The Apparition Phase

by Will Maclean

  ‘What about sudden discrepancies in temperature?’

  ‘Again, nothing that couldn’t be explained by the draughty nature of an old place like this.’

  ‘Is there anything else?’ I asked. ‘Anything more … distinctive?’

  I couldn’t decipher Graham’s smile. Part of it was undoubtedly delight at my aptitude for the subject, but there was more to it than that, an edge of almost manic glee. ‘Well, there is a more disturbing angle to the story of Tobias Salt than the commonly told tale admits. I was very lucky to discover it. I looked into some old parish records, and those have led me to believe that – well, suffice it to say that far from suppressing witchcraft, Salt was actually intimately involved in it. His campaign of persecution was almost certainly expressly designed to keep his more esoteric interests concealed.’

  ‘Hmm.’ Mr Henshaw looked up from inspecting the equipment. ‘So, lurid stories aside, this ghost has failed to materialise on tape?’

  ‘Well, so far, yes.’

  ‘And what’s this thing?’

  ‘A magnetometer,’ said Graham.

  ‘No doubt.’ Mr Henshaw smiled.

  ‘An instrument for measuring magnetic fields,’ I said.

  ‘Right.’ Mr Henshaw tapped the device thoughtfully. ‘And have you managed to measure anything with it?’

  Graham looked a little awkward. ‘Nothing. Yet.’

  Mr Henshaw stroked his chin. ‘So you’ve been here a whole week, and you’ve experienced … nothing? Isn’t that a little … disheartening?’

  ‘Not really, no. These are uncharted waters we’re in here. We have no idea what we’re dealing with, so we have to keep an open mind.’ Graham smiled again, and shifted a little in his seat, slightly embarrassed. ‘In fact, lately, we’ve been considering approaches a little less … scientific than I would personally prefer.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘Well, Sally – my co-researcher here – is quite the “white witch”, and thinks we should attempt to raise Salt using ritual magic.’

  I made a face. I could picture exactly the sort of person who would consider herself to be a white witch, and suggest ritual magic.

  ‘Indeed,’ said Graham, in agreement with my undoubtedly sour expression. ‘The last thing I wanted was to turn a serious scientific investigation into a pop festival, so I nipped that particular suggestion in the bud. However …’

  He looked slightly appalled by himself.

  ‘I have agreed to let Sally lead a séance later this afternoon.’

  ‘A séance!’ Mr Henshaw’s voice was both outraged and concerned. ‘You’re not serious?’

  ‘Oh, yes,’ said Graham. ‘The way I see it, if we do it and nothing happens, I get to prove to Sally that it’s all a lot of hocus-pocus. However, if we do manage to provoke any supernormal effects, my monitoring equipment will be operational at all times, and I can capture any scientifically relevant data we might produce. Either outcome makes it a worthwhile venture, because, either way, we’ll know more than we did before.’

  Mr Henshaw snorted. ‘The world’s first scientific séance? Ludicrous!’

  ‘It wouldn’t be the first,’ I said. This was true. I had read of dozens of experiments under similar conditions. ‘And even if we know séances are a lot of rot, a discarnate entity might not see it like that.’

  Graham looked relieved and pleasantly surprised. ‘Thank you, Tim. That was my thinking too. If Salt’s essence pervades this house, it’s worth considering that his beliefs and his worldview might remain unchanged. He wouldn’t recognise a tape recorder or any of our other high-tech gear, but he would recognise an old-fashioned spirit-summoning, and want to make his presence felt. It strikes me as an unscientific method of achieving a scientific end.’ He paused for a second, regarding me again from the riverbed depths behind his enormous glasses. ‘In fact, Tim, would you like to join us later? For the séance?’

  ‘Now, Graham, I’m not sure about that,’ Mr Henshaw said abruptly, in a much more teacherly tone than I had ever heard him use before.

  ‘You just said yourself that séances were ludicrous, Mr Henshaw,’ I said innocently.

  ‘Yes, a lot of nonsense, but—’

  ‘Well. If they are nonsense, you’ll have no real objection to me taking part, will you?’

  ‘Tim—’

  ‘I mean, if it is all rubbish, what possible harm can it do?’

  Mr Henshaw clamped his jaw shut, as close to irritation as his studied air of being OK with everything would allow. He was checkmated, and we both knew it. I wasn’t about to let anyone stand in the way of my participating in an experiment that managed to incorporate every single thing I found interesting.

  17

  Graham excused himself to make lunch, so Mr Henshaw and I made our way outside. We sat on white metal garden chairs at a matching garden table and looked out over the front lawn. Mr Henshaw said nothing, but I could feel his annoyance radiating from him in waves as we sat in silence. Over on the lawn, the two good-looking youths had given up playing battledore and were sunbathing, the girl reading a book that I could tell, even from this distance, was Chariots of the Gods? by Erich von Däniken. Occasionally, the two of them would play-fight or steal a kiss, or light cigarettes and pass them between each other. They were an entirely self-sufficient unit, it seemed, a blissful island to whom the rest of humanity could only ever be an abstract irritation.

  I supposed I should break the silence and strike up a conversation with Mr Henshaw, and was about to do so when a shadow fell across us. I looked up, squinting against the sun, and saw a freckled, red-haired young woman carrying paints, canvas and an easel. She had a cultivated witchy look to her, and wore a long green strapless dress and a yellow headband.

  ‘You must be Sally,’ said Mr Henshaw, standing up and offering a hand to shake. ‘Neville Henshaw.’ Sally put down the fishing tackle box housing her paints and brushes and shook hands demurely, dropping down into the merest hint of a curtsey. ‘Charmed. And who is this?’

  ‘Tim,’ I said. ‘Tim Smith. Hello.’ I did not immediately think a great deal of Sally. She looked as if she were trying too hard. Around her neck I could see a silver pentacle on a leather thong, no doubt bought from some hippy shop for an extortionate price. She caught me looking at it and smiled.

  ‘This? Don’t worry, I’m not a devil worshipper!’ Her voice was silky and confident, the kind of voice that has never had to be self-conscious or awkward, or feel the need to explain itself. If you had a voice like that where I lived, I thought, you’d have to disguise it, coarsen it, keep the vowels sharp and the consonants rough, or simply learn to keep quiet, so as not to stand out.

  ‘The pentagram has many meanings and associations, both good and bad. The symbol is incredibly ancient, going back to the Babylonians,’ she explained.

  ‘True,’ I said, ‘But you’re wearing it on your breast, as a lamen. For protection against elemental forces during magical rites.’

  Sally grinned broadly, turning the full wattage of her attention on me, allowing me to appreciate for the first time that she was very pretty. ‘Excellent! What did you say your name was again?’

  ‘Tim Smith,’ I said awkwardly. God, my name was dull. The full impact of the smile had somewhat disarmed me, and I fumbled for something else to say. ‘I presume you’re wearing it for the séance?’

  Sally smiled again, to herself this time, and touched the silver star, running it between her fingertips. ‘Yes, I am. You can’t be too careful, can you? Will you be joining us?’

  ‘Well, that’s still a matter of—’ began Mr Henshaw.

  ‘Yes,’ I said. We both shot each other sour looks. A moment of tense silence passed, before Mr Henshaw’s impeccable manners overrode his irritation with me. He turned back to Sally.

  ‘Can we see your painting?’

  ‘Of course!’ Sally removed the canvas from under her arm and held it up for us. It was the house, in three-quarter profile, executed in
watercolours on thick paper taped to the canvas. The house had been rendered almost mathematically, with straight lines and diagonals of a ferocious exactness. After successfully capturing the geometry of the place, however, Sally had attempted to get mysterious, and the sky was a labyrinth of sub-Van Gogh swirls and curls, like pale blue ferns. The two styles were entirely antipathetic to one another; the precisely rendered house made the sky look ridiculous and somehow puerile, and the sky robbed the house of its solidity, making it flat and lifeless.

  ‘Wow,’ said Mr Henshaw. ‘That’s great. Really smashing.’

  ‘The house is interesting to paint because of the lack of symmetry,’ said Sally. ‘One of the original wings still stands, as you can see. The other is a Victorian addition, to replace the wing that’s missing.’

  I frowned. ‘What happened to it?’

  Sally smiled. ‘The locals came and burned it down. Along with the owner.’

  ‘Tobias Salt?’ asked Mr Henshaw.

  ‘Yes. There’re a lot of stories about him, though of course I haven’t dared ask anyone in the village. They’re very stony-faced about our being here, apparently. Graham has warned us to have as little contact with them as possible.’

  ‘Why did you choose to paint the sky like that?’ asked Mr Henshaw.

  ‘After a week of being here, we’ve seen and heard nothing. I wanted to capture that unsettled mood, as we wait.’

  ‘You see, Tim?’ said Mr Henshaw. ‘Graham and his young assistants are actively looking for proof of the paranormal, and so far haven’t turned up a shred of evidence. Not one thing.’

  ‘Why would Tim need to have such a thing shown to him?’ said Sally, turning to Mr Henshaw. I could almost hear him wither and crinkle under the same smile she had turned on me earlier, like a sun ray lamp.

  ‘Oh, it’s nothing, really.’ Mr Henshaw looked hot and embarrassed. ‘Tim’s had a very … rough year and he ended up ascribing certain things that happened to him to, er, paranormal forces.’

  It sounded so ridiculous, reduced to its rudiments like that, that I again found myself wanting to punch Henshaw in the head. Sally turned to me, her eyes bright and wide, and it was my turn to wither.

  ‘I— something bad happened and …’ There was no way to talk about it without it sounding silly, but I had no choice. ‘I thought it had been … predicted. More than that, in fact, I felt almost like we’d – provoked it.’

  ‘We?’

  ‘My sister and I.’

  ‘Hmm. And what does she think?’

  ‘She, erm— she—’ I heard my own voice break a little. Mr Henshaw leapt in.

  ‘What Tim is trying to say is that he feels that he brought events on himself, and that simply isn’t the case.’ He smiled thinly at Sally, who looked perplexed. ‘Tim, might I have a word in private for a second? Would you excuse us, Sally?’

  ‘No, please,’ said Sally. ‘I should help Graham prepare lunch anyway.’ She picked up her painting and the wooden fishing tackle box and headed into the house. I watched her leave, although I wasn’t sure why.

  The second Sally was out of sight, Mr Henshaw turned to me.

  ‘Tim, I think we should go.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘I am responsible for what happens to you. If I let you partake in this stupid séance, I am failing to protect you from a situation neither of us can control.’

  ‘We’ve been through this! You said yourself that séances were a load of rubbish. I’m just interested to see one, that’s all. For the record, I think they’re rubbish too, but I also think it’s worth seeing.’

  ‘And with that, you’re still going to participate in this? An exercise in pure, unconscious wish fulfilment?’

  ‘I don’t follow.’

  ‘You’re grieving, Tim. You’re going to be grieving for a long time. Your twin is missing. She may never return. As you said yourself, she might well be dead. You’ve already built one explanation whereby her disappearance has a paranormal dimension to it. Given half a chance, I think that part of you will find any way it can to bring her back.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  Mr Henshaw shook his head. ‘How will you react if Abi starts to talk to you, through table-rapping or Ouija board or whatever mumbo-jumbo Graham has planned? If she tells you things that only you could know? How do you think your fragile objectivity will hold up then? Scepticism about the world beyond is often the first casualty of grief. Look at Conan Doyle’s pursuit of spiritualism after the Great War. Any rationalist can succumb, given enough pressure.’

  I fumed, but said nothing. He was right.

  Mr Henshaw touched my arm. ‘Tim. Don’t be ashamed. It’s perfectly normal to grieve, and it’s perfectly normal to want to speak to a loved one who’s been taken from you.’

  I nodded. ‘Even with that in mind, I’d still like to do it.’

  ‘Well,’ Mr Henshaw sighed, ‘I can’t stop you. But I certainly don’t want to participate.’ And with that he turned away and walked to the house. He didn’t look back.

  I saw that the lawn was empty. The day had clouded and the first few drops of rain were falling, pattering on the ironwork of the garden furniture. By the time I made it back to the house, the rain was coming down in a drenching, cancelling curtain, blurring the fields beyond the house into incoherence.

  18

  It took a moment for my eyes to adjust to the darkness of the house. Sally walked past me, smiling, carrying a cold roast chicken on a very old-looking white-and-blue oval plate. ‘Through here,’ she said. ‘You can meet the others.’ I followed her swaying silhouette into an enormous hall, panelled in wood either painted or aged to a deep black. The hideous Victorian renovations had not touched this vast space, and I was able for the first time to consider what the place might have originally looked like. There was an enormous stone fireplace, which the weight of centuries had rendered slightly out of true, and more mullioned windows, looking out onto the woods at the rear of the house. The room was two storeys high, and its beamed ceiling was the roof of the house.

  In the middle of the room was an enormous oak dining table, built to seat in excess of twelve, and set for eight. The haughty couple were already seated, occupied solely with each other. The other two guests had their backs to me, and until I sat down, all I could see was the straight dark hair of a girl, and the greasy black hair of a boy.

  ‘Good God, it’s tipping down!’ said Sally, setting the chicken down in the centre of the table. The rain was now beating against the leaded panes of the old windows, a soft, constant thrum that made me glad to be indoors. ‘Everyone, this is Tim. He’s come all the way up from London.’

  ‘Just outside London,’ I said. ‘Home counties.’ I didn’t want them to think I was a wholly urban creature, completely at sea in the countryside.

  ‘You’ve already met Sebastian and Juliet, haven’t you?’

  ‘Not properly,’ said the girl. ‘Hello, Tim.’ It was the first genuine warmth she’d exhibited towards me since I’d arrived. Sebastian tilted his sandy locks and half-smiled in acknowledgement. ‘Hey.’

  ‘Hello, Sebastian.’

  ‘Seb, please. No one calls me Sebastian.’

  ‘OK then,’ said Sally. ‘That just leaves you two. Polly, Neil, this is Tim.’

  ‘Hello, Tim!’ said Polly, and smiled. ‘What a lovely day to travel over a hundred miles to have lunch in a depressing old house!’ She smoothed her dark hair back from her temples with her fingertips and glanced up at me for a split second, to gauge my reaction to her witticism, and was pleased to see that I was smiling. Her clever eyes glittered as she assessed me, her small, compact face set into a thoughtful expression. I got the impression I was, for her, simply the latest absurdity in an absurd situation. Everyone else was dressed for warm weather, but Polly wore a plaid skirt and a long-sleeved cardigan, as if it were winter.

  ‘Hello, new person,’ said Neil flatly, with a sardonic curl of his lip. Neil wore thick glasses behind which his
large brown eyes flickered nervously back and forth. His black hair, combed self-consciously to one side, was flecked with white dandruff, and his cheeks bore the scars of a long battle with acne, long ago lost. He performed a comically perfunctory wave. ‘Will you be joining us for the afternoon’s wholesale rejection of the Age of Enlightenment?’

  ‘He means the séance,’ said Polly drily.

  I nodded. ‘Yes.’

  ‘Great,’ said Neil. ‘I’d hate for you to miss all the things that won’t happen, when they fail to happen.’

  ‘Please excuse Neil,’ said Polly, pulling her chair in. ‘He started off from a position of scepticism and his resolve has only hardened since we’ve been here.’

  ‘And who can blame me?’ Neil picked up his fork and started to examine it as if he’d never seen one before. ‘We’ve spent a week now in what turns out to be Britain’s most resolutely un-haunted house, so forgive me if I sound a little jaded.’

  ‘More than a little,’ said Polly.

  ‘Who won the match?’ said Sally, changing the subject.

  ‘You mean the battledore?’ Sebastian’s voice was richer and stronger than anyone else’s, and it rang around the gigantic room as if that was its natural home. ‘Well, keeping score wasn’t the important thing. It was just good that we got some exercise. Although I did, of course, win.’

  ‘You!’ Juliet slapped him playfully on the arm. ‘We agreed it was a draw!’

  ‘Only because you were losing so badly I thought you might kill me.’ For the very first time, Sebastian looked at me. ‘Terrible loser, this one!’ His grin indicated that this was a man’s joke, to be enjoyed by men. I smiled thinly in response, and felt uncomfortable.

  ‘Anyway,’ his deep voice rumbled on, ‘how did the taping go this morning?’

  ‘How do you think?’ said Neil. ‘An hour and a half of recording, and an hour and a half of playback, which revealed nothing but the frustrated sighs and coughs of two people who found themselves pointlessly recording absolutely nothing.’