay there. Toys that looked like they belonged in a museum, most probably Victorian, were dotted here and there: a wooden horse, a carousel, a rattle and a Jack in the Box; each one as crude as the last, the large sizes impractical for the tiny hands they were crafted for. And, most worrying of all, a collection of pot dolls in Gothic dresses sat in a neat row on top of a painted dresser, their black, lifeless eyes appearing to take interest in the room’s visitors.
I took photos of all of these then flashed Kat a resentful smile, though she didn’t notice, too preoccupied with checking her phone and rubbing her nicotine patches.
‘We’re going to try and contact the dead,’ said Giles, like this was everyday business for him.
Kat tittered. I jabbed her with my elbow.
Contact the dead. My heart rate picked up a pace, through excitement or fear I couldn’t work out which. For the next few moments, with keen interest, I watched the hunters carry out a series of actions they’d clearly done many times before.
Norman unpacked equipment from a heavy looking holdall and Annie and Carrie carried it to various positions around the room. Esther Hill was either deep in thought or getting into some sort of meditative trance. She stood in the middle of the circle, eyes closed, hands clenched in fists by her sides, brow corrugated with concentration. Every so often she’d lift her head or tilt one ear over her shoulder as if straining to hear what someone had just said. Was she already picking up messages from the other side?
‘That’s a REM pod,’ said Giles, pointing to a gadget Annie had just placed on the floor by the door. ‘It emits an electromagnetic field. If energy disturbs that field it’ll let us know by emitting a series of loud beeps. It could indicate a spirit has entered the room. The K-II meter Carrie is holding will hopefully light up in response to specific questions.’
I twirled my head to locate Carrie. She was moving around the room lifting a device akin to a remote control in the air, as if she was trying to make it interact with the ether. I’d just taken a photograph of her doing this when I became aware of the woody, spicy scent of a man’s aftershave.
Will had sidled up beside me holding a small tape recorder. It was a retro model, not the modern devices and apps most people used these days. The sight of it made me long for my old camera, which was hidden at the bottom of my rucksack out of Kat’s reach. Old, familiar things have always given me comfort in uneasy situations. And the current situation was definitely making me uneasy.
He switched on the recorder and dropped it in the chest pocket of the black shirt he had on under the trench coat. Was he a journalist, too? A novice ghost hunter? Whatever he was, my attempt to study him furtively had failed miserably. He was regarding me with thin, suspicious eyes. I glanced away, pretending to look preoccupied with the options on my camera. What was it about the handsome devil that brought about such a disagreeable reaction in me? Mercifully, it looked like the ghost hunters were finished with their preparations, providing a welcome distraction from discovering the answer to that question.
The team gathered around us, a s
udden seriousness about their manner. Norman, who had resumed filming us with his camcorder, circled the group, shooting us through his viewfinder like a paparazzo.
‘Out of my face with that thing!’ Kat snapped, as the camera brushed in front of her. ‘You’re like a bloody mosquito.’
Norman backed away swiftly.
‘Ready, everyone?’ said Giles.
We nodded. Annie moved over to the door. From behind me there came a flutter of electric blue flashes. I turned to catch a glimpse of the storm outside the window, a lightning fork splitting through black roiling clouds followed immediately by an earthshaking rumble. The storm was right above us.
‘Ready, Esther?’ said Giles.
Esther raised a hand as if asking for a moment, then nodded. On her cue, Annie switched off the lights.
The room was plunged into darkness. It took a minute for my eyes to adjust to the black. Gradually I could begin to make out the faint outlines of the others. Then torchlight came on, affording more visibility, along with more lightning that lit up the room intermittently with electric blue flashes. The ghost hunt had begun.
A palpable anticipation hung in the air as we waited to see whatever it was Esther was about to do next. I jumped when she suddenly spoke out loud.
‘If there are any spirits here could you please make your presence known?’
Not a single breath punctuated the silence as everyone waited for a response. None came. Esther persisted.
‘Could you please give us a sign? Make a noise? Touch one of us? Could you move something in this room?’
I imagined cold hands reaching out of the darkness and groping me. The Jack in the Box springing open suddenly and giving me a fright. A possessed pot doll finding its feet, jumping down, walking across the floor and tugging at the hem of my trousers. But again nothing happened. Until —
A knock. Three times.
Ash gasped. The ghost hunters uttered excited whispers. Kat didn’t sound so sceptical anymore as she leaned in to my shoulder and whispered, ‘What the hell was that?’
Esther, unperturbed, continued. ‘Thank you for making your presence known. Now, could you please let me know that you can understand my questions? Please knock once for yes and two times for no.’ She paused. ‘Are you a male?’
We waited. And waited. Then, amazingly, from out of nowhere came two inexplicable yet very distinct knocks.
‘Thank you,’ said Esther. ‘Are you a child?’
Two more knocks.
The K-II meter Carrie was holding began to flash erratically from cold blue to hot red. As she discussed something with Annie in ghost hunting jargon, I caught a glimpse of Kat trying to catch what they were saying. She transcribed what she was hearing in her notebook, aided by a light bulb in the tip of her pen. A woman prepared for all eventualities. But her conviction appeared to be waning. The apprehension in her frown belied the confident, tenacious woman who had swept into the manor, absolutely certain ghosts didn’t exist. Was she starting to have doubts?
Two knocks, twice, to each question — a quick mental calculation told me the knocker was an adult female. Instantly I thought of the lady in the black dress. Then I remembered that I’m a rational human being and there had to be some logical explanation for what I was hearing. And yet — something about the energy in the room felt authentic. I searched the shadows for any eerie faces that might be lurking behind me. A voice made me start.
‘OK, hold up. How do we know it’s not one of you lot doing the knocking? Making sure we get our money’s worth so we’ll tell everyone how great your weekends are? You could easily stage something like this. Is that why you’ve turned off the lights? Is someone out in the corridor? The room above this one?’
Will had spoken. His voice was slightly gruff, perhaps from smoking, but resonant and distinct, defined by the short vowels of the regional accent. Through the gloom I could see torchlight twinkling in his eyes. The challenging stare he was giving the ghost hunters didn’t waver as he waited for a response.
The team didn’t appear offended by this sudden outburst, as if they’d heard the accusation before. Quite willingly, a couple of them lifted their hands like surrendering criminals, proving they weren’t holding any contraptions or gadgets, that their hands weren’t near any surfaces it would be easy to give a crafty knock. Will strained his eyes to check them like a suspicious detective.
‘There’s no third floor, either,’ said Norman. ‘The space above this is the attic. And we’ve been warned by Mr Crouch, the caretaker, that it’s strictly out of bounds to guests. You can ask him yourself.’
‘You’ll just have to trust us,’ added Giles.
Will eyed the shadowy faces around him, but offered no apology for the accusation. Which was pretty brazen considering he’d only just met these people and was already calling them out as potential frauds and liars. It was clear the handsome man in the long coat wasn’t one to mince his words.
‘It must be real,’ said Ash. And Cottonball, perched in her arms, tilted his head and let out a small whimper as if in agreement.
‘Amazing,’ said Matt.
‘It’s dangerous,’ said Kat.
‘No,’ said Esther. ‘We’re completely safe. This is an old energy that remains firmly rooted to this building. These old buildings are rife with them. It will only interact with us when we’re in its domain and we won’t be bothered by it once we’ve left the building.’
‘On personal hauntings,’ piped Norman, and you could hear the genuine curiosity in his voice, ‘do you believe it has something to do with a person’s psyche, as in their psychological state?’
‘It can affect it,’ said Esther. ‘People who are depressed, neurotic, suffering from any form of mental distress, are much more susceptible to negative energies. Sometimes, if the energies vibrate at the same frequency, the entity can use that person’s energy to interact with the physical world. A despairing wail could make a light bulb pop. But an explosion of rage could make the entire electrical system in a building go out. As most ghosts have a negative imprint due to unfinished business, it makes sense that your classic hauntings happen around someone who is experiencing mental difficulty.’
‘That’s what happened to us the other week,’ said Ash. ‘One of the bulbs on my vanity mirror blew out. Practically brand new it was, too. Wasn’t it, Matthaios?’ She gasped suddenly, clasping her hand to her chest. ‘What if I’m getting the same depression my uncle Jerome suffered from?’
‘And it’s the same in cases where people lose someone?’ Will asked Esther, ignoring Ash’s dramatic interjection. ‘I mean, it’s not unusual for people to report seeing a loved one shortly after they’ve passed. Am I right?’
I detected a hint of cynicism in his voice. He wasn’t so much interviewing Esther, but testing her answers for validity. Maybe he was a member of the secret service, and the ghost hunters were being investigated for deception or something equally nefarious. I noticed that he’d spoken with his chin lowered to his chest, as if conscious of the distance between his mouth and the tape recorder stowed inside his shirt. Was that a clue he was involved in a clandestine operation? Whatever he was he certainly knew how to steal the limelight, and captivate an audience. Everyone was hooked, waiting for Esther’s response.
‘If a person yearns hard enough for someone they truly loved and lost, they can manifest remnants of that person’s energy, sometimes mentally, sometimes physically, which is all the same. After all, reality is ultimately what the mind perceives. It’s usually only for a short time, though, following a loved one’s death, when a part of their energy is still firmly rooted to this world. Such experiences can bring great peace for the bereaved, and show them for the first time that there really is more to this reality than most of us think.’ Esther paused for effect. ‘But there are some hauntings that go even deeper.’
More thunder cracked above our heads. The circle of eyes blinked in the torchlight.
‘Oh?’ said Will.
‘Souls have contracts with each other before they incarnate in this world,’ Esther went on. ‘We call some of them twin flames. Twin flames are not just soul mates, they are the same soul. They are there to help the other become their highest, truest self. A haunting from a twin flame is the deepest sort of love.’ She smiled as if this was the most delightful thought.
The northerner didn’t look convinced. ‘You expect us to believe that souls exist before they incarnate into a physical body?’
‘Why not?’ said Esther, unfazed by the handsome young man’s cynical stare. ‘Souls are of a higher dimension, it is no great feat for them to enter and exit the third dimensional reality at will. And they are more than eager to take part in the human journey for the growth and expansion it will create.’
‘The human journey?’
‘Love, loss, pain, happiness, life, death … the whole gamut of human emotion,’ replied Esther.
Will studied her through the torch-lit darkness for a long moment. ‘You’re saying souls want to experience all of that? Including pain and death?’ He scoffed, looking at the rest of the group as if hoping to see his own doubt reflected there. But the eyes peering through the gloom just blinked. ‘Well, where’s the logic in that? Why would something already dead incarnate in a human body, then go through a lifetime of tribulations just to die again?’
Esther grinned sagely. ‘Only a logical mind would say such a thing. And you, my dear, possess a fine example of one of those. But it takes more than a logical mind to understand how the universe works.’
Will had lost his tongue all of a sudden. As if she’d expected this, Esther continued.
‘We live in a world of duality. Day, night. Male, female. Life, death. Love, hate. Good, bad. It is this duality, this contrast, that creates expansion in the universe. How can the universe know black without standing in the perspective of white? How can it know true love without knowing the agony of heartbreak? How can we develop empathy for another’s plight without experiencing suffering for ourselves? Contrast, and all the pain that comes with it, is not an option of this life, it is preordained.
