Psychic Surveys Companion Novels

by Shani Struthers

  “Who can you see?” I asked at last.

  “Him! Him!” he replied, pointing.

  I looked at where he was directing me.

  “I cannot—”

  “Clauneck!”

  Clauneck? “The demon?” I took a deep breath. My throat felt sore from my earlier retching and my head still pounded. “There are no demons. Demons do not exist.”

  Father tore his eyes from whatever had captured his attention, his lashes casting spidery shadows upon his cheeks. “You are wrong, Rosamund. There are; they do.”

  As if from a spring, he leapt from me and up to the bookcase. With both hands he began tearing at the tomes that lined the shelves.

  “What are you doing?” I pleaded, desperate to understand.

  “The answer,” he gibbered, as around me so many hard-backed volumes crashed to the floor, their leather spines I imagined crumbling. “It will be in here somewhere.”

  There on the side table I spied the wax tapers, so took the opportunity to light one from the candle and set about illuminating the room with the ceiling gas lamp; a poor and dull light, but a welcome aid to the candle that I still held.

  I drew nearer to Father; narrowly avoiding a book flung my way. “The answer to what?”

  He paused, turned to me and once again I raised the candle. “He is not as I thought,” he whispered as though now I was his greatest confidante. “He is…”

  “Evil, Father?” I finished for him, as he seemed to struggle for words. “Did you think him a benefactor with no price to pay? Did you not expect this? You wanted to see him.”

  “If I served him—”

  “Then you would serve the Devil, and no one and nothing is worth that.”

  “He wants my soul, Rosamund, but he offers me nothing in return. All his promises are false. He is a liar. Another liar, like you, like your mother.” He lifted his hands to his hair and began to tug at it. “I am plagued by liars!”

  I had to try and stop him. He was so agitated that it seemed he would tear it out if he continued, for tufts were already coming away in his hands. Placing the candle back onto the desk – feeling immediately bereft of it – I raised my hands too.

  “Stop this! We can leave this house now if you wish; get away, far away; find safety somewhere. But I must reiterate, there is nothing here.”

  “LIAR! YOU ARE A LIAR!”

  Tears sprang to my eyes that madness had him in its grip so completely. As much as I feared Father, I could not hate him – he was all I had, especially now – and without him I should be lost; another urchin on the street. And they were not safe, the streets; in so many ways they were not. I would be doomed; driven mad as well, surely?

  Wiping at my eyes, sniffing loudly, I attempted to remonstrate with him again. This time he threw me from him just as he had thrown the books, sending me crashing against the desk, one of my hands flailing, trying to find purchase of some sort, to break my fall. In doing so, another of my fears was aroused. My hand knocked the candle, sending it flying to the other side of the desk where it teetered on the end and fell onto the floor, the flame not catching alight, trapping me in a burning room again, but snuffing itself out. As it did so, the ceiling gas lamp dimmed further and further, until it was barely even aglow.

  “NO!”

  Father’s scream was spine tingling, as once more darkness reigned. I heard more banging and crashing as he hurled himself from wall to wall. In spite of my concern for him, I had need to protect myself whilst he was in such a dreadful state and so I crawled beneath the desk and curled myself into a tight ball.

  Again time had no meaning; it may have been seconds, or it may have stretched into minutes that I hid there. Father would hurt himself severely if he continued; I dreaded to think of the bruises that even now must be blooming upon his skin.

  I had not realised that I was crying until droplets of tears splashed upon my hands. Even if there was no demon, this was indeed hell, and I was in the pit of it.

  If only I could close my eyes again; if only I could dream, but even in my dreams the respite was only temporary. Mother had not appeared to be at peace. Why?

  Father was continuing to shriek; to scream, and instead of hugging my knees to my chest, I put my hands to my ears. Because I did this, it took me a short while to register that he had quietened.

  “Father?”

  I feared to leave the sanctuary of my hiding place, but as with the attic, how long could I stay there?

  There is nothing out there, Rosamund, remember? It is all in Father’s mind. The alcohol and the drug, when combined, were proving to be uncompromising.

  That thought giving me reason, I began to creep forward, soothing him. “Father, I am here, be calm.”

  His shuddering form was but a few feet away. I had no desire to touch him but I forced myself. He was stricken, utterly stricken, but more than that, lost – reminding me of Constance; of Helena. Should one condemn such pitifulness, even if that person had brought it upon himself?

  I touched his shoulder. He was in a position similar to that which I myself had previously adopted; curled into a ball and hugging his legs to him, like a child; as weak as a child, and certainly as vulnerable.

  “Father, we must leave this room,” I urged him. “It will be daylight soon, we can fetch help.” Although from what quarters help would come, I had no clue; but surely there would be someone we could call upon. Never had I felt so alone. “All will be well, Father. It is the whisky, the drug. I believe that… together they have led you to hallucinate. But the effects cannot linger long; it will be over soon. All this will be over.”

  “No. No. No.” His voice was childlike too.

  “Father, let us take leave of this room; we can move to the drawing room, and wait there until morning. Then we can decide on a plan.”

  “Scared. So scared.”

  “There is nothing to be afraid of. All this… is in your mind. Let me help you to your feet.”

  As I began to tug at him, I expected to be slapped or pushed again, but to my surprise he acquiesced. “That is it,” I encouraged – able to act the parent, even though he never had. “We are on our feet now. Let us move towards the door. There is really no urgency, we can take one step at a time.”

  Having reached our destination, I turned to him.

  “The key, Father, I need it.”

  “Yes, yes,” he muttered, patting at his pockets. “Here it is; here.”

  I took it from him, my own hands trembling just as much as his, which at first hampered considerably the task of unlocking the door. Hearing the lock slide back into place, however, was a huge relief. I was about to open the door when I heard a sound coming not from the other side – a shuffling or a scraping – but from behind me.

  Rosamund.

  I turned to face Father.

  “Why are you lingering?” he asked. “Open it!”

  “Because you called my name. That is why.”

  “Me? No. No, I did not. Open the door!”

  “But I heard you.”

  “It was not me.” He was equally insistent.

  “Then who—”

  Rosamund!

  There it was again, interrupting me – more assured this time, amused even.

  “Yes,” I answered. “Who are you?”

  As something rushed towards me; something that hid no more; that propelled itself forth from the deepest part of the shadows, the umbra, the part where no light exists, and no lightness, I did not question further. I grabbed my father’s hand, yanked open the door, and as I had done so often in that house; I ran.

  Rosamund Chapter Twenty

  I had opened the door. Father had opened the door. Very different doors and for very different reasons, but nonetheless, both allowed access.

  As we hurried the length of the corridor, I was most aware of two matters: there was something at our backs; but there were also other things; shades, more shadows. For this was not an empty house; it had never been an empty ho
use; it was teeming with life… or more accurately, past life. And imagination, I was certain that this was at work too. Imagine good things, Rosamund, only good things.

  Damn this corridor for being so long; this house for being so large – it was as if we could run forever and not reach sanctuary. The attic was where we needed to go.

  I still had hold of Father’s hand; pulling him; forcing him along – an arrogant, selfish, vain man – a man that had instilled such terror in me; who was so formidable. How easily he had broken. That was proving as much a revelation as to what my eyes could now see, the veil having dropped to the floor in many respects.

  The attic – I reminded myself – we must get to it without delay. Whatever was pursuing us – and I had no wish to know what it was – I had caught only a fleeting glimpse, and that had been enough; more than enough – would not follow us into the attic. Of that I was certain.

  Father will not go in there either.

  Oh, he would! I would see to it.

  At last we reached the hallway, a vast space with a tiled floor, which no moonlight dared to penetrate. The stairwell was to our left, a yawning chasm. Who knew what we should encounter upon it? I could not stop and contemplate. There was no time.

  “Father, this way!”

  I began to turn towards the staircase, but to my surprise I found myself jerked in the opposite direction.

  “Father, no!”

  He did not respond to me, perhaps he was incapable of speech, but even if that were so, he had certainly recovered enough strength to be the leader rather than the follower, and it was to the door that led out into the open air that he directed me. To the woods…

  “No, Father! NO!”

  I tried my hardest to redirect him, but to no avail.

  We had reached the door and with one deft hand he managed to open it. Immediately we were hit by a blast of icy air as together we plunged into the grip of winter, both ill clothed for the night. Our feet skimmed over gravel then grass as we flew along.

  My breath rattling in my throat, my eyes streaming with the cold, my body seized by it, I managed to look upward. Where was the moon? Oh, but to see a glimmer of it, shining down upon me. There was nothing; not even the stars.

  The woods, that was exactly where we were heading, Father intent on it but mistaken in his reckoning. Those tendrils, those wisps; what if they came for me again? We would find ourselves surrounded on all sides; at their mercy.

  What were they?

  Did demons really exist? I found myself questioning my own beliefs. Did they not dwell solely within the pages of books? But what was a book if not a story? What was this life if not something of a story too? The boundaries between fantasy and reality, between thought and reality – could they blur, as the boundaries between life and death could blur? I had previously witnessed the latter; I knew it to be possible. On this night anything was possible.

  We had reached the edge of the woods and, without further hesitation we plunged deep into them, the bare branches of the skeletal trees seemingly welcoming us.

  I considered Father’s study to be his lair, but this was a lair too. Once more I was trapped; my body, my mind, and my spirit. I began to tug at my father, my free hand attempting to liberate the one that was enclosed in his. Again, it was to no avail.

  As we ran over decaying leaves, these once welcoming branches began to turn against us, as deep down I knew they would; whipping at my face and tearing at my hair. If they were doing the same to Father, he gave no sign, so determined he seemed.

  “We must stop,” I yelled, “or we shall fall.”

  It was as I spoke these words that Father stumbled; a tree root most likely the cause. His footing lost, he fell, and therefore so did I, nearly landing on top of him.

  I had no idea if we had outrun what had previously been at our heels, but now was not the time to investigate – not in the woods, in the dead of night, the very air around us freezing our bones through to the marrow. I had never ventured to the other side of the woods, and to my young mind they went on forever; but there must be an end, and if we could reach it – reach civilisation; other people; living people…

  On my knees, I reached out both hands, my intent to pull us up. To my surprise, I found myself tumbling further as Father’s hands pushed me away.

  I fell backwards this time, my ankle beneath me twisting furiously.

  I screamed with pain as I rolled onto my side, clutching at the injured leg – not a broken bone, surely? I could still flex my toes. A sprain then? If so, all was not lost.

  Rather than watch Father regain his feet, my eyes searched frantically for a stick, one that I could use as a crutch, almost willing one into existence. I believed I knew, even then, that Father was about to abandon me. And this time, it would be for good.

  A stick. I had to find one. I had to get out of these woods; not to the far side, but back to Mears House, to the attic. Stay there until… Just stay there.

  My hands encircling a gnarled length of wood, I dared to look up.

  “Father,” I cried. “Please, you cannot leave me.”

  He had resumed running.

  “Father. No!”

  Oh, the emotions that ran through my body and my very soul, in endless circles, smashing into one another, over and over – the anger, the bewilderment, the hatred, the terror, the betrayal, and as Josie had said, the grief. It was wrong to allow such emotions; far better to stay calm, but I could not. They engulfed me; we were as one – inseparable. But they were dangerous; so dangerous. The sheer force of them attracted things to me; negative things. They were doing so even now.

  With no moon visible, the night was black, but those wisps that I had seen before, as slippery as eels, were blacker; and now they began to weave their way through the branches again, breaking off from the low cloud and becoming something else entirely. My jaw dropped open. I had a stick; I could haul myself up, but fear rather than the cold had rendered me immobile. Still they continued to weave, this way and that; seeking their quarry; taking their time; no need to hurry, just as Father had thought he had no need to hurry, I was not going anywhere. I could not.

  There! With sightless eyes they had spied me.

  Rather than wisps, they swarmed together to form a cloud of their own; a miasma; and as I watched, a part of me was mesmerised, fascinated even. Was it an ugly thing? Yes, yes it was that, but it was also beguiling. It appeared to want me and only me and that fact alone was seductive for none had wanted me before. What would it feel like to touch it? I let go of the stick and reached out. Would it be cold and hard, razor-edged? Would it shred my hands to ribbons, then my arms, and then my entire body? Or would it be something different; something quite unexpected? A void, but one in which there was at least a semblance of peace; a silence as profound as that to which I was accustomed; and I would exist at the heart of it, just as I had existed at the heart of Mears House - alone.

  Tempting, it was so very tempting.

  Indeed, after tonight, where else could I exist?

  “Very well,” I whispered.

  I think I may have even smiled as the mass began to swirl; to concertina; dancing for me; toying with me, knowing that I had succumbed; that it was the master.

  Not as ugly now, but really quite beautiful. In its own way…

  A scream – so wretched – pierced the trance I had fallen into.

  Was it Father?

  In the corner of my eye I yet again caught sight of something fleeting, and I tensed. Whatever that was, it was not beautiful. It was… obscene.

  There was another shriek and even the mass in front of me shrank to hear it.

  “Rosamund! Rosamund!”

  He was screaming my name, just as he had done so many times before.

  “Help me!”

  My father. My jailor. The betrayer.

  The spell broken, I retrieved the stick and struggled to my feet. The mass was no longer leisurely in its nature, but now had grown as frenzied as my fathe
r; angry perhaps at having had its carefully orchestrated performance interrupted. It was not beautiful and it had never been so. It was a liar. Another one. And I was not.

  Not now.

  My father’s cries – his begging and his pleading – were terrible to hear. I had to reach him, convinced that whatever had him in its grip – him, I reminded myself, and not me; the thing that he had dared to summon – was now tearing him apart, growing teeth and claws that could rip into flesh and bone as if they were paper-thin.

  But there was something that had me in its sights – still; that barred my way; that might not hesitate to do the same.

  I could not help him. Why should I? He had never been generous to me. I could turn; flee again, as best I could. The attic – all I needed was to reach it.

  I did turn, I began to hobble away, but that cry that filled the air; that ‘please’, drawn out with such terror… But he is your father!

  Could I do it? Could I save him? And in doing so, would I save myself?

  Harry came to mind and the message he had imparted about the necklace in Berkeley Square. Protection. Josie too, when I had stated – as if I had known – that soon I would see things I did not wish to see. Acknowledging this, she had counselled, ‘That’s when you need to draw on instinct, and act upon it.’

  Although my hand was shaking; although the night seemed darker than before; I reached into my sleeve and retrieved the necklace. I had to drop the stick to do so, for I needed both hands to drape it around my neck. It was armour, to be hidden no more. With the necklace finally in place, I turned back to face the mass, ignoring the pain in my ankle; my head that continued to ache, and the fear that wanted to cow me.

  You can get tired of fear.

  And I was tired. So very tired.

  But I was also something else.

  As my hand reached up to clutch at the stones about my neck, feeling their warmth penetrate my fingertips on such a cold, cold night, the energy that was at their core, positive energy, I realised exactly what – and who – I was.

  I was Dickens, the creator of a character I admired; one that was plucky.

  I was Josie, who had taught me the magnificence of the spirit world.