A Spookies Compendium

by David Robinson

  Kevin shrugged. “Dunno. It was like a loud whisper. Maybe the camera microphone isn’t good enough to pick it up.”

  “And maybe you imagined it.”

  “Pete, how many times do I have to tell you? I know what I heard. I might look like a fat joke with a windy arse, but I’m not a total idiot.”

  “You just do a passable impression.”

  “Bog off.”

  “Now children, play nicely.” Sceptre again interrupted to prevent war breaking out. “Kevin, tell me exactly what you heard.”

  “I told you: Vali,” he said shuddering at the memory. “I thought it was Pete larking about at first. But it kept repeating it.”

  Sceptre looked to Pete for guidance, but he declined. “I don’t know why you’re looking at me. I’ve already given you my opinion.”

  “Madam.” Fishwick’s voice sounded in Sceptre’s head.

  “Excuse me a moment,” she said to her colleagues. “Fishwick wants a word.” Under their amused stares, she communed with her butler. “Yes, Fishwick?”

  “I was listening to Mr Keeley’s account, Your Ladyship, and the angry spirit I keep meeting says nothing but Vali.”

  “He does?”

  “Yes, Milady. Perhaps that is what Mr Keeley heard.”

  “Thank you, Fishwick.” Disengaging with her butler, she asked, “Kevin did you hear it say, ‘Vali?’” She pronounced the word vaaali.

  Kevin’s eyes lit up. “That’s it. Spot on.”

  Sceptre picked up the book she had taken from the library on their first foray and opened it at the depiction of Loki. She laid it on the table and turned it to face them. The chapter heading read: The Venerable Disciples of Loki.

  “Well that explains everything,” said Pete, “Kevin’s hearing about Welsh valleys and you show us a book with the picture of Mr Punch and a chapter about people who mark points of interest on maps. This spook that Kevin’s seen, is it a mob run by Punch and Judy who spent their time mapping the Cambrian Mountains or something?”

  “Loki, not loci. I’ll have to read the chapter to remind myself,” Sceptre confessed, “but I know that Loki was the Norse god of the underworld and mischief, and Vali was their god of revenge. This thing may be beginning to make sense.”

  “To a lunatic, yes,” Pete agreed.

  “Just shurrup a minute, Pete,” Kevin snapped. “Go on, Sceptre.”

  “Fishwick has encountered an angry spirit several times. All he can say is Vali. I find two books in the library …”

  “Which were probably there all the time,” Pete cut in.

  “Shut up, Peter.” Sceptre silenced him with her sternest look. “I find two books in the library, the first of which was open at a page where the chapter on the Norse gods begins. This spirit may be angry but he’s trying to communicate with us. He is trying to tell us something. Something to do with an old Norse god.”

  “Pah!” Pete dismissed her with a wave of his hand. “You do talk some drivel.” He picked up their beakers and strode into the kitchen.

  Exchanging a glance, Sceptre and Kevin followed.

  “How do you explain it?” Sceptre asked.

  He pointed at Kevin. “He imagined it! Hell’s bells, his hearing has never been the best. All that crappy music he listens to on his mp3 player. For all he knows the ghost could have said Wally, which is exactly what he is. And you found that damned book open at a page on Loki, and you imagined the rest, including the supposed conversation with your bloody butler. Now do as I ask and keep your feet on the ground.”

  “What do I have to do to prove this to you, Pete?” Sceptre demanded.

  “Nothing,” he retorted. “You do nothing, because it doesn’t matter what you say, you can’t prove it. Even if Fishwick tapped me on the shoulder and had a word in person, I’d swear it was those out of date scotch eggs Kev keeps in the fridge.”

  “There’s nothing wrong with those scotch eggs,” Kevin yelled.

  “Which is more than can be said for your brain.” Irritably, Pete swilled their beakers under a cold tap.

  “I sometimes wonder why you’re with us,” Sceptre grumbled.

  “That’s the second time you’ve said that,” Pete pointed out. “And I’m with you because you are my friends. You’re a pair of lunatics, but friendship goes deeper than sanity.”

  Sceptre backed off. She could not think of anything to say. She turned and walked out of the kitchen, leaving Pete and Kevin still arguing.

  Pete, she knew, was right. The most important thing was to keep their heads. After years of channelling through Fishwick, she had had any number of experiences, most of them mundane, all of them explicable in rational terms, none of which were proof of the Spirit Plane. She knew that Kevin’s experience was real, Kevin knew it and Pete probably did, too, but the policeman in him kept him grounded in reality. Only when that proved insufficient, would he finally admit that he was wrong.

  She sat at the table where their computer was set up and opened the scrapbook she had found in the library. She studied the photograph of the Wicked Witches, and turned her attention to the item beneath.

  Dated a year previously, when initial work on the Ashdale Arena began, it read:

  Ashdale born megastars of the pop world, Haz and Nag Lane, today commissioned the time capsule that has been sunk into the concrete foundations of the brand new Ashdale Arena.

  “We were born and raised in Ashdale,” said Haz, the elder of the sisters, “and we’re proud to be associated with anything that is to the benefit of the town.”

  The capsule, a cylinder two metres in length and 30 centimetres in diameter, is buried 50 feet below the plaza at the front of the Arena, and is scheduled to be opened in the year 2510. It contains many artefacts in common usage today, including an mp3 player filled with popular music tracks, some of them performed by the Wicked Witches.

  Haz’ younger sister, Nag, told us, “We’re thrilled that our music has been included. We feel privileged that some of our songs, which are so loved by today’s fans, will be heard again in five hundred years time.”

  Haz and Nag placed the mp3 player, and some personal items, including signed photographs, in the time capsule personally, before it was brought out for formal placement beneath the Arena.

  In a short speech before the capsule was lowered into its resting place, his worship the mayor congratulated the two girls. “If anyone can carry the spirit of Ashdale into the future it is these two remarkable young women.”

  Sceptre leaned back. The book had been laid upon the table, open at this page. Why?

  “Fishwick,” she murmured. “Are you there?”

  “Right here, Your Ladyship.”

  “Fishwick, what possible connection could these two young women have with any of the spirits in this building?”

  “I do not know, Madam,” her butler replied.

  “Would you make some inquiries?” she asked.

  “Of course, Milady, but I would not guarantee results. Most of the spirits here ignore me, and thanks to the Reverend Emmet, many of them actively resent me. I shall do my best, however.”

  “Thank you, Fishwick.”

  She stood up and ambled across the dining hall, into the darker shadows, near the Christmas tree.

  She was not surprised to find that it was a real tree and not the plastic, store-bought variety. To schools like the Ashdalean, appearance mattered as much as substance, and they would never even consider an imitation tree.

  Coming close to a branch, she sniffed. The scent was faint but still there: the tang of fresh forest on a crispy, winter’s morning.

  A bauble nearby jiggled. Sceptre looked into its red and silver surface, its globular design reflecting a caricature of her face, drawn out until her chin ended in a sharp point, like the cartoon representation of a gnome or goblin; like the depiction of Loki she had shown Pete.

  The scent, the decorations, the whole Christmas thing triggered memories of her childhood at Rand-Epping Hall, the excitement
of coming down on Christmas morning to open the presents, the pure joy of being together with her parents, the pleasure of helping present the household staff with their gifts, and the delight of a game of hide and seek with Fishwick while the family watched the Queen on TV.

  The bauble swayed again, tinkling lightly, bringing her back to the reality of a dark and chilly school dining hall in the middle of a December night. Sceptre concentrated more closely on the image. Was that something behind her? She strained her eyes, staring into the near-mirror surface of the bauble. Her gaze fixed on the area behind her dwarf-like reflection where something appeared to be rising. It looked like a cloud. A cloud? In here? Impossible.

  It grew until it threatened to engulf her. Sceptre spun and her heart leapt.

  A mass of dark ... something/nothing grew in front of her, its wispy vapour trails leading back into the stone floor. She tried to imagine what lay below but all she could think of was the crypt. The shape grew and grew until it reached the ceiling, swelling outwards, shifting tumbling, billowing. Amorphous protrusions grew from either side, like feathery arms, coming towards her, encircling her, closing about her, drawing her into the dark heart of its mass.

  She wanted to cry out, to alert her friends, but when she opened her mouth, no sound would come. All she could manage was a hoarse rasp.

  Now the cloud surrounded her, suffocating her, its icy chill seeping into her blood, the stench of something decayed filling her nostrils, its poison invading her lungs. She gasped for air, choked on the stifling mass, and blackness slowly overtook her.

  *****

  Floating around the building, trying to engage others in conversation, Fishwick heard the faint gagging noises from the dining hall and made his way there. He saw the mistress almost swallowed up by the dark fog, but from his perspective, he could see the energy flare of the spirit creating it.

  “No you don’t,” Fishwick shouted and shot at the spirit like a lightning bolt.

  The collision knocked the energy form away, and the fog disappeared instantly. Fishwick wanted to check on Her Ladyship, but the spirit hurtled back at him.

  It shone a blaze of dull red. “Loki.”

  “You try that again, mate, and I’ll Loki you,” Fishwick warned.

  With a speed that took Fishwick by surprise, the crimson bolt flew at him. He shifted to one side, but Loki caught him a glancing blow and rolled him away. Turning back, Loki hurtled towards the mistress.

  Overcoming the momentum of his unintentional retreat, Fishwick flew back in. They struck at an angle, just above Sceptre, Fishwick thrown to the right, Loki to the left. Loki, his power undiminished, recovered first and made for Sceptre again. Fishwick rushed in to prevent him possessing her. This time when they met, Fishwick held on grappling and fighting with Loki, the two of them rolling across the Spirit Plane.

  Another spirit tried to intervene, but a kick from Loki sent it flying into The Light with a cry.

  In his defence of Sceptre, Fishwick had had many a tussle with spirits, but never had he encountered one with such strength and determination. He felt his own energy weakening. If he were alive, he was sure Loki would be worrying him like a big cat grabbing its prey by the throat and shaking it to death.

  Loki began to drag him to The Light. Fishwick fought back, using his remaining energy to prevent the inevitable. No one knew what lay through The Light because once through it, no one ever came back. Some said it was the way to heaven, others believed it was the gateway to the next life, but many considered it death for the spirit.

  Fishwick was in no hurry to find out. As Loki dragged him to it, so he tried to pull away, but his power began to weaken. He did not know where this soul drew its energy from, but it was a source far more powerful than Fishwick had ever encountered.

  The Light grew larger and larger. They were so close, they could see its whirlpool formation, and the call was so loud it was deafening. “Fishwick, Fishwick, Fishwick,” it called to him just as it had for the last century.

  Individual spirits, newly come over, flew past them into The Light, each responding to its magnetic attraction and the call of their earthly names that only they could hear. Within seconds, their energy forms were lost in the eddies and they were gone forever.

  Fishwick reached out an extension to his spirit and barely touched the end of The Light. He felt a great infusion of energy surging through him, and fought back at Loki. To his surprise, it made little difference. The immense power of this spirit subdued him, spun him round, twirled him like an Olympic hammer, ready to eject him into The Light.

  And now The Light filled the universe. As it swept through his twirling vision, Fishwick felt it tugging him, pulling him in, helped by the power of Loki spinning him closer and closer to his doom. He was lost and he knew it. The moment Loki released him, momentum alone would carry him into the heart of The Light, and he would be sucked in, never to return.

  “VALI!”

  A brilliant red scar shot across the Spirit Plane, its trajectory perfect. It struck them obliquely, dead centre. Fishwick was knocked to one side, away from The Light, tumbling back to the dining room, Loki was hurled in the opposite direction, towards the school grounds. The spirit of Vali, swooped up and around the perimeter of The Light, using it to build momentum, and rushed after Loki.

  Fishwick watched them tussling, fighting, drifting away, locked in combat.

  Feeling weak, he approached The Light until he was once more close enough to see the individual currents in the whirlpool, and again he touched its perimeter, and hovered, in control of himself. He drew power, refreshing his energy levels.

  Soon, re-energised, he made his way back to the dining hall and his mistress.

  *****

  Sceptre’s eyes opened. She lay on the floor, tangled with the branches of the fallen Christmas tree.

  The sound of running feet reached her ears and then Pete and Kevin were hovering over her, their faces lined with concern.

  “What happened?” Pete asked.

  “I … I don’t know. I must have blacked out. I thought I saw …”

  Memories of the argument just a few minutes ago, flooded her mind. She could see the worry in Pete’s eyes, but she knew it would soon fade if she told him.

  “It’s nothing. Maybe the excitement’s getting to me.” She took his offered hand and let him help her up. “I need a cup of tea and something to eat.”

  Kevin gave her a round of applause. “That’s the best suggestion I’ve heard since somebody thought of slicing up spuds, frying ’em in fat and calling ’em chips.”

  Chapter Eight

  Pete returned from his 1:30 tour, to find Kevin asleep (again) and Sceptre reading. She disappeared into the kitchen to make tea, and minutes later, killed the lights and stepped back into the dining hall carrying two beakers.

  Her wristwatch read just after two a.m. A few tables away, Pete had settled in and was reading his newspaper by the light of a single lantern, while alongside him Kevin snored. The computer had gone into hibernation, its screen blank, only a telltale green light on one side indicating that it was still switched on. The lantern, the only source of light in the room, cast long shadows in all directions, lending the dining hall an aura which she found unnerving after the events near the Christmas tree.

  During her watch, while Kevin slept and Pete did his rounds, Fishwick had detailed his own exploits with the mysterious spirit … or spirits to be more precise.

  “There are two of them, Madam,” he had told her, “and they look so much alike that I have the devil of a job to tell them apart. Normally, a spirit can communicate its earthly existence by means which it would be impossible for me to explain to you, but in this case I can only tell them apart when they speak. The one who appeared on Mr Keeley’s camera, can say only Vali, the other, the one who tried to smother you and throw me through The Light, repeats nothing but Loki. I’m afraid it makes no sense to me.”

  It did to Sceptre, but she was not about to disc
uss it with her guide until she had a clearer idea of what was going on. Instead, she asked, “Fishwick, is it possible that the various instances of the man in black are different spirits?”

  “I cannot say, Your Ladyship. I can, however, say that neither of them is the spirit of the Reverend Emmet.”

  That confirmed what Kevin had told her on the stairs. “So if they’re not Emmet, who are they?”

  “I do not know, Milady. Neither of them is calm enough to remember his earthly identity, although I believe Mr Keeley identified one of them during his possession. Swede, I think he said.”

  “Obviously a nickname, Fishwick,” she speculated. “Probably to do with the man’s nationality.”

  Her butler agreed. “I know that both spirits have a strong attachment to this school, and I believe that without further investigation of the site that we are unlikely to find answers. For the moment, I feel all we can do is guard against either of these spirits intruding again.”

  Returning to the table, she placed a beaker in front of Pete and sat opposite.

  “Thanks,” he said, and put the newspaper to one side. “Rum night.”

  “One of the most spectacular I’ve ever had.” She shuddered. “And one of the most nerve-wracking.”

  “Worse than trolling about some grand house as a child?”

  Sceptre cocked her head to one side, and rolled her eyes up to the ceiling. “Hmm, no. Nothing is worse than living in a grand hall with no friends.”

  They both laughed.

  “You know, you’ve never told me what the secret of the attraction is, living with two blokes on a council estate in Ashdale.” Pete said more soberly.

  “You never told me why you thumped the senior officer,” Sceptre riposted. “Well, you did, but you never made it clear why they fired you for it rather than taking disciplinary action.”

  He grinned. “I’ll show you mine if you show me yours.”

  For a moment, their eyes locked. Then they laughed again. Kevin stirred, shuffled in his seat, and after a couple of grunts, began snoring again.