by Various
“What now?” I can’t believe I’m taking part in this conversation, but my part seems written in advance and I speak my lines as required.
“Your semen.”
“I’m not doing it in that bag.”
“Don’t be silly, honey,” Kim says. Her hand is on my thigh. “I’ll do what’s needed.” She unzips me as I ease back in my chair.
Afterwards, Kim goes into the garden and plunges her sticky hand into the plastic bag. I hear her muttering quietly. The words don’t sound like English. I stay at the table, feeling hollowed out and a little dizzy. Whenever I close my eyes, the room swings heavily around me. Kim is still in the garden when I push myself slowly to my feet and go upstairs to bed. A succession of broken nights has caught up with me and I fall asleep at once.
In my dream Becky is still alive and we’re sitting together on the stuffed green sofa she loved, in the main room downstairs. There’s no other furniture in the room and the house feels echoey and empty. I remember this time. We have just come back from the hospital and finally I know how bad the news is about her illness. I can’t stop crying but Becky is strangely calm.
“I need you to be strong for me.”
“I can’t. I can’t cope.”
“You can. You must.”
“I can’t live without you.”
“You’ll never be without me,” Becky says. “Whatever happens, I’ll be with you. I’ll haunt you to keep you safe.”
For a long time I’m not sure if I am awake or still dreaming. I hear a woman’s voice somewhere in the house, chanting. A sickly smell from somewhere conjures a childhood memory of incense burning at the entrance to a fairground fortune teller’s tent.
When finally I am awake, the house is cold and dark, and somehow completely changed. Everything looks exactly the same, but it feels like a carefully constructed copy of my home. I get up from the bed and stand for a moment as I did once before, reaching out with all my senses. It’s like the silence that comes after a loud noise has just faded away. The house is empty in a way I have never felt before. Something was here, now it’s gone.
I walk into my study and at first everything looks exactly as it always did. But something isn’t right. I stand for a long time looking at the walls, the bookcase, the desk, wondering what is wrong.
Honey.
The photo of Becky on the desk is gone. No, worse than that, it’s still there but Becky is not in it. It’s the same wooden frame, same blue sky and breathless view over Surrey hills, but where Becky should be—where Becky was—there is nothing but sky and grass. I stare at the picture for a very long time. I wish I could believe this is a practical joke, but I know what it means; Becky was dead before and of course she still is. But now she is gone.
Honey.
Maybe I would stare forever at this impossible photograph if the noise from outside doesn’t tear my eyes away from it and towards the window. A woman’s voice, singing in a monotone, chanting words I can’t understand. It’s dark outside, but there is a flickering orange glow on the window frame.
Outside, below my window, there is a small bonfire. It throws jagged shadows into the corners of the garden. A woman squats on the grass on the far side of the fire, head bowed over the flames. She is naked and for a cold moment I do not recognise her. Then I see it is Kim, but she is different; her arms and legs are longer and thinner than they should be, as if she has been stretched on a rack. It’s Kim, but she also looks like someone else, someone from long ago. Why have I never noticed that resemblance before?
Honey.
She stops chanting and throws something on the fire, pulling a tuft of blue flame upwards into the shadows. Abruptly, she gets to her feet, in a swift scuttling movement like a spider. She looks up at the window where I am standing, her eyes glinting like winter ice through the strands of hair down her face. Her smile is like a glimpse of a sharp blade.
I stand there looking down at the woman I know as Kim and she stares back at me. And I see it all, everything obvious and terminally sharp and clear.
You’re being haunted, Kim said, and she was right. Have you considered that it might be me? she asked after I told her about Ivy, and I misunderstood.
Becky was here, even after death, but now she’s gone. She was haunting me, but to protect me. It wasn’t me she wanted to leave the house. It was the woman who called herself Kim. The mad woman in my garden who now looks so like Ivy.
There is a noise from outside and I look down to see that Kim has gone. From downstairs I hear a crash of the kitchen door flying open and hitting the wall, followed by a dying rattle of cups and cutlery hitting the floor. And then, slow and regular, like a giant’s ponderous footsteps advancing towards me through the house, the doors of the other rooms slam open one by one as she comes closer.
And I don’t know if Kim says it, or it’s in my head. Or if the walls of the room I’m in whisper the word to me.
Honey.
The End
The Strange Case of Mrs West & the Dead
Sarah Anne Langton
You’d think the dead had better things to do. But no. They hang about, getting under people’s feet, and in the case of Mr. Moses, retaining a controlling share in several import businesses where they were distinctly unwanted. All concerned generally considered they were making an infernal nuisance of themselves. Several family members, having found the gentleman insufferable in life, felt very hard done by that death had refused to claim him.
Yes, tea please. White. No sugar.
You see, people will dabble in stuff. Give them enough money and they can do all sorts of damage. A little demonic deal here, a little cheating death there. Hardly a situation where you have recourse to law, when an unwanted relative acquires a nasty habit of popping back from the other side. So at this point you require some quality help. Who knows what’s been chanted to lure Aunty away from Death’s door? And she might have been a charming old dear in her former life but you’ll find a little death makes her not so ready with the mint humbugs. More likely to poke the nearest knitting needle in your eye. So it’s prudent to watch out for that. These are exactly the sort of issues that amateur occultists don’t tell you about. Cowboys. I’m forever clearing up their nasty mess.
Oh, and when you call, I prefer the term ‘Occult Practitioner’. Please don’t use ‘witch’. I’m not entirely convinced they’ve stopped burning them. Best not to give anybody ideas.
But somebody had done an impressive job with Mr. Moses. You could clearly see where the money had been spent. Very little wear and tear. Fully mobile. Chattering away rather eloquently. If you didn’t know better—and I do—you would never have thought the old gentleman should have exited this earthly plane over a month ago. He’d been brought back rather promptly. And to a very high standard. No obvious madness. No eating next door’s cats. No previously-absent tentacles. And the erroneous ‘death’ put down to the terrible incompetence of NHS paperwork. Which obviously everybody involved found entirely plausible. The standard excuse.
There were little hints of his condition about him. Slightly blurry at the edges. A disconcerting habit of simply walking through smaller pieces of furniture. The usual problems with reflections and howling dogs. He’d acquired a very slight translucent quality to his demeanour in the brightest of sunlight, and a shadow which plainly wasn’t his own. But on the whole, a convincing resurrection. Despite the problem with the red eyes. One of the best I’ve seen. And one which was singularly determined to hang onto his business interests. Much to his daughter’s disgust.
At this point, I require your signature to allow me to act on your behalf in this matter. Damages to be covered etc. No liability to be incurred. All standard terms in the small print.
Now firstly, you’ll receive my basic analysis of the situation, giving you several options for the best course of action to proceed with. I don’t see it as a possibility here, but often the resurrection is of such poor quality that, despite the inconvenience, simpl
y leaving the situation to run its course will solve the unwanted relative issue. As the cheap spellwork wears thin after a few days, the reanimation of Uncle Bob will revert him to his natural state of death. Sometime they’ll wander off into the night. Sometimes become an occasional apparition in a favourite comfy chair. And I have seen one simply dissolve to nothing over dinner. But binding a deceased soul to this plane is serious stuff, and very rarely has anybody the expertise to make it stick. Or a client that’s prepared to pay the price.
Mr. Moses, though, is the work of a professional. That’s clear at a glance. The good gentleman is going to be busy shuffling paperwork till Doomsday unless you choose to actively return him to the grave. It’s no good simply thinking the problem will go away. It won’t. He appears to have been tied very firmly to his previous existence to a degree where only some serious intervention will stop him. Often the reanimation is location-based. The deceased is tied to a previous home or place of significance in their former live but as we’ve seen from his apparent unfortunate trip to The Three Stags, your father’s fully mobile and wandering at will. Public awareness of the dead is frankly pitiful, so in any given situation invariably well-meaning employees or business associates will always give him the benefit of the doubt should any untoward behaviour occur. An aversion to vicars is an understandable eccentricity in the elderly. Appearing bewildered by cell phones equally so.
And yes, I know this will cost. A lot. This is no easy thing you’re asking me to resolve-you understand? Somebody has bent the natural laws to an alarming degree. Go see if Good Housekeeping has some handy hints, if you prefer.
Your father seems fully cognitive and, as I understand it, responsible for his own condition? A conflict of interests now occurs, as we can safely assume he’ll have taken all suitable precautions to ensure a reversal of the spellwork can’t be attempted. The elderly are very sneaky, you know. Don’t be fooled. A shot at immortality and they can become terribly deceptive. Even rude. Think of it as unravelling a puzzle. Appropriate action to return him to his former state of death requires an understanding of the forces being currently used to power his apparent more lively one. Did he have any interest in Enochian demonology that you know of? Maybe you’d noticed some Satanic tendencies? A little light Voodoo in times of stress? Necromancy a favourite conversational gambit over dessert? No? Well that’s not terribly helpful. And, no, the occasional Dennis Wheatly probably isn’t the source of the problem here. We’re a little past that.
So, try to think back. Did Mr. Moses have any associates that I should be aware of? Somebody has helped him in this matter. Somebody with expertise. Now bear in mind, I’m not necessarily talking about Sunday evening visitors in hooded cowls turning up on the doorstep. Or muttering old women with cats. Though that would help. In many cases you’ll find they appeared to be perfectly presentable guests, but maybe somebody you never felt entirely comfortable with? A gentleman who had a nasty habit of stopping all the clocks, the rather pale lady who made such a fuss about being formally invited into your home, the slight smell of sulphur that really lingered on the curtains every time certain visitors called? Anything like that which springs to mind? And any guests leaving burning pentagrams carelessly in the hallway would be an immensely helpful pointer.
Or are there no discrete but inexplicable absences of your fathers that can’t be accounted for? Regular late night wanderings around the time of the full moon? Odd trips to New Orleans? And I’m sure he didn’t pop ‘Black Mass 11.30’ on his calendar, but no regular social calls that didn’t ring true? No? For a singularly reanimated gentleman he appears to have lived a particularly mundane life by your account. I understand you don’t want to think ill of the undead but some indication of an esoteric association would be a help. Clearly a large-scale twist in the regular order of things is taking place here. A physical anchor has probably been used to bind the unwanted relative to this mortal plain. In death his essence should have been freed to go on its own path, but something has acted to prevent that. Something that’s hidden in this house. Something it would be very helpful to find.
And actually, it’s a little late now to be asking me for references, but I’ll try to explain further. Oh, I’m sure your cheque will clear just fine. And please, more tea would be lovely.
Well, the dead have always been a problem. Though one which very few people wish to admit. Any notion that they suddenly develop a love for hanging around misty churchyards should be dismissed straight away. If they didn’t enjoy doing so in life, they’re hardly going to become all tragically “Castle Of Otranto” on you in death. Or develop a Byronic air after thirty solid years as a bank clerk. And Mr. Polidori has a lot to answer for to be honest. No, they stick to what they know. They situate themselves in familiar surroundings. And having a screaming apparition of your late beloved Grandmother about the house devalues properly terribly. It’s just an ongoing embarrassment trying to explain away the death rattles emanating from the bathroom. Or why the kitchen has that terrible cold spot by Granny’s favourite chair. Poor quality double glazing excuses will only get you so far. A more professional approach is generally required.
Oh, I started as an interior designer. Off at a tangent, I know, to my current line of work, but you visit a lot of houses. You start to notice things. Inexplicable damp patches to which no satisfactory explanation can be given. Strange wailings in the downstairs closet. Rooms where your new rustic Tuscan colour scheme is overshadowed by a constant funereal demeanour. Ornaments that refuse to stay arranged in that visually appealing display and end up repeatedly smashed on the floor. Clients that now refuse to sleep in your newly-decorated bedroom with such vehement horror it can’t be without reason. Even though a reason is the one thing they refuse to give. You can’t ‘put it back how Mother liked it’, and why does it matter that Granny Kelly never liked green? Her being dead for over five years. So you start to ask questions. Look at the house’s history. The fact that number 32 has a problem with inducing sickly terror in the spare room has nothing to do with it being build over a plague pit? And I’m sure Camden Avenue’s constant suicide problem bears no relevance to its past occupation by a less then reputable cult.
And people just want to confess their problems with the dead. Constantly. The merest hint you might understand that the floating white lady on the upper hallway is actually a serious problem for them, or that Uncle Dan departed last year, but won’t stop changing the TV station becomes a huge weight off their minds. Bloody knives appearing on the kitchen floor is hardly a proper conversation for play group. And who wants to run the risk of appearing a little insane at school sports day? So in me they’d found a confessor. As I was in their house in a professional capacity I was there to help. With my discretion already paid for. And I must have encountered this sort of thing before? Maybe a little Feng Shui with the three piece suite? Should they buy a dreamcatcher? And they’re sure the unpleasant woman next door reanimated the cat purely out or spite. She’s only an amateur Wiccan, with terribly bad dress sense. Couldn’t I try a little spell to deal with the problem maybe?
So I did. After all, paying clients are paying clients. And it turns out many more people have problems with the dead than with coordinating their Italian tiled floors.
I started to study. Sought out any teachers I could find, in the rather more esoteric aspects of the arts. Traditional witchcraft. Geomancy. Ceremonial magic. Demonology. Santeria. Even a little shamanism—though spirit animals seem somewhat nervous when confronted with the shouting visage of Granny Walton and tend to bolt—but I felt that any and every dubious occurrence must be reversible. The secret is simply working out what’s happened in the first place and undoing any spellwork involved to allow the recently deceased to move on. People think the dead will have all sorts of handy uses. Divination skills, ancestral wisdom, zombie slaves, but you’ll generally find they become increasingly ungrateful for their resurrected state, slightly grumpy, and have a rather peculiar smell.
&nb
sp; Well, down to business then. And, if you have any biscuits?
Mr. Moses Senior hasn’t amassed a vast fortune by being played for a fool. Though clearly some type of occult occurrence has taken place, I’m guessing simply asking him didn’t produce any explanation he’d care to elaborate on? No? Well, the decreased often don’t like to be reminded of their undead status. Makes them fractious. And he’s not exhibited any particularly unusual patterns of behaviour since his return? No attempts to locate a lost, treasured friend? No dire warning of doom ahead for any relatives he felt the need to impart? So he’s just been sending invoices, you say? Attending to business paperwork? Well, that’s not terribly helpful. Something a little more dramatic would give me so much more to work with here. No revenge-type haunting activities? Well, it was worth asking. Something clearly motivated him to return, but he’s really not showing the normal signs of the recently passed away.
Perhaps if you could tell me a little more about Mr. Moses’ past? I appreciate you’ve mentioned he’s a cantankerous, stubborn old miser on several occasions but that’s really not quite the type of personality insight I’m looking for. Jilted lover? Unfulfilled desire to see grandchildren that would carry on the family name? Really, anything that might indicate why he’s still with us. A life-long dedication to the progression of his business empire and the occasional round of golf isn’t a lifestyle which falls easily into the world of voodoo resurrection or demonic pact. And he just mutters that you’re an idiot should you mention the matter to him? Then indicates that you should leave and insists on returning to reading The Times. Oh.
So my first approach here is going to be to try a basic banishing ritual. Nothing too extreme, but just to give the situation a little push and see how firmly Mr. Moses is determined to stay with us. No, don’t worry, I’ve brought plenty of salt and candles with me and the chalk won’t mark the floors. Now there’s going to be some chanting involved here and a bit of sword-waving. So really best to leave me to it and maybe catch up with some friends. Or perhaps just turn up the TV. As Mr. Moses seems most strongly attached to his office I’ll be laying down a swift pentagram and trying to catch the old guy unawares before he can leave his desk. The reanimated elderly aren’t usually too nippy on their feet so I feel reasonably confident I can have him magically cornered before he heads for the door. Though he may have been warned by his practitioner to watch out for this sort of thing, I’m sure a swift ward will have him back to a nice state of death shortly.
