In spite of each of them having decided how silly it all was in their final moments of consciousness before sleep had consumed their thoughts for the night, it was outside in the cold, not sheltered within number twenty-four they awaited Father Jenkins arrival. Despite his lateness, and the bitter cold of Swansea in mid-January. Waiting inside crossed each of their minds as the cold bit into their extremities, but none of them were brave enough to suggest it.
Josh’s fingernails were bitten to his elbow, whilst Bronwyn squeezed Aeron so tight, he thought she might consume him. The colony of heads jolted in unison to the direction of footsteps as they echoed down the lamp-lit street.
Due to a peculiarity of the light, his diminutive size, and his dark clothing, Father Jenkins avoided visual detection until almost upon them. A collective shudder moved the group back a step as his sudden appearance shocked them.
The priest examined the house, peering for a door number to confirm the correct address, apparently oblivious to the group gathered outside, adding to the disquieting creepiness.
“Father Jenkins?” Collin interjected the uneasiness.
“Mm Hm,” came the brief confirmation. “Mr Hedges, I presume?” Collin nodded, stepped forward and held out his hand. The priest’s own reluctant hand shook it weakly and immediately returned to the denseness of his habit. His other hand then appeared from within to sweep his short, blonde fringe from his forehead needlessly, before his right hand reappeared clutching a large wooden cross which he held valiantly before him.
“Come along then. No time to delay. We need to remove this spirit before it’s too late and it possesses one of you.”
He walked with purpose and defiance up the uneven steps to the door. Neil had to lean past him to unlock it before returning to his place behind the squat, square little priest as quickly as he could. The brief moment where part of him was the closest of the group to the house left him in a cold sweat. His heart throbbed sickeningly in his ears.
Father Jenkins shoved the door open and waited. It creaked, and slowly fell back on its hinges until the darkness inside goaded them to enter its inky blackness. They all blinked when the hall light pierced the dark. The scene appeared at once less menacing, but the priest’s warning tolled in their ears.
With crucifix held aloft, Father Jenkins crossed the threshold. One by one, the others tiptoed behind.
“Where does most activity take place?” the priest demanded. Nodding to the lounge, they made their way behind him. Crowding into the tiny room, detritus littering the floor from the poltergeist’s fury, the short figure of the priest intensified the disquiet.
Father Jenkins prepared to ask about the nature of what went on here when the unit of remaining drinking glasses began rattling.
“Get Out!” Not a full voice, more a distant shout, but the most sensitive members of the group heard it.
“Holy shit,” Bronwyn whimpered, clutching Aeron’s arm tight. She mouthed an apology for her outburst to Father Jenkins who silently pardoned her.
“MY house!” Unmistakeable this time. The shrill words reverberated, shaking the walls. Everyone shrank back further behind Father Jenkins.
“Who are you?” the priest demanded, thrusting the crucifix in the direction of the rattling glasses. Suddenly, the kitchen door slammed and the glasses stilled.
“Someone definitely wants us out,” the priest declared.
“Where has she gone? The kitchen?” asked Neil.
“Yes,” answered Sylvie. “I saw her. Did anyone else see her?”
“What did she look like,” Carole asked, surprised when Bronwyn answered, showing that at least someone other than psychic Sylvie had seen her.
“Blonde, strikingly beautiful. Wearing a floaty nightdress.” Sylvie nodded in agreement.
“Stunning. But the angry look on her face spoiled it.”
“Aren’t you scared?” Carole probed. Bronwyn and Sylvie answered at once, with opposing opinions.
“It must be a girl who used to live here,” Sylvie clarified with a shrug. “It’s an old house. And she wants us out because she doesn’t know she’s dead. She obviously has a connection here for some reason, so she’s trapped. It doesn’t make her scary though.”
Wide eyes fell on Sylvie. From the abrupt silence, it was clear Bronwyn’s panic was the consensus.
“This shouldn’t be taken blithely,” warned Father Jenkins. “In my experience, there is always a good reason why a spirit fails to pass into the light when they die. It’s because they are afraid where they’ll end up,” he said, signposting up or down with his gaze.
“If they’re afraid of God, it begs the question… why? She has shown her aggression. This is not likely to be a virtuous person. Don’t be fooled by the pretty packaging… it’s what’s in her soul that counts. God will pardon her sins if she repents. But she shows no sign of that, does she?”
Sylvie postured herself to argue, but Collin raised a hand to stop her. “You had your chance to help, Sylvie. And the spirit became much angrier and more aggressive as a result. And now she’s worse. We have no choice. We must listen to Father Jenkins.”
Sylvie had no argument. It did get worse after the séance. And she was the one who’d insisted they needed a priest. Her cheeks flushed. “You’re right,” she admitted. “Sorry, Father. Please, carry on.”
Father Jenkins sighed and resumed his stance like a teacher who had waited for a rowdy class to settle.
“Okay. Step back. We don’t know how this spirit will react.” They didn’t need telling twice. As Father Jenkins stepped towards the slammed kitchen door, the rest huddled in the furthest corner of the room.
“Who are you?” the priest demanded again. “The spirit residing here beyond life… Listen. You are not welcome here. You need to move to the light.”
From deep within the dark robes of Father Jenkins’s Habit, a container of Holy water appeared. Reciting orders to the poltergeist, he sloshed the water liberally around the room as he spoke.
“Repent and go into the light. I command all operatives of Satan to go into light for eternal judgement. Go into the light now, in the Name of The Father, The Son, and the Holy Ghost.”
Chapter Twenty
Elin had never been more tired. Perhaps at the height of her glandular fever, but she’d been too ill to notice. Now, wanting to get on with her life, she found it harrowing. Getting ready for bed, she threw her clothes down with heavy hands and slammed drawers, signifying to the powers that be she had had enough.
Her noisy sister wasn’t even around to cheer her up, and Emyr was always busy-busy doing his own thing, while Glenda worried too much, berating her for over-doing it (and that was really irritating because she seemed to be right).
Clean, fresh, and minty, she put on a long cotton nightie, comforted it used to be her mum’s. It reminded her of a Christening gown, all comfy and crisp, and being Glenda’s, cosy, like her mother’s bosom.
Washing wakened her, so she flipped open her book, determined to wrest away the fatigue from her long walk. The wakefulness proved short-lived. Having read the same page three times with less and less comprehension, she finally gave in when she made herself jump by dropping the book onto her lap.
Turning on her side, she switched off her bedside light and within moments was gently snoring. Her eyes fluttered in the rapid fashion which denotes dreaming, and there she was. Back in the confines of number twenty-four, Rhondda Street, Swansea.
It was peaceful and dark. Safe. Bathed in relief, tears of gratitude welled in her eyes for this room, for this house. Asylum from her fears. Allowing the stillness to wash over her, she stood in the darkness breathing it in.
Then noise. Murmurings of hushed voices. “Shit!” A yellow glow leaked under the door and she knew she was no longer alone. ‘Damn. I don’t want the dream of messy students again. I want a peaceful dream. Why can’t I dream of butterflies and ponies?’ But there was no time for that. In her deep sleep, this dream was her reality.
The lounge door flew open allowing light to infiltrate the darkness, shattering her peace. The crowd from before huddled behind the stout figure of a priest holding aloft a crucifix. A priest! Why?
She yelled at them to get out. Why were they here? Barging into her personal space, her sanctuary. She needed time alone. Time not to be bothered by people invading her lounge. Except, it wasn’t her lounge. She knew that. It used to be, but now she was the intruder. But the feeling of self-righteous tenure wouldn’t shake. Nor the need. The protection this house offered was vital, and she couldn’t let it go.
“This is MY house,” she screamed, rage boiling up like an egg in the microwave. A fury she’d never known in her waking life. These people stole her peace. It might not be her house, but it was her bloody dream and she should be allowed to dream it undisturbed.
Desperate to scare them away, she grabbed the drinks cupboard and considered knocking it over. The glasses rattled at her hand, snapping her back to herself. Her innate calm encircled and impeded her. Instead, she flounced into the kitchen, making sure to slam the door good and hard.
Gagging at the lingering cooking smells, she reached a hand out to steady herself, then shot away from the touch of stickiness, her disgust displaying a grimace on her pretty face. The room was horrible. But at least she was alone again.
The group of exorcists listened for a response. None came. “Who are you?” the priest demanded again.
“I’m getting something,” interjected Sylvie. “Hold on.” An expression which might have been mistaken for an imminent sneeze formed on her face. “It’s coming,” she assured, before announcing clearly, “Elin. That’s her name.”
Despite his misgivings about dabbling with spirit, Father Jenkins seemed pleased with the new information, and used it to order her directly. “The spirit whose name is Elin. Listen to me. You are not welcome here. This is not where you are supposed to be. You must leave this place. I compel you in the name of Jesus Christ, our Lord. I compel you to leave this place!”
The kitchen door flew open. Silhouetted in the doorframe, Elin Treharne stood defiantly. Blonde hair flowed down to her white christening gown nightie; not solid, more otherworldly. The very epitome of a spectre.
Her beauty did little to disguise her fury. The exorcists trembled behind Father Jenkins who held his crucifix haughtier and higher.
“Elin,” he ordered, a fresh determination to his voice. “You must leave this house. You are not of this plain. Go to the light, Elin. You must go to the light.” Elin glowered at him, rage burning in her eyes sending a shiver of terror through him. He carried on resolutely. “Elin, I command you: go into the light. I compel you in the name of Jesus Christ, our Lord, go into the light. Go into the light now!”
The kitchen door closed, then flew open again. The drinks cabinet rattled, this time sending several glasses to their doom. A sound grew from deep within the spirit of Elin and echoed round the room, shuddering in the ears of the exorcists. “Nooooo!”
The light’s flickered. The chairs around the kitchen table rocked in their places.
“Go into the light NOW, Elin! Elin, I compel you into the light in the name of Jesus Christ. Christ compels you. Christ compels you! Christ compels you, Elin, to leave this house and go into the light NOW!”
An icy breeze shot through the huddled crowd. The hallway lights flicked on and off, the front door rattled in its place then flew open. It banged against the junk mail chair, swung back on its hinges and slammed shut.
And then… And then nothing.
Number twenty-four Rhondda Street was silent.
Part Two
Chapter Twenty-one
Glenda was pleased, sitting working through her daily Sudoku puzzle, that she hadn’t heard a peep from her eldest daughter today. Elin was getting the rest she needed, just as she had advised.
She sipped her coffee and wrote figures in the squares of the app on her new tablet computer (a Christmas gift, supposedly from Father Christmas, but actually from Emyr.)
He walked in with an approving look on his face that his gift was being used again.
“You like your tablet, then?” he asked quizzically.
“Yes, Emyr. For the hundredth time. I do like my tablet. Thank you. I mean, thank Father Christmas!” She flashed him a smile and looked immediately back to the screen, partly engrossed in her puzzle, but primarily because refocussing her eyes with her reading glasses was uncomfortable.
“Any sign of Elin this morning?” Emyr asked, filling the kettle with his back to his wife. When he didn’t see her shaking her head, he asked again.
“No!” Glenda retorted, clenching her fist around her pen —she had nearly finished her Sudoku. “Why don’t you go up and see her if you’re so concerned.”
“I’m not concerned.” Bumbling around the kitchen he added, “Sorry. I was only asking.”
He made his tea, plonked down opposite his wife and plumped up his newspaper to read. He was soon mesmerised and unaware that Glenda had used the remaining water in the kettle to make a cup of tea for the sleepyhead upstairs. She supposed it wouldn’t be good for her to lie in too long. It was important her routine get back to normal.
Glancing with well-accustomed anxiety around the hallway, she trod up the stairs with her eye on the hot tea, careful not to spill any. She paused at her daughter’s bedroom and knocked. As expected, there came no reply. Slowly opening the door, she could see why. Elin was dead to the world, deeply asleep.
Despite thoughts of routine and its benefits, Glenda was reluctant to wake her. She knew how exhausted she had become on her ill-adventure across the stream. She placed the hot tea on the bedside table and announced its arrival. Elin didn’t stir, so she left her in peace.
As she came out, an unsettling feeling troubled her. Nothing unusual in this creepy house. Hurrying back downstairs, she decided to have another coffee and calm her nerves.
It was late in the afternoon when she decided enough was enough. Tired or not, Elin would have to get up now. Armed with a new cup of tea, she ventured out to the hallway, the earlier anxiety still fresh. She hurried up the stairs without her usual care, slopping hot tea onto her wrist. She swapped hands to wipe away the scolding liquid.
Cursing under her breath she reached the bedroom door again. She knew Elin was likely to still be asleep. Darkness greeted her, the lamp off despite the fading light, and no sound of movement reached her ear.
“I’ve brought you another cuppa, young lady! I presume you didn’t drink the first one.” Her suspicions confirmed by the mug of milky tea exactly where she’d left it.
“Come on now, cariad. You must wake up. It’s nearly tea-time. Wakey-wakey, rise and shine!” This would take more effort than she’d expected.
The initial worry gnawed at Glenda’s heart as she touched her daughter for the first time. No response, not even a murmur, or a mumbled ‘I’m tired’. She gently shook her, then harder, and then so hard she was certain it would wake her.
When it didn’t, the shock made her drop the scolding tea. She screamed in anguish as the hot fluid penetrated her thin dress, but she didn’t care about the burning. She only cared that her beloved, beautiful daughter wasn’t waking. Something was wrong. Something was terribly wrong.
“What is it?” Emyr asked breathlessly, having rushed two stairs at a time. “Oh you’ve burned yourself,” he said, noticing the large steaming mess on his wife’s clothes.
“No… It’s not that. Elin… She won’t wake up!”
Emyr side-stepped his trembling wife and gazed at his daughter. He was heartened to detect her chest rising and falling, an observation he shared with Glenda who failed to be reassured. “Why? Why can’t I wake her?”
Emyr tapped his daughter, then shook her, and even slapped her gently on her cheeks. A flood of fear rushed through him and he looked back at his wife. “You’re right. What should we do?”
“Call and ambulance. Oh my God, Emyr. That fall in the strea
m might have killed her. Call an ambulance. Now!”
Emyr scurried from the room. The last thing he saw as he turned the corner to the stairs was his wife holding Elin in her arms, rocking her back and fore. “Hurry!” she sobbed as he disappeared.
The nearest hospital was in Swansea. An estimated thirty minutes away according to ambulance control. The phone operator stayed on the line and talked to Emyr, who shouted questions to Glenda throughout.
They were reassured Elin was still breathing, but gave instruction on how to keep her airways unobscured, and keep her warm. In this January cold, Hypothermia was a real danger. Elin felt cold to the touch, Emyr confirmed. He supposed she hadn’t moved since falling asleep early last night. Her blood hadn’t pumped hard enough around her delicate body with the lack of movement.
Glenda rubbed her extremities and made sure the radiator was turned up. She tucked an extra blanket round her sleeping daughter and whispered, “There, now, cariad. It’ll be alright. The ambulance is coming, Elin, bach.”
After what seemed like several hours, but actually quicker than the estimated ETA, the ambulance crew pulled into the driveway of Erw Lon. The phone operator wished them well before leaving them in the capable hands of the paramedics.
Emyr hurried to open the front door. Flashing blue lights looked purple in the hazy twilight. The iridescent ‘Ambiwlans’ sign shone almost neon in the strange glow.
“Mr Treharne?” enquired a burly, bald headed driver. From behind his huge bulk, a small woman peeped out and asked “Where’s the patient?”
Emyr guided them upstairs where Glenda was sitting holding her daughter’s slender hand. She got up silently from her chair to allow the paramedics room to make her baby okay again.
They placed one of her fingers into a small device, attached to a handheld piece of electronics by a thin grey wire. “This just checks her pulse and oxygen saturation.”
Blurred Lines: A box-set of reality bending supernatural fiction (Paranormal Tales from Wales Book 9) Page 47