Blurred Lines: A box-set of reality bending supernatural fiction (Paranormal Tales from Wales Book 9)

by Michael Christopher Carter

  Elin let out a further wail, which probably in this instance, was unrelated to the fear of the putrid brew she would have to endure. But the promise of hell’s swill being imminent roused Elin back to reality and subdued her snivelling. She pulled back, rubbing her eyes and apologised for her outburst.

  “That’s okay, cariad. What was it all about?”

  Elin stumbled for words, unwilling to get into it, but with the emotion she’d revealed, she didn’t think she would get away with saying she couldn’t remember. “I keep having nightmares about Swansea.” A tear tracked her cheek.

  “Really!” Glenda exclaimed. And then a realisation. She knew something nightmarish had happened to her daughter. She’d become very subdued. Compared to her sister, she was always quiet, of course, but she hadn’t been herself. A mother knows.

  And then she’d succumbed to the fever. Glenda wondered for the first time if whatever had unsettled her in Swansea had brought on her illness. With pointed concern piercing into her daughter’s eyes, Glenda asked, “What did happen to you there, cariad?”

  Chapter Thirteen

  Christmas day for the Hedges was the quiet family time they always enjoyed together. Taking it in turns, opening their stockings, then their Santa sacks in appreciation at what clever Father Christmas had thoughtfully got for each of them.

  In Neil’s case, his wish for a car (albeit a very cheap car) had been answered. He was now the proud(ish) owner of a Daewoo Matiz, apparently the cheapest car ever to insure. Well, there had to be a reason they bothered making the ugly, faded red jalopy, Neil supposed.

  He liked it really. It wasn’t the babe-magnet he’d secretly dreamed of, but he’d known that wasn’t likely. As soon as he passed his driving test he’d be independent, and that was something to be grateful for.

  A smoked salmon and scrambled eggs breakfast was the tradition for the Hedge’s. After which they reconvened in the lounge to open the presents under the tree from one another.

  The rest of the day was Mum in the kitchen, with Dad popping in from time to time to peel things and pass things in between removing dolls from unfeasibly secure packaging, and building toys that were always a cause of mind meltdown.

  And then there was the inevitable hunt for essential and precious parts which had been removed from their package by impatient little fingers in the mess of all the wrapping paper, against parental and brotherly advice, and Neil trying to watch a film through all the kerfuffle.

  The exhausted family, having consumed vast quantities of Christmas dinner ended up snoozing in their chairs wearing silly hats, and aching after the inevitable mince pies, Christmas pudding and forced-in turkey sandwiches, and maybe even a few Roses or Quality Street for good measure.

  Boxing Day was different. The quiet family time gave way to a raucous open house where what was left of the mince pies and turkey would be joined by a giant ham they had cooked on Christmas Eve, and some expensive cheeses and sausage rolls.

  Guests would turn up throughout the day and the last few gifts would be dragged from under the tree and exchanged with friends and relatives. Although there wasn’t a set guest list, there were guests where it would be a huge surprise if they were absent—one of those being Psychic Auntie Sylvie.

  Her own family, since her divorce from her ex-policeman husband, was an only daughter who had married a Canadian banker. She lived in Toronto now and rarely made it back for the holidays.

  Sylvie travelled over the water on occasion, but it was expensive, and her and her offspring didn’t get on particularly well. She’d been a daddy’s girl and had taken his side since the divorce despite his being discovered by Sylvie in a compromising situation with his commanding officer in their front room.

  Having a gay dad seemed to thrill their daughter who always said the best ones were always gay or married. The solution to her own prior fruitless search for a suitor had been to break up a young family when she’d travelled to Canada in her gap year.

  Sylvie’s presents were unusual, incredibly thoughtful and always treasured. Today, apart from a gift, there was something else Neil wanted from her. Hovering on the outskirts of conversations, he opened his mouth to speak a number of times before family gossip shut him down and left him with a simpering smile.

  Auntie Sylvie shot him the occasional squint-eyed look, wondering why he’d become her shadow. The longer it went on, the more anxious Neil felt. On the umpteenth try and fail, he debated walking away. He didn’t want to talk about number twenty-four much anyway. He’d enjoyed not thinking about it over Christmas, but he knew he needed her assistance.

  “Auntie Sylvie…?” he mumbled.

  “Ah, Sylvie. How’s the Canadian contingent?” a regular freeloading neighbour, Mr Uzzleworth, asked enthusiastically. “I used to live in Canada too, remember?” and Sylvie’s attention was taken for another ten minutes.

  She’ll be here for the day, Neil knew. Just calm down. She can’t talk all the time. But he needn’t have worried. One of her many conversations was with his mother who couldn’t wait to discuss Neil’s supernatural goings-on, and a plan was hatched in no time.

  “Oohh. Of course I’ll help,” cooed Sylvie. “I love this sort of thing. I knew something was up with you, Neil. I knew it.” She looked around the surrounding mob, nodding, inviting affirmation of her psychic talents. “We’ll need to call all the occupants of the house together and perform a séance.”

  “A séance? Can’t you just command it to leave or something?” His eyes wide and face white, he hadn’t given enough thought about what Sylvie’s methods might be, but he was determined to avoid a ghostly conflict.

  “No, Neil. Not without knowing who, or what it is, sweetheart.” Who or what? He struggled to hide his trembling. His half-hearted smile did nothing to disguise the terror in his eyes.

  “I don’t think I’ll be able to get everyone there for a séance, Auntie Sylvie. I’m kind of the only one who thinks it’s a poltergeist.” Sylvie frowned.

  “What do they think is happening?”

  “Just people in the house moving stuff about.”

  “Neil! You saw a girl in the bath. Emma saw a girl in the lounge. It’s a ghost, alright?” A rush of heat thrilled him. Put like that, he suddenly knew that far from being the house fool, he was the only one clever enough to understand the truth when it was staring them all in the face. He also knew that inviting his housemates to a séance would be embarrassing.

  “Well, just ask them to get together and don’t tell them why. They’ll certainly be convinced by the time I’ve finished with them!” Sylvie smiled.

  Chapter Fourteen

  Jon was back in The Railway after his recuperation. The break had been beneficial, even though it was forced upon him by Gareth (not the first time someone’s older brother had shown him the error of his ways). And he’d been coerced to pay them both double time, and give Gareth a full-time job.

  Hospital treatment was required for a gash above his eye where he’d fallen to the ground, and for a broken wrist from where Gareth had bent it back to the point of snapping. He would have snapped a lot more, but Efa was moved enough by his pathetic snivelling to call her brother off.

  Even so, he was grateful they were here. He’d been badly shaken by the falling spirit bottles, more than by Gareth’s ambush, and he wasn’t looking forward to being alone again in the bar anytime soon.

  Efa reported that the optics stand had just been a bit loose. Gareth tightened a couple of screws and they’d had no kamikaze bottles all the time Jon was away. He almost allowed himself a chuckle at his foolishness, but he still felt uneasy, especially next to the; he was about to think haunted but decided better of it, barstool which seemed to have prompted the tumbling bottles previously.

  He decided to test his mettle and stand closer to it. A shiver ran through him. Goosebumps covered his arms, and his teeth began to chatter. Was it really colder in this part of the pub? He looked around for possible causes: an open window, or a previ
ously unnoticed vent. There was the chimney. Maybe he was feeling a draught from that.

  Breathing deeply, shaking his head and smiling, “Come on!” he commanded himself. “It’s only a stool. What’s the matter with you?”

  Leaning towards it, fingers extended, he was trembling again. All the hairs on his head and body stood on end. Outstretched digits edged towards the stool in slow motion, his hand shaking, he couldn’t find the courage to touch it.

  He didn’t have to. With his hand still inches away, the stool flipped over, landing with a loud thud on the floor. The supposedly fixed optics released their grip on a bottle of peach schnapps, plunging it to the ground, cracking in half. As the clear liquid puddled on the stone floor, the glasses hanging from their stems began to rattle. Shuddering more violently, they edged forwards

  One glass reached the end of its hanger and toppled, exploding into a hundred pieces on the black slate. And then another, SMASH! Then more and more until the entire stock of wine glasses lay in glistening disarray upon the slate floor. The light shining through them and onto the schnapps looked like diamonds to Jon’s bewildered eyes.

  He wanted to get away but was paralysed to move. “Stop!” he mumbled and shouted almost at the same time in a pathetic sounding directive he knew he’d no hope of enforcing. “Please!” he whimpered, hoping to placate this demon he could not see.

  The entire shelf of tumblers tipped, allowing all the contents to cascade spectacularly to the floor, crashing at once in an incredible cacophony of ear-shattering uproar.

  The scream reverberated just as Gareth and Efa rushed into the bar to investigate the ruckus and were confronted by Jon, petrified to the spot, surrounded by catastrophic chaos all over the floor. Standing open mouthed, struggling to take it all in, they exchanged looks of disbelief.

  The arrival of his colleagues gave Jon the impetus to finally move, which he did, fleeing the bar and the building.

  Chapter Fifteen

  The holidays flew by too fast for Neil. New Year’s Eve had provided promises to himself to get fit, study harder, pass his driving test, and a few other things more wishes than resolutions—like getting a girlfriend. The very notion gave him butterflies.

  Something else giving him butterflies was today’s return to Swansea. At least he had a plan. It would all be better soon. He’d phoned, texted, and messaged on Facebook, the rest of the group and had their agreement to be present for a special gathering with his Auntie Sylvie when he arrived later on that day.

  He’d needed to tell them the nature of the get-together to gain their cooperation. No-one was up for another meeting so soon without a bloody good reason. Their positive reactions to a séance surprised him to say the least. Matthew offered the only objection but had been easy to sway through his fear of missing out.

  Approaching Bronwyn made him most anxious. She was already back at the house with Aeron, missing one-another, she said. Neil frowned. Either they’d had a lovers’ tiff, or something else had taken the colour from her voice. After their clash before Christmas he had expected more of the same. But when he told of Emma’s vision of the girl in the lounge, she’d become mouse-quiet, then agreed to the plan immediately sounding unexpectedly grateful.

  Aeron’s acquiescence was a given. Bronwyn said she would tell him, and Josh was happy enough to go along with what everyone else was doing, but not without the caveat of it being a definite waste of time.

  One person not included in the plan for a séance was someone who would dearly like to be. Emma, deemed too young and innocent for such things would be collected from school by one of her real Aunties and was to spend the night in the company of her cousin, Charlotte.

  The family, minus Emma, and with the addition of Auntie Sylvie, made very good time back to Swansea, despite some frequent stops for tea, which Sylvie obsessed over. They arrived after lunch at Magor services (just over the big bridge.) With everyone in and awake it made perfect sense to get straight on with things.

  Bronwyn opened the door. Her paleness might have been due to fear of their ghost, or it could have been from embarrassment at the untidiness with no-one to blame but her and Aeron. Venturing through the scruffy lounge to the kitchen revealed a sticky mess of boiled over pans soaking in days old dishwater emanating effluvium like a putrid pot pourri.

  Closing the door without offering refreshments, Neil introduced his dad, Collin who most of the group had met before, his mum Carole and his Auntie (but not really) Sylvie; the expert. Once familiar, she took control and directed them to where she wanted.

  There seemed no rhyme or reason behind the seating plan, but they all sat where they were told around the small table in a cosy arrangement. The introductory chat made it clear there was a lot more belief in the room that number twenty-four might be haunted than Neil had expected.

  The credibility of sensible adults conducting things gave them relief and comfort and a determination. Rather than feeling foolish, as he had feared, Neil felt like the hero of the hour.

  All the group loved Emma, and hearing of her sighting of the blonde girl convinced them what they were doing was necessary.

  “I saw her too,” confessed Bronwyn to her small, rapt audience. “Just for a moment, and after alcohol admittedly. But with Emma seeing her too... I’m sure it was real. The girl was there. I feel her looking at me sometimes. I’m sure it’s not my imagination.” She shuddered.

  Matthew and Josh’s scepticism lost its voice in a dry mouthed whimper. Instead, giving full credibility to the haunting, they were happy to suggest the broken crockery and clothes thrown about were down to her.

  “And the noises in the night,” Neil directed at Bronwyn in an ‘I told you so’ tone.

  “Unless you have more than one spirit here.” The group convulsion was evident. Neil hadn’t considered that prospect and wished he hadn’t now. He was relieved when Sylvie’s next statement referenced only the one.

  “Neil has done a bit of research into who our visitor might be…”

  He filled the others in on the results of his Googling. It was critical they put right whatever wrong poor, murdered Jacqui Lloyd needed them to.

  Neil set about drawing the curtains and closing the doors to make the room dark and peaceful, but the cheap curtains were no match for the winter sun low in the sky.

  “We need to put our hands on the table with our fingers touching,” instructed their expert. After initial confusion, once one got it, the others followed suit. They all sat solemnly awaiting further instruction.

  “We must all close our eyes. Do not break the circle,” Sylvie ordered.

  After a moments tense silence to compose herself, Sylvie began trying to make her special kind of connection.

  “We are here to make contact with Spirit…Is there spirit with us here now?” The tension in the room was tangible, but there was nothing tangible in reply. Just an eerie silence. Sylvie persisted confidently.

  “If there is spirit here, please show us a sign.” A lengthy pause allowed time to react, but no retort came. Sylvie addressed the group with her eyes still closed.

  “I’ll try naming her with the information Neil gathered…. That’s sure to get a response.”

  “Jacqui…? Jacqui…? Is that you? Are you there, Jacqui?” she said clearly to the room beyond the table. After a number of attempts with nothing to show for it, Sylvie broke the circle and announced the séance to be over, for now.

  “It might be a bit early. Did you say you normally notice these strange things happening at night?” Nervous glances were exchanged. No-one knew exactly what the others had experienced; they hadn’t talked about it. But if they were attributing all the odd things to this spirit, it was fair to say it happened any time of day.

  Sylvie pursed her lips, tapping them with her fingers. “Sometimes dark is better. I don’t know why. Let’s get tea and try again after dusk, shall we? Agreed?” They all agreed.

  Picking at their dinner in a family friendly pub nearby, they talk
ed uneasily about what they should do.

  “Do you think she might have left already? Or maybe she only haunts at Christmas. Maybe she was murdered then?” suggested a previously sceptical Matthew before adding “That’s if she was there at all and wasn’t just drunken dreams and a child’s imagination.”

  No-one bothered taking offence at the added scathing remark. They recognised it for what it was. Denial.

  Neil Googled results for Jacqui’s murder.

  “July,” he announced. “But that doesn’t mean that Christmas isn’t significant in some other way. It might be when they were arguing most, or when they met or something.”

  “There isn’t any link to Jacqui Lloyd or any other of the people mentioned in the press,” Josh stared at his phone, further consulting the web. “The only thing in common with her at all is that she has blonde hair.”

  “But no-one was reported as having died in there,” Neil said, “There has to be a reason a ghost would haunt the place.”

  “There usually is,” confirmed Sylvie “But that doesn’t mean it will have links on the internet.”

  Carole added, “She may be an ancient ghost, from before records. Since before the house was built even. If that’s the case it would be difficult to find mention of her anywhere.”

  “We should all chill out,” ordered Bronwyn. “When we go back, Sylvie might make contact and all this speculation will be unnecessary.” Shrugs and murmurs proclaimed agreement the consensus. They were all tired of guesswork anyway.

  They made to split the bill between them but Collin insisted on paying, knowing they were all on a tight budget. Everyone accepted with smiles and cheers.