A Spookies Compendium

by David Robinson

  You widened your comfort zones with Sir Henry the other night.

  Sceptre yielded just a little, relaxing in his arms. McKinley caught the signal. His hands began to wander. She brought them back. They wandered again, further this time. She brought them back, but not quite all the way. Her breathing came faster. She broke away from him and whispered into the night. “Fishwick?”

  “Madam?”

  “Take an hour off.”

  “Very good, Madam.”

  *****

  In the cafeteria, Kevin busied himself setting up the command computer, keeping one wary eye on the kettle. After the events of their previous visit, he had prepared cups, sugar, milk and spoons before even switching the appliance on and told himself that he had prevented any shenanigans from the resident spooks.

  All the same, he was jittery when he returned to the computer, booted up and ran the control software.

  “Pull yourself together, Kevin,” he muttered to the empty room. “There’s nothing here that can harm you.”

  He listened briefly to the silent hall. Nothing. Not a sound. Not even the sound of Sceptre and McKinley moving around upstairs, but there wouldn’t be, he told himself. The upstairs here was not like the upper floor of a normal house. It was metres and metres, maybe hundreds of metres away.

  He could hear nothing but the noise of the wind outside and his own breathing. In... out... in... out... out... in... in... out... out...

  “That can’t be right,” he said to himself. He didn’t breathe in and then in again, then out and then out again. Given the amount of tobacco he consumed, he was incapable of moving such volumes of air into and out of his lungs.

  He drew in his breath and held it. The noise of his heartbeat was loud in his ears, but there was something else. The noise of someone breathing... and it was coming from right behind him.

  He was frozen by the kind of hypnotic terror that grips small animals caught by snakes. He was absolutely petrified, his heart pounding, while that terrible breathing grew louder and louder and louder as whatever creature lurked behind him drew near. The hairs on the nape of his neck stood up. His heart rate increased to painful proportions. There was some... some... thing there, with him, in that room; it was just behind him and he dared not look. His mind was filled with terrible visions of Bilko’s battered head in the stables, of the sugar and milk sliding towards him, of the overcoat and hat hanging in the cellar. He risked a glance to his right, and in the far corner of his eye he could just make out the black maw of the cellar door, wide open. Hadn’t he closed it the other day when he and Pete came out of there? He knew it! Hadn’t he warned Pete that there was something down there? And hadn’t Pete ignored him, and wasn’t he now alone, with whatever it was coming to get him?

  Somewhere beneath the horrible images filling his mind, the panic alarms were ringing, telling him to get out fast, but his scrambled brain, re-running every horror movie he had ever watched, could not get the message through to his muscles, and he remained immobile, waiting for fate to strike, unable to do anything about it.

  Beneath the dread, he recalled his happy life and wished that he had never heard of Sceptre Rand, never thought of ghost hunting. If he could have his time again, he would lead the blameless life of a saint. He would retreat to a monastery, take holy orders... on the other hand, maybe he would pass on the whole church thing. There were plenty of monasteries kicking up and down the country, and they all had their fair share of ghosts and goblins and demons.

  The breathing was so loud now that it sounded like it was only a matter of centimetres from his ear. It was so close, he should be able to feel the hot breath on his neck, but the hair there was tingling so much he probably wouldn’t feel it if an executioner’s axe sliced through the air to take his head off.

  The mere idea of an executioner’s blade sent fresh tremors through him and he broke wind. He had to do something or he would be past the need of a lavatory soon, and more in need of a shower and a change of clothing.

  The breathing was louder in his left ear. He tried to force his head in that direction, but it would not move. Fear held him so tightly in its grip that he could not move a single muscle.

  He sucked in as large a lungful of air as he could to charge his muscles with oxygen and forced his neck to turn. It began to turn, but slowly, unwillingly, like an old carousel whose parts had not been oiled for years. His head seemed to click round in stages like a rusty cog, and if it had been a door, like the one at the front of Melmerby Manor, he was sure it would have creaked.

  He kept his eyes wide open as he turned to face his tormentor, and whatever horrible shape it had assumed. He slowly turned full circle, passing the serving counter, the kettle boiling happily away, the checkout, the open cafeteria doorway, then round to the windows, beyond which lay the late afternoon gloom, the drinks dispenser, the cellar door and kitchen access and back to the service counter. And throughout his tortuous procession, he fully expected the visions to materialise.

  But there was nothing.

  Kevin breathed a huge sigh of relief and let out a near-hysterical laugh. Once again, it was all in his imagination. The moment he faced up to his terrors, the breathing had stopped and all he could hear was silence.

  Abruptly, into that silence came a huge, deafening voice, its message booming across the house, echoing around the cafeteria.

  WIGJAM!

  Kevin’s heart leapt, stalled, restarted, and pounded in his chest. Once again, mindless terror seized him, but this time, his muscles had no problem obeying the panic-stricken messages from his brain. When it said ‘run’, his legs obeyed.

  He hurtled blindly from the cafeteria, letting loose a shriek of pure horror, whizzing towards the front door. As he reached it and snatched it open, a massive, menacing shape loomed before him, blotting out the last shreds of daylight beyond the threshold.

  Kevin cried out again and cowered before the massive body, whimpering like a whipped dog. He went down onto his knees begging for mercy, praying for forgiveness for his life of sin.

  He went further down, burying his face in the heavy-duty carpet of the entrance hall. Face close to the floor, eyes shut, arms spread before him in total surrender and subjugation, he babbled the word over and over again as if it were some incantation designed to placate an evil spirit.

  “Wigjam, wigjam, wigjam... ”

  Chapter Thirteen

  Pete was astonished to find Kevin kowtowing like some Egyptian slave from the days of the Pharaohs. “Kevin, what the hell are you doing?”

  Kevin ceased his supplications. He looked up, eyes level with the toecaps of a familiar pair of scuffed and untidy trainers. He raised his head higher, taking in the tight jeans, the Manchester United football shirt hiding a massive, muscular torso, and Pete’s surprised features staring down at him.

  The tubbier half of the pair struggled to his feet, composed himself and turned an angry face on his buddy. “Don’t do that,” he yelped.

  “Do what?”

  “You scared the bejeebers out of me.”

  “How?”

  “Breathing in my ear like that.”

  Pete was nonplussed. “If you were a woman I might breathe in your ear, but — no offence, Kev — you’re not my type.” Pete stepped into the hall and headed for the cafeteria. “So what were you doing on the floor?”

  “I, er, oh, I was, er, y’know, just checking the, er, acoustics. Right. Yeah, just checking the acoustics. That’s what I was doing. Making sure there were no extraneous noises coming through the wood.”

  Pete gave him a doubtful eye. “Like termites having a little community sing-along? Where are Sceptre and that muckraking git, McKinley?”

  “Upstairs.”

  “Doing what comes naturally?”

  Now Kevin poured scorn on Pete. “Not everyone’s like you, you know. At least I hope not. They’re supposed to be setting up the cameras and sensors.”

  As if on cue, noises came from the staircase.
Sceptre came down the stairs, her features businesslike, McKinley behind her, playing out the power cable from a drum. Pete wondered whether it was his imagination or whether there was an air of tension between her and the reporter. Certainly, when Sceptre turned back and told McKinley to tuck the cables tight into the wall, she did so in clipped tones like a schoolmistress instructing a recalcitrant pupil in some simple task.

  She left the reporter and turned her attention to her business partners. “Hello, Pete. What’s all the noise about?” she asked.

  “Termites,” said Pete as he continued into the cafeteria.

  “Termites?”

  “Warbling the national anthem, so I’m told.” Pete moved behind the counter and flicked the switch on the kettle. “Ask Kev. He was the one checking the floorboards.” Pete examined the kettle and found it almost empty. He held it under the tap, refilled it and put it back on the worktop, switched it on once more. “Must have been important, too, to let the kettle boil almost dry.”

  Sceptre turned, meaning to raise inquiring eyebrows at Kevin, but he had not followed them into the cafeteria.

  They found him in the hall arguing with McKinley.

  The reporter had run the cable back to Kevin’s central connection point where four, three-pin sockets were rigged on a cable drum capable of carrying high voltage. McKinley had been about to plug his cable into the drum when Kevin intervened.

  “This is precision gear,” Kevin argued, “and I don’t want your ham fists mucking about with it.”

  “I’m only plugging the socket in, you tub of lard,” snapped McKinley.

  “Call me that again,” Kevin threatened, “and I’ll plug you into the mains.”

  “Knock it off, you two,” ordered Pete.

  Grateful for his intervention, Sceptre turned her attention to Kevin, asking him for an explanation of Pete’s nonsense.

  “I heard a voice,” he reported. “The wigjam voice again. Only it was louder this time. You could hear it all over the house.”

  McKinley dropped the electrical socket, took out his notebook and pen, and began to make rapid notes.

  Sceptre was beside herself with excitement. “You heard it in here?”

  “No, not in here,” retorted Kevin sarcastically. “It was out on the lawn while I was waiting for a bus home. Of course it was in here, you numpty.”

  She frowned. “I’m becoming very disillusioned with you, Kevin.”

  “Why don’t you tell me what happened, Keeley?” suggested McKinley. “I’m sure my readers would be interested.”

  “I told you, I heard that voice again.” Kevin bent to plug in the cable from the upstairs, and then made his way back into the cafeteria.

  Pete followed quickly. “That’s not what you said to me.”

  “Well,” Kevin breezed, “I didn’t wanna worry you.”

  “Never mind all that,” Sceptre put in before an argument could start. “What did you learn from Wilcox?” she asked of Pete.

  “A little.” Pete made tea for them, and they moved out into the cafeteria, taking a table near the computer, where he gave them a rundown of his findings at Flutter-Bys.

  McKinley listened intently to the tale, occasionally making notes. Eventually, he said, “Here I was thinking I’m on a ghost hunt and I find you playing like a real detective, Brennan. What’s wrong? Getting a conscience?”

  Pete pointed a threatening finger. “You print one word of this, McKinley, and I’ll cut you up into strips and flog them off to Wilf Mannion for his meat pies.”

  “Look, Brennan, news is news, and I …”

  “This is serious stuff, and we need it kept under wraps until it’s sorted out. You can have the exclusive when it’s done, but for now, you keep your trap shut.” Taking a large swallow of tea, Pete turned to Sceptre. “Anything happening here? Apart from Kev having another attack of the heebie-jeebies?”

  “Nothing yet.” She checked her watch. “But it’s still a bit early.” She, too, sipped from her cup. “You know, Pete, I think you’re being very hard on Kevin.”

  He laughed. “I’m being hard? You’re the one who’s just told him off for calling you a numpty.”

  “A woman in my position is not used to being called such names,” she argued. “Anyway, don’t change the subject. I don’t think he’s imagining it. He’s the focus of much of what happened here the other night, and I believe he may have channelling abilities of which he’s unaware.”

  “No,” Pete disagreed with strained patience. “He has the ability to channel stolen goods to other users, without the law being aware, but as for hearing voices, I don’t think …”

  “I know what I heard,” Kevin interrupted. “It was wigjam. Again.” His mobile buzzed for attention. He took it from his pocket and studied the menu window. “Text message,” he muttered, and made the connection. His brow creased. “Funny. It’s that same message as the other day.” He held it forward for them to see the message WGJAMW. “I wonder who’s sending it.”

  While the other two men crowded round Kevin to read the message, Sceptre wandered off to the windows, her ear cocked to the astral plane.

  “Madam,” Fishwick announced, “the text messages and the voice on the radio are from one and the same source.”

  “And is that source Steven Bilks?” she asked.

  Her butler concurred. “I have said before that I believe we are dealing with Mr. Bilks’ spirit, Madam, but he cannot confirm it.”

  “Thank you, Fishwick.”

  She became aware that her one-sided conversation had attracted the attention of her colleagues and that they were watching her with inane grins on their faces.

  She blushed and coughed to hide her embarrassment. “Fishwick has just told me that Steven Bilks is sending those messages, and it’s his voice we heard over the radio. He’s trying to tell us something, but even Fishwick cannot understand what it is.”

  Kevin stared open-mouthed; Pete and McKinley were incredulous.

  “Techno-spooks,” said the reporter with a wry grin. “I must say, as stories go, this beats the latest celebs caught with their knickers down. Ghosts sending text messages.”

  “Sceptre,” said Pete, “I can just about buy this spirit contact of yours, but ghosts sending texts and getting airtime on radio is stretching believability just a bit too far.”

  “Then how do you explain it?” Sceptre demanded.

  “Someone, no prizes for guessing who, is playing games with us.” Pete took the phone from Kevin, and studied the source details of the text. “McKinley, can you trace the owners of mobile numbers?”

  “Yes. Not easy, but we can do it,” agreed the reporter.

  Pete passed Kevin’s phone over. “Get us the owner of that text source, will you? Kev’s had this text a few times, and I’d like to know who he is.”

  “So you don’t believe he’s the ghost of Alexander Graham Bell bringing himself up to date?” McKinley grinned. “Mr. Keeley, come here, I need you to show me how to get the source number for a text from your phone.”

  Kevin tutted. “Bloody technophobes.” He joined McKinley and began to work through the phone’s menu to find the source number.

  “Kev started receiving those texts after Bilks was killed,” said Pete, “and I believe that someone is just trying to scare us off. You just get me the owner of that number, and I’ll do the rest.”

  Making a note of the number, McKinley handed the phone back to Kevin. “So, what now?”

  Kevin pocketed his phone. “Now we sit back and wait for the other Melmerby Manor spooks to wake up. Those who don’t breathe in your ear and shout at you.” He checked his watch. “There’s a good few hours yet.”

  Pete shook his head as he picked up a camcorder, tripod and a cable drum. “Not quite. I’m setting up one more camera. Give me a lift, McKinley.” He handed the cable drum to the reporter.

  *****

  Under the baleful eyes of portraits, Pete and McKinley made their way across the entrance hall and a
long the Long Gallery, their footsteps echoing eerily around the walls.

  “So, what is it with you, Brennan?” McKinley asked. “Did you just jump on the ghost hunting bandwagon because you fancied Sceptre?”

  “Well, thanks to pains in the butt like you and DCI Locke,” Pete grumbled, “I lost my job and had to turn myself into a private eye. There’s not much doing at the moment, so I tagged along with Kev and Sceptre. Nothing better to do, had I? Besides, a lot of people believe in this guff and I’m here to make sure those two keep their feet on the ground.”

  At the far end of the Long Gallery, they put their equipment down. Looking through the glass of the rear double doors, Pete unlocked them and let them out into the rear yard.

  “This is where you turned up the body of Bilko, huh?” McKinley wanted to know.

  McKinley’s use of Steven Bilks’ nickname made Pete instantly suspicious. “You knew him?”

  McKinley tapped the side of his nose and grinned. “I’m a reporter. I have sources, and Bilko was one of them.”

  He peered intently at the reporter. “Did he contact you in the last few days? Tell you anything about a big heist going down?”

  “Nope, and that’s not the kind of information I used to get off him. He’d tell me about crooked councillors or businessmen …” McKinley grinned again. “And bent cops.”

  Pete rounded on him. “Watch it. I only have so much patience.”

  His threat wiped the grin from the reporter’s face.

  Across the courtyard, the big gates and the stable doors were covered with police ‘crime scene’ tape in a gaudy yellow with blue lettering. The ground was littered with patches of forensic dusting powder, washed away in places by the heavy rains.

  Pete waved at the nearest doors. “We had some rum goings-on here the other night, so I thought I’d set up a camera tonight.”

  “Goings-on? How rum?”

  Pete shook his head. “Never you mind. Let’s just say that they led us to Bilko’s body.”

  Pete threw open the rear gates and checked outside. Happy that there was no one immediately visible and that the warehouses were secure, he closed the gates again and they returned to the Long Gallery with McKinley at his shoulder. Once inside, Pete locked the doors and set the video camera and infrared motion sensor on the inside, aiming them through the glass doors so that they were aimed at the warehouse entrance.