by Cavendish
“An early photograph of Miss Carmichael, who was murdered yesterday on Henderson Close.”
But that’s impossible. It can’t be her.
Hannah closed the paper, folded it once and tucked it under her arm. She half ran round the rest of the site, tested doors, peering in every nook and cranny, finding nothing untoward.
Noisy male chatter came closer. The builders. A smell of cigarette smoke. “You shouldn’t be smoking down here,” she said, loud enough for them to hear. Nobody responded and the smell grew stronger.
She faced the floor-to-ceiling boards that now formed the barrier with Farquhars Close. Here the chatter and smell was at its strongest. “Did you hear me through there?” she called. “I said no one is allowed to smoke down here.”
Still no response. The chatter grew louder. Women’s voices mixed with the men’s. A horse neighed.
Don’t let this be happening.
In front of her, the boards seemed to pulsate, fade in and out. She caught glimpses of another street. Like Henderson Close but open to the sky. In a shop doorway, a shadow moved. It raised its right hand and beckoned to her. Instinctively she stepped back as it emerged from its shadowy doorway.
It was male, tall and thin. Impossibly thin. Skeletal even. But with sagging, dirty skin hanging off its sunken jowls. A filthy, black claw-like hand with yellowing talons beckoned to her. The creature’s eyes blazed. It opened its thin-lipped mouth and exposed long, tobacco-stained teeth. It laughed. Raucous. Its straggly, greasy hair hung limp below its shoulders. It spoke, but its voice was in her head.
“You have no business here.”
Hannah cried out, hitched up her skirt and ran back to the stairs, still clutching the newspaper. She didn’t look back. Maybe it was following her. Maybe not. No time to lose. She had to get out of there.
Back in the shop, panting and trembling, she dropped the keys twice before she could lock the door. She leaned against it, trying to catch her breath. Through the door she swore she heard that laugh.
The scrape of a key sent her reeling across the shop. The door opened and a figure appeared. He saw her. “You all right, lassie?”
Hannah wanted to hug him. It was one of the builders.
“I’m fine.” Her voice said otherwise.
“Didn’t mean to startle ye. Just checking if anyone was still here.”
“I’m OK, really. I wasn’t expecting anyone and it’s a bit spooky here when you’re on your own. I’ll go and get changed and then I’ll be off.”
“I’ll lock this door now.” He moved to go back down to the Close.
“Just one thing,” Hannah said. The builder turned back to her. “Did you see anyone else, or smell cigarette smoke down there?”
The builder looked confused. “No. Only my mates of course. We all arrived together.”
“And no one’s had a crafty cig down there?”
“No chance. Not on my watch. I don’t want to go up like a bonfire. There’ve been too many of those in Edinburgh as it is.” He smiled at her. “But you’re right. It is spooky down there. I thought I heard a horse whinnying once. My mate Pete swore he heard someone yelling. We reckoned it was just noise filtering down from the street above.”
“Yes, probably.”
* * *
The staff almost filled the small office as Ailsa stood in front of them.
“We’ve had a request from a group of paranormal investigators based in Leith. They want to do an all-night vigil.”
Groans echoed around the room. Ailsa raised her hand.
“All right, I know. It’ll be five or six hours of utter boredom and the need to keep a tight lid on your desire to giggle, but it brings in good money and gets us publicity we don’t have to pay for.”
Every nerve in Hannah’s body was twitching. “Are you sure this is a good idea, Ailsa?”
Her boss blinked and looked at her as if she had made an improper suggestion. “Why wouldn’t it be? Without these events, we wouldn’t have the money to keep developing the site. Those builders don’t work for free, you know.”
Hannah looked around at her fellow tour guides. They said nothing, but watched the exchange intently.
She couldn’t help it. She had to speak up. “I know, but some peculiar things have been happening down there lately. And then, Mairead’s disappearance—”
Ailsa seemed to grit her teeth. “I am well aware of the impact of Mairead’s disappearance, Hannah. I’m as worried about her as you are. More perhaps, because I’ve known her longer, but in light of the little we know now, I wonder if any of us ever knew her at all.”
Her voice sounded sharp and her words harsh. Hannah reached for her bag and pulled out the carefully folded newspaper she had retrieved from Maclean’s shop the previous day. She unfolded it and, as Ailsa and her colleagues watched, puzzled looks on their faces, Hannah laid the paper out on her boss’s desk. The team crowded around and peered at the faded print.
George spoke first. “My God, it’s the spitting image of her.”
“What do you mean ‘spitting image of her’?” Hannah demanded. “It is her.”
Ailsa huffed. “Don’t be ridiculous. This newspaper is dated November 2nd, 1891. It can’t be her. Besides, look at the caption. It’s a photo of Miss Carmichael, taken a few years before she was murdered, by the looks of it.”
Hannah and the others stared at the impossible photograph. The clear eyes of Mairead Ferguson stared back.
The others muttered among themselves. Hannah got the distinct impression they were as skeptical as Ailsa. All except George. He tapped the picture. “Ailsa, don’t you think it’s remotely possible that there is something in all this? I know there have been all sorts of reports of sightings, people being touched and so on over the years, but the activity does seem to have escalated in recent weeks.”
Ailsa nodded and stared hard at Hannah. “I have noticed that there has been an increase since Hannah arrived and I wondered if she has an explanation for it.”
Now it was Hannah’s turn to stare. Anger brought an edge to her words. “If you’re implying I have had something to do with any of this, you’re wrong. I’ve experienced some unexplained events, not caused them.”
“Nevertheless, it is quite a coincidence, you have to admit,” Ailsa said.
“Mairead had experienced much the same kind of activity as I did. And that was before I came here.”
“If she did, she never reported it.”
“She probably knew this was the reaction she would get. She wouldn’t be believed and would be accused of making it all up.”
“I’m not accusing you of anything, Hannah.”
“Not much!”
The silence echoed around the room.
George coughed. “May I make a suggestion?”
Ailsa nodded, her lips in a tight white line.
“Let this paranormal group come and do their overnight vigil. Maybe they’ll tap into something. We need a couple of us to be with them. I’ll volunteer. How about you, Hannah?”
Hannah shot him a glance. An overnight séance down in Henderson Close was the furthest thing from what she wanted to do but she was aware all eyes were on her. She couldn’t back out now. Her mind screamed at her to say, “No.”
“OK,” she heard herself say. “I’m up for it.”
A slight smile twitched the corners of Ailsa’s lips. “Excellent. They’ll be arriving on Saturday night at around eleven thirty. I expect they’ll be well bladdered from an evening in the pub, but I understand they’re a pretty good-natured bunch. They’ll be bringing hand-held video cameras and the usual paranormal paraphernalia. I don’t think anyone else need volunteer. I’m sure Hannah and George are more than capable of handling them.” She treated the assembled staff to a broad smile that stopped short of Hannah.
From nowhere, a c
hill crept up Hannah’s spine. Why had she agreed? Every instinct told her it was the last thing she should have done, but she couldn’t back out now. All she could hope was that she didn’t live to regret it.
* * *
Freezing rain and a biting wind on Saturday had sent the temperature plummeting toward zero by nighttime. Glad that she had chosen to wear a warm, fleece-lined jacket, chunky scarf and thick woolen gloves, Hannah exhaled. Her breath billowed ghost-white. She switched on the shop lights and closed the door behind her. Footsteps approaching made her turn. George smiled at her from the shop doorway.
“Beat me to it, I see,” he said. “You’re keen.”
Hannah grimaced. “Not quite the word I would have chosen. Railroaded more like. I can’t help feeling this is a mistake. If we unleash something we can’t control.…”
“Let’s wait and see, OK? Now, how about a coffee before the hordes arrive?”
“Thanks, George. I had one before I came out but I think it’s worn off.” Hannah followed him into the staff room. Five minutes later, steaming mugs in hand, they returned to the shop to wait for the group.
“What time is it?” George asked.
Hannah peered at her watch. “Twenty past. They’ll be here anytime now.”
“Hope they’re not too wasted. We don’t want any of them falling down those bloody stairs.”
Hannah smiled. In the pit of her stomach, a snake of fear uncoiled itself and shifted. She fidgeted on her stool behind one of the two tills. Sitting a few feet away on the other one, George noticed.
“You really don’t want to do this, do you?”
“How did you guess?”
“You’ll be OK, honestly. I’ve done a couple of these before. They’re just a bit of good-natured fun. People scare themselves and each other. They usually manage to convince themselves they’ve heard something, or that something has touched them. They all have a jolly good time and then at six a.m., they go home completely knackered and ready for their beds. As we will be.”
“I hope you’re right.”
“You’ll see. I will be.”
So why did George look so apprehensive? Hannah shivered. “It’s certainly cold tonight.” She patted her hands together in their snug gloves. “I can hardly feel my feet.” The trainers she had selected were more for the practicalities of the uneven surfaces. Even with an extra thick pair of socks, her feet yearned for a long, hot soak. Her toes already throbbed painfully.
Excited chatter wafted in and then faces appeared at the window. Smiling, laughing, some slightly anxious and apprehensive. George opened the door, while Hannah stood to greet their guests.
“Hello, we’re the Phantoms.” A tall, well-built, twenty-something male with black hair and a sunny smile introduced himself. “I’m Rory. This is my girlfriend, Kate.” A shy, slightly younger girl stepped forward. “Then we have Andrea, Dave and Scott.” Each member of the group smiled and waved as they were introduced. A slight but identifiable aroma of beer danced around the group.
“I’m Hannah and this is George,” Hannah said. “We’ll take you down and let you get set up.”
George unlocked the entrance door to the Close. “Now if you all follow Hannah, I’ll lock up the shop and turn off the lights again. Hope you’ve all brought warm blankets. It’s freezing just now.”
From what Hannah could see, they all seemed well-prepared. Each group member had a rucksack, apparently filled to bursting with everything they needed. Rory carried a camera tripod and Dave had a small collapsible card table under his arm. “For the séance,” he explained to Hannah.
“I guessed,” she said, smiling outwardly while the snake of fear reared its head, ready to strike.
“I think Murdoch Maclean’s printer’s shop would be a good place to start,” George said, as they approached it. “There’s room enough for you to set up that table and we can all squeeze in there. It’s also been the site of some reported anomalies, hasn’t it, Hannah?”
Hannah threw him a look, but retained her composure. “It certainly has,” she said.
“Such as?” Rory asked.
“I’d rather not go into detail yet,” Hannah said. “Let’s wait and see if anything happens tonight.”
“Have any of you been on the tour here?” George asked.
Four hands went up. Kate piped up. “Something stroked my arm,” she said, her voice trembling slightly.
George smiled. “Probably a spider. It’s a wee bit dusty down here.”
“Oh no. It wasn’t a spider. Definitely not. I felt the fingers. On my bare arm.”
“Creepy,” Andrea said.
Rory put his free arm around his girlfriend. “That’s why we’re here really,” he said. “I was with Kate when it happened. She nearly fainted.”
I don’t doubt that, Hannah thought, then chided herself for being uncharitable.
The group all seemed to know their roles in setting things up. Hannah and George waited on the sidelines and watched them, setting up the table, mounting the camera on its tripod.
Rory spoke up. “I usually get some shots of the place, using night vision, but when it comes to the séance itself, I’ll walk around with the camera and try and capture any table turning or whatever may occur. If we’re lucky we may capture some orbs, or even a mist.”
“I think it’s quite likely you’ll see a bit of mist tonight,” George said.
“Really? How do you know?”
George exhaled deeply. A cloud of breath drifted away from him.
“Oh. I see. Of course. Obviously. Good one, George. You had me going there for a second.”
George grinned. “All part of my job.”
“Right, everyone,” Andrea said, “if you’d like to gather round. To begin with, George – if you wouldn’t mind joining us – you, Kate, Dave and myself will sit at the table. Rory’s on camera as usual. Scott, you take notes and Hannah? Could you observe please? Remember—”
A general chorus. “No one moves the planchette.”
She smiled. “That’s right. If nothing happens, nothing happens. We need to be sure what we experience is the real deal.”
Hannah stood behind Andrea as the four seated at the table placed their right forefingers lightly on the planchette in the center of the Ouija board.
Rory moved slowly and quietly around, his camera running. When Andrea began to speak, he stopped and focused on the board.
“If there are any spirits here tonight, we welcome you. We come in peace and wish you no harm. Is there anyone there who would like to talk to us?”
Silence. The planchette didn’t move.
Andrea tried again. “We’ll introduce ourselves. My name’s Andrea.”
“I’m George.”
“My name’s Dave.”
“I’m Kate. Oh.” She gave a slight start. “Did you feel that? It moved. I swear it moved.”
“I felt a sort of trembling,” George said.
“So did I,” Andrea said.
“Me too.” Dave.
“It didn’t register here,” Rory said. “Maybe when we look at the film later, we’ll see a little movement.”
Andrea took a deep, audible breath. “Is there anyone there who wishes to talk to one of us?”
Nothing happened. Seconds ticked away. Only the sounds of nervous breathing punctuated the stillness.
Until Kate screamed.
“Something touched me. It did. I swear. It touched my arm.”
“OK, Kate, calm down,” Rory said. “I didn’t get anything on camera.”
“I felt it. Only for a second but…oh my God.” She pointed behind Hannah. Everyone turned.
“I’ve got it,” Rory said. “Bloody hell, I’ve really got something.”
At the entrance to the shop, a mist swirled and weaved around itself, as if it were t
rying to form into something solid. A shape. Human, maybe.
“What are you seeing with the camera?” Dave asked. “Are you getting any more detail?”
Rory peered hard, looked away, blinked and peered again. “It’s a child. A young girl. There’s something…not right. Oh fuck.” He lowered the camera.
“Don’t do that,” Kate yelled. “You’ll lose the footage. This is the first time—”
“She has no face, Kate.”
“What?”
“The little girl in the mist. She has no face.”
The mist dissolved instantly as if it had never been there.
No one spoke. Each of those seated around the table still had one finger on the planchette.
It quivered. A general gasp echoed around the room.
“It’s trying to move,” Kate whispered.
Apprehension tightened Hannah’s throat. The planchette began to move uncertainly, dragging across the board randomly as if trying to orient itself with the letters and characters. It stopped. Hannah held her breath.
Kate coughed. Rory spoke. “Do you wish to speak to someone in this room?”
The planchette started to move again, slowly, uncertainly at first but gaining momentum, until it shot across the board to ‘Yes’.
“OK,” Andrea exhaled. “We’ve made contact. Please could you tell us who you wish to speak to? Is it me, Andrea?”
The planchette immediately shot across to the opposite side of the board. ‘No’.
“Is it Dave?” Again, ‘No’.
“George?”
The planchette shot across the board, almost tearing itself out of Andrea’s reach. Twice more it landed on ‘No’.
“So it’s someone in the room but not at the table.”
The planchette didn’t wait to be asked. It shot across to ‘Yes’, and immediately began to spell out a word.
“Scott, are you getting this down?”
The blond-haired man with a shorthand notepad was scribbling down letters. “Yes. H, then A. N. N. A. H.” The planchette came to rest.
