Psychic Surveys Companion Novels

by Shani Struthers

  “Mum?” I called.

  Still the door was opening and then, with a sudden bang, it slammed against my wall, the force so intense it caused it to rebound.

  I stared in amazement, wondering what had just happened. For a few seconds it remained shut and then it creaked and started to open again, just as slowly.

  I held my breath, waiting for a repeat performance.

  Mum appeared in the doorway, a line running deep across the bridge of her nose.

  “I’ve remembered something,” she said.

  Relieved at seeing her it took a moment to ask what she’d remembered.

  “That village name, the one that sounded familiar – Upper Burnham – it was Carol who mentioned it to me.” She crossed the room to sit on my bed. “It’ll make an interesting snippet for your project actually, come to think of it. This house is on the edge of the village of Whitesmith. But actually, Carol said, before boundaries moved, it was classified as being in another village.”

  Another village? I frowned, trying to make sense of what she meant.

  Mum noticed my puzzled reaction and laughed. “Yes, Blakemort originally stood in the village of Upper Burnham, so it must have been the only house that survived the plague, that wasn’t abandoned, or razed to the ground.”

  “Razed to the ground? What does that mean?”

  “It means that the majority of houses were burnt. Fire was seen as cleansing, as a means of purification, and that’s what they had to do, purify the ground that had become tainted.”

  I was horrified. “Did they burn people too?”

  “No, no, no,” she shook her head, smiled again, “not whilst they were alive, of course not. But if they died from the plague then yes, I’m sure bodies were burnt, or cremated as we call it, they had to be. It was all about containing the disease you see, and stopping it from spreading.” She retracted her hand and sat up straight, looking pleased with herself and expecting me to look pleased too, I think. “It’s a great starting point for your project isn’t it? How many children can say that, eh?”

  “Say what?” I asked warily.

  “That they live in a lost village.”

  Blakemort Chapter Sixteen

  The next day was Sunday so there was no going off to the record office until the following Saturday at least. I was half relieved and half disappointed. I really didn’t want to know anything else about the house, I simply wanted to leave it, but because I couldn’t I had no choice but to try and find out more. I lived in a lost village – a thought that prevented me from sleeping, wondering at the significance of it.

  My head was still full of it the next day as I rose from bed and made my way to the kitchen for breakfast. Ethan and Mum were already there, sitting opposite each other, Mum clutching a mug of tea in her hands and shaking slightly. I looked closer. She was definitely shaking. Her eyes were red too and something glistened on her cheek – tears. I turned towards Ethan. He was solemn, but more than that, defensive, his arms folded tightly across his chest.

  I sat too. There were several cereal packets in front of me, and a pint of milk that was no doubt curdled. I gulped. Should I speak first or wait for Mum to tell me what was going on? She didn’t. It was Ethan.

  “Dad’s getting married,” he burst out.

  I was incredulous. Dad was getting married? Just like that? But of course it wasn’t just like that, was it? He and Mum had been divorced for a long time now, almost half my lifetime. When would I get used to that fact?

  “Mum?” I said, feeling anxious because she looked so hurt. In that moment I honestly thought I’d never see her smile again. “Is Dad really getting married?”

  She didn’t even look at me as she replied. “Yes, Corinna, he is really getting married.” She placed her mug down and leant towards me. “And do you know what’s great? What’s so damned great?”

  I was surprised, was there anything great about this? I opened my mouth to reply, to ask ‘what’ but she started speaking again.

  “They’re having a Christmas wedding. They’re getting married on Christmas Day!”

  My mouth fell open. Dad was getting married. And it was to take place on Christmas Day?

  “To his girlfriend?” I asked, not knowing what else to say.

  “Of course to his bloody girlfriend!”

  The one I’d never met.

  It was as if Ethan had read my mind. “I’ve met her,” he replied, his voice stuffed with defiant pride.

  “When?” I asked, even more stunned. Mum had been so adamant we weren’t to meet her. She didn’t care how serious it was between Carrie and my dad. But now I suppose it was about as serious as it could get.

  “When do you think, stupid? Yesterday.”

  The day I’d chosen not to go. I looked at Mum.

  “I don’t believe it,” she said, shaking her head, this news another grim revelation. “I don’t bloody believe it.” As she stood, the chair behind her went flying, crashing to the ground. “Why didn’t you tell me last night you’d met her?” she screamed.

  “Because I didn’t feel like it,” he yelled back.

  “You didn’t feel like it? But you had no problem bouncing in here this morning to tell me he was getting married! Did Dad ask you to tell me, to do his dirty work?”

  “He didn’t say not to, he said he was going to call you today.”

  “And break the news, break the oh-so-wonderful news.” Mum walked over to the sink, seemed to have to hold onto it for support before turning round again. “Where did you go with your father and his girlfriend yesterday, Ethan?”

  “Her name’s Carrie,” Ethan pointed out.

  “I know what her sodding name is! Tell me where you went.”

  “We didn’t go anywhere. Dad had to pop back to his flat, we went inside, and she was there. She introduced herself and made me a milkshake. She’s nice.”

  “She’s nice because she made you a milkshake? That’s all it takes. And now suddenly you can’t get enough of her? She’s the queen of fucking everything!”

  I gasped. Mum swore, I’ve already mentioned that, but she’d never dropped the F-bomb before, never in front of us anyway.

  “What about all the stuff I do for you?” she continued to challenge. “You never say I’m nice do you? You can barely even grunt thank you at me.”

  Ethan stood too. “You’re just jealous ’cos Dad loves her and not you anymore.”

  “Don’t you dare talk to me like that!”

  “I will! You’re stupid, just as stupid as Corinna. That’s why he doesn’t love you. And Carrie’s nice. She’s younger too and prettier.”

  I couldn’t believe what I was hearing. Or seeing. Mum had grabbed a metal ladle and was heading towards Ethan with it. “You horrid, ungrateful little boy.”

  Ethan stood his ground but only for a second and then he started backing away, but slowly, the two of them involved in some sort of twisted dance. “I don’t want to live with you anymore, I want to live with Dad and Carrie. I’ve told him that too.”

  Mum’s eyes were so wide I thought they were going to pop.

  “You…” she scrabbled for a word, seemed to struggle to find one and then it was as though she hit the jackpot, “… bastard!”

  I gasped again, as did Ethan, and then he turned and ran, out of the kitchen and into the music room. The door, he’s going to open the door to the garden!

  I got up and ran too. Mum behind me.

  “Don’t open it!” I cried as he turned the key that had sat in the lock for years. It was rusted. Surely it was rusted. It wouldn’t turn, it’d be jammed shut. But wouldn’t you know it, it opened easily, far too easily, without any resistance whatsoever

  As he ran in the direction of the cemetery, he left the door wide open, winter cold blasting us as more of the unseen poured in.

  Blakemort Chapter Seventeen

  Mum was distraught, I was distraught, both of us for different reasons.

  Mum also had her hand clamped over her m
outh as if she couldn’t quite believe the words she had uttered, the insults she’d hurled and at her own son.

  “Oh, God,” she kept saying. “Where do you think he’s going?”

  I could have told her where but I was focused on something else. Not a swarm of flies this time but a swarm of people, begging for access for so long and now being granted it. I fancied there’d be a never-ending supply of all those who had ever lived and perished in the lost village, who’d come into contact with this house and been trapped by it; some willingly, some unwillingly. After all, like attracts like, that’s the belief I adhere to. In which case, evil attracts evil, fear the fearful, and horror the horrified. As my senses became overwhelmed I was caught in a vice again, my breath being extracted from me, slowly, painfully. I could neither inhale nor exhale and my vision was beginning to blur. I had to breathe. I had to! I tried so hard but it was useless. Panic gripped hard and I started shaking, more violently than I’d ever done before. I lost my balance, toppled over, with paroxysms rendering me unable to do anything but be at their mercy as they ripped through me from head to toe.

  “CORINNA!” Mum screamed and fell to her knees, her hands on my shoulders, trying to calm me but the force of my spasms shook her too. She looked behind her, screamed again, but not at me – at Ethan. “COME BACK,” she was saying. “HELP!”

  I started to feel sick, as though I was in a washing machine on full spin. I was going to be sick, bile rising upwards and scorching my throat. If I did I might die. And that’s what the house wanted wasn’t it? More death.

  Help me!

  I was screaming it in my head.

  Please someone help me! Ethan! Mum! Or the one that helped me before.

  The one who’d grabbed my hand and pulled me out of that terrible nightmare.

  You have to help me, please!

  Rather than being sick I was choking, my tongue too big for my mouth and getting bigger, swelling up, becoming thick, impossibly thick.

  I thought I could hear chanting from far off but coming closer – unintelligible words but with a rhythm to them, a diabolical rhythm.

  My eyesight faded further as blackness encroached. It’s strange but I could see more in this heavy-lidded darkness than when my eyes were wide open. Shapes again, human shapes, were twisting and turning, their mouths open and chanting.

  Mum was still screaming for Ethan but either he couldn’t hear her or he was ignoring her. In-between she was sobbing and adding her own chant to the mix, “OhmyGod, ohmyGod, ohmyGod.”

  Was this it? I was going to die? At aged eight my life was over. It was an appalling thought but what concerned me more was what lay in wait on the other side; figures such as the ones I imagined, whose eyes burned into the heart of me, trying to penetrate my soul, corrupt it and make it like theirs.

  Legion! That was the word they were chanting! Legion. What did it mean? I’d never heard it before.

  And then another voice filtered through. “Turn over, on your side.”

  A man’s voice, but not Dad’s, not anyone I knew.

  “Turn over,” Mum repeated the man’s words, “on your side. Come on, Corinna,” she cajoled, “you have to turn on your side.”

  Hands were helping me to roll over, not one but two pairs. As soon as I was in that position my breathing eased, only slightly at first, almost teasingly and then at last I was able to gulp, swallowing greedily. Air filled my lungs and the darkness receded. My eyelids were so heavy but I managed to open them, to turn my head slightly, to look upwards. The man towering over me was strangely tall – long, like he’d been stretched. He had on some kind of overcoat, which was dark and scratchy looking, and a white shirt with a high collar. The hat on his head was also tall, almost comical – a top hat I suppose you’d call it – but his expression was deadly serious.

  “Breathe,” he was saying. “Breathe.”

  Again Mum echoed him. “Breathe. Breathe.”

  I was and I continued to do so.

  “That’s it, that’s good. Breathe.”

  He was crouching, I realised, but then he stood up, filling my entire vision.

  “You’re going to be fine,” he said and Mum said the same.

  Then he backed away, step by step. I tried to lift my head to stare after him but I couldn’t. It was too much effort. I tried to call out but I couldn’t do that either. With a suddenness that was startling, my stomach heaved, its contents rushing upwards as my body convulsed and vomit spewed from me in a torrent.

  “Oh, God.” It was Mum again, the stranger nowhere to be seen. “Oh, thank God, Ethan! There you are! Go into my office and call an ambulance. Don’t just stand there, do it now. Quick!”

  Yes, Ethan, quick! That’s what I was always being told, that we had to be quick.

  I think I blacked out again because I don’t remember much thereafter. I only fully came to in the ambulance as I was being whisked to hospital, faces looming over me again, but kindly faces, not a man this time, but two women, dressed in clothes that were familiar at least – paramedic uniforms.

  Mum was beside me too, and Ethan, Mum holding my hand and squeezing it gently every few seconds, trying to reassure me, to tell me that she was there.

  I started to speak but faltered, my throat was still on fire.

  “Don’t, darling, it’s okay,” Mum pleaded. “We can talk later.”

  But I had to know. It was imperative.

  “Who was that man?” I croaked, not even recognising my own voice.

  “What man?”

  “Helped me. Strange man.”

  Mum looked at the paramedics, her face a mask of worry.

  I tried again. “Mum, who was he? The man in the music room.”

  She bit down on her lip. I thought I saw a faint trace of red against the white of her teeth.

  “You were dreaming, darling. No, not dreaming, hallucinating maybe.”

  “No.”

  “You were.” She glanced again at the paramedics. “There was no man, sweetie, there was just you and me, and then Ethan. Only us three.”

  * * *

  After twenty-four hours I got a clean bill of health and was able to return home. They couldn’t find anything wrong with me and declared it an anomaly, a one-off. Mum looked shattered but she did her utmost to make me smile on the way home, saying we were going to make a start on decorating the house for Christmas and that Aunt Julia was coming down earlier than anticipated because we were going to have Christmas sooner due to the fact we’d be at Dad’s wedding on Christmas Day.

  “Are you coming to the wedding?” I asked her.

  She laughed, too high-pitched to be genuine. “No, Julia and I are spending the day together. We’ll be fine.”

  Ethan was in the back of the car, not saying a word, his head hanging low. I wondered if he and Mum had made up. Certainly she included him in the conversation but he wasn’t exactly replying with anything approaching enthusiasm – just a grunt here and there in typical Ethan style. I had a few days off school and stuck close to Mum during that time. She even indulged me by sleeping in my bedroom as I still refused to sleep in hers, and I’d lie awake and listen to her gentle snoring, all the while trying to calculate how many there were in the house besides us and where they’d fled to, the dead that had poured in through the music room door. What dark corners did they favour? How many watched at any one time? And the man who had tended to me, who was he? Not evil. He didn’t look evil. Not Legion. Whatever Legion was. Was he the same person who made me write? I didn’t think so. I was a sensitive and somehow I sensed that. I had so much to find out about Blakemort and it seemed such a daunting prospect for a little girl. I was tired, so tired, and Mum was tired too, exhausted. And Ethan, well… he was just Ethan.

  Lying there, listening to the various sounds I’d grown used to, I felt helpless again. Whatever was at Blakemort had the power to hurt us, physically hurt us. That had already been demonstrated. There were forces working with us but most were against. The house i
tself was against us. And I’d do well not to forget that. Or let my guard down in the future and think things were going well, that they were magical. All three of us had left the house in an ambulance at varying stages since we’d moved in – the next time we might be heading straight for the morgue.

  Blakemort Chapter Eighteen

  Legion – I looked it up in the dictionary. It meant a vast number of people or things – a crowd, a mass, a multitude – endless. Such a definition did not inspire confidence; rather it enforced what I already knew – that there were so many here. With Mum gone from my room – she was downstairs in her office working – I sat at my desk, a clean sheet of paper in front of me, my pen poised. I daren’t speak out loud, but in my mind I whispered.

  Are you part of Legion?

  My hand stayed where it was, no ghostly guide directing me.

  If not, who are you?

  Still nothing.

  I’m frightened.

  A confidence I would only share with my guide.

  Very frightened.

  Frustrated too by the enduring silence.

  Are you frightened?

  Slowly my hand began to move.

  Quick, be quick. Legion. Bad. Evil. Possess. Be quick. Careful. Be careful.

  I looked at the paper, read the words easily enough. What is Legion?

  Death. Always. Ancient. Craft. Target. House. Alive.

  My hand started to shake from side to side as the writing became more frantic.

  Can’t fight. Quick. Be quick. Can’t win. Quick. Quick. Quick.

  The pen flew out of my hand, smashed into the wall, and then flew back at me, aiming straight for my eye. I screamed, threw myself sideways off the chair, landing heavily on my left arm. It’s a wonder I didn’t break it. The sheet of paper crumpled into a tight ball, as if an invisible hand was squeezing it, then it burst into a ball of flame that only petered out when what was at its centre was incinerated. Blackened ash dropped onto the table. Terrified, I glanced upwards, to the top of my wardrobe and then wished I hadn’t. Whoever it was that was with me seemed to follow the line of my eye. “Don’t!” I yelled, jumping up and rushing at the wardrobe too. “Please.”