A Spookies Compendium

by David Robinson

  “Pan the camera around the room,” she ordered.

  Kevin moved it left, then right, and found nothing. “Something must have triggered it.”

  Pete pointed to leaves on a tree branch beyond the windows. “What about them?”

  Kevin tapped the computer screen. “This is an EMF sensor, Pete, not a motion sensor. It needs a change in the electrical field to trigger it. The windows are shut. You wouldn’t get any electricity registering from those plants, so it wouldn’t trigger.”

  Pete sucked in his breath. “Well, there’s one way to find out. Come on.”

  Kevin’s mouth fell open. “You’re going up there?”

  To Pete there was no debate. “Of course I am.”

  Kevin waved back towards the CD player. “And suppose he’s there? Henry the whale worrier?”

  Pete snorted. “Stop talking crap.”

  “Wait, Pete,” urged Sceptre. “Let me contact Fishwick again, and see if he can tell us anything.”

  “Sceptre, you can contact directory assistance for all I care, but I’m going upstairs. If you’re too scared, stay here.”

  “I am not scared. I just prefer to rely upon Fishwick.”

  Pete ignored her and marched irritably out of the cafeteria.

  Sceptre tutted impatiently. “Fishwick? Are you there, Fishwick?” Her question was greeted with total silence. “Oh dear, he’s gone AWOL too. And I specifically asked him to stay close by.” Kevin trembled and Sceptre tried to reassure him. “Pete’s big enough to look after himself, and so is Fishwick.”

  “It’s not Pete I’m worried about, nor your butler: it’s us. With them two gone, any spook that comes in here has us by the short and curlies.”

  “Oh don’t be so silly, Kevin,” Sceptre laughed nervously. “We’re in no danger. Now listen, with Fishwick out of the picture, I’m going to try meditation, and see if I can make direct contact with some of the spirits in the house, so don’t disturb me.”

  Kevin blanched. “Please. Carry on. Don’t mind me.” He turned his back and put two fingers to his forehead, pulling an imaginary trigger.

  Sceptre ignored him and sat down, closing her eyes. She breathed in through her nose and out through her mouth, loudly, quickly. Despite his levity over her announcement, Kevin found that her actions caused him to recall images from movies like Carrie, The Amityville Horror and The Exorcist …especially The Exorcist.

  He turned from her and studied the computer, its larger, central square still showing the master bedroom, a vast four-poster dominating the fish-eye view. Light flooded in, and presently Pete could be seen searching the room. Eventually, finding nothing, he turned to face the camera and his voice came over the CB radio.

  “Nothing up here, Kev,” he reported. “I’ll kill the lights on this landing as I come back.”

  Kevin felt his face pale again. In front of Pete, a foggy, murky shape was coalescing into roughly human form. He snatched up the CB. “P-P-Pete. There’s summink b-b-behind you.”

  On screen, Pete looked around before he spoke into his radio. “There’s nothing here.”

  Kevin frowned. He could still see the figure there, and yet... “Pete, it’s right in front of you. Looks like a foggy mass. I can see right through it.”

  Pete fiddled in his pocket, came out with a tissue and wiped the camera lens. Almost instantly, the ghostly apparition disappeared. “Condensation,” he reported. “Colder than a penguin’s butt up here. I must have fogged it when I opened the door and came into the room. I’m on my way back.”

  Pete disappeared from the camera view.

  Kevin glanced at Sceptre, who was now sitting stock-still, her eyes wide open, gazing vacantly into space, her breathing shallow but rhythmic. Happy that she had not witnessed his near panic over a fogged camera lens, he was nevertheless unnerved by the realization that he was totally alone. With Pete still upstairs and Sceptre off on some pie-in-the-sky astral journey, he was every bit as isolated as if he were on the Moon. He looked around, forcing himself to take in the darker areas of the badly lit cafeteria, the deeper recesses where something or someone, such as the shadowy figure he had seen disappearing into the woods, might be hiding.

  He would be the first to admit that he did not have the same reserves of courage as his best buddy, but then he had never needed them; he’d always had Pete to look after him. But that was out in the real world where the problems were physical, not this strange half-world where it was hard to decide what was real and what was a figment of his fetid imagination.

  “What’s up with her?”

  Pete’s arrival made Kevin jump. “Hell’s bells, Pete, don’t sneak up on me like that.”

  The other chuckled. “You’re scared of your own shadow, Keeley. So like I say, what’s with Sceptre?”

  Kevin shrugged. “I dunno. Meditating or something.”

  Pete snorted. “Looks to me like she’s drunk.”

  Kevin held up her apple-flavoured water. “On this?”

  Pete shrugged, and was about to speak when Sceptre suddenly began to talk.

  Her voice was not normal. Instead, it was deep, like a man’s, slurred, guttural, and carrying the strong lilt of old Yorkshire/Lancashire.

  “Wha’s tha doing in my house? Gitoutta meh house.”

  “Drunk as a skunk,” said Pete.

  “No,” Kevin argued. “She’s contacted one of her spirits.”

  “Yeah, like the spirit of vodka.”

  Kevin scowled. “Just get the camera and film her.”

  “Why, what you gonna do?” asked Pete. “Post it on You Tube? Or are you expecting her head to spin round and her tongue to turn green, spitting pea soup?”

  “She’s the one who understands this guff,” Kevin argued. “She’ll want to look at the recording later.”

  Pete turned the nearby camera to face her. “The things I do just to keep you two happy,” he grumbled as he adjusted the focus.

  Kevin tapped the computer keyboard to kick in the digital recording software. “You mean the things you’ll do to get a girl’s knickers off,” he muttered.

  “Speak to me,” Sceptre said in her normal voice. “Tell me what troubles you.”

  Almost instantly, she sat bolt upright and her voice went back to the garbled, deeper growl. “Tha's in my house. Leave. Gitoutta my sadness.”

  “We haven’t seen his saddles,” said Kevin in a low whisper.

  “Sadness,” Pete corrected him.

  “Leave me with my sorrow,” ordered the male voice.

  “I dunno who she’s supposed to be, but she’s not cheering me up,” Kevin complained.

  Sceptre’s shoulders slumped a little, and her voice changed again. It was still a deeper pitch than her natural one, but this time unmistakably feminine.

  “Tha done me. Tha done me and tha's paid for it.”

  “I seen thee swing,” said the guttural male.

  “Aye, tha did. And I weren’t t’only one”

  Sceptre’s eyes suddenly snapped open, and she took a deep breath. After a momentary disorientation, she smiled. Taking in Kevin’s total bewilderment, she explained, “Fishwick told me they were here and I asked them to channel through me. An interesting experience.” She looked at the camcorder. “Did you get it on tape?”

  “Most of it,” Pete agreed.

  “It was Aggie Devis and Sir Henry Melmerby.” Her eyes burned with compelling enthusiasm. “I’m sure of it. The impression I got was that Henry definitely raped Aggie, and as she said, she wasn’t the only one. He took more than his share of the local women, most of them by force. Most of them wouldn’t dare complain, but Aggie did, so he cooked up the charge of witchcraft to cover his crime, had her hanged for it, and now their spirits haunt this hall still troubled by their earthly problems.”

  “So they chucked a CD at me?” asked Kevin indignantly.

  “Oh, shut up, you.” Pete was still puzzled. “It seems to me that the only trouble Sir Henry might have had was gout. And if Aggie’s
bones were dug up after they managed to kill him, why is she troubled?”

  “Remember, Pete, her spirit caused the horse to rear and throw Sir Henry. Effectively, even though she was already dead, she took his life, and that is still a sin.”

  “And you remember, Sceptre, her spirit causing his horse to buck was a theory, not an established fact... like the bottle of port.” Pete shook his head. “Why do I get the impression that this is all so much twaddle?”

  “Believe what you will, Pete, but I’m glad we came.” Sceptre stretched and yawned. “This is going to be an exciting night. I can feel it.”

  “I can feel the need of the lavatory,” moaned Kevin.

  *****

  Beep-beep-beep... beep-beep-beep... beep-beep-beep.

  Kevin jumped at the noise.

  Pete woke, stretched, smiled at Kevin’s apprehension and reached his right hand across to silence the alarm on his wristwatch. “Midnight.”

  Kevin looked even more anxious. “Midnight? But isn’t that when all the ghosts come out?”

  “You’ve been reading too many horror stories,” Sceptre reproved him. “Ghosts can be seen at any time, night or day.”

  “In that case, we could have come during the day,” Kevin argued.

  “No, we couldn’t because we didn’t get up until noon,” Sceptre countered. “She looked to Pete for support. “Pete, will you tell him there is nothing to fear?”

  Pete gave a shrug. “It’s my experience that the only things we need to be concerned with are those we can touch and take possession of. I’ll worry about ghosts when I become one. Now, don’t you think it’s time to split up and take another tour of the house?”

  Pete’s final suggestion was so practical that Sceptre agreed with a nod; Kevin, on the other hand, did not.

  “So far, everything that’s happened has focused on me,” he complained, “and you wanna split up, leaving me alone. I mean, I’ve set all the video equipment to night vision. Why do we need to leave the café?”

  Sceptre encouraged him gently. “The equipment we’ve set out doesn’t cover the entire house. If we split up, we stand a better chance of witnessing whatever may happen, and we’re all in touch, remember.” She held up her CB radio. “Pete can be with you in a minute. Besides,” she encouraged him with a broad smile, “the spirits won’t harm you.”

  “No?” Kevin snorted derisively. “Old Henry didn’t do a bad job with that CD, did he? And next time it might be something worse than an album of whalesong.”

  Pete grinned. “The Bay City Rollers?”

  “Get stuffed, you.” Kevin waved at the house in general. “There are swords and stuff all over the place, hung on the walls, attached to suits of armour. Suppose he chucks a scimitar at me? I don’t fancy being turned into a kebab.”

  Pete had heard enough. “Kev, stop being a wimp. Sceptre, why don’t you take Sir Coward de Custard with you and check out the ground floor? I’ll do the upstairs and the attics.”

  She agreed with a nod and stood up, preparing to leave. “If you’re sure you can manage. It’s a large spread.”

  Pete shrugged. “You’ve got your radio and you can come back to the café every so often to check the computer and let me know if you get anything.”

  Kevin gave Pete a mock round of applause and made no effort to leave his seat. “Best suggestion you’ve made all night, but here’s a better one. Why don’t me and Sceptre stay in the café and you can have a roving brief all over the house?”

  “You really should get something done about your broken arm.”

  “What broken arm?”

  Pete glared. “The one I’ll give you if you carry on winding me up.”

  CBs in hand, they left the café armed with torches and sensing equipment. Pete disappeared up the broad staircase while Kevin and Sceptre headed for the Long Gallery.

  “This isn’t the bit that’s haunted, though, is it?” Kevin asked as they entered the room.

  “Oh, yes.” To his disappointment Sceptre sounded positively thrilled. “There’ve been sightings of Aggie in the gallery, wandering the aisles, sobbing, even throwing a tantrum once.” Sceptre gestured at a large display case, containing pots and pans from the 17th century. “She smashed the glass on that case two days after it was set up.”

  “Getting her pots back, eh? Obviously wanted to get on with dinner on the Other Side.” Kevin grinned, but the last thing he felt was cheerful.

  *****

  Pete approached the first floor landing with a sense of caution.

  Something had been going on ever since they arrived. He’d known Kevin a long time, and while he was not the bravest man in the world, he wasn’t totally soft. Neither was he stupid. Whatever was happening, Pete didn’t believe it was supernatural. He was convinced that there was someone else in the house, playing games, trying to scare them off by concentrating on Kevin as the weakest link. But that begged the question, why would anyone want to scare them away unless it was to do with the pirate DVDs?

  Unlike his portly pal, he was not afraid, but with no more than the sparse house lighting and the beam of a small torch, there were too many shadows for his liking. Anyone or anything could jump out of them. Anticipation prepared him for the unexpected.

  He made his way warily along the upper floor. As he approached each door, he pressed an ear to it, listening for sounds from within before opening it and casting his light about, trying not to disturb the sensors in those rooms where they were located.

  When he reached the door to the attic staircase, he paused even longer, ears cocked for the slightest noise.

  Let caution be your watchword. The words of his old instructor at the police training school rang through his head. “Common sense, Brennan,” he said to the empty stairs. “You’re going up, he’s coming down. He has the high ground.”

  He placed a foot on the bottom step and climbed.

  Stop and listen. You’re in no hurry.

  Like his father before him, he was glad of his basic training.

  He climbed another step. It creaked noisily. Pete froze, his senses on high alert. If there was anyone nearby, they must surely have heard.

  He relaxed. Nothing. No one. He climbed the remaining steps, his mind awash with images of Kevin’s reaction to creaking steps. He couldn’t picture his best friend’s face, but he could certainly imagine the smell.

  The rooms on the topmost floor were smaller than those lower down. The gables and steep pitch of the various roof sections provided awkward angles and created ungainly shadows. Bursting into Aggie’s room, where Sceptre had set up motion and EMF sensors, he found his heart leaping, pouring adrenaline into his system when the silhouette of a man leapt out at him. A flash of the torch beam made him grin at a teddy bear seated on the rocking horse.

  He cast his beam about the room. There were toys everywhere: a spinning top, the rocking horse and teddy bear, dolls, marbles, model cars. He had not noticed them before, because he was concentrating on explaining the room’s reconstruction to Sceptre, but now, even to his untrained eye, it was obvious that many of them were antique, and he guessed there was a fortune stored here.

  But toys were all he could find. There was no trace of anything else, human or otherwise.

  It was the same in the other rooms. Some beds were turned down, others made up, and the dust of long disuse covered them all, but there was no one to be found, dead or alive.

  He returned to the first floor and continued checking the bedrooms and bathrooms, all of which, he noticed, were fitted with plumbing and furniture that spanned the centuries from the period after the English Civil War of the 17th century up to the late 19th century. It caused him to wonder where the modern installations were. “The private apartments,” he said to himself. The one area of the house kept from them.

  By now, finding nothing to interest or excite him, he began to get bored. It had been a long day: calling on Angie, calling at Flutter-Bys, driving them out here, Kevin’s contretemps in the cell
ar and the event (or non-events) in between had taken their toll on his reserves of stamina. He suddenly felt tired.

  He wandered into the master bedroom and stared at the four-poster. Sceptre said the bed hadn’t been used since the day of Henry Melmerby’s funeral. All records had to come to an end, and he figured 350-plus years was long enough for any bed to go without an occupant.

  *****

  Given the choice, Kevin would much rather have spent the night in the bar of the Rose & Crown than this spooky old house.

  “And I never drink in the Rose and Crown,” he said as he shuffled slowly down the Long Gallery towards the rear door. His heart beat loudly, and his teeth would have chattered if his jaw hadn’t been set so tight. He and Sceptre squatted on the floor of the great hall under a Stubbs original of a horse called Mombassa, their torches switched off, and all he could see were dim paintings on the walls, display cases between them and the entrance hall, and the outline of the rear doors several metres away, the stables beyond them backlit by a thin winter moon.

  Sceptre began to speak in a soft, sibilant voice. “Show yourself.”

  Assuming her words were directed at him, Kevin said, “What? Here?” He shrugged, and a silly grin came to his face. “Well, if you’re sure...” Kevin began to unbutton his shirt.

  “I’m talking to the spirits,” she whispered urgently.

  He smiled sheepishly. “I knew that, really.”

  Sceptre suppressed a smile and rolled her eyes upward. “If you’re frightened, why don’t you get on with thinking of a business name for our efforts?” Once more she raised her voice, speaking to the room. “Show us who you are, tell us what you want. We’re not here to harm you, only to understand.”

  “Shh,” Kevin whispered. “Don’t encourage them.”

  She frowned him into silence and continued talking to the room. “Give us a sign.”

  She fell quiet, and suddenly silence was the only thing around them. Outside, even the wind and rain had ceased.