by Dean Cole
The memories drifted away and a fog descended in their place. The autumnal garden, as picturesque as a greetings card just moments ago, felt bleak and dull all of a sudden. A bite in the air made me regret not fetching my blazer. Especially looking at Will, buttoned to the chin in his trenchcoat, the pale light bringing out the cool blue in his eyes.
A cacophony of screeches and squawks came from somewhere behind us. I glanced over my shoulder and saw a flock of crows scrapping and pecking at the grass beneath a weeping cherry tree. The tree stood out against the deciduous species that surrounded it, its drooping leaves a brilliant array of yellow and bronze hues with touches of resplendent red. I knew its name from going on jobs with my uncle Max, a gardener, when I was a kid.
‘Bugger off!’ Will flicked the burning tip of his cigarette at the birds. They croaked angrily before taking off over the caretaker’s cottage towards distant trees.
He sat back and folded his arms. ‘Tell you what,’ he said, a wry smile audible in his voice. ‘After last light I’m thinking they don’t need the dead to pull the punters to this place. They could just get old Lurch to wander about the corridors. Be enough to frighten the life out of anyone, that would.’
‘You shouldn’t make such flippant jokes about the dead,’ I replied sharply. ‘You’ll regret it one day when you lose someone you love.’
I got up and stalked away from the bench, my feet hitting the ground hard enough to kick gravel into the air. As I stomped up the steps and back towards the entrance of the house, thunder rumbled. Grey clouds swirled overhead. There was going to be another storm tonight. Which felt very fitting for my current mood.
* * * * *
Heading back inside the house I collided into Mr Crouch. Literally. He stumbled backwards on creaky legs as I lunged forward to stop him toppling over like a bowling pin. The response I got wasn’t one of gratitude.
‘Gerroff me, dirty little sod!’ he snarled, snatching his arm away, his rheumy eyes wild and intense, his cheeks veiny and empurpled.
I stood and stared, incredulous. I’d given the truculent senior enough of my patience up until now, but that was just plain rude.
‘Is there a problem?’ I countered.
‘Your sort make me sick,’ he growled.
My sort? My thoughts drifted back to the early hours. His shadowed face watching me and Will through the kitchen window, our hands touching. Had he thought there was something intimate between us? ‘D’you mean —’
He lifted a gnarled, quivering finger and his whiskery jaw fell open to reveal a mouth with few teeth. ‘You bunch of freaks have no business being here!’ Spit showered me as he spoke.
‘We have permission to be —’
‘I don’t give a rat’s arse what you’ve got, boy.’ His face turned threatening. ‘Your kind are nothing but trouble. And if you bring it anywhere near this place I swear I’ll —’
‘You’ll what?’ Miraculously, an hitherto courage had overtaken me and I was challenging my aggressor. This was a miracle because, unlike a lot of men my age, the first hint of conflict would ordinarily have me shrinking away like a penis in cold weather. But not now. Even my chest had puffed out, albeit still as flat as a tortilla wrap because the only workout my chest muscles got were when I pushed myself out of bed in the morning. But I was standing up for myself. And it felt good. Really good.
Stan looked rattled at being challenged, his saggy eyes, roofed by wiry brows, flitting about in their sockets as they tried to figure out a way to counterstrike. Then, as if suddenly possessed by a cunning thought, he leaned in closer and said in an evil whisper, ‘There’s a darkness ‘haunts this place. Mess with it and you’ll never sleep sound again. It’ll haunt you till you’re so scared you’ll wish you were dead yourself.’ The leathery mouth, lips almost blue with age, became a canine snarl. ‘If you had any sense you’d get out while you still can. D’you hear me? You’d get out while you still can!’
Anger finally boiling over, he jabbed me firmly in the midriff with his cane before jostling past me out of the front door.
Alarmed and insulted that I’d just been assaulted, I started after him. But a torrent of rain hit me the moment I stepped outside, so heavy it forced me to retreat back inside. I stayed sheltered beneath the entranceway, watching the elderly brute limp around the side of the building, one arm lifted above his head like an umbrella, the other stabbing the ground with the cane.
I went back inside and shook myself off like a dog, spraying the stone floor with rainwater. I headed upstairs, miffed by the old man’s discourtesy, trying to make sense of his ominous warning. What had he meant by a darkness living inside the manor? Could it be the lady in black? The other phantoms Annie had told us about? And what about it was so threatening that he thought I should be fleeing out the front door not heading back inside it?
Maybe Mrs Brown had the answers. Reaching the top of the stairs I spotted her hurrying up the corridor, her feet barely able to catch up with her. She noticed the wetness on my clothes and her eyebrows came together like a pair of curtains. ‘Oh, this awful weather. When will it finally let up, eh?’
Most likely never since we’re in England, I thought but didn’t say aloud. She reached me and began sweeping remnants of rain from the shoulders of my jumper.
‘Do you have any idea why your handyman would tell me that I need to get out of this place?’ I asked.
I didn’t mention the homophobic slur. Or the assault. Even if I was itching to vent about it, complain to whoever was in charge. Ever since reading somewhere that defence is the first act of war I’d been trying to develop an automatic brake when it came to starting wars with people. And I had gained at least some social skills from those years of teen therapy. I aspired to be the guy who let it go even when it was obvious the other person was in the wrong. Life tends to go more smoothly that way, usually.
Mrs Brown became suddenly attentive. ‘Stan been troubling you, has he?’
‘His manner wasn’t exactly what I’d call courteous just now,’ I offered generously. ‘He said there was a darkness living in the building and if I had any sense I’d get out while I still can. Do you know what he means by that?’
The little woman stared up at me with unblinking eyes. No sixth sense was necessary to know she felt troubled by this piece of information. Then, suspiciously, her face became its usual friendly countenance once again. She batted the air dismissively with a wedding ring adorned tiny hand. ‘Ignore the old curmudgeon, dear. This house has been Stan’s home for decades, practically a permanent fixture of the place he is. He’s a wee overprotective of it, that’s all. I’ll have a word with him, make sure he doesn’t bother you or your friends again over the weekend.’
She gave me a wink before turning and carrying on her way. I stayed at the summit of the staircase and watched her descend. Midway down she snatched a glance at me over her shoulder. And it was in that motion, for the very first time, that I sensed something dishonest about the kindly housekeeper. Mrs Brown knew more about Stan’s warning than she was letting on.
When I got back to our room I found Kat there. She was standing in front of the dresser mirror, buttoning a fresh shirt, a look of annoyance creasing her ordinarily unwrinkled forehead. She paid no attention to me as I crossed the room to the wardrobe.
‘I thought you were doing interviews?’ I said, my voice curter than intended.
‘I was. But I had to change because I spilled coffee all over my blouse.’ She sighed loudly. ‘It was that man’s fault, the one with the bald head and silver beard, all those tattoos on his arms. He kept looking at me in this really inappropriate way, putting me off my questions. I know I’m an attractive woman, but he’s old enough to be my father, if not my grandfather. And he burped. Burped! Right in front of me, like some sort of feral hog. It’s a good job he didn’t fart or I’d have had to get verbal.’
‘Maybe he had indigestion after breakfast?’
‘He was drinking beer. Beer! And barely
past morning. How on earth that poor girl, Carrie, can share a room with him I’ll never know.’
Kat was talking about the parapsychologist, Norman, who did have a slight slovenly manner about him now I thought about it. But still preoccupied over my encounter with Stan Crouch I was unable to muster much sympathy for her plight. I peeled off my rain-damp jumper and sifted through the clothes rack for a dry one. I was wrestling it onto my head when Kat noticed I hadn’t responded.
‘What’s up with you? You look like you’ve seen a ghost.’
I refrained from rolling my eyes. The ghost gags were getting old fast. Or maybe I was too agitated to find them amusing after just being assailed for no good reason. ‘Still hungover,’ I replied, which wasn’t exactly a lie; I still wasn’t a hundred percent and felt the urge to get into bed and hide away from the rest of the day — and cane-wielding madmen.
Kat moved to her side of the bed and began rooting through her handbag. She pulled out a paperback, haphazardly tossing it onto the unmade covers. I closed the wardrobe, crossed to the dresser mirror and prodded my damp hair. In the mirror’s reflection I watched my partner squirt perfume into the air, letting the invisible particles alight on her head and shoulders like minuscule snowflakes. Her eyes drifted craftily in my direction.
‘Manage to find him, did you?’
‘What?’
‘The writer guy, Will Anderson. I know you went looking for him when you saw he wasn’t in the dining hall earlier.’
‘I needed fresh air,’ I lied. ‘And how do you know he’s a writer? How do you know his last name?’
She lifted up the paperback she’d dropped on the bed so I could see the front cover. ‘A gift from Carrie. She was excited about having an author on one of the hunts and brought a copy of his book for him to sign. She let me borrow it, said it was a good read.’
I stared at the book, interested. ‘And is it?’
Kat made a ‘tsk’ sound, casting the book aside again. ‘I haven’t got time to be faffing about reading books!’
She whisked around the fourposter carrying a stick of lipstick and nudged me out of the way so she could touch up in the mirror. I shuffled out of her way and picked up the paperback.
The title on the cover read Ethereal by Will Anderson. A quote said it was, “A Supernatural Thriller that’ll chill you to the bone.” The cover art appeared to vouch for that: a misty figure hovering in front of the arched entrance of a decrepit looking church, a Gothic font spelling Will’s name.
I flipped it over to find a photograph of him on the back. Black and white, a studio style shot you often see authors and professionals using. Will was pulling off the enigmatic writer pose like a pro, looking simultaneously pensive and laid back in a crew neck and blazer, his hair coiffed in a slick ‘50s quiff. The only concession from his current look was a shaven jawline, baby-smooth as it accentuated the Cupid’s bow shape of his lips. Even in black and white you could see the Irish blue of his irises.
‘You can stop leering now,’ Kat taunted.
Feigning nonchalance, I dropped the book and walked around to my side of the bed. I fished around inside my rucksack until I found my own current read, The Physics of Everyday Life. But no luck. Kat wasn’t giving up that easily.
‘I’m not surprised you fancy him,’ she said. ‘He’s very attractive, if a little … distant. And creativity in a man is always sexy, especially writers. You have to wonder what goes on inside their broody minds. A man who can elicit emotions out of you with his words must be a talent in the bedroom.’
Blushing like a macaw, I punched up my pillow and dropped down on the bed, lifting my legs and wriggling into a comfortable position. I opened my current read at the bookmark and tried to bury my embarrassment in the pages’ paragraphs. Still no luck. Kat turned away from her reflection, placing a manicured hand on her hip and pressing her freshly painted lips together for even coverage as she frowned at me.
‘What are you doing?’ she asked.
I lowered the book and peeked over the pages. ‘Reading this book on physics.’
She rolled her eyes. ‘Of course you are.’
‘What’s wrong with studying the structure of the atom?’
‘What can you do when you know it?’
It was a … reasonable question. One to which I had no answer. To deflect from this, I said, ‘I think it’s time we had a word about the disrespectful way you talk to me.’
Kat, predictably, was unfazed by this, striding back to where she’d left her handbag.
‘I might be new to the job, but it doesn’t give you the right to talk down to me,’ I persevered. ‘I’m a person and I deserve some respect.’
Handbag on her shoulder, Kat came to a halt before she was about to exit the room. ‘You want respect? Give me something to respect you for. Find and photograph something I can write about. And make it interesting.’ She peered out the door, perhaps to check there weren’t any ghosts lurking there, then vanished into the corridor trailing clouds of citrusy perfume in her wake.
I shook my head wearily, listening to the tread of her shoes taper away. When I was certain she wasn’t coming back, I leaned over and picked up Ethereal. I flipped it open to the first pages and saw a quote:
The scariest monsters are the ones that lurk within our souls - Edgar Allan Poe
The quote made me shudder. I closed the book, placed it on the bedside table. Different emotions pulled at my gut. I felt guilty for getting short with Will in the garden. Maybe his lack of tact when it came to talking about the dead was because he had never lost someone whom he loved. He wouldn’t be able to understand the way it made you a raw nerve when it came to flippant remarks, especially when you’ve lost someone in such a traumatic and unexpected way as I had. Because that’s why I snapped. That’s what this was really about. Elliot.
I sat there in the quiet room, thinking. Will might not have been able to relate to what I’d been going through in the last few months. But there was someone who perhaps could.
- CHAPTER SIX -
A Gift of Amethyst
ESTHER’S ROOM WASN’T traceable by the scent of burning incense. No dried herbs hung over the door to ward off negative energies. The only thing distinguishing it from the others was the way the door opened before I’d even knocked to announce my presence, as if its occupant had sensed exactly what was about to occur before it happened.
Esther stood on the other side of the threshold, one arm propping the door open, a twinkle in those green eyes of hers. Her appearance was significantly restrained this midday. The golden mane had been teased into a bushy mass on top of her head, she was devoid of any colour in a grey shawl, loose white trousers and comfortable sandals, and her face was bereft of makeup. Previously hidden flaws were now exposed and at least a decade had been added to her years, but she remained just as alluring.
‘Hope I’m not disturbing anything?’ I said.
‘Oh, you absolutely are. But I always have time for handsome young men like yourself.’
Her lips broadened into a wide crescent of gleaming white teeth. She pushed the door wide for me to enter.
I was blushing as I stepped inside the room, but no one would have known since it was cloaked in an almost impenetrable blackness. The only light came from flickering candles dotted around a small table standing on what looked like a yoga mat spread across the middle of the floor. Moving deeper inside, I could discern the numerous items arranged on the table’s surface. A brass bowl containing a stick that resembled a fat cigar — a singing bowl, I recognised, from the window display of a witchy shop in Cricklewood. A pestle and mortar was filled with an organic material of either crushed herbs or dried flowers, letting me know where that aromatic smell drifting up my nose was coming from. Crystals of varying colours and sizes twinkled in the candlelight. A large cushion bearing the imprint of a generous sized pair of buttocks was positioned in front of it all.
‘My meditation space,’ said Esther, closing the door and dr
ifting up behind me. ‘Ordinarily, I’d do at least an hour first thing. It helps to align my vibration to the present moment so that I’m focused throughout the rest of the day.’
She moved over to a winged armchair in the corner, sweeping her arm for me to find somewhere to sit. An ottoman storage box at the foot of the bed looked sturdy enough, so I settled there as Esther squeezed herself into the armchair. Once ensconced, she pulled a hand-rolled cigarette and lighter from the folds of her shawl. ‘Do you mind?’
I shook my head, even though I absolutely minded. I only get one set of lungs in this life and a bout of asthma in my early teens had made me forever wary of anything that might induce another attack. As Esther lit the cigarette and inhaled, I imagined the look on poor Mrs Brown’s face had she been here to witness the crime being committed before her.
‘So,’ said Esther, wisps of smoke rising up from her lips. ‘How can I assist you on this fine noon?’
There was no point beating about the bush, especially talking to a woman who could intuit people’s thoughts. ‘It’s about someone from my past. Someone who died,’ I said. ‘I think he’s haunting me.’
There are few people to whom you can say such a sentence and not have them look at you like you just told them you were recently abducted by aliens. Esther Hill was one of them.
‘Yes. They have a funny habit of doing that, don’t they?’ she chuckled. ‘What is it? Poltergeist activity? Familiar smells? A feeling someone’s in your presence when you’re alone? I once had a particularly persistent soul who refused to let me use the bathroom in private. I’m happy that rather unpleasant ordeal is behind me.’
