Ghost Frequencies (NewCon Press Novellas Set 4 Book 1)

by Gary Gibson

  ‘Who was Clara Ward, exactly? Was she from Wardenby?’

  Metka nodded. ‘She was a young girl from the council estate.’ The car took a right turn. ‘She was just seventeen in 1987 when she was murdered by a down-and-out. Her body was found in the same room where you lost your shoe on Friday, as a matter of fact.’

  Susan stared at her in shock. ‘The same room?’

  Metka nodded. ‘Apparently kids from the estate would go to hang out in the ruins of the Halls to take drugs, drink, and screw.’

  ‘I suppose now would be as good a time as any to ask how the place ended up in ruins.’

  ‘It got hit by a German bomber dropping its payload during the Second World War. The Ashford’s survived and built a new home on the other side of village.’

  They passed out of the old part of Wardenby, which had started out as a village before a housing estate had been constructed on its south flank in the late 1960s. Soon they were in open countryside, low fells undulating around them. Ashford Hall came into view, looking much as it probably had in the years before the war.

  ‘There’s something I wanted to ask,’ said Metka. ‘You said you heard whistling coming from that room?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Can you remember the melody?’

  It seemed to Susan a strange thing to ask. ‘I couldn’t carry a tune if my life depended on it,’ she replied, ‘so the chances of me being able to sing it accurately are roughly zero. But a building like this probably has weird acoustics, especially given it’s not really finished. It could have been the wind.’

  Metka’s expression suggested this was a far from adequate explanation. ‘But it sounded like whistling?’

  Susan didn’t reply. Gravel spat from under the wheels of the car as they passed through gates beside which a sign had been erected proclaiming the arrival of Ashford Industries.

  ‘Most of what we do,’ said Metka, putting a particular stress on the word most, ‘involves proving that something people claim is there actually isn’t. Either way, we still have to set up cameras and microphones, EM meters and all the rest of it.’

  They pulled up outside the building entrance. Rajam’s car was already there, along with two vans, one belonging to the builders and the other to Professor Bernard.

  Susan pushed the passenger-side door open, but stopped when Metka touched her elbow. ‘If you have time,’ she said, ‘there are some recordings I would like you to listen to.’

  Susan regarded her with suspicion. ‘What kind of recordings?’

  ‘EVP’s.’

  Susan shook her head in confusion, one foot on the gravel, the other still in the car. ‘What?’

  ‘Electronic Voice Phenomena,’ Metka explained, getting out and looking at Susan over the roof of her car. ‘They’re purportedly recordings of the dead, speaking to each other. Ashford Hall is famous because of them.’

  ‘Then... why haven’t I heard of them before?’

  ‘Well, you didn’t know a girl was killed here, did you?’

  ‘Well, no,’ Susan admitted.

  ‘Then you should look into the history of Ashford Hall,’ Metka advised. ‘It makes interesting reading. Most EVP’s just prove people hear what they want to hear.’ She nodded up at Ashford’s newly reconstructed stonework and windows, most of which were dark. ‘But the ones recorded here are a little more special than most.’

  Another car pulled up beside them and Andrew got out. He cast a baleful eye towards Metka and nodded to her, his mouth set in a flat line of disapproval. He had a rolled-up newspaper gripped tightly in one hand. ‘Miss Boroviç,’ he said.

  ‘Doctor Wrigley.’ Metka nodded back. ‘I just gave your associate here a lift in.’

  ‘Very good.’ Andrew turned to Susan, his eyes full of roiling disapproval. ‘Miss MacDonald? There’s something we need to talk about.’

  He marched inside the building without waiting for either of them. ‘Not that bad?’ asked Metka, regarded Susan with disbelief.

  Susan’s skin flushed with embarrassment. ‘I take it back,’ she said. ‘He’s a complete arsehole.’

  They entered the main hall to find Andrew waiting there before the still-unmanned reception desk. Metka nodded briefly to them both before hurrying up the stairs and turning in to the West Wing.

  ‘What did she want?’ Andrew asked abruptly, as soon as Metka was out of earshot.

  ‘None of your damn business,’ she snapped. ‘We ran into each other and had a coffee.’

  He shook his head. ‘I wouldn’t advise being seen talking to either her or Bernard right now.’

  ‘You’re my project manager, not my boss,’ she said, stabbing an outraged finger at his chest, ‘something you seem to have forgotten. So if I want to –’

  ‘You don’t understand,’ he said, holding up the newspaper. ‘I don’t care who the hell you have coffee with.’ He slapped one end of the rolled-up newspaper into an open palm. ‘It’s because of what’s in here.’

  Susan stared at the newspaper with confusion. ‘What about it?’

  He nodded towards the staircase. ‘Let’s go up first. Rajam needs to hear about this as well.’

  Andrew threw the newspaper down next to the kettle, then strode up to the window before turning to face them both. Rajam, who had been sitting at the workstation, pulled off his headphones and blinked at them both in a way that suggested he hadn’t yet had his second coffee of the morning.

  ‘Take a look,’ said Andrew, nodding to the newspaper.

  Susan picked it up. It was the Wardenby Advertiser, most of which usually consisted of small adverts and photos of local school fêtes and little in the way of real information. This time, however, a huge headline in red occupied most of the space above the fold: GHOST HUNTERS IN TOWN. Beneath the headline was the same photograph of Maxim Bernard that had been on Rajam’s phone.

  Susan carried it over to Rajam so he could take a look at it. ‘A newspaper?’ he asked, staring at it. ‘I thought they’d gone the way of the horse and buggy. What’s wrong with a website?’

  Susan flipped to a half-page article on the third page and scanned the columns. ‘It’s talking about whether or not Ashford is responsible for them being here.’ She shook her head. ‘My God,’ she said in wonder, ‘someone really did hold a séance. I thought maybe Ashford was kidding.’

  ‘It’s a bloody travesty!’ Andrew shouted, startling both of them. ‘It’s making a mockery of us.’

  ‘Andrew,’ Susan said carefully, ‘while I understand your concern, I do feel you’re overreacting.’

  ‘Overreacting?’ He stared at her, his eyes bulging. ‘What happens if this nonsense gets picked up by the Guardian – or, worse, the Daily Mail? Don’t you see that if it gets out that Ashford’s paid for a bunch of fucking woo-woo merchants to set up shop here, it throws everything else associated with him into disrepute?’

  ‘It sounds to me,’ Susan said levelly, ‘as if you’re much more concerned about getting your own project funded by Ashford.’

  He glared at her. ‘Look, I understand why you personally chose to accept Ashford’s funding – because you got bilked out of co-authorship on your previous research. Well, believe me, however much you might hate academic rivalry, this stuff –’ he stabbed a finger at the newspaper ‘– this dreamcatchers and spirit-energy bullshit, will stick to you for the rest of your career like burning mud. People will always question the veracity of your work purely by association.’

  Susan started to formulate an angry reply, but couldn’t, mainly because Andrew wasn’t entirely wrong. ‘An idiot made out of money, I think you said,’ was the best she could do.

  ‘I’m sorry for losing my temper,’ he said, not sounding remotely sincere. ‘You’re right. I’m worried about my own project, and he’s the only one who seemed remotely willing to fund it. But this...’ He took the newspaper from her, crumpled it into a ball and threw it at a wall. ‘This is too much.’

  ‘Look,’ she said, ‘if it’s out, it�
�s out. I don’t know what we can do about it. Ranting and raving isn’t going to change that any, Andrew.’

  He started suddenly and peered at her. ‘Did that woman say anything to you about any of this?’ he asked her. ‘Was there any sign that she or Bernard or whoever might already have talked to the press?’

  ‘None,’ she assured him. ‘If anything, I got the impression they’re sober, scientific types, whatever their reasons for being here.’

  ‘That I find hard to believe,’ Andrew muttered. He appeared to have burned out most of his anger. He slumped onto the edge of a desk. ‘But I do think it would be wise to keep an eye out for reporters.’

  ‘I’m sure there won’t be –’

  ‘If it was interesting enough to get on that ridiculous rag’s front page,’ said Andrew, ‘it’ll be interesting to Fleet Street as well, mark my words.’ He made a groaning sound. ‘Dear God. I was telling an old friend just the other week how I was involved with some hush-hush corporate research, and now they’re going to find out about it from the fucking astrology column in next week’s Mirror.’

  She glanced at Rajam, who had pushed his office chair back until it was wedged into the corner made by his desk and the wall. He looked deeply ill at ease.

  ‘If we’re even here next week,’ Susan reminded him. ‘It’s been four or five days since we spoke with Ashford, and we’re no further on now than we were then.’

  ‘I guess you have a point,’ said Andrew. ‘But you’ve still got a few days before Ashford reviews your contract. What else do you want to try in the meantime?’

  ‘Honestly?’ Susan shrugged. ‘Nothing.’

  Andrew raised his eyebrows. ‘Really?’

  ‘Really,’ she said. ‘You know, I thought I was onto something, but... Maybe it’s time for me to accept defeat. I’m not getting anywhere.’

  ‘And you’re absolutely sure about that?’

  ‘I am,’ said Susan. The finality of her own words hit Susan harder than she’d expected. ‘We’d probably have had better luck with a pair of paper cups and a ten-thousand-mile long piece of string.’

  Andrew laughed quietly. ‘Well said, if unfortunate.’ He stood up from the desk. ‘In that case, I might take a few days to go down to London. It’d be an opportunity to find out about any alternative investors for my own research in case Ashford’s exposed as a crank. Unless you think you might need me around?’

  ‘I think I’ll be fine.’ Susan waved a weary hand at him. ‘If I need you for anything, I’ll give you a call.’

  Rajam stared mutely at the door after Andrew had left. ‘Well,’ he said at last, turning to Susan, ‘do we start packing up, or...?’

  She glanced towards the door behind which the Beast still lurked. ‘Maybe not straight away,’ she replied. ‘Ashford said there might be something in all this that’s patentable. I should probably check over my contract to see what it says about ancillary patents.’ She frowned, then looked at Rajam. ‘I got talking to one of the ghost-hunters,’ she said, ‘and she told me there’d been a murder right here in Ashford Hall. Did you know anything about that?’

  ‘Clara Ward?’ Rajam shrugged. ‘Sure.’

  She stared at him. ‘Why on Earth didn’t you mention it before?’

  He regarded her with utter confusion. ‘It’s all there on Ashford Hall’s Wikipedia page. Didn’t you ever look?’

  She blinked at him. ‘Well... no.’

  He gave her an exaggerated shrug, as if to say don’t blame me.

  ‘Fine,’ she said with a sigh, and picked up the balled-up newspaper. She spread the page with the article out on her desk and glanced through it again. ‘Did Wikipedia happen to mention anything about a séance?’

  He turned and tapped at his computer, bringing up a browser. ‘It did, actually. Apparently Clara Ward had a sister they asked to take part in it. The whole thing was organised by some occult society.’ He peered at the screen. ‘It says here there was some kind of controversy.’

  ‘Really?’

  ‘Yeah.’ He clicked a hyperlink and the page changed. ‘Says here they used a ouija board to try and contact the spirit of Clara Ward. There were a bunch of witnesses present, including some people from the area. Except every time they tried to get the ghost to write out its name, instead of writing Clara, it kept giving them Claire – that’s the name of the dead girl’s sister.’

  ‘And you said she took part in the séance?’

  ‘Uh-huh.’ Rajam read some more of the Wikipedia entry. ‘The whole thing was a total farce, and they even accused the sister of deliberately trying to screw the whole thing up.’ Rajam leaned back and chuckled. ‘Load of bullshit if you ask me.’

  Tuesday July 7th 2020

  The next day, a Tuesday, and just when she’d been debating whether it was worth even going in to Ashford Hall, Susan got a text message from Metka asking her to come and find her in the West Wing.

  It was only then she remembered Metka’s request that she should listen to recordings of ghosts. As ridiculous as it seemed, it at least gave her an opportunity to avoid thinking about the fate of her project. She showered, then walked from her rented flat to the garage where her car was waiting and drove it into work, with a quick stopover at the Karma Café to pick up a couple of coffees to go.

  On her arrival, she discovered a new security guard at the front desk with a name tag that said Pat. She flashed him her Ashford Initiative ID before quickly introducing herself and making her way upstairs. There were now even more cables trailing up and down the South Wing passageway, and more microphones on stands scattered about the place.

  She followed the cables to the West Wing, and a high-ceilinged room that smelled of fresh paint. Bernard, Metka and Angus had contrived to fill it with the paraphernalia of recording equipment. She saw several trestle tables arranged along a wall, supporting a variety of laptops, printers and monitors. There were cardboard boxes everywhere, spilling over with more cables and microphone booms.

  Metka was there, with Professor Bernard, both of them studying some image on the screen of a MacBook. There was no sign of Angus. Susan rapped her knuckles on the frame of the open door to get their attention.

  Bernard looked over, blinking with surprise. Susan held up the coffees and gave an apologetic shrug. ‘Sorry I didn’t get more than two.’

  ‘Not to worry!’ Bernard exclaimed, his voice reverberating from the unadorned walls. ‘I don’t drink the stuff anyway.’

  Metka gestured to Susan to come in and gratefully accepted one of the coffees. ‘I’m glad you came. I would like you to listen to something.’

  Susan glanced at the laptop screen, and saw a grainy image of the same room where she’d found the bracelet. Metka tapped at the MacBook’s keyboard, and the screen changed to show a waveform.

  A hiss of static issued from a pair of enormous speakers sitting on either side of Metka like huge, black monoliths, loud enough to make Susan wince. In the midst of it Susan heard the sound of someone whistling, although it was almost lost amidst all the static.

  ‘That’s...’ she began to say, then stopped.

  Metka studied her carefully. ‘Have you heard this particular melody before?’

  ‘It does sound like what I heard the other day,’ she admitted after a moment’s thought.

  Metka increased the volume slightly. ‘Please be sure. Are you certain?’

  ‘I think so,’ said Susan. ‘Is this an EVP? It’s just someone whistling.’

  ‘It is an EVP,’ Metka confirmed. ‘It was recorded twenty-six years ago, in 1994.’

  Susan laughed uncertainly. ‘Well, fair enough. But I don’t see what that proves.’

  Metka gave her a carefully measured look. ‘I did mention to you that Ashford Hall is famous for such recordings. There are many more.’

  Susan shrugged. ‘It’s just someone whistling. Look, I’m happy to help, but I’m not sure what you’re aiming for.’

  ‘The important thing,’ Metka continued, ‘is that it�
�s what drew you to that room. And none of us have heard any such thing since we arrived here – not me, nor Bernard or Angus. It was not picked up by the microphones that were in the room at the time. Only you heard the whistling, Susan.’

  ‘I mean...’ Susan fumbled with her coffee, pulling the plastic lid off and sipping it, a sudden chill taking hold of her.

  ‘Would you like,’ Metka asked next, ‘to hear a recording made while you were in that room, and just before I arrived there?’

  ‘Metka,’ said Bernard, a warning in his voice.

  ‘I think she should hear it,’ said Metka brusquely. ‘You thought so yourself.’

  ‘In principle, yes, but –’

  ‘Is there a problem?’ asked Susan.

  ‘Not a problem, no.’ Metka turned back to her. ‘You say you don’t believe in ghosts.’ Susan nodded. ‘Then may I ask, are you particularly religious in any way?’

  Susan nearly laughed until she saw how serious she was. ‘My family are technically Catholic, but they’re the definition of “lapsed”. I haven’t been in a church since I was five years old.’

  ‘So you don’t have an objection to me playing this for you just now?’

  Susan glanced uncertainly at Bernard, whose expression was carefully blank, and then back at Metka. ‘I don’t see why not.’

  Metka nodded, then faced her computer. She selected another sound file and once again the room was filled with the hiss of static. Susan heard the sound of breathing, and footsteps.

  ‘This is the moment you walked into the room,’ explained Metka. She turned the volume up further. Susan heard the scuff of her shoes on plywood boards, loud enough it sounded like two icebergs scraping against each other.

  Then she heard it again: a sound like an indrawn breath. She remembered the feeling of the tiny hairs on the nape of her neck reacting, as if someone’s chill breath had touched her skin at that moment. That same chill now worked its way up her spine, wrapping icy tendrils around her lips and skull.

  Then she heard another gasp – her own, when she had turned around thinking someone was there. She jumped at the sound of a sudden clattering noise, painfully loud.