The Lingering

by SJI Holliday

In the bright of the morning, the room seems different; her heart feels different. Her head has cleared. Jack is already out of bed, she can hear him splashing about in the bathroom, the occasional groan and sign. She throws back the covers and slides out of bed, stretching, trying to wake herself up and enthuse herself about the day ahead. When they are both ready, they head down to the foyer outside Smeaton’s office to wait for him to take them on the tour. A brief flutter of nerves skitters across her stomach. Will Smeaton be cross about what happened at the party?

  ‘Aren’t we having some breakfast first, before this tour?’ Jack snaps at her.

  She frowns, looks away. ‘I’m not hungry.’

  ‘Well I’m starving and my head is banging. Have we got any paracetamol?’

  She ignores him, glad that he’s suffering physically from his behaviour last night; he clearly has no memory of embarrassing her and humiliating himself.

  The door to the office opens and Smeaton appears in front of them. He’s holding a lumpy beige muffin in each hand and is grinning like the Cheshire cat.

  ‘Morning, morning,’ he says. ‘How are we both today? Things got a little lively last night, didn’t they? I hope you’re both OK. And please don’t worry, everyone here knows how difficult it is at first – getting used to this place.’ He stretches out his hands, offering them each a muffin. Jack accepts his gratefully and immediately takes a huge bite from it. Ali takes hers out of politeness, but she’s really not sure she wants to eat it. Everything she’s eaten here so far has tasted strange and different. Not that she thinks there is anything wrong with it, it’s just not what she’s used to. She knows she will have to get over that somehow, otherwise she’ll starve. For now, though, she can do without this muffin of unidentifiable origins.

  Smeaton guides them out of the front door. ‘I thought we’d start over at the north wing, just so you can see it. But you might have heard already from the others, we don’t really spend much time over there. There was a fire in there, years back – and more recently, a flood. We’ve turned the water supply off in there now, of course. But the floorboards are rotten, so we’ve abandoned those rooms. It’s connected to this building by a beautiful glass walkway. Most of the panes are smashed now, but it would have been quite pretty once.’

  ‘You going to eat that?’ Jack whispers. Ali hands him the muffin, with a tight smile. She knows she needs to make an effort with him, with everyone. She should give herself a shake, start living her new life. If Jack can do it, then she can. They follow Smeaton around the edge of the main building, to the open area at the back, which seems to be full of overgrown weedy patches, some tumbledown sheds and stacks of evenly sized logs. Rusting iron railings lead down to a small door. Further on and to the right is the glass connecting tunnel. Smeaton leads them past boarded-up windows, unlocks the door and ushers them inside. Ali wrinkles her nose. The corridor smells stale, as if the same old air has been trapped inside for fifty years.

  ‘I keep it locked, because we have had the occasional visitor here – explorers from outside.’

  ‘You mean urbexers,’ Ali says. ‘I read a bit about them online. They like to poke around in abandoned buildings, right?’

  ‘Why would anyone want to do that?’ Jack says. He wipes his mouth with the back of his hand, scrunches up the two muffin wrappers into a small ball, and slips it into his pocket.

  Ali takes a deep breath, and feels herself relax a little. It’s the first thing he’s said since they arrived, and at least he’s showing some interest now – acting like a normal person.

  ‘Well, I suppose they must find it interesting. I mean, places like this … there’s a lot to poke around. Unless they’re actually looking for things that they can take. Things that they can sell? But then I suppose they wouldn’t be true urbexers then, would they? They’d be looters.’

  Smeaton doesn’t respond, clearly as uninterested in the urban explorers as Jack is. He closes the door behind them and locks it. As they walk through the tunnel, Ali notices an odd distortion in the remaining glass, making the light look strange, milky – like under a veil. It unsettles her, but like the other odd feelings she’s had since she arrived, she dismisses it. At the other end of the tunnel they enter a long corridor with many rooms on both sides. They have heavy doors with small shelves and shuttered windows. They remind Ali of a place that she visited with Jack several years before: an old prison in Berlin that was used by the Stasi during the Cold War, where they tortured and interrogated dissidents. A shiver runs down her spine. People were snatched from the streets, put into tiny cells and forced to stand for hours on end, not allowed to sit or lie down, not allowed to sleep. No one knew they were there. The Stasi kept them locked up like that for as long as they could, trying to break them, only offering leniency if they confessed to opposing the regime. The place was chilling, and she had a similar sensation now. ‘Are these…’ she began.

  ‘Yes,’ Smeaton says, ‘these are the secure cells. For patients who couldn’t be kept in an open ward. They were often dangerous, but not always. Some people shouldn’t have been here at all, and became more ill by being kept away from their families and their day-to-day lives. In the fifties, there’d been so many reports of ill-treatment and neglect, a doctor was sent in to investigate, to see if anything bad was actually happening. But that’s a story for another day … if you’re interested in the history of the place.’

  Ali glances at Jack and he raises his eyebrows. She can tell that he’s thinking the same as her. What’s the real story here? What happened all those years ago?

  ‘What about upstairs,’ Jack says.

  ‘More of the same,’ Smeaton says. ‘Plus a couple of the open wards. Nothing much in those now except dust balls and rats. It’s up there that most of the boards have rotted. Safer not to go there at all.’

  They walk to the end of the corridor and it leads them back outside. Smeaton locks the door behind him and Ali’s jaw drops at the huge expanse of grass in front of them: a beautiful, well-kept lawn. Not what she expected at all. Over to one side is an ornamental pond, and next to it, a sundial. It’s idyllic and it warms her, after the cold, neglected wing they’ve just visited. ‘Well … it’s absolutely beautiful here.’

  ‘Yes, it is.’ Smeaton looks pleased. ‘This garden would be where they used to host picnics, parties, fairs, fêtes – the lot. They would invite all the villagers, all the patients’ families. They were grand affairs. We’ve been working on the lawn over the last year, trying to restore it to its former glory, hoping that we can make a feature of it. Maybe, in time, we might invite the locals back again.’

  Ali nods. ‘You mentioned them before – that they don’t like to come here. That they’re wary of the place?’

  ‘Oh yes, they’re wary indeed,’ he says. The smile slides from his face, and a more cautious expression settles there. ‘But it’s a strange village, Ali. Full of superstitions and gossip. You’ll find out more about that soon enough.’

  11

  Angela

  As I arrive at the shop, my eye is drawn to the little black sticker in the window, the silhouette of a witch on a broomstick. I love that the village has adopted this emblem – even the schoolchildren have it on their blazers and sweatshirts. Apparently it caused quite an uproar with some of the more religious residents, but it’s part of the village’s heritage, and it was that history that convinced the local council to agree to it. I have one of the stickers on my bedroom window. It makes me feel part of the community.

  A little bell tinkles as I open the door, and the woman behind the counter lifts her head and smiles. ‘Morning, Angela. What a beautiful day it is.’

  ‘It is, Mary.’ I slide around the side of the counter to give her a hug. I love hugging Mary, my own bony frame sinks comfortably into the soft folds of the older woman.

  ‘Apparently you have some new guests, eh? Anything I need to know?’

  I step back around to the front of the counter and pick an apple from a b
asket, rubbing it on my skirt. I take a bite. ‘I’m trying to get to know them, but it’s tricky. They’re definitely keeping their cards close to their chests. I know they both come from the city; that she was a nurse and he was a policeman. I think they’re having some problems. In their relationship, I mean. I asked Smeaton but he told me to stop being so nosey.’

  Mary sighs. ‘Don’t you worry about getting to know these people, Angela. They could be anyone. Didn’t you tell me that they had bypassed all the usual procedures to get them in there? None of those daily trials and getting to know the group like you had to do?’

  I nod. ‘Smeaton did say that. He says that we need the money, and that they offered to fix the boiler and some other stuff.’ I take another bite of the apple and juice dribbles down my chin into the neck of my dress.

  ‘But surely this goes against everything he’s built up there? You know what I think about that place, Angela. But at least Smeaton has always had integrity. He’s always tried to run it the right way. You know we’ve all discussed it here in the village. We’re in agreement that we’re not fans of Smeaton’s spiritual teachings. We wondered if he was genuine. But then who are we to judge, what, with our history? It just surprises me that he’s changed his attitude and his ways for the sake of a few quid.’

  ‘I know what you mean,’ I say, rubbing at my chest, trying to wipe the juice off. ‘It is unusual. But he has his reasons, and it’s not for us to question him. To be honest, I’m not too concerned. I trust Smeaton. But there’s something about this couple that I’m not sure about. I get a feeling from them. They’re hiding something. I just know it. She seems spooked by the house already—’

  ‘What do you mean spooked?’ Mary says. ‘Maybe she’s just stressed. You said yourself, you don’t know much about them, or what’s brought them here.’

  I shrug. ‘Oh, you know. Just one of my feelings.’

  ‘You and your feelings,’ Mary says, a peal of laughter in her voice.

  I feel my face fall, and Mary leans over and squeezes my shoulder. ‘I’m teasing, Angela. You know me…’

  ‘Well,’ I continue, emboldened again, ‘I have set up some of my equipment in their room. Well, not in their room. I’m not allowed to do that, Smeaton says. I’ve sneaked my little camera down a hole from the room above. I know I’m not meant to. I just want to keep an eye on that room. You know it’s always made me feel a bit funny. The Palmerstons didn’t like it in there, that’s for sure. Anyway, it’s not just about them, is it? It’s about what I’m trying to do in that house. It’s about all the other stories…’

  ‘I wish you wouldn’t get so hung up on all that, Angela. I’ve told you before, most of those legends are cobbled together. Don’t shake your head at me, love. I know things did happen there – all our parents and grandparents told us the stories. It’s not just an old hospital. I suppose it depends how you feel, what you want to believe. You’re still new here. You know our villagers are full of old tales of witches and ghosts and all sorts of stuff.’

  ‘But there were witches…’

  ‘There was a trial, Angela. What happened before that is speculation. Those bratty sisters accusing their kindly old neighbour of bewitching them? There’s the official record, but the true story is unofficial. You know my thoughts on this: it was ergot poisoning – from the rye in the fields. All five of those girls suffered the same affliction – hallucinations, convulsions. You can’t buy a rye loaf around here now for love nor money…’

  I sigh. ‘I know that. I know all that witch stuff. I know that none of it was how it seemed back then. But the other things … the things that happened in the fifties…’

  Mary shakes her head. ‘It wasn’t just here that bad things happened. It was asylums all over. Right from the Victorians up to the 1970s and, you know, I’m sure it’s not that much better nowadays. Stuff gets covered up. There’s always an exposé at some point. People being mistreated. Someone blows the whistle.’

  Maybe she’s right. Maybe I’m reading too much into things. I finger the rose quartz stone that hangs around my neck. I see a glint of light on my hematite ring. Mary gave me these things. A conductor and a transducer. She’s a sceptic herself, but she says they might help me connect to the spirit world. I know that she finds it all very amusing that I’m trying to be a ghost hunter and that so far I haven’t seen or felt a single thing. Of course I have absolutely no idea whether any of the villagers’ ghostly stories are true. It doesn’t stop me from wanting to find out if there is something else beyond the realm we live in. I’m not going to stop. Because I am convinced that there is something there, that there is something in the old hospital. Furthermore, I am certain that these new arrivals are going to help me uncover it, whether they believe in it or not.

  12

  Ali

  Ali follows Richard down a well-trodden dirt path bordered by a neat hedgerow. The old man is light on his feet, walking quickly across the packed mud towards a pretty wooden gate with a heart carved into its centre.

  ‘Ford made the gate,’ Richard says, as if reading her mind. ‘Didn’t know one end of a saw from the other when he first arrived here, but you should see what he’s learned since. Garden furniture, tables and chairs, a new desk for Smeaton, you name it. If you need anything for your room that you can’t find elsewhere, let him know and he’ll make something for you. Made me a lovely long table from a load of old floorboards from one of the rooms in the north wing. Rest of the place is rotting, mind. You probably want to stay away from there. Anyway, here we are. Our humble vegetable patch.’

  Richard beams at her and she can see the pride in his eyes. It’s impressive, and much, much bigger than the small cottage garden, or maybe a few raised beds and some fruit trees she’d imagined. This is like a whole set of allotments with rows of greens – cabbages, lettuce, some other straggly-looking stuff that she doesn’t recognise. Frames have been set up, with strings laced with CDs, spinning in the wind. Beneath them are canes and nets.

  ‘Need to keep the birds away from the soft fruits,’ Richard says, following her gaze. ‘The sun glinting off the silver distracts them. Picked up a load of these in a charity shop up in the village—’

  ‘So you do go up to the village? The impression I got from Smeaton was that most people barely leave the grounds. Isn’t going to the village on the list of things that are not advised?’

  Richard doesn’t look at her. He crouches down and starts pulling at some of the straggling plants that she couldn’t identify. ‘Mooli,’ he says, ‘enough to last for about a thousand years. Luckily Fergus is inventive in the kitchen.’

  She crouches down beside him, and her knees crack. She’s not in the best shape and she knows she needs to do something about it. ‘The village?’ she tries again. ‘Is it OK to go there or not?’

  ‘Sure, sure,’ he mutters. ‘Smeaton’s right though – best to acclimatise a bit first, get used to not being in the real world for a while. That’s why you’re here, isn’t it? To get away?’ he looks at her now, eyes slightly narrowed.

  She doesn’t want to sound like she’s desperate for something more like her old life but she’s already feeling claustrophobic, and she needs to find a way to deal with that. Richard is right, of course. She did come here to get away.

  He’s more right than he could possibly know.

  ‘Right, then,’ he says. ‘Let’s have a go at this, shall we? This stuff needs thinning out. Do you need me to show you the tools and whatnot?’ He nods towards a shed at the end of the patch.

  ‘Did Ford make that too?’

  ‘Yes, he did. We brought most of the tools with us. Cobbled together a few things where we didn’t have them. Trying to use whatever we can from the place, you know.’

  She nods and he walks off towards one of the further patches, where Ali can just make out a couple of bent figures and the bright yellow of a plastic bucket. Someone in a hat pulling carrots. She can’t recognise them from this distance.

 
She heads down to the shed, where the door is already open. Inside, the walls are lined with tools, canes, and a shelf with string, pegs and all sorts. Two wheelbarrows are stacked in the corner.

  She thinks about Jack, and tries to imagine him here, wellies on, spade in hand. But she can’t. Smeaton has taken him somewhere today, didn’t tell her where. Jack looked pleased. Excited even. The most alert she’s seen him for a long time, and certainly the most enthusiastic he’s been since they arrived last week.

  She’s on her way back out of the shed, hoe at the ready. There’s a loud crack in the air, and she starts. Flinches. She wants to think it’s just the sound of a car backfiring, but she knows it isn’t. She recognises the sound of a gunshot. A shotgun, most likely, in a place like this. She hadn’t really thought about it before, she was so intent on getting away from the city. But of course they would have firearms here. She thinks again of Jack, wonders if it’s a good idea for him to be around guns. Wonders if Smeaton knows what he’s doing. Is she being irresponsible, not telling Smeaton more about their past – about what Jack is capable of?

  No. She needs to try and bring a sense of normality to their lives, their new lives. She doesn’t want Smeaton to act differently around him, and he would, if he knew. It won’t help Jack anyway. She’s the only one who can help Jack, and even then…

  She thrusts the hoe into the thicket of gnarly leaves and tries to put him out of her mind.

  13

  Angela

  It’s a surprise, at first, when I first see the reading on the EMF meter. After all this time, I was starting to think I was never going to get a proper result. But the reading is on there for all to see, even if I might be the only one who understands what it means.

  There is something in this room. Something that is not meant to be here.