by Icy Sedgwick
Mrs Shelley had said something about the “shiny window”, which he assumed meant the mirror. He inspected the looking glass, but saw nothing. He considered using it to call HQ, but wasn’t sure what to ask Handle. Surely his assistant would tell him if someone else were here. No, he probably misinterpreted what Mrs Shelley had told him—after all, his Rat was a little rusty, compared to his Bat or Mouse. The room held the definite atmosphere of magickal goings on, but as far as he could tell, nothing recent.
I shall come back later for a secondary inspection, but for now, I have work to do.
He drifted back through the door into the corridor, where he expanded his phantom sense to encompass the house, and found the scientist hard at work in his laboratory. The man scribbled complex equations on a white board with a squeaking pen. Fowlis decided against visiting him yet. The scientist would be a challenge, and he wanted to work up to it. Next, he located the girl; as he suspected, she sat on the couch in the morning room. Her pencil scratched across her drawing pad while melodramatic actors bawled at each other on the TV. The girl was receptive but not quite ready. Fowlis sought the mother; she would be the best use of his time this afternoon.
Fowlis propelled himself upwards through the ceiling, into the upstairs corridor. He cast a casual eye over the paintings lining the walls but he didn’t recognise any of the portly men or gaunt women. They glared at him in defiance. Clearly word had spread about his drawing-room escapade. Fowlis chuckled. He remembered a haunting in Shropshire, where he had encountered a second cousin—somehow he’d managed to get lodged in the painting, and Fowlis’s haunting became a search-and-rescue mission. That reminded him: Willoughby owed him a favour.
Sunlight streamed into the makeshift office, next door to the parents’ bedroom. Mrs McKenzie sat at a desk, her chin resting in her cupped hand. Sketches of the downstairs rooms lay in front of her. Her lips vibrated with her gentle snores. Fowlis smiled to himself and cracked his knuckles. Many younger or less experienced haunters would take that as a sign and scare elsewhere. Not Fowlis. He mentally thanked Amber Cartwright for teaching him to enter a sleeping mortal’s mind and influence their dreams. He had known befriending a psychic would prove useful.
Fowlis cracked his knuckles and stepped behind the sleeping woman. He closed his eyes and jumped into Mrs McKenzie.
When he opened his eyes, Fowlis stood on a broad beach, his boots sinking into wet sand. A cloudless blue sky arched overhead, and birds chattered as they wheeled through the clear air. Fowlis looked closer, and realised they weren’t birds at all. They were flying monkeys. They wore little red jerkins and matching hats, and were grabbing at each others’ tails as they tumbled across the sky.
What a peculiar imagination this woman has.
Out to sea, an armada of yellow plastic ducks bobbed on the gentle waves. Fowlis raised an eyebrow and turned to look inland. Several feet away, Mrs McKenzie knelt on the beach, sculpting assorted items out of the sand, including a spinning wheel, a Lancaster bomber, and a peacock with its tail outstretched. Fowlis went closer to examine the minute detail of the sculptures. Mrs McKenzie concentrated on moulding the sand into a miniature replica of Durham Cathedral.
A peacock, eh? Wonderful.
He stared at the peacock, concentrating hard. Visualising the brilliant plumage, beady eyes and spectacular tail, he painted the colourful image of a peacock over the detailed sculpture. It exploded in a shower of wet sand, and a real peacock stood on the beach, shaking its magnificent feathers. Mrs McKenzie stared at the bird in disbelief. It squawked as it darted to attack her bare arm.
She leapt backwards, away from the hissing bird. Fowlis didn’t know if peacocks did hiss, but this wasn’t reality, and he wanted it to hiss. She backed away, tripping over another of her sculptures. She scratched her hand on the razor-sharp needle of the spinning wheel, cursing as she landed on the beach with a thud.
Fowlis ignored the sculpture of the plane. He looked up at the sky, and concentrated on the weather. Thick, ominous clouds raced across, turning the beautiful day into an early night. Mrs McKenzie stared at the storm clouds and winced as they tore each other into shreds of thunder. Fowlis rolled his eyes. His nephew had hated thunderstorms, but he was only six years old. Well, he had been six the last time Fowlis saw him. He’d be dead and gone by now. A barb of sadness pricked Fowlis that he’d never bumped into him at HQ.
Fatigue tugged at Fowlis. His eyes fought to close and heaviness settled in his limbs. For his pièce de résistance he manifested in front of Mrs McKenzie, striking a pose as he held his hat aloft. Her hands flew to her mouth as she stifled a scream, recognition and horror burning in her eyes. He replaced his hat and dipped into a deep bow. He shut his eyes and pinched his nostrils closed, and exhaled sharply. When he opened his eyes again, he stood beside the desk. She sat up straight, screaming so hard she might rupture something in her throat.
The door burst open and crashed against the wall, the handle slamming a dent into the plaster. Dr McKenzie ran into the room, followed by the girl. Mrs McKenzie only stopped screaming when the scientist put his arms around her. She launched into an incomprehensible babble about vicious peacocks and thunderstorms. The girl ran out of the room and careered down the stairs. Fowlis assumed she ran to fetch tea, that remarkable cure for British ailments.
Exhausted but proud, Fowlis stepped into the wall and headed upwards to the attic. Lengthening shadows crept across the dusty floorboards, bringing tales of the approaching dusk. Several bats squeaked at each other, planning that night’s meal. He bade them goodnight, and fell asleep on his favourite couch.
Chapter 7
The argument echoed across the entrance hall, and Sarah paused on the stairs. Her mother’s shrieking drowned out her father’s soft tones. She padded across the uneven stone floor in her fluffy bed socks and hoped her mother would settle down over breakfast.
Neither she nor her father could make sense of her mother’s babbling about the ghost being in her dream. She’d been incapable of accepting it was just that—a dream. Maybe that was the subject of the morning’s heated debate. Sarah walked into the kitchen.
“No, I will not simply ‘calm down’!” Her mother slammed down her mug. The contents slopped down the side and dripped onto the table.
“Morning, Sarah,” said her father. He leaned against the kitchen counter, a cup of tea in one hand and his tattered notebook in the other. Her mother sat at the table, her hair still bound in rollers. Cracks ran across the facemask plastered to her skin.
“What’s going on?” Sarah slid into a chair opposite her mother and reached for the jug of orange juice to avoid looking at her mother’s angry eyes darting around in her grotesquely white face.
“Your mother and I are just having a discussion, that’s all.”
“Should I leave?”
“Don’t be silly, Sarah, you know you’re the only one he listens to. You have got to make him see sense,” said her mother. She glared at her husband.
“What do you want him to do?” Sarah hoped she sounded nonchalant, but she could guess what was coming next. Her father would probably go and stay with his colleagues before heading back to London—the university would take him back. Sarah didn’t relish the prospect of shuttling back and forth between them, but she had little interest in London now. Her friends wouldn’t even notice if she was back. No, better she try to make new ones in the north.
“Sarah, your mother would like me to personally investigate the occurrences of the past couple of days.” Her father looked down into his tea.
Sarah stared at him. Of all the things he could have said, Sarah would not have expected that. “Well, that’s not the worst idea ever. Why don’t you? I can help.”
“See? Sarah agrees it’s a good idea. Why don’t you? Go on, tell her.”
Sarah’s mother sat back in her chair, folding her arms and pursing her lips. Sarah looked back and forth between them, ignoring the fact that she’d agreed to no such thing. Not fo
r the first time, she wondered what on earth had ever happened to bring her parents together.
“For starters, I don’t think that this is a paranormal event. Cransland House is an old house, and I’m convinced that all of this has some kind of rational explanation, if we simply look for it. Remember the manor in Cumbria where we had that long weekend in ninety-four, Mariah? Tidbrooke Hall? You thought that was haunted too, and it was just bad plumbing,” said her father.
“This is far more than just bad plumbing. You haven’t seen the things we’ve seen,” replied her mother.
“Even if there are such things as ghosts and this house is experiencing some kind of ectoplasmic infestation, then this is still outside my sphere of research. I’m a physicist. This is way out of my league. I couldn’t possibly investigate,” said her father.
“I thought you said all science fell under the umbrella of physics? Like, physics explains everything in the universe?” asked Sarah.
“In theory, yes, it does, but I have my work, and it’s at a critical point, and if I were to take time off now…” Her father trailed away in the withering force of her mother’s glare.
“You write on a blackboard all day. Don’t look at me like that, you know it’s true! You write on a blackboard, you occasionally teach, and meanwhile I’m expected to somehow turn this place into a hotel so we can earn some money.”
“You said you wanted to do that! Come on, Mariah, this is hardly fair. As soon as you inherited this place, all you talked about was the conversion, and how it was such good luck that a teaching spot opened at a university within travelling distance. You said you wanted me to continue my work!”
“Mum! Dad! Stop it, both of you!” cried Sarah.
Her parents froze, staring at Sarah, who glared at them each in turn, squeezing her glass so they wouldn’t see her hands shake.
“We’ve only been here a week. Mum, you’ve done nothing towards the conversion yet apart from order hundreds of samples and talk to an architect. Dad, you had enough time to stay overnight in town so you could talk physics with your mates, but now you reckon you’re too busy to sort something out for your family. You’re both as bad as each other.”
Sarah’s parents looked at each other. Her mother dropped her gaze first, becoming fascinated by the pattern on her mug. Her father took a gulp of tea.
“This isn’t scary, it’s exciting. And it’s about the only thing I have to do around here since the internet is crap, I don’t know anyone, and it takes forever to get into Newcastle on the bus. So, let’s stop shouting about it and maybe discuss it properly?” Sarah let go of her glass and shoved her shaking hands under the table.
“Sarah, you’re right, I would have time. And I’m sure that I could investigate…but, here’s the truth. I honestly wouldn’t know where to begin in a case like this. Paranormal experiences are so far outside of the realms of my work…I’d be wasting time. Time I could be spending helping you with this place.” Sarah’s father looked at her mother and gestured to the house.
Her mother’s scowl wavered.
“Well, here’s an idea. How about I do it? I could do research online and check out the house,” said Sarah.
“No, you start college in three weeks. You should be enjoying your time off before you get back into the routine of studying,” said her father.
“I’d enjoy it! Honestly, I would!”
“I’m not happy with the idea of you running all over the house with Ouija boards, Sarah,” said her mother. Her expression softened, her face a mixture of fear and concern.
“Ouija boards were originally a toy, Mum,” said Sarah. Her mother snorted.
“Hm. I might not know what I’m doing but I’ll tell you what I’ll do. Ravinder’s flatmate works as a paranormal investigator. I’ll give him a call and see if he can fit us in. You can always help him, Sarah,” said her father.
“That’s his job? He actually pays taxes for that?” asked Sarah’s mother.
“Oh no, he’s a self-employed IT consultant during the day; the paranormal investigation is more of a hobby. Having said that, Tim does blog about his investigations and he’s had papers published in parapsychology journals. I gather he’s rather serious about the whole thing.”
“Why didn’t you mention him sooner?” asked Sarah.
“I didn’t believe that things would go as far as they have, but you’re both clearly convinced this is a haunted house, and if getting a professional to give the place the once over is what it takes to give you peace of mind, then I’m prepared to do it,” replied her father. “After all, we paid for all of the structural surveys and none of them showed up anything to be worried about. This is just another kind of survey.”
“Thank you, darling,” said Sarah’s mother. Her face finally cracked into a radiant smile.
Sarah couldn’t help smiling too. Her father grinned, and Sarah saw why he’d fallen for her mother eighteen years ago.
Her father nodded once then left the kitchen, still clutching his mug of tea and notebook. Her mother went to root around in the refrigerator and Sarah drank her orange juice, listening to the rustling and clattering from the corner.
“How do you fancy bacon and eggs, Sarah?” Her mother reappeared with the groceries.
“Oh, I’d love some, thanks!”
“Not a problem, dear. I know all of this must seem very strange for you. It’s difficult to get used to a new house when things like this are going on. I hoped we’d be able to establish some sort of routine, but this rather disrupted my plans.”
“Stops things being boring, though.”
“Yes, I rather suppose it does.” Sarah’s mother shot her a sidelong glance as she walked to the hob.
“Well, I worked on some logos to give the designer yesterday and I was going to do some research online later. You know, check out what other guest houses look like. What have you got planned for today?”
“I need to telephone the architect to see when she can come and view the place, though I’m not entirely sure we need one. I think an interior designer might be a better option. And I thought I might start sorting through the dining room. I’m sure we can keep a lot of the furniture and paintings. They add a certain something to the house.”
“Did you know Great Aunt Imelda well?” asked Sarah.
The bacon sizzled and spat in the pan, and the smell made her stomach growl.
“Never met the woman in my life. What did the solicitor say? She was my father’s second cousin, or some such. Apparently, I was the closest relative now that Daddy’s gone.” Her mother kept her back to Sarah, but she couldn’t hide the catch in her voice at the mention of Sarah’s grandfather.
“What would Granddad have done with this place?”
“Oh, probably devoted his time to exploring it, and researching it. You’re a lot like him, actually. He never could stand a mystery—always needed to get to the bottom of things. He would have loved the library.”
“What happened to all of Aunt Imelda’s other relatives?” Sarah sensed her mother’s suddenly sunny disposition might cloud over if they kept talking about her grandfather.
“All either dead, or untraceable. Listen, Sarah, you don’t mind the fact we moved here? I mean, I know we made you leave all your friends, and Northumberland is a bit different from London.” Sarah’s mother suddenly turned around, a crispy rasher of bacon dangling from the tongs she held.
“It’s weird, but it’s not like I had to change schools. I would’ve needed to go somewhere new for college anyway, and I’ve liked Newcastle on the few visits we’ve had. And how many people can say they live somewhere like this?”
“You’re sure?”
“Well, you wanted the B&B, and it gives Daddy the peace for his research, and he’s got that teaching job starting at the university…” Sarah winced at the lack of conviction in her voice.
Mum doesn’t need to know how crushingly lonely it is all the way out here. She’s got enough to worry about.
&nb
sp; Sarah’s mother smiled and turned back to the hob. Sarah stifled a sigh, and waited for breakfast.
* * *
Fowlis sat in the empty chair at the head of the table. He had polished the buckles on his boots during the argument between the parents; he only looked up at the mention of the haunted manor in Cumbria. That was most definitely not bad plumbing—that was the work of Coleridge. Fine fellow, fine haunter.
He had tapped his gloved forefinger against his chin during the exchange between the mother and daughter, and his ears had pricked at the mention of the visit by the architect—managing to scare a visitor always went down well with HQ.
“And a paranormal investigator! Well, this should be fun!” said Fowlis to no one in particular, careful not to manifest his voice. Disembodied voices were integral to any haunting, but the moment wasn’t right.
He got up and walked across the kitchen, careful to stomp his heels as hard as he could. The mother dropped the tongs with a clatter, sending them skittering across the counter. She whirled around to see her daughter still sitting at the table. Fowlis reached around her and picked up the tongs. Manifesting while remaining invisible required a great deal of focus, and he realised his tongue poked out of his mouth as he concentrated.
The mother and daughter watched open-mouthed as the tongs slid to and fro, picking rashers of bacon from the pan. Fowlis chuckled to himself, setting the tongs down and reaching for the fish slice. He slipped it under the fried egg and flipped it onto the plate beside the bacon. He turned the knob on the appliance to shut off the gas supply. The blue flames winked out with a hiss. After all, he wanted to scare them, not burn down the house.
“Sarah? What do I do?” shrieked the mother.
“Let him finish serving breakfast?” asked the daughter.
Fowlis laughed aloud at that, and permitted himself a giggle when the ladies started at the sound of his voice. Yes, he had to admit, he rather liked the daughter.
He decided to finish this particular act by carrying the plate of breakfast across to the table. The mother stood by the hob, frozen to the spot. She still stared, open-mouthed, like a horror-movie blonde facing her impending fate. The daughter watched the plate float across the table, settling on the pitted wood before her.
