by Sam Short
“Reading thoughts?” said Millie, clinging to the photograph. “Like a mind reader?”
“Not quite,” smiled Henry. “Just thoughts, and only strong ones at that. I was surprised you’d allowed yourself to be taken in by a con woman, I’d have imagined you’d have been a better judge of character. It will come with time though. It’s embedded in your bloodline.”
“And I’m to believe all this?” said Millie, wondering if she should make a break for the door. The photograph calmed her, of that there was no doubt, but it did nothing to reduce the anxiety bubbling in her stomach. She was scared. More scared than she’d ever been in her life. “I’m not sure I can believe it. Any of it.”
“Stubborn,” said Florence, her high-necked blouse keeping her petite chin raised.
“Nervous,” corrected Mister Dickinson.
“Millie,” said Henry. “You come from an ancient bloodline, and much like the bloodlines of human’s African ancestors have been diluted over milliennia, so have yours. There was once a time when — what you would call paranormal folk — roamed the Earth, free from the danger of persecution. As humans grew greater in number — as their populations exploded, and stories began to be told about people like us, our ancestors took to the shadows, our only legacy the frightening stories people tell each other — the legends and the myths.”
“All based on fact,” added Florence.
“And embellished with pure fiction,” said Mister Dickinson.
“Many witches walk the Earth, Millie,” said Henry. “But most never come to our attention. They live out their lives, aware they are different, but never knowing why.”
“Some become what humans call mediums,” said Mister Dickinson.
“Or fortune tellers,” said Florence. “Ridiculed by some, but cherished by others.”
“How did I… come to your attention?” said Millie, every muscle in her body tense.
Henry adjusted his glasses, pushing them further behind his ears. “When a witch dies, her energy is released into the world. It needs a home, a host, if you’ll allow me such vulgar terminology. It searches out who it is best suited to — normally a witch with little or no family, and a witch who is finding life hard. It searches out a witch to save, a witch to bring into the fold and out of the troubles of the outside world.
“It found you, Millie; one of Esmeralda’s bloodline, and a young lady going through a hard time. When the energy found such a witch, I became aware and came to find you. You were lucky, Millie. Many witches were overlooked, and they’ll continue their lives as they were, miserable and unfulfilled.”
“So, you’re telling me I’m a witch,” said Millie, her voice sounding distant to her own ears. “And I suppose you’re all magical too?”
Florence smiled. “I’m not magical, dear. Not unless you call the simple transfer of energy through a wall, magic.”
“I… don’t know what you mean,” said Millie. She closed her eyes. She knew exactly what Florence meant, she’d seen through her. Literally. She couldn’t allow herself to believe it, though. She couldn’t bring herself to believe it.
“Oh, for goodness’s sake,” said Fredrick. “Enough of this beating around the bush! Florence is a ghost, I’m a vampire, and Henry is… just Henry.”
Millie opened her eyes slowly, afraid of what she might see. “Vampires and ghosts, too? Wonderful.”
“Others too,” said Florence. “The paranormal world is a rich tapestry of diversity.”
“And that’s good?” said Millie.
“Of course it’s good!” snapped Fredrick. “Paranormal folk have helped shape the world of humans. We’ve given the human world a helping hand many times over! Paranormal people walk among humans in every walk of life — inventors, doctors, actors — always doing good. For the most part. There are rogues of course, but we deal with them ourselves.”
“You expect me to believe that paranormal people are walking around towns and cities across Britain?” said Millie.
“The whole world,” corrected Henry.
“I think I’d have noticed if that were the case,” said Millie. “As would most other humans!”
Fredrick sighed. “You’ve already been informed that you are not in fact human, Millie. Not completely. I do wish you would accept that fact. As for assuming you’d notice paranormal people — you didn’t notice anything untoward about George did you? You didn’t notice that he’s a vampire.”
“George is a vampire?” said Millie, a chill running through her. “I see.”
“I turned him myself,” said Fredrick, nodding. “He’s one of mine.”
Deep in the part of her brain which controlled logical thought, Millie knew that everything she was being told was true. The part of her brain which protected her sanity seemed to be rebelling, though. She gave Fredrick a wry grin, and giggled. “So, you have big pointy teeth? Which you use to bite people, and turn them into vampires?”
“Only if they want me to,” said Fredrick. “Only if turning them is the only way to save their life, so to speak.”
Millie gripped the photograph tighter, leeching as much calming energy as she could from it. “I don’t believe you. I don’t believe anything any of you have told me,” she lied.
Fredrick slammed his fist into the table, startling Millie, and stood up. “Right! Then I shall prove it to you!”
“No, Fredrick!” said Mister Dickinson. “This is not how we do things!”
Fredrick’s eyes flashed black, and Millie sucked breath in through her teeth, her whole body trembling. Inside and out.
“Please sit down, Fredrick,” said Henry Pinkerton, “or I shall be forced to ask you to leave. We’re dealing with a scared young witch, not somebody who wishes to ridicule you. Have some respect for her. It’s been a very long time since you were brought into the paranormal fold, but you must remember how scared you were? How hard it was to understand what had happened to you?”
Fredrick sighed, and pulling his waistcoat tighter, he sat down, his eyes normal again. “The girl needs proof. That’s all I’m saying. I know she saw my eyes upon entering the room, and Florence hasn’t been at all cautious about controlling her transparency. The girl knows our utterances are the truth, her mind prevents her from believing so.”
“There are better ways to prove things than by you taking on your other form, Fredrick,” said Mister Dickinson. “Less frightening ways.”
“And as for my transparency,” said Florence. “Do you have any idea how hard it is for me to appear solid? It’s not my natural state, Fredrick. It’s a struggle! You can be very insensitive at times, Fredrick. Very insensitive indeed!”
“Calm yourself, Florence,” said Fredrick. “Have some decorum.”
“You speak to me of decorum!” said Florence. “You were prepared to transform into a vampire in front of our guest. At least I have the presence of mind to make an attempt at appearing normal in front of the young lady! Or perhaps I should walk through a wall, or rattle a chain! That may scare her as much as you transforming into a vampire would have!”
“Enough!” said Henry, through gritted teeth. “Enough! Our aim is to provide Millie with proof that her magic is real, not proof of everything that is paranormal. That will come to her in time — naturally — the longer she lives in Spellbinder Bay.” He looked to his right. “Mister Dickinson, would you be so kind as to bring Edna into the room. Millie has already met Edna, perhaps a friendly witch’s face will help ease her nerves, she appears to be very shaky.”
She hadn’t noticed, but as Mister Dickinson stood up and left the room, Millie realised that her legs were shaking, and she seemed to have developed a twitch above her right eye. She took three deep breaths and concentrated on the bottle of wine, or two, she’d already promised herself she would guzzle on her return to London — which would be as soon as Millie felt well enough to stand up, leave the room, and run from the building.
So, Edna — the woman who’d collected her from the train station
was a witch. How wonderful for her! She held the photograph of Esmeralda tighter, wondering how terrified she would be without the calming effects of the picture. She imagined she’d most certainly be in fainting territory, if not the realm of cardiac events.
Mister Dickinson was not gone for long, and Millie kept her eyes averted from the three people at the table as she waited, ignoring Florence’s smiles and Fredrick’s sighs.
Henry stood up as Mister Dickinson brought the new arrival into the room. “Mrs Brockett. We have a nervous witch in our midst, a witch who is finding it hard to process events. Would you be so kind as to perform some simple magic, please? Maybe seeing what she too will be capable of one day will help her understand. And help her accept her place in life.”
“Why not yourself, Henry?” said Edna, staring down her nose at Millie. “You’re quite capable of magical parlour tricks.”
“I wanted it to come from a female, Edna,” said Henry. “Women are more adept at being reassuring, although you don’t always fit that stereotype, it would seem.”
Edna shrugged. “So be it, although Miss Thorn wasn’t so nervous when I picked her up from the train station. She was quite full of herself!”
Millie offered Edna a smile, her mouth too dry to form words.
Edna’s expression softened. “There’s no need to be so nervous, Miss Thorn. Let me show you what humans refer to as a magic trick. Perhaps that will help ease those nerves.”
“Perhaps,” whispered Millie, aware that the door hadn’t been shut as Edna had entered the room. She should make a break for it. Escape the nightmare she seemed to be trapped in, and escape to London. Escape to anywhere. Anywhere that wasn’t named Spellbinder Bay.
“Look at the fireplace, Millie,” said Edna. “It appears to be normal, doesn’t it? A regular fireplace, don’t you agree?”
It was a large fireplace, but as Edna had pointed out, it did appear normal. Millie nodded.
“Would you like to stand up and check the stonework is solid, Miss Thorn? As they do on those magic shows that are shown on television,” offered Edna, warming to her role.
Millie shook her head.
Edna took a deep breath. “Okay, Miss Thorn. Keep your eyes on the fireplace.”
Thinking it better to do what was asked of her until her legs felt stable enough to make a bid for freedom and sanity, Millie turned her gaze to the fireplace.
Lifting both arms above her head, Edna took a second deep breath, and stepping towards the open hearth, began speaking, her voice controlled and slow. “From the depths of chaos, bring yourself to be known! From the bowels of the damned, show yourself to those who would judge you! Show yourself, beast! Show yourself, hellion of death! Bring forth your evil and let it be looked upon!”
Henry jumped to his feet, waving his arms. “Edna, No!”
An inky cold blackness descended over the fireplace, and as Edna dropped her arms to her sides, a tearing sound vibrated through the room, and the darkness bulged, pushing toward Millie as a widening gash appeared in the blackness, a red glow visible beyond.
“No!” yelled Henry.
Millie screamed. She screamed with all the nervous energy that had built up inside her during the time she’d been inside Spellbinder Hall. She screamed at the darkness, and she screamed at the wretched face which was forcing itself through the ever-expanding gash, the eyes a vicious yellow, and ragged strips of rotting flesh hanging from visible bone and sinew.
“Stop it, Edna!” yelled Henry. “I meant a trick such as producing some flowers, or making a book float. Not summoning a creature from the chaos!”
“Oh. My bad!” said Edna.
The blackness faded, and so did the face, and as Henry approached her with concern on his face, Millie found strength in her legs. Pushing the seat from behind herself, she leapt to her feet, barged her way past Edna, and made for the open door.
“No! Let her go!” she heard Henry shout as the sound of footsteps followed her. “Let the poor girl go!”
Millie ran. She ran fast. She retraced the route along the corridor and down the stairs, and flung the main entrance door open, gasping as cool night air filled her lungs.
She stumbled down the steps and ran into the darkness, through the car-park and along the driveway, her breath leaving her in grunts and gasps.
She ran until her lungs burnt and her legs ached, and she wasn’t sure how much further she would have run if the twin beams of bright oncoming headlights hadn’t almost blinded her. She stopped running and looked around. She’d left Spellbinder Hall a long way behind, its lights visible high on the cliff above her, and had found her way onto a narrow country lane.
She shielded her eyes as the car headlights illuminated the lane, and with a sigh of relief as the headlights dipped, she sank to her knees. It was a police car, the bright stripes and lights on the roof a welcome sight.
“There you are!” said a voice as the car door opened.
She’d only heard the voice once before, earlier that same day, but it was as welcome and familiar as a mug of hot chocolate on a cold winter night. “Sergeant Spencer,” she said, her face warm from exertion.
“Are you okay?” said the Sergeant, placing a hand on Millie’s back. “I’ve been looking for you.”
“You’ve been looking for me?” said Millie.
A strong hand helped Millie to her feet, tucked beneath her arm. “Erm... yes,” said Sergeant Spencer. “Because of what happened earlier today. I needed to ask you some questions about what Albert may have spoken to you about, and I knew you were going to Spellbinder Hall. I guessed you might still be there. I was wrong it seems — you’re about a mile away, and you look like you’ve run a marathon. Is everything okay? What’s wrong?”
Millie allowed herself to be led towards the waiting car. “You wouldn’t believe me if I told you.”
Opening the passenger door, Sergeant Spencer helped Millie into the car. “Try me, Miss Thorn. You may be surprised.”
Chapter 9
When Sergeant Spencer had turned the car around, and was driving downhill towards the bright welcoming lights of the town, Millie began to partially relax.
“So?” said Sergeant Spencer. “Why did you look like you were running for your life when I found you?”
She hadn’t taken much notice of the policeman when she’d been standing outside the lighthouse earlier that day. She’d been in shock, she suspected, but looking at him now, Millie decided he was a kind man. At least he looked like he should be.
With his hat removed, his salt and pepper hair, illuminated by the dashboard lights, gave him away as being at least in his late forties, and the creases below his eyes and around his mouth seemed formed by excess laughing. The twinkle in his eyes further backed up her assumption that he was a pleasant man. “You won’t believe me, seriously,” said Millie. “I’m beginning to doubt myself.”
Sergeant Spencer slowed the car down as the lane narrowed. “Did they… tell you things?” he said. “Things that scared you?”
Millie froze. “Why would you ask me that?”
Sergeant Spencer sighed. “I get the sense that you trust me, Millie. So I’m going to be honest with you. There’s no point in pretending — it’s dishonest, and you’re worth more than that.”
“What are you saying?” said Millie, already certain she knew.
The sergeant glanced to his left, and smiled. “Okay. I didn’t come looking for you because of what happened at the lighthouse — although I do need to speak to you about that. I came looking for you because Henry phoned me, Millie. When you ran away. He was concerned for your safety. They all were, but they didn’t want to follow you. It would have frightened you even more. Nobody wants to scare you, Millie. That’s the last thing on anybody’s mind.”
“Are you telling me you’re part of… whatever is happening in this town? This cult or whatever it is,” said Millie, her legs tense.
Sergeant Spencer gave a polite laugh. “There’s no cult, Mill
ie. Or if there is, it’s not the sort of cult you’re thinking of. Think of it as belonging to a group — a very special group.”
“A paranormal group?” said Millie, her mind struggling to process the events of the day.
“Yes,” said Sergeant Spencer. “And you must believe that by now, Millie? You must know that’s the truth? Henry told me everything that’s happened to you since he visited you in London, and if by now, you don’t believe what you’ve been told is true, then you must be either having a very realistic dream, or refusing to see what is in front of your eyes. I don’t think you’re asleep, Millie, so it must be the latter… right?”
Millie stared at the road ahead. The narrow lanes had given way to built-up streets, and the lights of the harbour twinkled on her left. Her breath caught in her throat. Of course it was true. It was the only logical explanation. She was a witch, and her whole world belief had been abruptly and terrifyingly turned on its head. Seemingly incapable of dealing with events, she asked the only rational question she could think of. “Can you take me to the train station, please?” she said. “I want to leave this town, I want to go back to…” Where did she want to go? She had nowhere to go. “I want to go somewhere else, anywhere else.”
“I can’t do that, Millie,” said Sergeant Spencer. “Not that I don’t want to. If you hadn’t seen what happened to Albert Salmon today, then of course I’d help you leave town, but until we get to the bottom of what happened at the lighthouse, I can’t let you leave. I’ve got questions to ask you and George, and anyway — you won’t get a train at this time of night. This is Spellbinder Bay. We don’t enjoy the pleasures of a regular train service.”
“Am I in danger?” Millie spat the words out, and she was ashamed to hear her voice trembling.
Sergeant Spencer drew the car to a halt outside a pub, and turned in his seat. He smiled. “No, Millie,” he said. “No. I promise you that. In fact, you’re probably safer than you’ve ever been in your life. You’re surrounded by people, both paranormal and non-paranormal, who are some of the kindest people you’re ever likely to meet.”
