Psychic Surveys Companion Novels

by Shani Struthers

  She laughed, a tinkling sound, mischievous.

  You’re jealous really, aren’t you?

  “Of you? No.”

  You are, because Mum can’t touch me, she can’t hurt me.

  “I said I want you to go away!”

  You should stand up to her, be a little braver.

  “Don’t tell me what to do.”

  You should tell her about me.

  Incensed by her words, I sat up, any attempt to sleep shoved to one side. “How can I tell her about you?” I hissed. “You know what she’s like.”

  Again she laughed. I know exactly what she’s like.

  “Then don’t be so daft.”

  The shape, the figure, my twin – my dead twin – left me and drifted over to the window, where she tugged the curtain aside. It amazed me she could do that, that she could actually touch things, interact – someone, something like her. She had no substance, was barely an outline at times, part of the spiritual world, not material, so how was it possible?

  I told you it was snowing.

  Unable to resist, I peered beyond her and into the night. She was right. It was! It really was. She hadn’t been teasing after all. Big fat glorious snowflakes were pirouetting past my window, offering such a contrast to the darkness of the sky.

  I leapt from bed and ran over to the window too – thick snow was covering the ground, the shed, the hedges and the tops of the garden walls.

  You want to go outside, don’t you?

  I did. I longed to.

  Even at this hour?

  “Even at this hour.”

  Mum will be asleep.

  “What about Dad?”

  Him too.

  And my brothers and sisters, would they be asleep too? I had five siblings – five that were living that is – the two older girls shared a room, so did the three boys. It was just me in a room on my own, and I say alone, but more often than not I wasn’t.

  Come on, get your shoes on and come with me.

  I’d need my shoes, my coat, my hat, my gloves and scarf, and then I’d need to tiptoe down the stairs as silently as my twin; I’d need to glide.

  She was right about me. I was jealous sometimes. I wanted to move around like she did; I wanted to hide, to disappear at times, to boldly face the disapproving glare of my mother, to shrug off the stifled laughter and nudges of my siblings. I was the youngest of the six children; that is, we were – my twin and I. I was also different from them, although I was learning to keep those differences to myself. I had to for survival’s sake. My twin had asked me to tell Mum about her, but I’d tried once, she knows that full well. I’d said to Mum that my sister was still with us and that I saw and spoke to her often. I don’t want to think about what happened next; how hard I was beaten, whilst my twin looked dolefully on. She was denied, just as I was – both of us feeling like outcasts.

  Ness, don’t think about that. Think about having fun instead!

  She was right. I had a tendency towards the maudlin. ‘A sour child,’ was how I’d heard my mother describe me once, the intimation clear: I was a curse rather than a blessing.

  Glancing again out of the window, at the world in white, I had to say the idea of having fun did appeal. I didn’t mean to be sour, I honestly didn’t.

  “Come on, then,” I said, crossing over to my chest of drawers and pulling out some warm clothing. “But we have to be quiet, promise me you’ll be quiet.”

  I’m always quiet!

  That was a lie. As I’ve said before she could interact with the material world on occasion, although I know it took it out of her. When she did I wouldn’t see her for ages, sometimes up to a week – she had to rest, that’s what she’d tell me when she eventually resurfaced. But on that occasion when Mum was hitting me, she’d interacted then; she threw Mum’s favourite vase against the far wall, smashing it to pieces. That had stopped Mum in her tracks. More than that, it had caused her to flee from the room. Ultimately, it also caused her to hate me more.

  She doesn’t hate you.

  “She does,” I murmured back. But in that moment I didn’t care, not when there was fun to be had.

  Together we left my room. The landing was in darkness, no sound at all in the house except the low hum of snoring from my parents’ room. Everyone was fast asleep.

  God, I was excited. Such a rare but welcome feeling and all because of the snow. It has such magic to it, being both soft and pretty. I dream of it snowing in wintertime, of the outside looking just like a Christmas card. Living in the south it’s rare, but tonight it was here and I didn’t want to wait until morning to go out in it. In the morning, it might be gone.

  I giggled. My twin swung around, almost as startled by the sound as I was.

  Shush.

  “Sorry,” I whispered, but in truth I wasn’t sorry at all. I wanted to giggle.

  There’s a creak at the top of everyone’s staircase, isn’t there? Certainly there was at the top of mine, but I knew where it was and how to avoid it. On the first tread, I clamped my hand around the bannister and used it to guide me, although my eyes had adjusted quickly enough to the darkness – they always did.

  At the bottom we stopped and looked around us. There was still silence.

  Go on then.

  I crossed over to the door, placed my hand on the latch and pulled. As soon as the door opened a blast of icy air enveloped me, sharp and invigorating. As for the snow, it was falling in earnest, transforming what was once an ordinary street on the outskirts of town into a winter wonderland. With no one to disturb it, the snow was immaculate, sparkling – not just on the ground, but the air glittered too. I wanted to fall to my knees and breathe it in; taste how pure it was. But my legs moved backwards instead of forwards.

  My twin was horrified.

  What are you doing?

  “I can’t.”

  Why?

  “Mum.”

  She’s asleep!

  She was, but she was a restless sleeper. So was I, and because of that I’d catch her coming into my room at night to stare down at me, my eyes screwed shut in pretence of sleep, but knowing the disgust and disappointment that would be on her face.

  “I have to go back.”

  Straightaway, my twin started to plead.

  She won’t know. I promise. Come out, just for a few minutes.

  “She always knows.”

  In some ways Mum was as intuitive as me.

  Ness, come on.

  Ignoring her, I closed the door on such an incredible sight, and with my heart breaking just a little bit I turned around and retraced my footsteps.

  Ness!

  Go away.

  Often I spoke out loud to her, but not on this occasion, not here on the stairs.

  If you don’t stop, I’ll… I’ll throw something, and cause a commotion.

  I stopped and glared at her. Don’t you dare! Don’t you bloody dare!

  I hate swearing, even now as an adult I abhor it, but I swore then. My twin recoiled. She knew I meant it, knew I’d freeze her out if she continued to threaten me. I’d ignore her and could keep it up for days, weeks even. She hated that, more than anything.

  Sulkily, she followed me to my bedroom, where I closed the curtains, tore off my clothes and returned to bed, any thought of midnight capers – of fun – banished.

  You’re a spoilsport.

  “Shut up.”

  Just five minutes, that’s all I was asking.

  “I have to sleep.”

  But the snow…

  “So what about the snow! Why should it even matter to you? You can’t feel it on your skin; you can’t taste it on your tongue or build anything with your hands. You’re dead!”

  There was a pause, and then a heavy sigh as I pulled the sheets over my head.

  Do you know something, Ness?

  “What?” I mumbled from beneath the covers, just as sulky as her.

  Sometimes I think I’m more alive than you are.

  Thirteen Chapte
r One

  1987

  Minch Point Lighthouse on Skye’s most westerly tip – what a place to find yourself during a month as fierce as November. It’s such a beautiful island, so dramatic, with the scenery far exceeding my expectations. When it can be seen, that is.

  Right now, the rapidly fading light as well as the lowering clouds have conspired to obscure the mountains to one side and the sea that rages in front. Even the sky looks as if it’s been swallowed up. All I can hear is the slashing rain and the birds that live at the cliff’s edge shrieking in protest – thousands of them, getting as battered as I was.

  “We’d better hurry,” my companion shouted, a man a couple of years younger than me, twenty-three to my twenty-five, and a typical rugged Scot: tall – well over six foot, with wild hair that he constantly pushed out of his eyes.

  Rather than answer him, I lowered my head and pushed forwards, having to battle with the elements every step of the way. Who knew that rain could be such a harsh foe? In the south it’s never as bad. This is hard rain, merciless. How do the natives stand it?

  The first structure – some kind of cabin – stood apart from the main building, Angus having parked his car as close to it as he could. It might have only been a few yards, but I doubted whether I could actually reach it. This rain was going to drive me to my knees.

  “Ouch! Shit!”

  I tripped over a boulder – the ground being littered with them. I wore boots, jeans, and a black quilted coat, all of which got soaked. As for my jeans, one knee ripped.

  Immediately Angus offered his hand. “Here, Ness. I’ll pull you up.”

  Within seconds I was on my feet again and I glanced down at my injured knee, noticed a red smear – blood. But I had no time to deal with it; we needed to get this over with.

  The cabin walls looked solid enough but the windows were smashed and the door had long since blown away, smashed to pieces perhaps on the rocks below. Even so, it offered a semblance of respite, one that I was grateful for.

  “Away in with you, Ness, we can wait here for a while, catch our breath.”

  “A while?” I’d wait here all night if needs be. This wasn’t just ‘fine Scottish weather’ as Angus’s mother had insisted when we left her house nearly an hour ago to come here, ‘a wee bit of a drizzle’ – this was a full-on storm!

  Standing just inside the cabin, shaking the water from my hair and clapping my hands frantically together in a bid to warm up, I tried but failed to stop myself from snapping at him. “Why couldn’t this have waited ’til morning?”

  His reddish hair plastered to his face, as my dark hair was plastered to mine, he looked part sheepish, part determined. “It’s not the same in daylight, it’s at night this place comes alive.” Sheepish started to dominate. “Sorry, that’s a bit of a conundrum, isn’t it?”

  Not sure how to answer that, I dug my torch out of my coat pocket instead and shone it along a short corridor that ran to the right of me.

  “Oh Christ, look! There’s still furniture in here. A fridge it looks like, with some sort of mould all over it, a table and chairs too.” Changing direction, I shone the light directly in front of me. It was another room, smaller, with a toilet and sink in it, a filthy toilet and sink. Sludge or slurry covered the floor. I wrinkled my nose and had to look away. “Charming.”

  “Aye, that it’s not,” Angus agreed, or at least I think he was agreeing.

  Curiosity got the better of me and I made my way down the corridor. A few steps later, I was standing in the main room. It was compact in size, the fridge not covered in mould as I first thought, but rust. A microwave, perched on top of it, had suffered a similar fate and in one corner there were bunk beds, duvets and pillows still present, although forming a crumpled, festering heap. The floor was littered with rubbish, which included old carrier bags, blankets that were in as bad a state as the duvet and pillows; bottles that had once contained alcohol or water; food wrappers and cigarette butts. On a round table lay a single plastic spatula, and facing the bunk bed were three cheap Formica units, with a sink and a hob set in. I wondered if water still flowed from the taps and crossed over to see. The cold was difficult to turn. Angus saw what I was doing and decided to help.

  “Here you go,” he said, “it still works.”

  There was a bang in the pipes somewhere, after which a sludgy mixture poured forth. I eyed it in the beam of my torch. “After a fashion,” I replied. When he’d turned the tap off, I shone my torch at him, aiming low so as not to blind him. “What is this building?”

  There was both excitement and fear in his eyes; a look I’ve seen often enough, especially when people first find out about me, when they realise what I am: a psychic, someone who can sense – who can see – the dead. Such a discovery tends to ignite both emotions, twin emotions.

  “This is the cabin, or the bunkhouse if you like. It’s where a young lad, or a couple of lads, assisting the lighthouse keeper would live. It’s that bit removed from the main structure.”

  “It’s more private?”

  “Aye, for all parties concerned.”

  Inadvertently, I kicked a bottle lying in front of me. “But that was a long time ago, wasn’t it? Since then I gather it’s just been used for parties.”

  Angus shrugged. In the half-light he looked so much younger than his twenty-three years, a stark contrast to me who always feels double my age, weighed down by this supposed ‘gift’ that most of the time hangs like a weight around my neck. “There’s not many come to party here, to be honest.” He paused. “Not after what happened.”

  A ghost – that’s what happened – or rather something supernatural. The very thing that lured bored teenagers to the lighthouse in the first place: the rumour that it was haunted. A building abandoned in the seventies – suddenly abandoned – by all those who lived on site: the lighthouse keeper, his family and whoever worked for him at the time – a lad or lads, as Angus had inferred. And it was never lived in again. It was just… abandoned. All tools downed and belongings left behind, with no reason for the sudden flight ever found.

  I was here because the property was for sale and a hotelier was interested in buying it, but not until it had been ‘cleansed’ – especially of its recent reputation. As well as being a native of Skye, Angus was the nephew of this London-based hotelier, who’d got in touch with me because of a case I’d been working on in my hometown of Sussex, assisting the police who were investigating the murder of two children. The information I’d provided, after contacting one of the victims psychically, led to the unearthing of their bodies in a lonely woodland spot. A grisly case, it continued to haunt me – the sound of the child crying, her loneliness, her sheer terror and bewilderment, how pitiful she’d been – but then so much haunted me, the child’s cry was just one of many. Because of my success with that case my name had been leaked to the local press; something the constable in charge promised wouldn’t happen. I worked so hard to play my involvement down, to deny the extent of it, to try and prevent it from ever reaching the attention of my remaining family. It had, however, reached the attention of some people, the hotelier for one – who’d finally persuaded me, via Angus, to investigate. Vast sums of money had been offered, but I’d only accepted enough to cover travel expenses, with lodging expenses being non-existent as Angus’s mother was hosting me. The case of Minch Point Lighthouse, and what had happened here, as well as the Isle of Skye itself – more remote than anywhere I’d ever been – intrigued me. And if I could help the living as well as the dead… well, it made my ‘gift’ easier to bear.

  A crash from outside made me jump.

  “Is that thunder?” I asked.

  “Probably.”

  I was incredulous. “So now there’s going to be thunder and lightning?”

  “You’re not frightened of a bit of lightning are you?”

  “Well, no… not unless I get struck by it.”

  “Does that tend to happen often with witches?”

  At on
ce my hackles rose. “What did you say?”

  He coloured. Even in the dim light I could see that – his cheeks flaming as red as his hair. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to—”

  “I’m not a witch and neither am I a performing monkey. If you ever refer to me as such again, I’m leaving. You can solve the mystery of this lighthouse yourself.”

  “But my uncle—”

  “And you can explain to him why too.”

  “I’m sorry, I really am.”

  I wasn’t about to backtrack just because he’d issued an apology. “You should be.”

  “About what happened here—”

  “Tell me.”

  “It didn’t actually happen here, in this cabin I mean, it happened in the main building.”

  “We’ll explore the main building soon enough.”

  “You’re a tough wee thing, aren’t you?” he said.

  “And that worries you, does it?”

  He looked amused, or it could have been bemused. “Actually, I’m impressed.”

  “And don’t get any romantic notions either of wooing this ‘tough wee thing’. I’m here on a job, that’s all.”

  He almost spluttered when I said that. “Perish the thought,” was his eventual response as he turned from me and walked over to the window to stare outwards at the sea.

  “I’ll make no secret of it,” he started to say, just as a bolt of lightning lit up the sky. “I used to come here plenty as a youngster too. Ach, can you blame me? Can you blame any of us? You’re short on entertainment when you live in a place like this, believe me. And the lighthouse, well, it’s remote; it’s got shelter, plenty of dark corners if you fancy a smooch with one of the lasses. You can get up to what you like because the adults tend to stay away.” Facing me again, he carried on. “Obviously there’s drink involved, beer, cider, whatever the kids can get hold of. In my day it was cider, but the hard stuff creeps in now, as you can see by the bottles at your feet: gin, vodka, whisky, and occasionally drugs.”

  I raised an eyebrow at this but let him carry on.

  “For years there’s a game we’ve played at the lighthouse called Thirteen Ghost Stories. Have you heard of it?”