I shook my head, whilst he glanced fretfully over in the direction of the main complex. Another roll of thunder made him flinch this time, not me.
“It’s a sort of ritual, I suppose. A bunch of us gather together and light thirteen candles – you know, those wee tea light things.”
“Yes, I know,” I responded.
“You sit in a circle, and each of you takes turns in telling a story.”
“A short story I presume, as there’s thirteen to get through?”
“Aye, mostly it’s just a few paragraphs, although Maire MacTavish used to go on a bit. She’s an author now by the way, written a romance book. Have you heard of her?”
“I don’t tend to read romance.” At least not anymore.
“You don’t? Now there’s a surprise. Anyway, as each ghost story is told, you blow out a candle, counting all the way to thirteen. You can imagine it, can’t you, the room getting darker and darker, the shadows around you becoming more menacing.”
I could, the stories getting wilder too, macabre even.
“The best story is always saved ’til last. In my time it was Gordy Ballantyne who usually bagged that honour, he had a brutal mind, so he did. The stuff he’d make up, whoa, even now I try not to think of it. He was into blood and guts, was Gordy. Once he’d terrified the shit out of us – oops, sorry, excuse my language: the living bejezus; he’d blow the last candle out. By this stage, the darkness,” Angus paused, took a breath, “…was intense.”
“What would happen then?” I realised I was holding my breath too; there was even a break in the weather – a lull – as if the rain, the wind, and the sea itself was curious.
“Angus?”
“Nothing!” he declared. “Absolutely bloody nothing. We’d all fall about laughing, some would start chasing each other around the room, shouting ‘woo woo’ at the tops of our voices, tickling each other, laughing, joking, and a fair bit of flirting too. And that was it, honestly – there was no drama, not really. For years that game’s been played here. And it was fun, just a wee bit of fun.” He lowered his head, solemn all of a sudden. “Until now that is. This new generation, they might be wilder in some ways, but basically they’re good kids. And Ally Dunn, she’s not a liar or a drama queen. I’ve known her all her life. She’s changed, all those involved that night have changed.” Once more he stared out of the cracked window. “I’m wondering if they’ll ever be the same again.”
Thirteen Chapter Two
1972
Come on, play the game; I want to play it.
“Mum’s only in the kitchen.”
So, switch to thought instead.
I did as she asked. What’s the point though?
The point is that we all need a name.
I don’t know your name.
Ask her.
Ask Mum? I don’t think so!
Make one up.
I’ve made up hundreds for you in the past; you don’t like any of them.
That’s because… because…
None of them are your real name.
I’d hit the nail on the head.
It’s not fair! It’s so not fair!
Oh, please don’t start.
It’s not though, is it? I didn’t ask to be born dead.
I winced; it always came back to this. I’m sorry I lived.
And I meant it, I honestly did. Perhaps I would have felt differently if I were ‘normal’, like my brothers and my sisters who all got on well enough with my mother. But I wasn’t. And yes, that made me sorry at times that I continued to breathe.
It’s all right, Ness, don’t get sad.
As guilty as she made me feel, as frustrated, even as scared at times, she cared this twin of mine and she wanted me to care for her too. I was born ten years ago and I was supposed to have a sister – an identical sister. When my mother realised what had happened to one of us, she’d screamed apparently, wouldn’t stop screaming. It had been a difficult pregnancy – I remember Mum referring several times to how ill she’d been whilst carrying us. It’d been a difficult birth too. Not to have a full return on it must have been a harsh blow. One of my brothers, Ollie, had once elaborated further on this tale of misery, had seemed to take great delight in telling me. It wasn’t just grief that did for her apparently, she’d haemorrhaged too, losing blood and becoming weaker. The doctors whisked both babies away, but what they did with the deceased I don’t know. Afterwards, Mum was ill for days, weeks even. The whole experience had changed her entirely.
Very early on I realised she could hardly stand to look at me; certainly I can’t remember ever being hugged or kissed by her. I have a theory about this: instead of appreciating what she’d got, Mum dwelt only on what she’d lost. I was always such a painful reminder. Then, as time wore on, it became clearer what else I was. A young child doesn’t know how to lie, to pretend that what’s happening isn’t – and the gulf between us widened.
My twin was talking again.
I like the name Mary.
Mary?
Does it suit me?
No, you’re not angelic enough.
She laughed at that.
Lorraine?
I screwed up my nose. I don’t like Lorraine.
So what? It’s my name, not yours.
You haven’t got a name.
Yet, she reminded me. Okay, okay, Sandra.
Maybe.
No, I’ve gone off that already. Carrie?
Carrie’s good.
Shall I be Carrie?
If you want to, it’s up to you.
Ness, you need to take this seriously.
Carrie’s fine.
You’re not taking it seriously!
I am. I like Carrie. We haven’t had that one before.
But would Mum have chosen it?
Mum? I’ve told you, I don’t know.
What name would Mum have chosen, do you think?
She can be relentless at times.
Getting up to turn the volume on the TV louder, she knew what I was doing: trying to drown her out. From being a vague outline, she materialised more fully to stand in front of me. Like looking in a mirror; she had the same straight black hair, a heart-shaped face, pale skin, and dark eyes. Only one thing was different – her stormy expression.
Ask Mum!
I can’t.
I want you to ask her.
It’ll only upset her. Or make her angry, one of the two.
Ask her or I’ll scratch you!
You can’t hurt me and you know it.
I can! I will!
She never used to get so angry, upset yes, but not angry, not whilst we were growing up. It sounds odd saying that my twin was growing up too, but she was, in the spirit world at least. It wasn’t that I didn’t care about how frustrated she felt at times; I did, especially with regards to my mother. She seemed to crave her attention. My father, brothers and sisters, she didn’t seem so bothered about, but then neither was I to an extent.
Ask her, Ness.
Or what?
Or… or… I’ll make the TV go blurry.
Big deal.
I didn’t like giving in to her too often, if I did, it encouraged her and she’d be worse the next time. I turned from her, from the TV, and settled back into the sofa, carrying on with the book I was reading as part of my homework – a somewhat dull book, written for kids, but not able to capture a kid’s imagination; a shame because I loved reading usually.
Hanging around for a few minutes, huffing and puffing, she then disappeared. Good, I thought, she’s left me in peace – for a short while at least.
I should have known better.
She appeared again, dashing the book from my hands. That’s what she’d been doing during her brief absence, gathering enough energy to do that.
I jumped up; glad that I was alone in the room, that no one else had seen it.
Why’d you do that?
You’re mean.
I’m not.
You are.
Because I won’t ask Mum? Of course I won’t. You know what she’ll do.
But I need to know.
No!
Ask her or I’ll hurt you, I will. I can do it. I’m strong enough.
Her insistence – her threats – incensed me further. I wouldn’t do what she asked, never! Besides which, who could hurt me more, her or Mum? Mum wasn’t averse to beating me, and sometimes those beatings were severe – as if she was trying to beat my ‘ability’ right out of me, perhaps in her own way, trying to save me. That’s how she always justified it. Not that she ever said as much out loud. But sometimes I could catch what she was thinking – I’m doing this for her own good, something’s not right with her, something’s very wrong, I have to do this, it’s for her own benefit – and all the while Dad would stand by, not joining in, but not stopping her either. Only once did he do that, after my Aunt Jean’s funeral when I’d seen her spirit at the wake, when I’d said I’d seen her, when I’d made that mistake. Dad had to pull Mum off me then, fearing that she’d go too far, that she’d send me to join my twin. Every other time he endured, as I endured.
I stormed past my twin, warning her not to follow.
I WANT TO KNOW MY NAME!
When I didn’t reply, she screamed again.
FIND OUT MY NAME!
I swung round, as enraged as her.
“You haven’t got a name! I expect Mum didn’t bother to give you one and if she did, she never told me, no one has. I don’t even know where you’re buried, if you’re buried that is. You might not be. You’re just… nothing. Do you hear me? You should be nothing!”
I realised my mistake too late.
“Not this again.”
Drawn by my shouting, my mother had entered the living room. As I swung round, she was there in front of me, her face a mask of barely controlled fury, and I cowered in her shadow. Why had I done it? Why had I started screaming? What had possessed me?
You, you possessed me!
I glowered at my twin; she’d hurt me after all, by proxy.
Mum’s hand came out to grab me by the scruff of my neck, I knew that any moment that same hand would hurl me across the room and I’d go smashing into the wall. And then she’d grab me again, by my hair or the collar of my blouse and she’d stand me up in front of her, freeing one hand so that she could slap my face, not once but several times.
I started whimpering. “It’s because she wants to know her name, she needs to know.”
No matter what Mum did to me, nothing could hurt as much as her words.
“A mistake, that’s what she was, as were you. You should have both died that day.”
Thirteen Chapter Three
There are some games that shouldn’t be played, the most obvious perhaps being the Ouija. The reason for that is because there’s a belief system involved – and belief has a habit of opening doorways, ones that should remain firmly shut. This game that Angus was telling me about – Thirteen Ghost Stories – sounded more like a ritual. He’d even called it that himself, carried out in this same place, in the same manner, time after time, year after year, mostly by kids, the young, the innocent, the enthusiastic, their hearts and minds willing something to happen, throwing caution aside for the sake of a thrill, praying even. Come on, come on, whatever’s out there, break through the veil that separates us, we’re desperate to see you. The energy, the thoughts, the hopes, and the dreams build up, until finally something in the darkness does takes notice. They stop, they listen to your pleas, and they step forward, eager to see you too. Not always for the best of reasons.
The man who stood in front of me mentioned that all those involved that night had changed, but he’d changed too. Just minutes beforehand, he’d been gung-ho about bringing me here and showing me around, intrigued to see what I could sense. But now, with his eyes on the main building, reticence had set in.
“How long is it since you’ve been to the lighthouse, Angus?”
He rubbed at his chin. “It’s the kids that come,” he repeated. “Not the adults.”
“So a few years then?”
He nodded.
“And what happened to Ally Dunn, it was two months ago?”
“Aye.”
“Any chance of seeing her at some point?”
“We can ask her mother.”
There was something else I needed to know, something that risked unsettling him further. “Angus, has there been a known death at the lighthouse?” According to the research I’d been able to do prior to my visit, there hadn’t been, the hotelier and Angus’s mother confirming that, but I hadn’t asked Angus outright yet, and I’d deliberately used the word ‘known’. Not everything catches the eye of the media, especially on an island like this: remote and with a strong sense of community. Some things get hushed up.
He didn’t answer straight away, in fact, he didn’t answer at all. Another almighty roar captured our attention, the wind so loud it hurt your ears.
“We should get going,” Angus yelled.
“To the main building?”
“Aye.”
The lighthouse complex proper, not this single cabin that, although abandoned too, seemed benign enough. Perhaps ‘benign’ wasn’t quite the right word, for, while I could feel nothing of a tangible nature, it certainly had a simmering quality – a precursor perhaps to what lay ahead. As we left the building my eyes were drawn back to the fridge, the microwave, which were covered in rust. I shone my torch at them again. Diseased, that’s what they looked like, as did this building, and the buildings that surrounded it.
That thought having formed in my head I couldn’t wait to leave, to take my chances with the great outdoors again, with what was natural rather than otherwise. That’s the thing, you see, there are those that think because I’m psychic I welcome what I see, that I take it in my stride, and it’s simply part of who I am. That’s not the case though. To date, I’ve not met a single person with abilities similar to mine who actively welcomes it. If anything, I’ve seen madness in their eyes, and desperation. I’ve recognised that in myself too.
The cold rain was at once enlivening and repellent, and we’d get soaked again dashing from here to there, but what did it matter? I only hoped that when we got back Angus’s mother had plenty of hot water, so I could take a shower and warm my bones. There’d been grass beneath my feet en route to the cabin but now there was gravel, no crunch could be heard as such. It was the change in texture that was obvious. I tried to look up, to get an impression of the building before me, licking my lips as I did and noticing the salt on them. It seemed sizeable enough, laid out over two floors rather than one. The door was intact and Angus shoved against it with his shoulder three or four times. When it opened – quite suddenly – he stumbled, falling across the threshold. On his feet again, he shut the door behind me, having to fight to do that too as I shone the torch around. A smell was the first thing to assail me, one that made my eyes water. It was a mixture of things, damp, rot and mould, but there was an underlying sweetness to it, one that was sickly rather than pleasant. Swallowing hard, I continued to peer into the gloom.
What a mess – an unholy mess you could say. There was a sofa and two armchairs, both of them vomiting stuffing. A low coffee table had been turned over and rag-like curtains hung at the windows. On the floor, torn pages were scattered everywhere.
“They’re from school exercise books,” Angus informed me when I remarked upon them. “I suppose you could call it another ritual. Students come here at the end of their school year and they tear their books to pieces. It’s a sort of celebration if you like, a release.”
I supposed it was.
As in the cabin, there were empty bottles too, scores of them, and the wallpaper looked as if giant fingernails had travelled up and down it, scoring it again and again. Directing my torch upwards, I noticed that the ceiling had cracks in it, reminding me of a spider’s web.
As I’d had to do in the cabin, I kicked a path clear in front of
me. “How many rooms are there in this building altogether?”
“There’s this room, which is the living room.”
“Obviously.”
“A kitchen of course, a utility room, three bedrooms and a bathroom.”
“How many children did the keeper have?”
“Two. A boy and a girl.”
“Is this where you played the game, in the living room?”
He shook his head. “No, we used to play it upstairs in the bedroom.”
“Whose bedroom?”
“Not the main bedroom, it was one of the kids’.”
“Any reason why?”
He shrugged. “The main bedroom belonged to the mum and dad, it seemed a bit… pervy, to go in there, where they, erm…” A burst of laughter escaped him. “Teens, eh? It’s funny the way we used to think.”
I couldn’t help but smile too. “Tell me about the family.”
“I never knew them, but according to everyone round here they were a strange lot, insular, you know? Och, don’t get me wrong, island folk can be like that, non-island folk too. There’s plenty who away up to Skye to escape, those who want to keep themselves to themselves, but as keepers of the lighthouse, you’d think they’d mingle. They’re a vital part of the community with an important role to play. Caitir and Niall were the kids’ names, the girl was the elder of the two, but they never went to school, they were taught at home. The family lived here for around five years, until 1977. They’d come from Barra—”
“Barra?” I interrupted. “Where’s that?”
“It’s a Hebridean island, a real outpost, but where they went to, no one knows. It was a cold day in winter when they ceased whatever they were doing and left, they didn’t even bother to turn the TV off. It was still on full blast when it was discovered what had happened.” Clearly he disapproved. “It’s against the rules you know, to do that, for a light keeper to just leave. Someone needs to remain on site at all times to ensure the light comes on when it’s supposed to. Later, one of my dad’s friends checked with The Northern Lighthouse Board whether the Camerons had been reassigned elsewhere.”
Psychic Surveys Companion Novels Page 19