Thank God Mum wasn’t like Aunt Julia, that she was slighter. Between us we managed to hoist her up, Aunt Julia still wincing with every step she took, crying out on occasion. She turned her head to look at me… no, not look… she glared.
“Lead the way,” she instructed.
Don’t hate her back, don’t hate her back, don’t hate her back. The words were spinning in my head. Don’t give it anymore to feed on. And I had, I’d given it plenty. Mum and Ethan too, they’d given it apathy – just as nourishing. But here’s the thing – the thing that only now I’m starting to admit. That moment when I held the paperweight up high, my mind had been clear, not encroached on at all. When I brought it down with all my might, not once, not twice, but several times, I’d been elated, the happiest I’d ever felt – powerful, in control for once, and hungry for more. I’d been evil, I’d tasted it, and it was delicious, like the best treat in the world, better than chocolate ice cream, than birthday cake, so much more satisfying. Even the coldness within me had warmed; I was on fire, glowing. The boy, that spiteful boy, and me, we were the best of friends after all. And that was the worst thing that happened that Christmas. I’d succumbed, become a part of the house – Corinna Bastard. There was no one to blame, no unseen entity, no assailant, no possession of any sorts, not this time. It was me, all me. When was I lost? The minute I’d run through the music room door with its blackened surround? I don’t think so. But something had set me on my way. And in that room with the eaves windows, I’d almost reached the point of no return.
Ethan broke my reverie, he pushed past me and took the lead, but surprisingly he reached backwards to grab my bloodied hand, to pull me forwards. I think it’s the first proper contact we’d had in years, besides a push and a shove, that is. Perhaps he was worried I’d change my mind, run further back into the attic to hide alongside the others. Afraid of the repercussions I would face from the living. I was tempted; believe me, so very tempted.
Again, somewhere in the house a door banged. I was terrified the attic door would shut too and close us in. Those within would fall upon us like ravenous beasts, desperate to gorge themselves on our flesh, to drink from our veins, but that didn’t happen. We shambled through it, all four of us, the walking wounded, Ethan flicking on the torch again to light the way. Having been such a commotion, there was again no sound at all; everything was still, so still. I couldn’t decide which was worse. We had to go single file down the stairs. Mum only just managing to stay on her feet, colliding with the wall every so often, Aunt Julia ever vigilant, turning round to steady her. On the landing we bunched together again. There’d be plenty of questions fired my way soon but now was not the time.
“Come on,” Aunt Julia instructed. “We have to keep moving.”
There was another bang and then another.
“Who’s here?” Mum’s voice was still slurred, as if she was drunk. “Who could it be?”
“No one, Mum,” I said, trying to offer what comfort I could. She ignored me. “Mum,” I said again, more piteously this time. I had to have one word from her, just one, to tell me it was all right; that she didn’t hate me, that she loved me still.
How can she love you now!
“Stop it!” I yelled. “Stop it!”
Before anyone could react to my outburst, light flooded the landing, the bedrooms too, the radio in Mum’s bedroom and the TV from the drawing room both started blaring. There was silence no more. The sound was deafening.
“The electrics,” Aunt Julia had to shout to be heard. “It’s just the electrics, they’re as dodgy as the heating. Follow me.”
Again we hurried forwards, as much as we could, taking into account the state Mum was in, but then, halfway down the stairs, she stopped.
“Who’s that?” she said, her eyes narrowed as though she was trying to focus. “Carol, is that you?”
I could see nothing. “Mum,” I urged.
“Carol, it is you! We heard you were dead, that you’d committed suicide. What nonsense! You’re here, you’re alive!”
“Hel, there’s no one there.” Aunt Julia tried to reason with her too.
Mum held her hands out. “There is, Ju, can’t you see her?”
“Hel—”
“Wait! She’s speaking, she’s saying something.”
I strained to listen too.
I am dead… I’m here. I tried to warn…
Warn? That word struck me.
“It was you, wasn’t it?” I shouted. “That wrote those words, that guided my hand?”
Aunt Julia looked at me as if I was mad.
“There’s no-one there,” reiterated Aunt Julia, her voice a hiss.
“Hang on,” Mum said, “just hang on.”
“It’s that blow to the head, that’s what this is.” Aunt Julia was still searching for logic, but I noticed Ethan was listening, intrigued too.
“She’s telling me she’s sorry,” Mum continued. I was amazed she could hear so much better than me. “She wanted to get away, escape, she was desperate. She sacrificed us, offered us up as a replacement, but the guilt was too much. What she’d done, the selfishness of her actions, it overwhelmed her. She’s sorry. Over and over again she’s saying she’s sorry, that she’s here, she’s still here. That it’s hell.”
I tugged at Mum’s sleeve. “Ask her who the house belongs to?” Maybe that was the key I was looking for, the knowledge that would release us; the mystery owner.
Mum faltered and silently I urged her to hurry. After a moment she spoke again.
“It doesn’t belong to the living, that’s all she’ll say. It’s nobody living.”
Aunt Julia had had enough. “We’re getting away from here. The next house isn’t far. What do you think, a mile or two? We have to reach it. Come on.”
Mum turned to her, her eyes wide, and full of terror. “Ju, she said the house won’t let us go, it’ll trap us.”
“Rubbish! A house can’t trap you.”
But it could, in many ways.
Starting to move again, my foot slipped and Ethan reached out to grab me.
“Careful,” his voice a loud whisper. “You know you have to be careful.”
Downstairs, other noises filled the air, ones that only I could hear. Party noises, people talking, laughing and clinking glasses. Piano music too, definitely piano music, the keys being pounded, not a hymn this time, instead it was an erratic, savage cacophony. We were hurrying towards the door but I couldn’t ignore what was happening in the music room. There was definitely a party going on, but not one you’d ever want an invite to. So many filled the room, figures that were becoming clearer, more defined. All wore gowns, like the ones in the attic, some with their hoods up, others wearing masks instead, hideous masks, a few with long beaks, made of something white, could it be bone? It reminded me of bone.
The sight stopped me in my tracks.
“Come on, for God’s sake come on,” Aunt Julia instructed, but I couldn’t move. The shadows, the shapes multiplied, filling the kitchen too no doubt, as well as the other rooms, and in-between them were more shapes – people without cloaks and masks. Naked, the only thing that covered their bodies were sores – black and foul looking, beginning to burst, oozing long thin strands of white. Could it be maggots? Bile rushed upwards but I gulped it back. Such wretched beings, their hands were either side of their faces, as Carol’s had been, and they were screaming.
One broke away from the rest – the spiteful boy – no longer a shadow, an outline, or a mere sensation; he was as solid as you or I – as vital. I was surprised at how sweet his face was – his dark eyes framed by long lashes, dimples in both cheeks and creamy white skin without so much as a blemish. I’d never imagined him that way. Never. His smile too… it was beguiling.
It’s Christmas Eve; do you want to join the party?
I refused to be taken in by him.
Go away.
Come on, it’s fun. We’re friends, the best of friends.
I’ll
never be your friend.
Why’s that? Because you hate me?
I hesitated.
Go on. Say it. Say that you hate me.
Again I refused.
Hate is welcome here, as welcome as you are.
I’m leaving. I’m going.
The boy simply shrugged.
Go on then. But you’ll return. Making a wide arc with his hand, he grandly gestured to those behind him. You have to. You’re one of us.
I stepped back, took another and another, crashing into Ethan again.
“Careful!”
I turned and looked at him with tears in my eyes. Incredibly, he softened.
“It’s all right, we’re going. You’ll be all right.” At last he was acting the part of the protective big brother. He wasn’t calling me stupid. None of this was stupid. It wasn’t imagination either. I’d seen. I’d actually seen. And I didn’t want to see anymore.
Aunt Julia opened the front door as figures spilled into the hall – the house was bulging with them – and their laughter… oh, their laughter. It would sound forever in my head.
They were at our backs, driving us forward, not concerned at all by our departure. And that was what was so frightening, much more than if they’d blocked our path. Their confidence echoed that of the boy’s: you’ll return, you have to.
Outside the cold air hit us. The trees that surrounded us, the bushes – in a circle, you’re in our circle – swaying, despite the stillness of the night. And in amongst the trees were more hooded figures, swaying too, and chanting, endlessly chanting.
Legion. Legion. Legion.
“I feel sick.” It was Mum. She came to a sudden standstill and heaved violently, the contents of her stomach spilling everywhere. At the same time her legs buckled.
“We have to get you to hospital,” Aunt Julia was muttering, her voice shaking as much as she was, her eyes wild. “The car, if only we could use the car.”
“Walk,” Mum croaked. “Just help me to walk.”
Behind us the door shut, groaning as it always did. Unlike last time, I looked back, my gaze irresistibly drawn. The dead filled each and every window, the lights a dull flicker in some rooms but fully ablaze in others, as if flames were devouring them. And Carol, poor apologetic Carol, who’d sacrificed us to save herself, she was no longer screaming but dangling from the ceiling of the upstairs spare room, her legs jerking violently and those around her ecstatic to see it. I didn’t need to be in the room to hear the snap as her neck broke, to see the terror, the despair on her face, the sheer hopelessness, or hear the words that were meant solely for me.
This could be you.
This could be you.
This will be you.
It will be.
Unable to look anymore, I followed the others, onto the road that led into Whitesmith, the village proper. The time was one minute past midnight on Christmas Day and white flakes began swirling in the air before us. It was snowing at last, that yearned-for snow, but there was no joy in it. It was just another mockery.
Blakemort Epilogue
Mum was okay – there was no lasting damage. Knocking on the door of the first house we came to in Whitesmith, the resident was shocked but kind, quickly dressing and taking us via her car into Eastbourne, to the accident and emergency department, her windscreen wipers frantic as the snow became heavier. At the hospital, the usual questions were asked and Mum said it had been an intruder who’d attacked her, who, when rumbled by us, had escaped. So fluently she lied and I was grateful for it, for her protection. Aunt Julia wanted to interrogate me later, in a bid to understand why I’d done what I did, but Mum was stern with her and told her to leave it, just like she’d done once before. She said that she’d deal with me. But she never did. Deal with me, I mean. She never even told Dad.
The story about the intruder served us well, Mum saying that was the reason she couldn’t bear to set foot in the house again, and nobody sought to question it. The removal men were sent in to retrieve our items and they were put in storage, whilst we spent the remainder of the festive holidays between Dad’s house and Aunt Julia’s. During that time I kept catching my aunt eyeing me suspiciously, fearful I was going to attack her next. The bond between us broken, we were yet another casualty of Blakemort, our relationship strained to this day. That stuff we had in storage? Most of it was sent to the tip. We moved into our new house in Lewes in mid-January, a humble two up, two down, but none of us minded. How can you mind normality?
We got on with our lives and Mum’s work gradually began to pick up. She even started dating again, but so far she hasn’t settled with anyone permanently. ‘I like my freedom,’ she once told me. I liked mine too, what I have of it.
When enough time had passed, two years, maybe three, I summoned up the courage to ask her. “Mum, what are we going to do about… you know… everything that happened?”
“We bury it, that’s what we do, sweetie, and we carry on, we smile, we laugh, and we counteract it. One day it will go away. If we don’t talk about it, it will just go away.”
We counteract it. It was sensible advice. But at night, when I lie awake, listening to the sound of traffic in the distance, questions go round and round in my head; primarily to whom did the house belong? Not Carol, but someone else – someone not living – Legion perhaps, a collective. But what kind of collective, a satanic coven or a cult? As an adult I know that Legion has connotations with the demonic. When a person suffers possession it is often Legion who speaks through them, a multitude, a mass, demon upon demon – could it be that the same applies to Blakemort? That it was built to house Legion? Blood the cement holding it together. And the spiteful boy, who was he? A leader? How could such evil be wrapped in such beauty?
Ethan never mentioned the house again either, nor his macabre collection. He developed a healthy interest in girls instead. Between them and exams his attention was focused.
I studied hard at school but I also read about my psychic ability – it wasn’t diminishing but it certainly wasn’t developing either. It seemed to be stuck at some sort of stalemate. After our time at Blakemort, I still sensed things but nothing as malevolent, nowhere near. Thank God. And then I left school, started working, and met a new set of friends – one in particular, with a more defined ability than mine. A friend who ‘saw’ as a matter of routine, who insisted I had nothing to be embarrassed about; someone who heard every word the spirits uttered, who offered me an opportunity to use my gift for the greater good. The thought really appealed to me – helping those that are grounded. There are just so many in need…
I started working for Ruby, met Theo and Ness too, and became part of the Psychic Surveys team. I even met my boyfriend, Presley, through Ruby’s boyfriend, Cash; they’re brothers you see, ordinary people, not psychic at all. Or at least I don’t think they are. There’s a school of thought that says everybody has a psychic ability – Theo’s school of thought to be precise. She says it’s in each and every one of us but most shut it down, are taught to do so as children. Any lingering insights they have earning them the title of ‘stupid’, or ‘weird’, just plain weird. How many times was I called stupid as a kid? As you know, plenty. You shut down or you shut up. It seems most people cannot contemplate a spiritual world existing alongside the material one, not unless it’s within the restraints of religion. But it’s there all right and at times the veil is perilously thin. I suppose that explains why Mum saw Carol, and why she tolerates what I do now, although if I start to tell her about a case she’ll often change the subject. Thinking about it, she changes the subject every time. She just smiles at me. Always she smiles. As I do. Like mother, like daughter.
I’ve mentioned before that Ruby, Ness, and Theo don’t know about Blakemort, or that I’ve seen and heard too in the past. I haven’t been brave enough to explain. Is it still standing? That house marked by death. None of my family have been back; haven’t been anywhere near it. When we go out, we head the other way. And only briefly h
ave I searched for it on the Internet – there was nothing of course, no mention at all, not then and not now, as if the house doesn’t exist. But it does exist, and I live in fear of Ruby saying, “Hey, Corinna, I’ve had a call, there’s a couple renting a house nearby. They’re complaining of the usual, you know, cranky heating, whispering, and footsteps. Do you fancy coming along with me to investigate? It’s close by, in the village of Whitesmith. It’s got a strange name, it’s called Blakemort.”
What will I reply? “It’s not in Whitesmith, Ruby. It’s a lost house in a lost village, and home to the lost. I know because I used to live there, it was once my home too.”
That phone call’s coming.
I know it is.
The End…
THIRTEEN
A Psychic Surveys Companion Novel (Book Two)
Thirteen Prologue
1972
“Go away, let me sleep.”
The hand tugged at my bed sheets.
“I told you to stop it! Leave me alone.”
But, Ness, it’s snowing. Come over to the window and see.
“You said it was snowing an hour ago and it wasn’t.”
I said I thought it was going to snow, but now it is, it really is.
“So what,” I responded, unable to help the petulance in my voice.
Don’t you like snow?
Of course I liked snow, what child didn’t? What I didn’t like was being teased, and she was teasing me, she definitely was. She always teased me.
You’re no fun, do you know that, Vanessa Patterson?
“And you’re annoying, do you know that?”
You’re lucky to have snow in your world, to be able to go out and play in it.
“Play in it? It’s nearly midnight!” As if Mum would let me go and play at this time.
I can go though. She’s got no control over me.
“No one’s got any control over you.”
Psychic Surveys Companion Novels Page 17