Beyond the Dark Waters Trilogy

by Graham West

  A silence followed, and I thought, for a moment, that Mrs. Dawson had hung up. “Mr. Adams, Kelly told me what happened…” She paused. “I’m sorry. My daughter can be rather foolish sometimes—”

  “I’m sorry,” I cut in. “I’m not sure what you’re talking about.”

  There was another brief silence. “The séance.”

  “I’m sorry?”

  “Jenny wanted to contact her mother. Kelly said she could help her. It was all supposed to be fun…”

  “What séance? When?”

  “They had a Ouija board,” she began. “Kelly must have had it for some time. We didn’t know. They sell those things as toys now, but I’d have never had one in the house.” She paused. “Anyway, Kelly asked if anyone was there, like they do in the scary movies. At first, nothing happened, not for a few minutes. Then your Jenny asked if her mum was there. Kelly said that there was still nothing. I think that’s when Jen asked if there was anyone else from her family, and that’s when things kicked off.

  “Kelly thought Jenny was moving the arrow thing to spell Y-E-S. Jenny asked who it was, and I think the arrow spelled—” Mrs. Dawson paused. “What was it now? Two words… Find me, that’s it! Find me.”

  I felt my chest tighten. Jenny had opened the door. In that one single act, she had let Amelia in, and now she was paying the price.

  “That’s when the picture came off the wall,” Mrs. Dawson continued, her voice breaking. “Kelly said they felt something sweep through the room, like a green haze that felt cold and smelled damp and–”

  “Like stagnant water?”

  Mrs. Dawson was taken aback. “Yes. What makes you say that?”

  I’d heard enough. I needed to press the brake pedal on my speeding thoughts. “Just a guess,” I replied. “Thank you for letting me know, Mrs. Dawson. It’s not your fault. Kids do stuff and we can’t be on them twenty-four hours a day.”

  “I feel so bad,” she continued, ignoring me. “I hope Jenny is okay. Can you let me know?”

  I hung up, promising that I’d keep her informed, and thought about calling Tint. I tapped out his number but replaced the receiver before it rang out. Then I called Josie.

  ***

  “Wow! Holy shit. That’s kinda scary, hun. How do you feel?”

  “Like I want to meet up,” I replied.

  “The diner again?”

  “Sure. It’s our place.”

  We agreed to meet there rather than me driving to The Keys to pick her up from under Lou’s nose. The whole arrangement still left me feeling uneasy, and I wondered if there was a latent passion that might be aroused when their unconventional partnership was threatened.

  Josie ordered a skinny cappuccino and a slice of death by chocolate. “Gotta say, hun, even a sceptic like me can’t argue with that. I mean, how would Kelly’s mum know about the damp smell and the find me message? It’s so weird.”

  I smiled. “Told you so!”

  “Yep, okay, Mr. Smug Bastard. I haven’t got an explanation. Is that why you called me?” Josie grinned. “I’ll give you this one, Mr. Adams, but make the most of it. This will be the last time you get one over on me.”

  I felt the tension draining from me as she reached across and took my hand. My heart raced the way it had when I first met Elizabeth; the way it had when I turned to see Melissa standing behind me at the cash machine. I’d always found Josie attractive but never had she looked so beautiful as that afternoon in Tammy’s.

  “Everything is going to be okay, hun,” she said softly. “I can feel it. I can’t explain how or why…”

  Her words warmed me, and in that moment I felt the same assurance. Together, we were invincible. Jenny wasn’t just mine; she was ours. That was how it was. That was how it was meant to be. I felt as if I was drawing on Josie’s strength, day by day.

  I called at Sebastian’s place on the way home and found him cleaning up after the new puppy.

  “Sorry about the smell,” he said breezily. “He’s pretty good, generally.” The old professor paused and looked up. “Any news?”

  I told him about the séance as he poured me a coffee.

  “I have to be honest,” he said after reflecting for what seemed an age. “It doesn’t surprise me. I did think that Jenny might have thrown the door open at some point, or left herself open, at least.”

  He handed me a cup as I sat down. “Many kids—and adults of course—play at contacting the spirits, and it is nothing more than a game with few consequences. But occasionally, they succeed and it gets very messy.”

  “It doesn’t get much messier than this,” I replied.

  Tint smiled wryly. “True, but things are starting to make sense. The jigsaw is becoming a picture.”

  That evening, I sat talking to Jenny, despite Sebastian’s advice to leave her alone, but didn’t mention the séance. Whatever she heard—whatever information seeped through to her subconscious mind—I wanted it to be positive. We were going to find Amelia. Things were happening. The article in the Tabwell Herald, the pictures by the lake. We were within touching distance.

  ***

  I can hear a rustling in the trees behind me. It can’t be Allington, but it hardly matters anyway, for my life is over and I am eager to escape into whatever awaits me beyond. I am confused, one moment convinced of my innocence, the next I begin to doubt. If only he would give me a sign. I fear the hell that the men of God preach from their pulpits but I fear life more. It won’t be long now—it won’t be long before the water swallows me into its murky depths and then I shall be free. I pity my child. What awaits that poor girl? What awaits her offspring? Will I return one day, a vexed spirit? I dip my foot into the water and feel the cold. Not long now…not long…

  ***

  I spent the next few days with Josie, calling in to see my daughter each evening, waiting, hoping to see those eyelids flicker. But she remained motionless. I stroked her hand and kissed her forehead, praying that she would respond. I told her I loved her more than anything else in the world. She was mine. Mine! I whispered the words in her ear, wondering if they would echo through her subconscious.

  The article in the Tabwell Herald carried two photographs of the lake with me, looking suitably troubled, looking across the surface. The whole place reminded me of something from a horror movie with the gnarled roots of nearby trees snaking into the water.

  I called Jo, who had taken time out from the bar to read the piece, which was given the best part of the second page. “It’s pretty good,” she said. “It’ll get people interested, and that’s what we want.”

  Sebastian Tint said the same thing, but I had reservations. I thought about the bogus reporter who had failed to resurface. His warnings about a possible backlash haunted me, and I wondered how the parish would react to their tainted saint whose remains lay in their church.

  I went walking with the old man and his excitable pup that afternoon, having spent the morning watching the news channel and drinking far too much coffee.

  “I feel that we are in something of a calm before an inevitable storm,” he told me as we turned onto a footpath that traversed the edge of several acres of farmland. Ricky strained at his lead. “I’m guessing the Herald will have several letters—or emails, I suppose—regarding the reputation of our reverend.”

  ***

  “People will believe what they want to believe,” Tint had told me. He was right, of course. According to the editor, the Herald could have filled a whole edition with public reaction to the article.

  “Most of it was positive,” Helen Pace said. “But we have to have a balance, so there are a couple of replies you might find…harsh.”

  The Herald published six letters.

  A fascinating story. They should find the remains of this poor girl and give her a proper burial.

  Another wrote:

  Why are we always trying to dig up the past? Who was this girl and why would anyone want to waste money trying to find a heap of bones?

&nb
sp; But it was the last letter that caught my eye:

  The Reverend Allington has long been regarded as Tabwell’s Saint, and now Mr. Adams is seeking to besmirch his name. We cannot prove that these letters are genuine, and I trust that the people of Tabwell will treat this story with the contempt it deserves. I am disappointed that the Herald has printed the sensationalist clap-trap, and I hope Mr. Adams crawls back under his stone! Let the Reverend Allington rest in peace.

  “Prick,” I muttered under my breath as I tapped in Josie’s number.

  “Is that you, Mr. Adams?” she said breezily. “Are you calling from under your stone?”

  “Yep, I’m looking for a new man of God to besmirch.”

  Josie laughed. “You’ll burn in hell,” she said, “and I’m guessing you’ll have Allington for company.”

  I didn’t believe in hell. Never had done—at least not the lake of fire the zealous evangelicals preached. Even my father had problems with the doctrine of eternal damnation, preferring to believe that hell was separation from God. But when you hated someone enough, a belief in hell fire was kind of comforting. I hated Allington, and if he was burning somewhere, that was fine with me.

  ***

  I sat staring at Amelia’s diaries. A young woman’s life—her thoughts. Something, almost as tangible as a hand resting on my arm, prevented me from prying any further. Whether it was my own fear or a paranormal force, I couldn’t be sure, but I left them on the kitchen table and poured myself another coffee. I’d vowed to cut down on the drink, having caught sight of an overflowing bottle bin by the back door. I’d have been embarrassed to put it out for the recycling wagon, so I’d split the contents into three separate heavy-duty bags and promised to give the soft drinks a go.

  Life was much tougher without the whisky-induced sleep. I found myself waking frequently throughout the night, listening to every creak and groan, imagining that the spirit of Amelia might appear at the bottom of my bed at any time. There had been moments during the seemingly eternal sober nights when I’d longed to call Josie. Longed for the time when I would awake to find her next to me each morning, a time when we could sit around the breakfast table as a family, together. But without the assistance of the bottle, I sometimes lay in the darkness of my room and saw nothing but the lake that lay like an ocean between us and any happiness we might grasp from the wrecks of our lives.

  Josie called to say she was meeting with the brewery guy, so I called in on Sebastian for a chat. He offered me a brandy but I refused. Instead, we took a walk; it was something Tint did every day, regardless of the weather. Two miles.

  “It’s like a drug,” he told me as we set out. “I can’t do as much these days, but until I lose the use of my legs, I’m going to keep going.”

  Tint listened as I told him about Josie and my dream of a future, wondering if the old man might just be able to reassure me. Maybe he would have a vibe or an invisible crystal ball into which he could gaze.

  “There is no reason why you can’t have a life together,” he said thoughtfully. “But futures are built on good foundations. You mustn’t push Jenny into accepting Josie, and if she becomes distressed, you must be patient. Talk to her about Elizabeth. Don’t neglect her memory.” Tint patted my arm. “It will take time, and the longer it takes, the better your life together will be.”

  I’d never considered the possibility that Jenny would not come out of her coma. Nor had I considered that she would not return to full health. Maybe it was a kind of coping mechanism that kicks in; I couldn’t have handled the thought of losing her, but I needed Jo too.

  She was a forty-year-old woman who would pass for a girl in her early thirties, even without make-up. She possessed a natural beauty and a good heart. I wanted it to work. I wanted a family, no matter how long it took.

  I returned home to find the TV flickering silently. The room was cold and empty, leaving me with a heavy feeling that was difficult to understand. I shuddered. The room smelled damp—the kind of smell you’d find in an old house that had stood unoccupied for years. I walked through into the kitchen and was immediately hit by a sudden change in temperature. It was warm, the warmth I had become accustomed to. It felt like home.

  Stepping back into the lounge, the stench of stagnant water stung my nostrils like acid, and I resisted the urge to let out a scream. Amelia. I wanted to run but something drew me in.

  Sit down…there is something I want you to see.

  The voice was in my head, but it was almost as if something or someone had planted the seed. I obeyed.

  I sat for several minutes, staring at the TV, waiting for something to happen, listening to my heart thumping against my ribs.

  What do you want? What do you want to show me?

  The minutes passed, and my mind raced. Was this my imagination? Was I going crazy? I glanced at the family portrait on the wall, wondering if Elizabeth would point an accusing finger in my direction.

  This is all your doing—you and that whore, Melissa!

  But nothing moved. Then my eyes fell once more on Amelia’s diaries. That’s when I saw it. Jutting out from the pages of a volume at the top of the small stack was what looked like a bookmark. It was one of the diaries I’d already glanced through but I’d not noticed the picture.

  Take a look…look and read.

  I reached over and pulled the diary towards me. It felt heavy—heavy and cold. Surely it was just my imagination. This was nothing more than the ramblings of a girl. But it wasn’t a bookmark; it was a photograph. I stared at the image and my blood ran cold.

  ***

  The photograph was probably no bigger than two post-it notes. I knew the subjects. A swarthy-looking, well-groomed gent in a double breasted jacket stood beside a seated girl in a long pale dress. She stared out at me, almost as if she knew. Her eyes were large, yet within that face, I saw an ethereal beauty. Amelia, I thought. We meet at last.

  My hands shook. This was the girl. The girl who had my daughter. The girl who had sat in the attic room. I knew that the man who stood at her side was the Stanwicks’ gardener—Amelia’s father. The photograph looked as if it had been taken in the grounds of the house, maybe close to the lake where her bones lay. I shuddered. The diary lay open at the page I’d pulled the photo from.

  Read it… The voice was there in my head.

  I picked up the diary and began to read, feeling the ice in my veins.

  Friday 12th August.

  I awoke this morning unaware of what awaited me. Sarah brought the photograph, and now I am able to see my father whenever I please. He seems to be looking back at me, and when I smile it is almost as if he smiles back. Foolishness, I know, but there is no harm. Sarah seemed distracted, oblivious to my joy as I held the photograph for the first time. “I cannot stay long,” she told me. “The Reverend Allington wishes to see you.”

  I asked Sarah what the minister could possibly want with me, but she told me she didn’t know, and I knew better than to challenge her, of course. I would find out soon enough. I spent the morning reading poetry, trying to recite the verse without referring to the page. I was halfway through a particularly troublesome poem when I heard a commotion coming from the floor below.

  I heard my mother’s voice raised in anger, but her words were lost in an eerie echo. Thankfully, I did hear footsteps on the stairs and returned quickly to my desk. Sarah always knocked, and so did my mother on her infrequent visits. I waited, sensing a presence on the other side of the door.

  “Hello?” I called.

  The door opened. It was the Reverend Allington.

  “Good afternoon, Amelia. You’re reading, I see. Very good.”

  I smiled politely, wondering what the minister could possibly want with me.

  “Do you read your Bible, Amelia?” he asked.

  “Yes, sir, often. I love the parables.”

  He smiled, but there was a coldness in his eyes. “That is good. We are all put on this Earth in the service of our Lord and we must be ob
edient to his calling.”

  I closed my book, for it is polite to do so in company. “I’m not sure that the Lord has need of me,” I said.

  The reverend smiled. “He does, Amelia.”

  I averted my gaze, unable to look him in the eye.

  “God works in mysterious ways.” He paused, waiting for me to enquire as to what he could possibly have planned for me. “I’ll come straight to the point, Amelia. Mrs. Allington is barren. She is unable to give me a child.” He stared at me. “It is not God’s will that a woman should be cursed in this way, but He has provided an answer.” He looked at me, awaiting a response. “Do you understand what I’m saying?”

  I shook my head.

  “The Bible tells us that fornication is sinful, but I believe that it is only an abomination to God when it is borne from lust rather than necessity. God will look kindly upon a woman who bears a child for one of His servants.”

  His eyes bore into me, cold and unfeeling. My heart began to thump, and I felt beads of perspiration forming on the back of my neck “But I cannot—”

  “You can, Amelia, and you will.”

  I can hardly bring myself to put to paper the thing that happened in what may have only been minutes but felt like hours. He took my hand and pulled me from my chair. I resisted and found myself shaking violently. This angered the minister. “Don’t resist the will of God, you stupid child. The Devil will have you!”

  I found myself lying on the bed, the reverend standing over me, unbuckling himself. “Open your legs, my child!”

  I began to sob, but my refusal angered him more. His face was crimson, his eyes wild. Even now I feel the terror, I feel the betrayal. My own mother had allowed this. I called my father’s name, praying that he might rescue me, but my cries angered the reverend even more, and he slapped my face hard. The pain stunned me, and in that moment he pulled my legs apart.

  He didn’t enter me out of love. His contempt was clear and I submitted, closing my eyes and biting my lip so hard that it bled. I could not bear to look up at the man but listened to his breathing as it became heavy and laboured. I tried not to cry but the pain was almost unbearable, although I knew that my protests would remain unheard. The taste of blood was bitter on my tongue as the reverend suddenly withdrew himself from me.