by Gary Gibson
‘All right,’ asked Metka. ‘Then what do you think is going on?’
That you’re lying to me, thought Susan. I’m thinking that you and Bernard and Angus are working for Christian Ashford in some capacity that has nothing to do with parapsychology. It was the simplest explanation, and therefore the most likely one.
But then again, even if that were the case, why?
It just didn’t make sense.
She glanced at her watch and saw it was very nearly ten pm. The realisation sent a wave of fatigue through her. ‘I’ll sleep on it,’ Susan said, getting up. ‘Maybe I’ll think of something. And thank you for the meal.’
Instead of going home, Susan drove back to Ashford Hall.
She saw only a few lights were on inside the mansion as she drove up the long driveway. Even so, it was clear the building was far from unoccupied. The builder’s van was parked outside, and she heard the distant whine of a drill as she got out and locked her car.
There was another new security guard at the reception when she walked in. ‘You’re working late,’ he said when she showed him her pass.
‘So are you.’ He sat with his shoulders hunched, and there were dark circles under his eyes. ‘Hope you’re getting enough sleep,’ she added.
He chuckled nervously. ‘Always been a light sleeper. Night watchman’s best job for the likes of me.’
‘I won’t be long,’ she assured him, and nodded towards the upper floor. ‘I’m in the East Wing.’
‘Right you are.’ He nodded, and darted a sideways look at the stairs as if he was afraid to look too long. ‘I won’t be bothering you.’
She made her way upstairs and into the room containing the Beast, pulling a seat up next to the long table on which the array was mounted so she could stare at it beneath the strip lights. Most likely, Ashford or one of his associates would give them at least a couple of days to dismantle all the equipment, but it still meant she was going to be looking for a new job by the end of next week. She could even get started on dismantling it now, if she wanted...
But that wasn’t what was on her mind. All she could think about was everything Metka had said. And try as she might, she could find no possible motive for Metka to play an elaborate trick on her. And that, in turn, led Susan to at least consider the idea that – somehow – the array really was sending snatches of apparently random conversation backwards through time.
But that, in turn, raised even bigger questions. How, for instance, could the Array pick up audible sound, something it wasn’t designed to do? Why should that sound be audible inside Ashford Hall, at different points in the past, instead of in some other, entirely separate location? Did that mean there was something inside the building that acted as a focus for the information?
Like someone reading our mail, Andrew had said. Something able to observe and thereby decohere the quantum data by some unknown means...
She shook her head. The more she thought about it, the more unlikely the whole thing seemed.
She got up again and went back through to her desk, rummaging around inside it for a data stick that contained a backup of their test transmissions. Instead, her hand found the bracelet. She took it out, turning it this way and that, and noticed for the first time the letters CW & CA FVR had been scratched into the inner surface of the plate with a jeweller’s drill.
How did I ever miss that? But then again, she’d almost entirely forgotten about the bracelet. She wondered who...
A thrill of revelation ran through her: CW might be Clara Ward, and CA –
She laughed at the idea. “CA” couldn’t possibly stand for Christian Ashford. All of Metka’s talk about séances and ghostly voices had sent her imagination out of control. And even if by some remote chance there really were some connection between Ashford and Clara Ward, there was no reason to think it was of any significance whatsoever. They had both grown up in Wardenby within the same time period, so it was logical and reasonable to assume they had known or at least been aware of each other.
She sat down in front of Rajam’s workstation and googled the details of Clara Ward’s death. A few minutes browsing informed her that the girl had been found dead of strangulation in the then-ruins of Ashford Hall, in August 1987. Worse, an autopsy had shown she was three months pregnant when she died. A local down-and-out named Brian Tull with a record of sexual assaults had been arrested and jailed before committing suicide in his cell a few years later. Ward had left behind a sister and elderly mother, both living in the nearby estate.
Should she, she wondered, take the bracelet to the police? But what possible use could they make of it? The murderer had been caught, after all, and Clara Ward had been dead for thirty-three years now.
Susan, he’ll kill me.
She shuddered and put the bracelet down again, as if it had burned her skin. Even assuming the voice was real, why on Earth would it say such a thing?
She had heard a sound and followed it to that exact room, in a building that contained dozens of identical rooms. Why that one?
Had the same voice that whispered to her tried to lead her there?
‘You’re on a slippery slope if you start believing this stuff, my girl,’ she said out loud to the empty room.
She picked the bracelet up and carried it over to a waste bin, standing over it and wondering why she couldn’t bring herself to throw it away.
‘Fine,’ she said to it with a shuddering breath. ‘You win.’
She pocketed the bracelet, got her coat and keys, and left.
Wednesday July 8th 2020
The next morning, on the way into Ashford Hall, Susan stopped at the Karma Café. She found Samantha busy in conversation with a pair of elderly women and waited until they were gone before ordering a latte to go.
‘About what you were saying the other day,’ Susan asked, over the noise of the coffee-grinder.
‘Yeah?’ Samantha glanced at her.
‘I just wondered if you knew anything more about the, um, the haunting, up at Ashford Hall.’
Samantha gave her a knowing look. ‘Like what, exactly?’
Susan repeated most of what Rajam had told her, and Samantha nodded. ‘Honest, love, that’s about the sum total of what I’ve heard, apart from a bit of an odd feeling whenever I’m anywhere near the place. Which is as little as I can manage,’ she added. ‘You should read the book about it.’
‘What book? You mean Christian Ashford’s autobiography?’
She blinked at Susan in incomprehension, then laughed, shaking her head. ‘Sorry, took me a moment. God, no, that’s a pile of utter crap. No, the book I’m thinking of is called, let’s see...’ She finished making the coffee and sealed it with a plastic lid before passing it over to Susan in return for a handful of change. ‘“The Haunting of Ashford Hall”, I think. Written by some bloke called David... something-or-other. Read it yonks ago.’
‘Thanks.’ Susan headed for the door.
‘Might be out of print,’ Samantha called after her. ‘Heard the bloke who wrote it got in a bit of bother over it.’
Susan sat behind the wheel of her car, sipping the coffee and browsing Amazon on her phone. The author was David Summerfield, and the book was not only out of print, the lowest price she could find was over seventy-five pounds. Neither were there any electronic versions.
‘Fuck that,’ Susan muttered under her breath, then googled to try and find the nearest library. It had to be worth a shot.
It transpired that Susan had driven past Wardenby’s sole library almost every day to and from work without realising it. It was housed inside a boxy grey concrete building near the motorway that separated Wardenby proper from the council estate. One side of the building had been defaced with graffiti. The only suggestion it might be a library was in a small, rather nondescript sign on the wall that Susan would never have noticed as she drove past.
The only occupants, apart from a small and mousy-looking female librarian, were a couple of elderly retirees browsing th
e romance section and several men who weren’t much younger taking advantage of some ageing PCs. Susan hunted around until she found the history shelves, which were predominantly stocked with locally published books about the surrounding area. She did find a single copy of Ashford’s autobiography, however. He gazed out from the cover photo with a wide grin that looked more than anything like an advert for some high-end cosmetic dental practice.
She figured she might as well find something out about the man before he cut her loose and carried it over to the library counter. The woman librarian had her back turned, and was busy feeding paper into a photocopier.
‘Excuse me,’ asked Susan, ‘I’m trying to find a particular book. It’s by an author called David...’
The woman turned and blinked owlishly at her. ‘David who?’
Damn. ‘I’ve forgotten it already,’ she said sheepishly. ‘Hang on.’
She put her rucksack on the counter and rooted around inside it to try and find her phone. She pulled out a scarf, a notebook, and finally the bracelet, placing them in an untidy pile on the counter before she managed to retrieve her phone and look at the last page she’d visited.
‘Sorry,’ she said, holding up her phone. ‘I had it and it went right out my head. The author’s name is David Summerfield.’
The librarian, however, wasn’t listening. Instead, she had picked up the bracelet, turning it this way and that.
‘Miss?’
The librarian seemed to suddenly remember where she was and put the bracelet back down, her skin several shades paler than it had been just a moment before. ‘I’m sorry,’ she said. ‘Yes, I think I know what you’re looking for. I’ll just get it for you.’
‘Oh! Well, if you just tell me where I can-’ but the woman had already darted out from behind the counter and hurried off into the stacks.
Susan put the bracelet in her pocket and waited until the woman returned with a copy of The Haunting of Ashford Hall in one hand. The cover appeared even more lurid than it had online.
‘Your library card?’ the woman asked, taking the Ashford autobiography from her. There was a slight tremor to her voice, and she wouldn’t meet Susan’s gaze.
Susan suddenly realised she didn’t have one. Or rather, her last library card, good only for libraries in Glasgow, was buried in a box somewhere in her parent’s home in Cardonald.
She grinned with embarrassment. ‘I don’t seem to have –’
‘Or some form of ID?’
Susan rooted around in her bag again and produced her driver’s licence. The librarian studied it for what felt like a long time. ‘Susan MacDonald,’ she said at last, passing it back over. ‘Where did you find that bracelet?’
‘In Ashford Hall,’ said Susan, befuddled. ‘I found it under some floorboards. But I don’t think we’ve ever me –’
‘I see.’ The librarian hurriedly passed over a slip of paper with a local authority web address on it. ‘You can sign up online.’ She pushed the Ashford book and the Summerfield back towards Susan.
Susan blinked at her. ‘But don’t you need to stamp them?’
‘I can’t, if you’re not a member of the library yet.’ The librarian’s expression was hard and angry.
‘Thank you,’ Susan managed to mumble. ‘I’ll go online and get a membership.’
‘There’s no need,’ said the woman, one hand clutching at her throat. ‘Keep them if you want. Just... go.’ She turned, then, and walked into a glass-walled office behind the desk, the door banging shut.
Susan stood there, utterly perplexed, and became gradually aware that several of the library’s denizens were looking at her. She hurriedly tucked the books inside her rucksack and fled.
When she arrived at Ashford Hall, she found Pat manning the reception desk. ‘I met your friend on the night shift last night,’ she said.
‘Dan? He quit.’
She looked at him in surprise. ‘But didn’t he just start?’
‘He did, a week ago. Or was it two?’ He shrugged. ‘Anyway, he handed in his notice this morning. Agency says there’ll be someone new by tonight.’
Susan nodded, unsettled. She started to move towards the stairs then paused and looked back at him. ‘If you don’t mind me asking, how are you finding the job?’
‘Well...’ His eyes darted away from her and he flashed her a tight smile. ‘Hardly started myself, really. Seems good enough.’
‘No bumps in the night?’ she asked. ‘I heard some stories about the place.’
He grinned, but she still caught the flash of fear in his eyes. ‘Well, the agency did a great job of keeping quiet on all that when they offered me the job, but no. I’m day-shift only.’
‘So did Dan say why he quit?’
His grin faded entirely and he shivered. ‘He told me –’ He stopped abruptly and darted her a wary look. ‘Never mind. It’s all loony nonsense.’
‘What did he mention?’ she persisted. ‘Voices, maybe, or someone whistling?’
His eyes widened. ‘So you –’ he caught himself before he could say anything more.
‘Have you heard something?’ she asked on a sudden hunch.
‘Just at the end of my shifts,’ he admitted, his neck flushing red. ‘I told that ghost-botherer all about it.’
‘Bernard? You spoke to him?’ She supposed he would have.
He nodded upwards. ‘They played me all these noises and hisses and things. Creeped the hell out of me almost as much as the real thing.’ He sighed and shook his head. ‘Might as well tell you. I’ve decided to quit as well.’
‘Really? It’s that bad?’
‘No, just... Sometimes I hear a crash or something, or what might be someone talking, and I have to go check it out and there’s never anyone there. Or sometimes I’m sitting here and I could swear there’s someone right behind me, or I can feel someone’s breath on my shoulder. It’s just...’ He shuddered, then gave her an apologetic grin. ‘I’d like to say I’m made of sterner stuff, but if I’m going to be scared I’d rather it’s because I watched a box set of Exorcist movies.’
She nodded. ‘Thanks for telling me.’
She made her way up the grand staircase and stood for a moment at the corridor leading to the South Wing. It was utterly silent. The sun came through paned windows at the far end, painting the varnished floorboards with light. Maxim Bernard’s microphones still stood here and there along the corridor, as if waiting for a performance – which, in a sense, they were.
Susan spent the rest of that morning writing up some notes. For once, it was a warm day, and she went outside to sit in the sun and eat her lunch and read some of David Summerfield’s book. Andrew was still down in London, and Rajam had caught the train to Taskerlands to spend the evening with his brother and his new niece.
From the book, she discovered that Ashford Hall had originally been haunted by an apparition known as the Grey Lady, although the most recent sighting was from the 1830s, and that from a maid reportedly given to “ecstasies of a religious nature”. Summerfield was more concerned, however, with events immediately following the murder of Clara Ward.
The first reports of aural manifestations appeared only days after her death, and came mostly from the same kids given to hanging out amidst the ruins. That might have been the end of it until one of them recorded a manifestation on his Walkman, which in turn drew the attention of Arthur Melville and his Brighton-based Tulpa Society.
Over the next couple of years, the ruins became a goldmine for EVP recordings, some of which, according to Summerfield, were still renowned in certain esoteric circles for their clarity. Summerfield spent a whole chapter on the séance, which had been organised by Melville. And, as Rajam had noted, the dead girl’s sister had been involved as well. Susan didn’t have a sister, but if she had, she couldn’t imagine doing any such thing.
There were pictures in the centrefold of the book showing the then-ruined grand staircase, the main hall open to the elements. There were also, naturally, pictu
res of the room where the murder had taken place. Photographs of the outside of the building showed the West Wing completely gone, while the East Wing stood barren and silent with long rows of empty, shadowy windows.
There were pictures of Clara as well, a school portrait that showed her with her tie askew, and teased blonde hair above a slightly vacant smile. Another showed her wearing a leather jacket and jeans and leaning against a motorbike, trying to look tough and utterly failing.
There were no pictures of Claire Ward, but she had been only fifteen when her sister died. Susan wondered what it must have been like to be a scared young woman surrounded by people claiming they could talk to her sister in the afterlife. The séance had employed a ouija board, with Melville asking questions and some presumably unseen spirit moving the pointer beneath their collective fingers.
When asked for its identity, the ghost had insisted its name was Claire Ward, not Clara Ward – even though Claire Ward herself had been sitting right there. That, in turn, led to accusations from some, although not Melville, the organiser, that she had deliberately “thrown” the séance. Which, given she was still young and presumably still processing the violent murder of her older sister, struck Susan as unconscionably cruel.
Up until this point, there had been surprisingly little mention of Christian Ashford beyond an acknowledgement of him as the last living member of his family. She flipped back through the book to find the date of publication was several years before Ashford struck lucky with a series of tech investments in California. But, as was clear, he had been living near Wardenby at the time of Clara’s death, in the house his parents had bought before they died.
