Psychic Surveys Companion Novels

by Shani Struthers

  “We can’t do it, we can’t go there. I’d rather take my chances with going to Barra.”

  “Why can’t we go there? What’s wrong with it, tell me.”

  Ron had finally left us and we were in Angus’s car again, just sitting there, in an empty car park, the wind and the rain as relentless as ever.

  “It’s just… It can’t have anything to do with the lighthouse, it can’t have.”

  “Angus! Will you just tell me what you know?”

  “It’s… Well… It all goes back to the sixties; a man came to live there – Isaac Leonard.” He laughed. “Harmless enough name, isn’t it, but apparently he was far from that.”

  “What was he?”

  “I’ll tell you what he was rumoured to be: a Black Magician. Have you not heard of him, Ness?”

  “I’ve heard of a few, but not him, no.” Inside, my gut was churning. Magic of a warped kind was exactly what I’d feared.

  “He bought the house for the purpose of a ritual he wanted to carry out there, one he’d studied in an ancient text apparently, dating back to the Middle Ages. There was a list of rules in preparation for this ritual. You had to abstain from alcohol, remain celibate, and meditate – a lot. The house itself played a role too. It had to be in a secluded location, more or less, with a door opening to the west, in front of which was a gravel or sand path. At the end of this path, there needed to be a lodge of some sort. That’s supposed to be where the spirits congregate. The purpose of it all was—”

  “To invoke your Guardian Angel,” I finished.

  “So you have heard of Leonard?”

  “Just the ritual, it’s one that several, perhaps more notable, Black Magicians have followed, I’m not sure how successfully. It’s from The Book of Abramelin, which, as you say, is a medieval grimoire, one that surged in popularity during this century and the last. I’m no expert regarding it, but yes, I’ve heard of that at least. This Guardian Angel, as they call it, was supposed to impart magical wisdom, which the recipient could then use for good or bad purposes. The trouble is, it’s usually the latter, being as this sort of thing appeals to the megalomaniacs amongst us.”

  “Megalomaniacs? So, you’ve never been tempted then?”

  “Angus! I may be many things, but hopefully not that!”

  He grinned. “No, I have to admit, you don’t strike me as such.”

  “Good,” I answered, just as he sighed. All joking aside, I reached out. “You okay?” He was concerned earlier that this task might be having an effect on me, but what about him?

  “I’m fine,” he assured me. “It’s odd, that’s all, sitting in a pub car park, late at night, talking about Black Magic of all things.”

  I agreed. “It is odd, but we’re doing it for a reason.”

  “Aye, I know… to help.”

  “Unless, it’s too much—”

  “It’s not. Not with you by my side.”

  I smiled. Like his mother; he had such faith in me. “So, Leonard carried out this ritual at this house on the banks of Loch Ness. What’s the consensus? Did he succeed?”

  “He may have done, certainly that’s what people around here like to think.”

  “But no one knows for sure.”

  “They know it’s got a bad atmosphere. I know it’s got a bad atmosphere.”

  “You?” I was confused and then the penny dropped. “Ah, I see, it was another place you went to as a kid, looking for thrills.”

  He shrugged. “I’ve told you, there’s not much to do around here.”

  “Except get involved in a bit of Satanism.”

  “Aye, well it’s something, isn’t it?”

  I looked at him, he looked at me, and together we burst out laughing. It felt good, so good. I hadn’t laughed like that in… well, I couldn’t remember the last time.

  “Honestly though,” he continued, wiping at his eyes, “it’s some place, a big old manor house, owned by a rock star after Leonard, although we’d no idea who it was back then.”

  “Do you know now?”

  “Oh aye, it was Robbie Nelson from the band, The Ridge. He was interested in its history, you see, all that occult stuff. The thing is, he never stayed there, not really. An interest is one thing, but the chance to experience it, or at least the aftermath of it, I suppose that’s quite another.”

  “So what year was it when you went there?”

  “It must have been around ’75, perhaps early in ’76, I was twelve, nearly thirteen.”

  “Wow, that young?”

  “Aye, I was the youngest that night, by a fair bit actually.”

  “I’m surprised your parents let you.”

  “They never knew,” Angus confessed. “As far as they were concerned I was at a sleepover at one of the other lads’ houses.”

  “Ah, I see, that old chestnut.”

  “It came in handy a fair few times.”

  “So it was well before Moira?”

  “Oh aye, it was before she… you know. Anyway, Nelson had moved out by then, and it was empty for a while. Whoa!” He ran his hands through his hair as he began his troubled journey down memory lane. “It’s not as if we went inside the house or anything, we didn’t want to break in, get into trouble with the law, but the grounds and the lodge at the bottom of the garden, were bad enough. There were five of us: three lads and two lasses, and as I say I was the youngest of the lot, Will, was the eldest at eighteen. I’m telling you, all of us had goose bumps the minute we set foot on that land. The only way I can describe it is, it was like a thousand eyes were watching us, hiding in the trees that surrounded the place, eyes that didn’t belong to anything of this world; they belonged to monsters instead. And that’s not my youth and immaturity talking – we all felt that way, even Will. We tried to nudge each other on, you know, be brave, but when we got to the house and started peering in through the windows, one of the girls – Lottie – started to scream blue murder. She thought she saw a figure in there, one that was impossibly tall, blacker than black, and who was glaring at her. It was the eyes that did it; they were glowing, she said, neon yellow or something. As she stared, transfixed, the figure lifted its hand to point.”

  “What happened then?” I asked, able to vividly imagine it all.

  “We ran, as fast as our legs could take us. We got out of there. Will had his dad’s car, so we piled into that and drove back to the Kyle of Lochalsh. We slept all night in his car, well, what few hours were left, and then we caught the first ferry the next morning. A cousin of mine ran the ferry at the time, so it’s not as if we had to pay. But I’ll tell you, none of us returned, not as far as I know.”

  “It could all have been imagination though, preconceptions kicking in?”

  He denied it. “Something was wrong there, very wrong.”

  Perhaps. Just as something was wrong here.

  I thought about what I’d learnt. “So, Leonard was at Balskeyne in the sixties, but by the early seventies it belonged to a rock star?”

  “Aye, and later on, in ’76, it was turned into a guesthouse. Can you credit it? I mean, really? Who’d want to stay there knowing who it had once belonged to?”

  “But that’s the thing, people don’t always know. Do you research the history of every house or hotel you’ve ever stayed at?”

  “I’ve only ever stayed at a handful,” he admitted.

  “Even so, have you?”

  “No, of course not.”

  “There you go then.”

  “Yeah, but when it’s got a notorious history?”

  “I’ve never heard of Isaac Leonard or Balskeyne. There’d be many who haven’t or, if they have, who’d dismiss it as nonsense. Is the house still being run as a guesthouse?”

  “Och, I’ve no idea. There are two roads that skirt Loch Ness, the main road and the back road – Balskeyne’s on the banks of the back road. I never tend to go that way, it’s too, you know… twisty turny.”

  “Twisty turny? That’s a novel way of putting it.” />
  “But you get my meaning?”

  “Aye, I do.”

  He raised an eyebrow at my impression of him, seemed to find it amusing enough.

  “What I don’t get,” I continued, “is the timing. It’s all off.”

  “How’d you mean?”

  “Leonard lived at Balskeyne in the sixties, but by the seventies, the time that the Camerons moved into the lighthouse, a rock star had bought it, one who hardly ever stayed there apparently, and after he sold it, it was turned into a guesthouse. So how’s it all connected, if it is connected? Do you know what happened to Isaac Leonard?”

  “What happened to him and whether he’s still alive or dead, I don’t know.”

  “It’s something we need to find out.”

  He cocked his head to the side. “Oh, and how do you propose we do that?”

  “You can take me there tomorrow and we can ask whoever’s living there now.”

  “Do I get another lemonade for my efforts?”

  “If you let me drive I’ll make it a wee dram instead.”

  “Ness Patterson, you’ve just got yourself a deal.”

  Feeling perhaps lighter-hearted than we should, we made our way back home.

  * * *

  Ness, you’re dreaming again.

  It was little solace. Not when the dream was this bad.

  I’m at my desk, writing, as one of the teenagers had written, scribing the number thirteen, over and over.

  Why thirteen?

  Because it’s a powerful number or at least that’s what people think. Certainly it has a hold on me. I can’t stop myself, the paper beneath my marker beginning to tear with the pressure I’m exerting. When it runs out, I start on the walls, determined to fill every inch.

  What does it mean? What does it all mean?

  There’s someone in the room with me, laughing. Who could it be? Angus?

  I shake my head. No. He doesn’t laugh like that. His is a sweet laugh.

  You like him don’t you, Ness?

  No… yes… not in that way… as a friend.

  You want him?

  It’s not me talking to myself anymore, someone else is asking the question.

  I swing round, holding the marker as though it were a dagger.

  “Who’s there?” I can’t see whoever’s with me. They’re hiding in the shadows, but I can feel their gaze, imagine well enough the colour of their eyes – yellow like pus.

  I face the wall again. Whatever’s in the shadows can stay there. I don’t want to know.

  13. 13. 13.

  It’s such a bold number, a number that screams at you.

  Just like the figure in the shadows is screaming. No longer laughing, there are words tumbling from its mouth instead, not all of them intelligible. Although some are.

  You. Want. No one.

  I ignore it.

  13. 13. 13.

  I’m stabbing at the wall, unable to stop myself, big chunks of masonry tumbling too.

  Remember, Ness?

  Stabbing, stabbing, stabbing, obliterating what’s in front of me; that damned number.

  What you did to me?

  My hand clenches tight around the marker.

  What you did to yourself?

  My nails dig into the palm of my hand.

  Blood. Why is there always so much blood?

  What you did to all of us. When you were thirteen, Ness. When you were thirteen.

  Thirteen Chapter Sixteen

  Incredibly the sun was shining the next day, although it was still bitterly cold. After more scrambled eggs on toast – and this time I managed a strip of bacon too – Angus and I journeyed towards Kyleakin, for the short journey across the water to the mainland. The scenery was so breath-taking it took my mind off the restless night I’d had and the dream. Instead of fretting about it, I immersed myself in the might of nature instead, the Cuillin Mountains once more the star of the show, so black against the blue sky, like sentinels standing guard. As I gazed at them, Angus told me about the fairy pools that were hidden amongst them, named for the belief that the fairies, or the little people as they were known hereabouts, bathed in them by starlight.

  “And some big people do too,” he added.

  “Don’t tell me, you included.”

  He laughed. “You’re getting to know me very well. Although I’ve not gone for a dip by starlight, I’m not that daft – the water’s freezing enough by day. Another place I’ll have to take you, if we have the time, is the fairy glen. Aye, that’s worth a trip, if just to admire the strange landscape. It’s full of green knolls that tower upwards.”

  “Where is it?” I asked.

  “Up near Uig.”

  “Uig? Okay, sounds good, I’d love to go.” I’d scheduled in a week for this trip and a good portion of that had gone already – another three or four days, that’s all I could really spare. Hopefully, that’d be enough. If it was, and if there was time for a little sightseeing as Angus suggested, all well and good. Although I was my own boss to a large extent, I’d said to Angus that I had other projects in the pipeline, plus I missed my flat, my own space. As lovely and as hospitable as Eilidh and Angus were, I needed time to myself. I always had.

  The mainland was just as lovely as Skye, so easy to fall in love with. I’d never been to Scotland before and I was amazed at how different it was to where I lived in Lewes, the historic county town of East Sussex. There we were surrounded by gently rolling hills, described by Rudyard Kipling as ‘Our blunt, bow-headed, whale-backed Downs’ – beautiful in their own right, but not rugged, not mighty, not like anything I was encountering here.

  Angus had driven, despite me offering once again. ‘You look tired,’ he’d said. ‘If we stop for a drink later, maybe you can take over, but otherwise, I’m more than happy to take the wheel.’

  He was right; I was tired. Even my bones felt heavy. Despite the dazzling views, I yawned. “How far is it to Balskeyne?”

  “Not long now, we’ll be there within the hour. Nice weather for a visit, don’t you think?”

  “Yeah, yeah, it is. The weather’s wonderful.”

  “Such a shame we’re not heading for the beach. That’s another thing that Skye’s got, the most amazing beaches. Just north of Dunvegan is a place called Coral Beach, named after the crushed white coral that’s there, it makes the sea look really blue.”

  Immediately, guilt seized me. “I’m sorry to take you away from enjoying whatever free time you have.” I bit my lip. “Maybe I should have driven up, it would have been handy to have had my own car. Actually, is there anywhere I can rent one?”

  Angus flapped a hand in the air at me. “Och, I’ll not hear of it. I like being with you. I find what you do… interesting.”

  “Thanks. You’re fun to be with too.”

  My words surprised me. I don’t normally tend to say stuff like that, but where was the harm in it? He was fun. I really ought to loosen up a little.

  The journey – and it had been a long one, three hours door to door – at last came to an end. Balskeyne was close to Fort Augustus, as opposed to Inverness, and not visible from the road, due to a bank of trees that stood like custodians.

  “Where do we park?” I asked.

  “Just here, on the main road. If we tuck ourselves in, it’ll be okay.”

  As we crossed the road, and skirted round to a gravel path that led upwards, the clouds must have covered the sun, for suddenly the day got darker.

  Angus noticed it too. “I hope it’s not an omen.”

  So did I. “Are you… erm… nervous about coming here again after so long?”

  “A bit,” he admitted. “What about you? Are you nervous?”

  “I’m trying not to be. I wonder who lives here now.”

  “I’ve not a clue, so we’d best be careful, we don’t want to be shot for trespassing.”

  “Shot?” I repeated, somewhat aghast.

  “Relax, I’m joking,” he replied, but I could tell from his voice he w
asn’t convincing himself either. My mind started to work overtime.

  “I’ll say I thought it was still a guesthouse,” I suggested, “that I’d stayed here when it was, years ago, as a kid. I could even ask if there’s a room available.”

  “For the both of us?”

  “Well… yeah.”

  “Who shall we say we are,” asked Angus. “Mr and Mrs Smith?”

  “Mr and Mrs…? Don’t push it, Angus.”

  He laughed. “Sorry, I really wasn’t. But your ploy, it might work.”

  “I hope so. If I can find out anything about the house, it’ll be a bonus. I might even be able to tune into something.”

  “And that’d be a bonus too, do you think?”

  I grimaced. “Hmm, maybe not.”

  We continued up the path, our feet kicking at stones. It had to be secluded for the sake of the ritual, and secluded it was. Where was the house for goodness’ sake? Rounding a corner, I held my breath – soon I’d be able to see it, in all its murky glory.

  “Bloody hell!” Angus exclaimed.

  “Christ!” I added.

  There was nothing glorious about what was in front of us; it was a hollow, burnt out wreck.

  “What’s happened?” I said, at the same time as Angus pointed out the obvious: “There’s been a fire!”

  Dragging my eyes away, I turned to him. “Didn’t you realise?”

  “I’ve told you I haven’t been here since.”

  We heard a voice behind us. “Hey there! Who are you? You’re on private land.”

  We turned to see a woman hurrying towards us; she had to be in her late forties or even early fifties, with dark brown hair in a bun, although several strands had escaped, and wearing corduroy trousers and a zip-up fleece. As she drew nearer, I could see fury had caused her complexion to redden, and that she was doing her utmost to contain it.

  I held my hands up. “I’m sorry, so sorry. It’s just I was here as a kid and—”

  “Rubbish! If you’d visited as a child, there’s no way you’d come back, not unless you were a stupid child and an even stupider adult. You’re another voyeur, wanting to see what all the fuss is about, but there’s nothing to see here, not anymore. Please go.”

  I was stunned, so was Angus. We just stood there, staring at her, as she’d said – stupidly.