by Cavendish
Her eyes snapped open. She wasn’t imagining it. The room was growing darker, as if someone was depressing a dimmer switch. Only she hadn’t got one. It couldn’t be the bulb. They just snapped off when they went or were switched off. Besides, there was no one else in her apartment.…
Hannah stood and stepped out of her bath. She wrapped her toweling robe around her and padded out into the hall. All the lights had dimmed, so that she was in a half-light. In the bedroom, shadows covered half the room. Unnatural shadows that writhed and twisted.
No. It couldn’t have followed. It mustn’t.
Whatever it was belonged in Henderson Close. Not here.
Out of the corner of her eye, Hannah caught a movement. Too swift to be human, it shot across her peripheral vision. She stepped out into the hall. No sign of anyone. Or anything. She crept along and into the living room.
The smell hit her at the doorway. Lavender. An old lady’s smell. The sort of scent Miss Carmichael might have worn.
Miss Carmichael.
“Is anyone there?” The scent wafted stronger than ever. Darkness crept across the room, spreading like a cloak. “Miss Carmichael, are you there?”
The darkness settled. Hannah tried the light switch. Nothing. She flicked it twice, three times. Still nothing. “We’re trying to help you, Miss Carmichael. We’re trying to find your killer. I think I know who it is but we need your help. He isn’t like.…” What? Not like a normal ghost?
The lights came up all at once. Hannah was left shaking her head in disbelief.
Finally daring to move, she returned to the bedroom and dressed quickly. She ditched the caftan in favor of more practical jeans and jumper.
Back in the living room, she rescued her glass of wine, topped it up and glanced out of the window at the rain-swept street beneath. The streetlamps lit up patches of the shiny surface and under one, a figure moved into the light.
Hannah gasped. The woman stared up at her, her wire-framed glasses glinting. She raised her hand and beckoned to Hannah.
Without hesitation, without a thought, Hannah dashed out into the hall, thrust her feet into her winter boots, arms into her warm coat, grabbed her keys and left.
She tore down the stairs and out through the front door, in time to see the figure slowly moving along the deserted street.
Hannah raced to catch up with her, but however slowly the woman moved, she could not reach her. She followed the silent figure down the High Street, stopping at the entrance to Henderson Close. The woman turned and looked at her, her face expressionless.
She vanished.
Hannah stood, unsure what she was meant to do next. Maybe the woman would return. Miss Carmichael. The temperature continued to drop until it had to be hovering around freezing. Hannah’s feet and hands were growing numb. Still nothing happened. She must go home or freeze to death.
In her apartment, the warmth of the central heating greeted her at the door. But in the bedroom, the chill turned her breath to vapor.
A small figure in a dirty white shift faced the window.
The hair on Hannah’s neck bristled. “Who are you? What are you doing here?”
The girl said nothing. She continued to face out of the room.
“I said, who are you? What do you want here?”
As if in slow motion, the girl slowly turned.
Hannah cried out. The child had no face.
She kept on turning, her movements graceful as a ballerina on a music box, until she faced the window again.
Hannah stood, trembling. Her eyes must be deceiving her. But she knew they weren’t. The little girl spread her arms wide. In one hand, she clutched an old rag doll. Isobel’s rag doll. She dropped it, and soared through the closed window.
Hannah crouched down, half expecting the doll to disappear. It didn’t. She picked it up, noting how grubby it looked. How worn and patched. At some stage this doll had received some serious damage. It had to be the same one and the girl had to be Isobel. How and why were different matters entirely.
Hannah laid the doll on her bedside chair. What could she do with it? Throwing it away could not be an option. The girl might come back for it. Probably would if she could. But the thought of living with it, seeing it every time she opened her eyes? No. Hannah steeled herself to pick the doll up again. She carried it out into the hall and opened a large fitted cupboard where she stored all manner of things not needed every day. She cleared a space next to the Christmas tree and laid the doll down. She closed the door firmly and went back into the bedroom. No sign of the little girl, but she knew she wouldn’t sleep that night.
* * *
At work the next day, she was greatly relieved to see Mairead.
“Where did you spend last night? I looked for you when we closed but you’d already gone. I wondered if you wanted to stay with me for a few days.”
“Thanks, Hannah. I stayed with Morag. It’s crazy not being able to remember where I live.”
“Have you done a search on yourself online?”
Mairead nodded. “I can’t find any trace of me. It’s as if I don’t exist.”
“But what about your bank account?”
“Like my employee record here, it shows twenty-two Bishop Crescent. I do my banking online. I can remember that much. It’s crazy. It’s as if someone or something has filtered out great chunks of my memory and left random ones behind.”
Hannah thought for a moment. “Do you have a credit card?”
“Again, I don’t remember, so I rummaged through my bag, went through my purse again and again. Nothing. I don’t have a credit card to my name apparently.”
“That’s weird. But no weirder than anything else that’s been happening.”
Mairead sighed. “It looks like I’ll have to start my life all over again. At least I can get money now.”
“So you have a bank debit card?”
Mairead nodded. “And, oddly, I can remember my password. I have to go shopping at lunchtime. Jumpers, jeans, underwear.… You name it, I need it.”
“If I can help with anything, let me know.”
“I will. Thanks, Hannah.”
* * *
“You look tired, Hannah.” George handed her a coffee. “Still not sleeping?”
Hannah shook her head. “I keep thinking I’m hearing things, and when I do get to sleep, all I can dream about is that child, Isobel, and that bloody doll of hers.”
“Do you think she left you the doll on purpose? As a gesture perhaps? She hasn’t threatened you in any way, has she?”
“No, but I keep expecting her to come back for it. Or someone to come back for it. And I can’t understand why she had no face. When I saw her down in Eliza’s room, she had normal features.”
“Maybe it’s symbolic.”
“Perhaps.”
Morag dashed into the staff room. “Ailsa’s back, and she doesn’t look happy.”
An understatement. Ailsa was incandescent. “I go away for a few days’ holiday and come back to this shambles. George, what has been going on here? I’ve had the Phantoms Paranormal Society onto me, complaining that you cut short their séance. I’ve had customer complaints galore about obscene graffiti and a woman has threatened to sue us for physical harm she suffered on one of the tours. She claims something bit her, and she has the photographs to prove it. Explanation please, George. Now.”
Hannah wanted to slash right through the awkward atmosphere. She sensed all but one person in that room sympathized with George’s plight, and equally, they were only too glad they weren’t wearing his shoes at this moment.
She heard a voice and realized it was hers. “It’s not George’s fault,” she said. Ailsa turned her cold gaze toward her.
“Oh really? Then if not his, who is responsible? You? In my absence, I put George in charge. He’s the Deputy Man
ager.”
Hannah looked for support from the others. They avoided her eyes. All except Mairead.
“All I meant was that nothing George could have done would have stopped what’s been going on. The graffiti appeared overnight. No one was left down there, so we haven’t a clue how it was done.”
“You’re going to tell me we have real ghosts down there, aren’t you?”
“Yes,” said Mairead. “We have.”
“Not you as well. I would be very careful if I were you, Mairead. You’re in enough trouble as it is. Disappearing like that and giving a false address.”
“It wasn’t a false address.…” Mairead’s voice tailed off.
Ailsa ignored her. “George? I’m waiting.”
George ran his hand through his hair. “I stopped the séance because something was happening to Hannah. Whatever we’d tapped into had latched on to her. It wanted her. She had a bizarre experience and understandably didn’t want to continue. I thought it best to stop altogether before things got completely out of hand.”
Ailsa’s lips remained in a tight line. “Hannah? Is this what happened?”
“Yes. It was pretty full-on. No way could I have carried on. George made the right decision. I’m sure of it.”
“It’s a pity the Phantoms don’t agree. Up until then, they said it had been the best experience ever. You deciding to cut it short ruined it for them. Full refund of course – but then you promised them that anyway, George. Not satisfied with that, they have then proceeded to damn us all over social media. Apparently we’re little short of fraudulent. The company has already been onto me demanding a full explanation.”
“I’ll resign,” George said. “You don’t need to take the flak for any of this. I made the decision and all of this happened on my watch.”
Ailsa nodded. “Magnanimous of you. I’ll consider it. Now get back to work, all of you and make sure the visitors have the experience of their lives. In a good way.”
Hannah left with the others, George by her side. “I don’t see why you should have to resign, George. It’s so unfair.”
“That’s life. It’s either that or wait for Ailsa to sack me. I don’t honestly see what else she can do in the circumstances.”
“I’m sorry, I have a group waiting and I’m only just going to make it on time. Let’s meet up after work, go for a curry or something.”
George managed a weak smile. “Thanks, Hannah. I’d like that.”
Hannah nodded and left him. She pasted on a smile and became Mary Stratton. A small group of fifteen happy faces greeted her and five minutes later they were all negotiating the uneven ground of Henderson Close.
A short distance past the printing shop, one of the female American visitors piped up. “My goodness this place is creepy. Real spooky.”
Others in the group snickered. A man, probably in his late forties, joined in. “You can almost hear the ghosts rattling their chains.”
More snickers.
The woman cried out and stopped in her tracks, then started to laugh.
“Are you all right, madam?” Hannah asked, taking care to remain in character.
All eyes were on the woman. “Oh yes. I am now. But you really had me going there for a second. I wasn’t expecting the child. Great touch.”
Hannah’s blood turned icy. “Child? What child?”
“The little girl. She popped her head up and looked out the window, over there.” She pointed at a darkened window of one of the locked dwellings. “Didn’t anyone else see her?”
The rest of the group looked at each other in a general chorus of shaking heads. Hannah must keep control. Already the woman was showing signs of jitteriness.
“Oh, that little girl.” She improvised wildly. “Now that will be young Nell McCarroll. She’ll be looking out to see if her daddy’s coming home from work.”
“Is that a waxwork then?” the woman asked. “So clever.”
Hannah nodded, mentally crossing her fingers. Satisfied with her explanation, the group moved on.
They reached the end of the Close, where the recently painted-over boards indicated the start of Farquhars Close. Hannah began her story. “There is a legend of a character people called the Auld De’il who was responsible for a series of murders a couple of years after the infamous Jack the Ripper struck in London. It is said he sold his soul to the devil himself and one day the residents caught him, trapped him and walled him up here.” Hannah pointed to the boards. “The murders stopped immediately.”
A man in his twenties, holding the hand of a terrified looking girl with long blonde hair, spoke. “The murders stopped abruptly in Whitechapel too, didn’t they? Could he have come up here and begun again?”
His girlfriend looked even more frightened now. She stared up at him, her eyes wide.
Hannah nodded. “Indeed that is one theory. Serial killers don’t tend to stop until something, or someone, stops them. She turned to the board. “Maybe the Auld De’il and Jack the Ripper are one and the same. I’m afraid we shall never know. Whoever he was, he took his secret to the grave.”
A few nervous laughs greeted this.
A massive bang shook the boards. Followed by another and another.
The group shifted uneasily. A few gasped. The American woman gave another cry. Hannah prayed. What the hell was going on? She must stay calm. She must make them think this was normal. All part of the show. Or.…
“Don’t worry, ladies and gentlemen. It isn’t the Auld De’il. It’s the workmen, carrying out excavations. We are planning to open up Farquhars Close next year. Let’s leave them to it. I have one more thing to show you before you return to your own time.”
She forced herself to move steadily when every pore of her being screamed at her to run. The visitors had recovered and were now chatting excitedly among themselves, moving slowly. Oh, so slowly. Behind them the banging had become an incessant loud thumping. At any minute, it sounded as if the boards would give way and something would crash through and into the Close. Hannah dreaded what that something might be.
As they approached Miss Carmichael’s corner, Hannah toyed with the idea of simply carrying on back up the Close and ending the tour, but she had already promised them one last stop. She would make it a quick one. Taking a deep breath, she plunged in. “Now don’t come too close, ladies and gentlemen, but look down and you will see the stain that can never be removed.”
The middle-aged man crouched down and touched it. “That’s a good one. Fresh blood!” He grinned and held out his finger, stained red. “No, not really,” he said with a laugh. He sniffed his finger and a surprised look passed over his face.
Hannah spoke quickly before he could say any more. “Miss Carmichael was a philanthropic lady of the late nineteenth century who worked tirelessly for the benefit of poor families living in Henderson Close and the surrounding area. She raised money, collected clothes, food and anything else she could lay her hands on. Local people were horrified that one of their own could have murdered her. They set up vigilante groups as none of them trusted the local police force. Her assailants were caught, except for one and, to this day, no one knows who that was or what became of him, although there are plenty of theories. Maybe it was the Auld De’il himself.”
If only the thumping from behind the boards would stop. Hannah couldn’t take any more. Forcing herself to keep her voice steady, she said, “Now, we don’t want to bump into the next tour so let’s go back up into the gift shop and I’ll be happy to answer any further questions you may have.” The group obediently followed her. At the foot of the stairs, the American lady remembered. “Oh, aren’t we supposed to have our pictures taken?”
This was greeted by nods and murmurs from visitors clearly wanting to get their money’s worth.
“Of course,” Hannah said, fixing her smile once more. In ones and twos, the visitors
stood at the bottom of the stairs and smiled up at the camera. Flash after flash lit up the street. The banging stopped.
“Eugh, what’s that smell?” A young woman pinched her nostrils and screwed up her face. Others began to copy her.
Then the smell hit Hannah. A horrible sulfurous odor that swept up the Close. As the last couple posed for their picture, their smiles turned into expressions of disgust.
“Sorry about that, ladies and gentlemen. Let’s make our way upstairs now.” Hannah stayed at the foot of the stairs, ready to follow her last guest up.
She put her foot on the step and cast a quick look behind her.
The towering shadow leaped, wrapped itself around her, cloaking her in a stinking blackness that cut out the light, sound and presence of Henderson Close. Hannah fought. She beat against the amorphous mass, her fists meeting nothing solid. Her ears filled with a rushing noise of a wind that seemed to come from within the mass. She tried to cry out but whatever held her muffled her voice. She was drowning in an impossible sea.
Then it left her.
But something remained.
Chapter Seventeen
1881
Miss Carmichael heard the boys jeering and taunting as she rounded the corner on Henderson Close. It wasn’t the first time. These young hooligans loved nothing more than to turn on someone usually younger, smaller and weaker than they were. This time, there were four of them, circled around a small girl who clung on to an ancient, but obviously much-loved rag doll.
The tallest of the boys made a grab for the doll and managed to snatch it out of the little girl’s hands. Tears streaked down her grubby face.
“That’s enough, boys,” Miss Carmichael said, “Give her the doll back. You don’t want it.”
The boy holding the doll rounded on her. “What’s it to do with ye, interfering old cow?”
“Don’t speak to me like that and give the little girl her doll back.”
“Who’s going to make me? You?” He laughed and the other boys joined in. Miss Carmichael wished she had brought her umbrella. Right now, there was nothing she would like to do more than set about these cruel ruffians, even if to do so would drag her down to their level. Someone needed to teach these lads some manners.
