Hidden Company

by S E England

  “I know you’re human. Who are you? Tell me your name.”

  No reply.

  “Tell me who you are!”

  There was no answer but the shape of a four legged creature now skittered sideways, blending seamlessly into the darkest part of the room.

  And upstairs a baby started to cry.

  This was horrible. A terrible reminder of dark times she had no intention of revisiting.

  “No, Branwen, I have to stop–”

  Isobel tried repeatedly to pull down the trapdoors she had only just imagined opening, but instead of a channel of white light with a ladder, there was nothing but a long, dark corridor that whistled like a tunnel in the wind.

  “Branwen!”

  Unintelligible chatter suddenly filled the room - an emphatic one-way conversation – that of a woman confiding infectious gossip, yet not a word made sense. Greatly agitated, the woman seemed to be becoming increasingly desperate to be understood, until she was shouting.

  Isobel had her hands over her ears. “No, no…”

  Then to her horror her body became not her own. Her face began to twitch with tics, the jaw work and neck jerk as if she had a terrible affliction.

  Again she attempted to call out to Branwen, but now the words wouldn’t form at all, and instead she found herself hurtling through a darkened corridor towards somewhere she didn’t want to go. A feeling of impending dread was escalating rapidly.

  A baby was screaming.

  Then suddenly - slam! Slam! Slam!

  Upstairs! A sash window upstairs was being repeatedly crashed onto the sill. So hard the wall shuddered.

  Drunkenly, dizzily, she tried to stand, but appeared to be riveted to the chair. She tried again but her ankles felt as if they were strapped together and back she fell. Now she tried to wrench free her hands but it was exactly as if invisible clamps held them fast. A silent scream formed in her throat, her heart rate accelerating into full panic, breathing coming in great gulps.

  Then all at once it stopped - the banging, the baby crying, the window crashing and the whispering.

  Her eyes snapped open.

  Branwen was no longer there. And the room she now found herself in was small, without windows, and completely dark. This was a vision – that was all it was. She was being shown something. God this was horrible. Keep calm, keep calm. What can I see? Do the job…what can I see?

  After a couple of seconds her eyes adjusted to the subterranean blackness, and a projected stream of hazy grey light as fine as a spider’s thread caught her attention.

  I see you.

  And I see you.

  The chink of grey now began to change, to expand into the shape of a keyhole. And the red ember of a cigarette tip glowed and flared. A man was standing on the outside of what appeared to be a prison cell.

  Who are you?

  All was now utterly silent. So silent it seemed the darkness was a living, pulsing thing. By way of response a tremendous feeling of dread began to assimilate, creeping up her back, pressing inwards, suffocating and choking the chill air with a distinct and powerful smell of sulphur.

  This man, this man…it was all to do with him…

  Who are you? Show me…

  A flash of revelation raced towards her and she reared back…but just at the point where a face began to emerge, the scene cut - almost as if a thick, wet blanket had been thrown over a fire. And the sense of menace drained away as surely as an ebbing tide.

  She opened her eyes. Blinked. The air now was clear and cold, her arms and legs quite free to move around; the electric fire was cranking out heat and Branwen was leaning forwards watching her.

  “What happened? The candles went out and I saw your lips moving. Are you all right?”

  “I’m not sure, it was a bit of a blur and happened really fast. I heard knocking and banging noises upstairs and a baby crying. Then it all went black and I was physically trapped - couldn’t move - and then suddenly this room wasn’t this room anymore, it was a prison cell and there was a man outside it smoking, looking through a peep hole. I thought I was going to pass out with the fear of him… Then I asked who he was, for him to show himself….but just as I was about to see, it all fell away. The whole scene just cut off. But the funny thing was I was accepting it, ready to see what I was being shown. Did you stop it? I could smell sulphur, so I assumed–?

  Branwen shook her head. “No, of course not.”

  “I thought you were shutting it down because of what you said earlier, about being possessed, and I kept trying to call out.”

  “Okay, I’ll tell you what I’ve got. There are a lot of spirits here trying to tell us something and we were getting close, but someone, a stronger personality, shut it down. It all just stopped, didn’t it?”

  “Yes, Like a blanket on flames.”

  “Were you frightened?”

  “Yes, but not as much as I thought I would be. Not until that feeling of dread came. It was something to do with the man who was smoking.”

  “But you didn’t see his face and you weren’t given a name or a clue?”

  “No, like I said it all happened really fast. Seconds. Just a flash.”

  “I’m going to take a punt and say the personality stopping the others showing us anything is the only person who lived here and that’s Olivia Whately-Fox, Edgar’s daughter.”

  “The old lady? I wonder why?”

  “So do I. And you know what? We need to raise her.”

  “How do you mean?”

  “Necromancy. I’m going to find out. Blimey, we’ve come a long way tonight. I really feel like we’ve broken through a barrier now.”

  “Branwen, who are you? I mean, why is this so important to you? And what’s necromancy if it isn’t what we’re doing already? How does that work?”

  Branwen turned her face to the fire. “I’m a traditional witch. Like my great-grandmother, Riana.”

  “Yes but – necromancy!”

  “All I’m saying is I am going to find out what happened and I’ll use any way I can. You coming here is the best thing that’s happened in years. A real breakthrough. They’ve given it to me…”

  Isobel frowned. Shook her head. “I won’t pretend to understand but I do agree that there are ghosts here, spirits who need to tell their story. What’s your personal interest though, I mean apart from natural justice and an unsettled village, because you seem…well…obsessive…?”

  Branwen shot her a look and Isobel winced with the force of it. Jeez, she’d hate to get on the wrong side of her.

  “You asked what necromancy was. You’re a medium, right? So your frequency is tuned into those who’ve passed and you’re sent messages, visions or thoughts? Necromancy is conjuring or evoking someone who didn’t necessarily want to be.”

  “Oh my God. Isn’t it bad enough? Branwen, that freaks me out. I’m terrified of the demonic, of evil and insanity. We humans don’t know what’s out there or what we’re dealing with–”

  “Humans don’t, you’re right, and they don’t want to know either - most of them. That’s why it’s been so damn easy for the church to manipulate people, because of all that fear. But there’s the beauty of witchcraft, you see – we’re free of all that bullshit and they know it. That’s why they had us rooted out and burned at the stake – because there is no fear to control us with.

  Think about it, Isobel. There is light and there is dark. Positive and negative. And if you can face the dark side, if you see what lies beyond, then there is so much less fear, don’t you see? You have to ride with it and take control – you are stronger than the spirits – your energy is more powerful. I’m not saying there aren’t tricks or risks - you have to know what you’re doing - but we can get incredible insight once we accept it’s there. You’ll never want to be the same again once you know–”

  “What about the devil?”

  “What devil?”

  “Branwen, I could smell sulphur and you said to protect myself from possession. For
pity’s sake, this is scary shit.”

  “I’ll tell you what I think – I think you’ve got to undo everything you’ve ever been brainwashed into thinking, then you’ll be free of your fear and your terror of the gift you’ve been given. If you let magick into your life and cut the chains of dogma, you will, like I said – never want to be mundane again.”

  “I don’t know what you mean. Are you saying I shouldn’t believe in God?”

  “No, I’m saying you shouldn’t believe everything you’ve been taught by people who run the Church. Find your own way and then you’ll truly be free. Everything you want is on the other side of fear. I really believe that. Just remember there’s always a balance and a price to pay. Always.”

  “But necromancy! That’s conjuring the dead, actually raising dark spirits. Aren’t there risks?”

  “Yes. But I do take precautions to minimise them. I make offerings – alcohol works very well I find – and in return I may be shown something I need to see. I have to be honest, I haven’t done much in the way of necromancy except at the asylum that one night when Ophelia was getting hitched. I wanted to raise Doctor Edgar but I got thrown around the room. Angry man he was - a very, very angry man. I never thought about his daughter, but you know I bet she was here all her life and no one ever knew. Off the radar, she was. ..”

  “I wonder why. Perhaps she was ill? Or just a spinster? Or–”

  “Or guarding something?”

  “So we’re back to bodies under the floorboards?”

  “You don’t believe it, do you?”

  “I don’t get why you are so personally desperate to know. I’ll level you with you, since we’re heading fast down this dangerous route together – I just find it hard to believe there is no other reason you’re doing all this other than an argumentative village and a lack of graves from the old asylum. Curiosity in other words!”

  “Do you really want me to tell you?”

  “Yes.”

  “All right, well it’s been simmering a hell of a long time…over a century…but they hanged her, Isobel. Those fucking heathens in that fucking village hanged my lovely great-grandmother for being a witch. They came for her in the cottage I live in now and strung her up in the woods, left her rotting on the end of a rope for all to see. She was beautiful, she was with child, and she never hurt a hair on anyone’s head.”

  “Oh, my God! Oh Christ, I’m so sorry. That was late in history too - what, Victorian times?”

  “Exactly. Yes, the bloody witch hunting was long over but any excuse. They say she brought crimbils to the village, worked with the fae and helped them kill and steal babies in return for magick. But the order to hang her came from him – from the good Christian doctor in Lavinia House and I’ll tell you something else, I know who dragged her into the street and put the rope around her neck, too. And I’ll see him in Hell for it.”

  “Why would a doctor, a learned man, go along with such a ridiculous notion?”

  “People said they saw these changelings, crimbils, in the forest and in the fields – and they lived in fear of their children being snatched, and make no bones about it there were a lot of infant deaths in the village. Maybe he took it upon himself to appease them and call Riana out for being a witch? Or maybe something else was going on and she was onto him.”

  Isobel shook her head. “So he played on the villagers’ superstitions and whipped them up enough to make them murder her? But what would he have been up to? Killing his patients, do you think? Why would he do that?”

  Branwen shrugged. “I’ve spent decades digging away at this. I’ll never stop. And now I’ve seen the hooded boatman by the lake I know it’s building up - whatever revelation is coming, it’s coming soon.”

  “The druid?”

  “They were here for centuries until the Romans drove them out - this has always been a sacred place full of magick. The island in the middle of the lake was where they buried their dead, and if ever the boatman is sighted it means it’s time for another death. You were brought here, it’s what was needed – a conduit – for the truth to come, for the revelation. I can’t do it on my own, I need you. Will you help me, Isobel? Please?”

  She reached over and gave the other woman’s hand a squeeze. “Yes, I will. I’ll try not to let spirits scare me too much and–”

  “I’d worry more about Rhys and Cath Payne if I were you. And the rest.”

  “Why? I mean, I know they’re aggressive but why are they so angry?”

  “Not sure. But Rhys Payne’s great grandmother worked at Lavinia House. As did his wife, Cath’s. Cath Winters as was. Oh, and Lorna Strickland’s great-grandmother was the housekeeper. I imagine it has something to do with palms being greased back in the day. They’re keeping the family secret as it were. Think about it – the graves and records for all those people who were kept in that asylum are missing. And when a few too many beers go down their necks, people talk and those secrets slip out. Those secrets then reach the ears of people whose ancestors were left to die up in that mine. You’ve seen the graffiti? Think about it…why daub ‘pigs’ across the walls? I didn’t do it if that’s what you thought.”

  “I thought it was to slander the patients, that locals may not have wanted them here–”

  “No, not at all. Those people were ill, some of them epileptics or with Downs Syndrome – you’ve only to look at the photos on the pub wall. But no one ever saw a single funeral there, is what I’m saying. And no relatives ever stayed at the inn or took them home again as far as anyone knows. This is a small place and all roads lead through that village or up through the woods past the farms. Every coming and going was noted and I’m telling you no one ever left that asylum. So ask yourself, where are the graves, Isobel? It’s not just me and what I’m shown by the underworld. It’s practical and in our faces to this day in the form of some very hostile neighbours. No, I reckon these restless spirits are trying to get your attention but Olivia is stopping them. So I’m going to raise the old bitch.”

  “Right. God, Branwen, I get it now. I need a drink.”

  “Me too. Good thing I happened to bring along a few more bottles of my lovely mead–”

  The sound of a tumbling rock thudding onto the ground outside caused them both to swing towards the window.

  “Shit, we left the curtains open.”

  “Who the hell’s that?”

  “I don’t know,” said Branwen, “but it isn’t good.”

  ***

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Isobel

  01:00 hours.

  Email:

  ‘Hi Nina!

  I cannot begin to describe how rapidly things have changed here. All is not well. In fact, it’s downright weird. No - more than weird - frightening. I know I should have told you the truth yesterday instead of pretending everything was fine, but please don’t be too upset with me - I didn’t want to worry you, that’s all. The thing is, far from the house being only a gatehouse for various employees; it was actually lived in by the asylum doctor’s daughter – for decades! She’s a spirit I’ve seen a couple of times already, and believe me she does not want me here. There’s a really bad atmosphere.

  And yesterday one of the locals fired a gun at me. So my presence is more than just a tad unwelcome from both the living and the dead. Add to that, I’ve met a lady called Branwen - a practising witch, who instantly knew I was a medium and says this place was used as a morgue. She’s convinced something sinister happened at the asylum over a century ago, and it seems my new friend may not be too wide of the mark because there isn’t just one ghost here – there are loads. And they’re all trying to tell me something. Nina, I think she’s right. I’ve been getting visions thick and fast, and a lot of hostility from local people who I don’t think want the truth uncovering. Anyway the thing is, it’s come to a bit of a head and very quickly because…’

  She stopped typing. What was that? Hissing whispers seemed to be coming from the hallway again. Always the hall…
/>
  She stood and walked to the door, peering into the white glare of a fully lit house.

  Is someone here?

  Walking to the foot of the stairs she stood with her hand on the newel post and repeated the question in her mind. Fear would not get to her, it would not!

  “Is someone here? Do you want to talk to me?”

  Instantly the temperature dropped from cold and damp to an Arctic freeze. And this time it wasn’t fear that came to punch her in the gut, but a terrible, heart-rending compassion. Tears burned her eyes and the hopelessness of black depression was overwhelming. Oh, God…the grief…the raw pain…

  And then the girl appeared - the same one briefly glimpsed on her first night here, but now standing at the top of the stairs just where Branwen had said. Watching. A young woman dressed in a hideous flowery smock. Her bare feet were badly scratched and ingrained with dirt, scalp shaved and covered in sores. At first glance the apparition was terrifying – a mad woman with eyes that radiated anger, fear and mistrust. Perhaps, Isobel thought later, it was the terror the girl emitted that overrode her own, enabling a longer look rather than shutting down immediately. It had taken this spirit girl a great deal of energy and courage to reach out. It was her job to help her….

  Who are you? What is your name? Mine’s Isobel.

  She had once been extraordinarily pretty - more than that, beautiful - her eyes feline and of the deepest violet blue. Tall and spindly, she appeared to totter on colt legs, her frame cadaverous with bones jutting through bruised flesh, the skull incongruously large. For several seconds the air was electric as the girl, clutching hold of the bannisters, began to walk downstairs.

  Isobel stood her ground.

  I can help you. I am a spiritual medium. Please tell me your name.

  A reply buzzed in her ears but it didn’t make sense, akin to a telephone not properly connected. All she could do was keep on trying.

  I’m Isobel. Please tell me who you are.