Oswin's Project

by Fiona Law

  “Body and soul!” Gemma gasped. “Body and spirit. Our soul, our spirit is contained inside us. We are flesh but they are spirit only.”

  Beryl folded her arms. “I don’t know if I can believe this,” she declared.

  “Show her the salt cellar incident,” Griswold said.

  Oswin ran the scene in the kitchen-diner and they all watched as the little white smudge zoomed down from the clock, scurried across the table and hurled itself at the salt cellar, toppling it over, then leapt straight back up to the clock.

  “See? I told you so!” Beryl cried. “My hands were nowhere near the cellar!” She looked triumphantly at the others. “Yeah! This spy camera works both ways, you know. Now I’ve been cleared on that account outright. Father, you have to admit my hands did not even come close to touching...”

  Griswold sighed. “Yes, all right, Beryl, you didn’t knock it over!”

  “Here’s another one. This is a different sort of ghost. A spectral ghost. She came in soon after the salt cellar. Remember we all thought we heard my Mum coming? Well, it wasn’t... See that hazy figure? Look, a few moments later...and there she is. See the differences in energy fields? She’s bigger and you can trace the outline of a human figure. Watch as she goes into the front room. Here I come…I’ll speed this up to normal pace for you…I just miss her. And as you know, when we went into the room there was nothing there. The field detecting camera there didn’t even switch on.”

  “But no one was accused of anything then,” Beryl said.

  “It’s not about blaming anyone for anything. He caught a ghost on camera, Beryl,” Gemma said. “That’s very hard to do.”

  “It’s them little buggers that shorted the wiring and started the fire,” Griswold said.

  “Yes,” agreed Oswin. “And I’ll bet they did it deliberately. They never liked the cameras.”

  “Hang on a minute,” Beryl said, her eyes narrowed. “How long did you have the cameras up? Father, were you aware that we were all being filmed? Why haven’t you said anything about it?” she demanded.

  “Well…I…er…”Griswold squirmed. “It was sort of my idea. But look what we have; actual footage of real ghosts. I bet you that’s worth a fortune, eh?”

  “Stick to the point, Father,” Beryl reminded him firmly. “You were having us filmed in our rooms, in our private moments.”

  “I kept that down to a bare minimum,” Oswin pointed out, nudging his glasses up. “I was far more interested in capturing the ghosts…”

  “I was well and truly worried with all that joss stick burning,” Griswold interrupted in his defence.

  Gemma sighed. “I don’t mind!”

  “There!” said Griswold. “Gemma doesn’t mind. She’s got nothing to hide.”

  “And neither do I,” Beryl cried. “But I resent this invasion into my privacy!”

  “I was worried that you were smoking pot,” her father insisted. “I thought…er…Raj may be influencing you…”

  “Huh! That betraying little Emo wouldn’t smoke anything, yet alone illegal substances. Grade C or not! All that heavy metal, gothic rock is just a show with him and his silly little band!”

  “Yes,” Griswold ducked his head. “I know that now. I should never have doubted you…”

  “Exactly! I am totally innocent. I never did drugs and I never started the fire. My lights were not faulty!” Beryl said triumphantly. “Now, as to the illegal surveillance. You have disabled the cameras, haven’t you? Good! Meeting adjourned!”

  “But what about the ghosts?” Gemma said.

  “What? The ghosts? Yes, of course the little white things started the fire, and ruined my precious tree. Did I tell you I spent six and-a-quarter hours putting it up? Plus, they had me falsely accused of knocking over the salt cellar and they ultimately ruined my relationship with Raj. And who knows what else.” She paused and narrowed her eyes. “I have a vague memory of my Coast sweater being found in the toilet, or was that all a nightmare? Nevertheless, we must call someone to exterminate the little horrors. Father, I don’t know how you can allow us live in a ghost-infested house. No wonder poor Gemma is not in touch with reality!”

  Beryl phoned a directory service straight away and told the story in the longest possible way to each person she spoke to on her route to finding a ghost buster.

  First she explained her cause in unnecessary detail to the directory assistant, then to the secretary of National Society for Psychical Research, and finally to a certain Mister Philip Westworth, the man who would lead any investigation into Oswin’s inventions and discovery. Each time her story became more her own and more graphic.

  “I don’t want you to laugh at me, Mister Westworth,” she said. “We’ve actually got proof of this, in the form of CCTV footage—genuine stuff. I’ve been feeling very uneasy lately. I put it all down to the stress of running a home, fostering my little cousin who we look after during the week, and being a mother figure to Gemma, my little sister—our mother has passed on, you see—all this on top of keeping up with my school work! It seems I have also been the victim of reign of terror imposed upon me by a poltergeist. Yes! A pair of poltergeists, no less! No wonder my head feels like it wants to explode!”

  Oswin bristled in the background. He tried to wrestle the receiver out of Beryl’s hand, but she kept him at arm’s length by placing a firm hand on his forehead. After flailing about for some time, Oswin had to content himself with pacing back and forth, trying to launch surprise attacks on Beryl. All of which were more than unsuccessful, Beryl was hardly put out of her stride.

  “No! Whatever makes you think this is a prank call?” she protested into the receiver. “Excuse me! Excuse me! I’ll have you know that a serious study of the situation has already been conducted in…”

  Oswin groaned. “Do something!” he pleaded to Griswold.

  “…my cousin, who is a gifted child… Alright, then. The point is that we want you to come and have a look at the house, to at least confirm our findings. I am sure you will see what I am talking about the minute you walk into the house, and then of course, if you could remove the ghosts…oh!…Well, yes, I know Ghost Busters wasn’t real, but…” There was a long pause, before Beryl spoke again. “I am well aware of that!…well, if you could simply make an appointment to…I’ll hand you over to Father. He’s a company manager, you know—in charge of a lot of people.”

  Griswold, coming up behind Beryl, wrenched the phone from her and took over the conversation.

  Chapter Twenty

  After speaking with Griswold, it was arranged that Mister Westworth would come on Saturday. The entire household had given up work, study, dancing, and family togetherness to be there. Mister Westworth brought with him a psychic medium called Patricia and a technically-minded gentleman called Gary, who had gadgets of his own. He was very interested in the Ghost-O-Meter, although he could not have failed to notice that it looked and sounded like a toy space gun.

  “Wow, this is a brilliant little invention!” he enthused. “Have you thought of having it patented? I suggest you do. I know it’s a long and laborious process—it may even take years, but it’s well worth it, son!”

  Although Patricia didn’t want to be told a thing of the haunting prior to her investigation, Mister Westworth and Gary spent a long time going through the ghost diary. Then both men sat in Oswin’s room and studied the ghostly footage and all his notes on how he adapted the camera. They even took Gemma’s ghost diary seriously.

  Meanwhile, Patricia wandered through the house with a quartz crystal wand, making her own notes and standing for long periods in various rooms and crannies. She had very long hair, a husky voice and huge blue eyes. Griswold took an instant liking to her and trailed after her on her rounds. Beryl distrusted Patricia instantly and also followed her.

  “To make sure,” she hissed noisily in
to Gemma’s ear, “nothing goes missing!”

  Gemma blushed scarlet, convinced that the medium heard, but if she did, Patricia ignored Beryl grandly and placed a cool hand on Gemma’s arm.

  “Come with me,” she said and she flittered from room to room with her entourage of hosts hovering near. She stopped in the front room, breathed in deeply a few times and circled the room. The party drew back slightly, wide-eyed and silent, as she lifted her head and let her eyes roll back before they fluttered closed.

  “It is difficult to pinpoint any one thing,” Patricia breathed. “This room has been a focal point for dwellers of the house since its origin.” Here Beryl rolled her eyes and Patricia, apparently having not seen her, continued. “Being the front room, of course that is to be expected. It holds layers of strong emotions…layers!”

  “That’s funny,” Griswold mused. “Our Gemma never spends too much time in here. She just comes to watch a bit of telly. But it’s the dining room she really…”

  Patricia’s eyes flew open and met his. He blushed and turned away.

  “There is a sense of loneliness, of waiting, that is particularly strong for me,” she went on. “Perhaps someone spent many hours grieving for a loved one here, or waiting…hoping for their return.”

  “If you get a sense of a lot of bereavement up in my room,” said Beryl, “that would be me the other night. I had no choice but to break up with my boyfriend. I was betrayed, you know.”

  “It has a sense of great loneliness,” said Patricia, continuing to ignore Beryl. “Sometimes souls get lost in a period of their lives. It is such an intense time for them that even after death they are drawn back to it. Sometimes a person can pull a departed loved one back, creating an earth-bound spirit. Other times a person can hold themselves down on earth.”

  “You’re not saying one of us is keeping my late wife here?” gasped Griswold. “I was…very fond of her! I still miss her, but I’m used to her being gone.”

  Patricia smiled at him and placed a hand on his burning cheek. “Your darling Minnie sends her love and misses you too. But no, she is not haunting this house, she is at great peace. She also says thank you for the rose bush you planted in her name and also, you should try to be less uptight and she hopes you find love again.”

  Griswold gulped and suddenly found his shoes very interesting.

  “I think we could have been soul mates,” Beryl said, sniffing.

  Patricia made notes, jotting them down in a decorated note book, and they passed on to the hall. This, she explained was similar to the front room and for the same reasons. It was beginning to seem like a tour of a house from a quirky estate agent. When they walked into the dining room, Patricia gasped. She paled and whimpered, becoming clearly distracted for a moment.

  “Are you alright, luv?” asked Griswold, placing a hand on the medium’s shoulder.

  Patricia’s eyes did that rolling thing again and her voice was jagged and even huskier than ever. “There is..someone…something here. Is it fury, or the presence of evil?”

  “You’re not going to go into a trance on us, are you?” Beryl asked anxiously. “I don’t think I could handle stuff like that…” She broke off and giggled nervously, glancing from Patricia to Griswold and to Gemma. But no one responded to her. She sighed heavily and hung back moodily.

  “We hardly ever use this room,” Gemma said at last. “It’s too cold, and formal, and…uncomfortable…to eat in.”

  Patricia did not respond immediately. She put her hands out, “There is an emptiness…” she breathed, “something stolen…missing…” She stopped dead in her tracks and her eyes opened very wide. “There,” she pointed to the wall, where the framed print hung. The glass was cracked in two places.

  “That’s just a print of a Van Gough,” said Beryl. “I got it at a charity shop. It keeps falling down. I’ve hung it up twice last month…”

  “It’s gone from there,” Patricia interrupted in a frightened shriek. “…such anger…hatred!” She swayed slightly and Griswold, moving for the first time since entering the room, rushed to support her.

  “Whatever are you going on about?” Beryl asked. “Excuse me! But I think you’re frightening Gemma.”

  “The clock,” Gemma breathed. “You moved the clock from there.”

  “No, hang on a minute,” Beryl said. “I don’t like where this is going! It’s not as though I stole it. As Mother-of-the-House I made a decision to move it. It’s only in the kitchen. I just put it there because that’s where we all eat. It’s a kitchen-diner! It’s nice to have a clock there. And Father wouldn’t buy a new one, so I moved this one.”

  “Would you like a cup of tea…er…Pat?” Griswold asked tenderly, steering Patricia out towards the kitchen.

  “I had no choice but to move it!” Beryl stamped her foot and sniffed as everyone else hurried to the kitchen. It seemed they were glad for an excuse to leave the dining room.

  Beryl hurried up from the rear of the party, crying, “Wait for me! Here, let me put the kettle on!”

  She quickly found her feet again, in ordering Gemma and Griswold about with regards to looking after the trembling Patricia. “Put her down at the table, Father. Gemma, get some biscuits. Nothing with icing, nothing too rich—digestives!”

  Patricia allowed herself to be placed in one of the kitchen table chairs, and, still shivering, clasped a mug of sweet tea gratefully. Just as it seemed that she was regaining her balance, she gasped, and let out a rasping scream. Everyone followed her gaze. It was on the clock.

  “It’s in there,” she breathed, pointing to the clock, her tea sloshing onto the table. The others froze, unsure of what to do.

  “Oh, my gawd!” Beryl hooted. “She’s not going all funny again, is she? She’s going to throw a fit! Gemma, boil some more water!”

  Gemma obeyed, although she couldn’t think what Beryl was going to do with more hot water. Still, it gave her something to do—something better to focus on than on poor Patricia, who continued to stare unseeingly at the clock, gaping, like a fish out of water.

  Griswold gently patted her back and said, “There, there!” He began to rub her back in gentle little circles—soothingly—despite Beryl glaring primly at him.

  There was a long silence, magnifying the hiss of the kettle.

  At last Patricia the medium swallowed and spoke. “Attached to that clock is a presence—No! I sense two, two presences—and they want to be in the dining room.”

  “That’s not our family clock, or anything,” Griswold hastened to explain, and stopped rubbing her back. “It came with the house. I was so surprised the previous owners left it, I even phoned them to make sure they hadn’t forgotten it.”

  “Do you think they left it because they were frightened of it?” asked Gemma.

  “I wouldn’t be surprised,” Patricia said faintly. “And I know that you would have fewer strange disturbances once you move that clock back to the dining room!”

  “Perhaps we should get rid of it altogether,” said Griswold, crossing purposefully towards the clock.

  “Now hang on a minute!” Beryl shrieked, dashing to bar his way. “I don’t like you talking that way about my clock! That’s a valuable family heirloom. We’ve got precious little of that sort of thing. I don’t think we should be getting rid of our assets. It is our family clock now and I’m proud to own it.”

  “It contains a presence, that has been disturbed and is angry,” Patricia repeated quietly. She put her fingers to her temples and shut her eyes.

  “Oh, she’s off again,” Beryl muttered irritably, but Griswold shot her such a stern look, she almost blushed.

  Patricia said in her dusky, husky tones, “My guide is telling me that there are two dryads attached to the clock—they are the spirits of the tree from which it was carved. When the tree was felled, instead of mo
ving on, the hamadryads stayed with the fallen tree…they continue to live in the wood…they’re still furious at having been cut down…” Her voice trailed off but her lips moved rapidly. Griswold, Beryl and Gemma looked at each other, at Patricia, then back at each other.

  After a pause, Patricia opened her eyes with a gasp and instantly resumed her usual composure, smiling at Griswold and the girls. “I urged them to move over to the other side too, to follow the light and find peace, but…”

  “They get to go to Heaven?” Griswold asked incredulously.

  Patricia blinked. “Well, yes. All living things have a spirit and ultimately belong with God in Heaven.”

  “With my wife? You sent them up there with my dear departed wife?”

  Patricia shook her head patiently. “Don’t worry, Griswold, no harm will ever come to your wife in Heaven. Besides,” she continued with a sigh, “to be honest with you, I’m not sure that the dryads have left this plane yet.”

  “Oh, so they’re being picky now, are they? Cheeky beggars!”

  “Yes,” Beryl added, “if they want to stay in my clock in my house, they’ll have to put up with whatever room I choose…”

  At this the dining room door slammed with such velocity that the whole house shook. The Van Gough crashed to the floor with a tinkling of shattering glass and the clock slid, scraping, from the wall and thudded onto the kitchen table with a Twaangg-Wanggg! of shaken springs. Then, over the hush that followed, its clockwork continued unabated, louder than usual...tick…tock…tick…and with an air of menace. Even though the pendulum was not moving!

  As one, the party stepped back away from the table, gooseflesh rippling across their backs, up their necks and sending icy tendrils over their scalps. The color drained from even Beryl’s face and she was noticeably silent.

  Steps thudded down the staircase and Oswin, Gary and Mister Westworth sprang into the kitchen—all their gismos aimed and loaded.