The odd little voice had gone up in pitch. Anita was almost screaming now. And at the same time, Tara smelled something, a pungent odor that seemed to fill the room. It was the smell of burning. There was woodsmoke in it, but then she detected something else, a sickening odor that made Tara gag. It was the smell of burning meat.
With the stench came cries, people screaming. They were men’s voices, she was almost sure. Men in agony. Men dying slowly, slowly, in terror. Into her mind came a quote she had read somewhere about Caligula. When he had passed a death sentence on some hapless victim, the insane emperor always added, “Make him feel that he is dying.”
“Helen,” she asked urgently, “tell us, how do we get you away from the darkness?”
Instead of answering, Anita emitted a piercing scream that made Tara flinch. On her other side, Tim pulled his hand free and jumped up, knocking the table, shouting his sister’s name. His flashlight flicked on and found Anita’s face. Her eyes were white ovals, her head flung back, mouth wide, throat quivering. She shook violently, and her chair rocked.
“Shit!” Carl said. “This is wrong, bring her out of it!”
There was a confused scramble as everyone talked at once. Tim put the flashlight down and knelt by his sister, talking urgently, one hand on her arm.
“Neets, come on, snap out of it!”
“Be careful!” Tara warned. “She might be having a seizure. Find something for her to bite down on…”
More confused instructions and warnings followed. Carl yanked the curtains open, dragging one down in his haste. Tim was trying to force the flashlight between his sister’s teeth when she suddenly stopped shaking. Her eyes rolled back into view, and she stared at Tara, who was holding her in place.
“It’s all right,” Anita said.
Her voice was flat, surprisingly unemotional in the circumstances but otherwise normal. Everyone hesitated, then Tim spoke.
“Neets, what happened?”
Anita turned to look at Tim. Her eyes flickered, then she smiled. The smile seemed oddly unconvincing to Tara, and Tim also looked confused.
“I am… fine,” Anita said. “I just had a little shock. There were… many voices. Many words. Too many shadows.”
She closed her eyes and bowed her head. Anita’s hair fell over her face. Tara flicked it back and, for a second, she thought she glimpsed a sly expression. It was not the playful slyness she knew but something else. A terrible suspicion started to form in her mind. Carl had gone to get Anita a glass of water, and Tim was helping his sister to an old sofa that stood to one side of the window.
“We should call a doctor!” said Tara.
Tim looked puzzled. Tara persisted, talking loudly.
“We should summon a physician to examine her.”
Anita’s gaze snapped up to stare at Tara, then she lowered her head again.
“No!” she said slowly, as if dredging up each word from her memory. “No doctors. Please. I just need to rest.”
Tim looked a question at Tara, who shook her head.
“It’s not Anita—she knows doctors don’t make house calls. Not in this century. But I fooled Helen, just for a second.”
Tim looked from Tara to his sister and back. Then he pulled away from Anita, just a few inches but enough to register. Anita stood up quickly and, before Tara could react, ran straight at her. Tara was knocked aside, flailing her arms, and recovered just in time to see Anita barge straight into Carl, who had just walked back into the room. A glass of water went flying and shattered against the wall. Carl stepped aside and watched as Anita—or at least, Anita’s body—ran out of the living room.
“Stop her!” Tara shouted.
There was a rush for the door that led to them all nearly colliding with each other. Tara elbowed and dodged and was first out into the hall. The possessed Anita was opening the front door of Haslam House. Tara rushed forward, but her friend’s stolen body was already striding out on longer legs. Then the possessed woman started to run, bounding down the steps from the front door and onto the gravel driveway.
“Helen, where are you going?” Tara shouted.
Behind her, the two men were catching up. Tara caught sight of Ellie around the corner of the house, playing frisbee with the dog. Sonia appeared then, looking concerned. The fugitive changed course and almost collided with Carl’s van. She dodged it then started pounding across the scrubby lawn toward the gate.
“She could hurt herself!” shouted Tim. “I mean, hurt Neets!”
Helen’s willpower could only do so much. Anita had tried to keep in shape but in an impulsive, erratic way. Tara, a regular jogger, started to gain on her. She hoped the menfolk would be close behind as she was afraid it would get very physical. But just as she was almost within reach of her friend’s shoulder, Anita stumbled. She almost fell then sank to her knees with her hands pressed to her head. She was screaming, an inarticulate howl of pain.
“Oh God!”
Tim got to them just as Tara knelt beside her friend and put an arm around her.
“What is it? Helen, this still you?”
“So much pain!” screamed the dead woman. “I can’t escape the pain! The shadows won’t let me!”
Anita’s quivering body fell sideways onto the grass. Between them, Tim and Carl picked her up and carried her back inside. Tara tried to corral Trixie, who was bounding around barking in excitement, while Sonia took Ellie out of sight. Tara heard the mother explaining that Auntie Anita had a headache. It was a classic understatement, but it made her wonder if pain relief might help.
The men put Anita on the old sofa in the living room while Tara, with Sonia’s help, got some paracetamol. Tara found time to reassure Ellie, explaining that Anita was not well but would soon get better. The child looked skeptical but was content to do more drawings in the kitchen. Trixie remained outside, barking. Tara paused in the doorway and, under her breath, spoke to Sonia.
“You might think about having a little day out somewhere? I don’t know how this is going to… I’m not sure it’s safe, is all.”
Sonia nodded, businesslike as ever. Tara carried the pills and a glass of water into the living room to find Anita apparently passed out. Between her and Tim, they managed to get her conscious enough to take the painkillers. It wasn’t clear if Anita was free of Helen York. Tim was asking urgent questions, but there were no coherent answers. Only troubled murmurings about burning and darkness and hunger.
“I’ll call the prof,” Tara said, going out into the hallway.
As she waited for Mortlake to pick up, she heard Sonia asking Carl to take them on a jaunt in his van—apparently a major treat for Ellie. Carl looked uncertain but between Sonia’s determination and a meaningful look from Tara, he came around. Mortlake answered as the little excursion party were packing a few things, with Ellie offering detailed advice.
“Prof? Where are you?” Tara said immediately.
Mortlake explained that he had gotten on an earlier flight after some wrangling and was about to land at Newcastle. It would be at least an hour, though, before he got to Haslam, assuming he could get his rental car immediately at the airport. She outlined the situation, and he sounded puzzled.
“I’ve never heard of a ghost possessing someone and trying to get away from the scene of a haunting,” he mused. “By definition, they’re ghosts because they can’t move on, so it seems a bit absurd to try and move away. Might it help if I asked some questions?”
Tara stared at the phone then laughed. There was no reason why Mortlake couldn’t speak to someone over the phone. She went into the living room and explained the situation to Tim, who was white-faced and fretful but didn’t object. Then she held the phone to Anita’s ear. Her friend’s face was flushed and perspiring, but her breathing had slowed, and her eyes were shut.
“Helen, if you’re there,” Tara said, switching to speaker mode. “Someone is going to speak to you.”
Mortlake’s voice was clear despite the background noise i
n the airplane cabin.
“Helen, is there anyone else with you?”
Anita stirred, moaned, then mumbled something Tara could not make out.
“Helen,” said Mortlake, raising his voice a little, “if there is someone else, will you let them speak to us?”
Anita’s eyelids flickered. Then she said something that sounded to Tara like “not English.”
“They don’t speak English, Helen? I see….”
Tara expected him to give up, but instead, Mortlake cleared his throat and then spoke clearly, spacing out the words.
“Quis… es… tu…”
Anita’s face was expressionless for a moment then contorted in another shattering scream. Her eyes were open, and she howled, thrashing her limbs wildly as Tim tried to hold her down. A flailing hand struck Tara in the right eye. She cursed and dropped the phone. Anita’s mouth opened far too wide, and she shouted a single word before collapsing again.
“Did I hear a strong reaction?” said a small voice from the speaker.
“What did he say to her?” demanded Tim. “Oh God, we need to get her to a hospital!”
“Not a good idea,” said Tara. “What happens if we try to drive her out of the gate?”
Tara recovered her phone and updated Mortlake. He sounded pleased but also oddly embarrassed. Then she heard someone else, a woman, speaking in the background, and the professor having an urgent conversation. Mortlake’s voice spoke clearly again.
“Sorry, person in the seat behind me complained that I was making too much noise. All’s well, but we’re descending into Newcastle in a minute or two, so I have to sign off. I’ll call again after we land!”
“Is that it?” Tim said, staring up at Tara.
“He’ll be here soon,” she tried to assure him. “And he’s already got a theory. I think what he said was Latin, which makes sense in the context of the Legion stuff.”
Tim did not look convinced. He stared down at Anita, who was breathing uneasily while her lips moved. Tara leaned closer and heard the same word that Anita—or someone using her voice—had yelled a few moments ago.
“Incendium,” she said. “Somebody is still on fire, I guess. And they’ve been a long, long time burning.”
Chapter 8
After half an hour or so, Anita fell into a fitful sleep. Tara decided that all they could do was keep her comfortable until Mortlake arrived.
“And keep an eye on her,” Tara added. “In case Helen tries to make another break for it.”
Tim was inclined to argue, but Sonia was on Tara’s side. Carl was given the task of going to buy more painkillers in the small village store-cum-post office. Ellie went along, in compensation for her little jaunt being postponed. As they waited for their return, Mortlake called from the airport. His rental car was ready, and he would be driving straight up.
“Is there anything else we can do?” Tara asked.
“Talk to her,” Mortlake replied. “Reach out to Helen through Anita. If I’m right, Helen York is a lost soul. It will help everyone if you show her that she is loved, wanted, always in your thoughts.”
Tim muttered something derisive. Again, though, Sonia Garland calmly proposed something sensible. Every grown-up who knew Anita well would sit and talk with her while a second person looked on, just in case. Those who were free would make food, look after Ellie, and await the arrival of the expert.
Sonia produced a schedule, naturally, and this meant that Tim sat with his sister first, holding her hand and talking softly about childhood holidays, Christmases, times of innocent happiness. Sonia sat watching. After about an hour, they changed shifts, so Tara sat by the patient while Carl took Sonia’s place.
Tara sat on the floor by the couch and self-consciously tried to talk about the good times she and Anita had shared as students. Carl looked embarrassed but had no choice but to listen to tales of parties, flirtations, and—in Anita’s case—extreme intoxication.
“I’m a real lightweight,” Tara said, in an aside to Carl. “Just one beer and I’m dancing on the table. So, no beer for me, right, Anita? Except that time at my first Mayday Ball in London, and that fatal moment of weakness. Damn near fractured my pelvis if you hadn’t been there to catch me. Well, to let me land on you, anyhow…”
She talked on, suddenly more optimistic about Anita’s prospects. After all, they were both young, smart, healthy people. Why shouldn’t her friend recover? She cast around for more light frothy anecdotes.
“Remember that first Halloween, and I didn’t get why fireworks were going off for days afterwards, and you had to explain to me all about Guy Fawkes and the Gunpowder Plot and all that wacky British stuff?” she said, managing to put a smile into her voice. “I had no idea…”
She stopped, frowning. Carl, who’d been slumped in a sagging armchair, sat up, looking concerned.
“What is it?” he asked.
“It’s that smell again,” Tara observed. “Like burning meat…”
Anita’s scream had Tara scrambling to her feet. Smoke was billowing from the couch, she thought. But then she saw it was Anita’s clothes and hair that were on fire, emitting great gouts of blue-gray smoke. Tara froze, clenched knuckles at her mouth, unable to process what she was seeing. Carl was quicker to react. He pushed Tara to one side, grabbed the rug she had been standing on, and flung it over the couch.
“Come on!” Carl shouted.
Tara recovered from her shock and grabbed a smaller rug from in front of the fireplace. Between them, they beat out the flames just as Tim and Sonia appeared. Confusion reigned for a few moments. Ellie appeared in the doorway and started crying while Trixie was bounding around barking outside the open window.
“Bloody hell, that hurts!”
Everyone froze, silent, as Anita’s voice cut through the hubbub. She was looking frightened, soot marks on her blanched white face. But her voice, and her expression, were familiar to Tara. Tim, too, reacted with a mixture of relief and concern.
“What happened?” Anita asked, trying to get up then wincing.
“Helen’s gone?” Tara asked.
“God, yes… stupid woman, screeching and whining all the time,” Anita said. “It was awful. I feel—well, I feel free but scorched. Did you drive the bitch out with fire or something?”
Carl and Tim were dispatched to look after Ellie while Tara and Sonia checked for injuries. They peeled off Anita’s shirt and jeans to find that the fire had affected a few patches of skin. These areas were now red but not as badly burned as Tara had feared. They dabbed the burns with ointment from the first aid kit and applied basic dressings. But it was clear that Anita would have to go to the hospital and right away.
“They will ask more questions,” Sonia said calmly as she helped her sister-in-law get up. “We will have to make up some lie. An accident with alcohol while cleaning. It will keep Tim occupied to think of details.”
After they’d wrapped her in Sonia’s dressing gown, they helped Anita hobble to the car. Again, Tara was left with Carl and Ellie as the Garlands headed off with a different patient and a new story for the medics. Tara ran a hand through her hair. She was still trembling and tried to put a brave face on for the little girl.
“Auntie Anita’s going to be fine,” she assured Ellie. “It’s just like Daddy’s boo-boo, it’s not as bad as it looked.”
Ellie looked skeptical as well she might. The amount of yelling alone would have told her it was not a mere “boo-boo.” They were standing outside Haslam House. Tara felt a sudden urge to ask Carl to take Ellie somewhere, anywhere, far away. She was about to speak when a red Nissan nosed carefully into the driveway. She was waving at the car even before she made out Mortlake at the wheel.
“Is this the professor?” Ellie asked. “Will he stop bad things happening?”
“That’s what he does,” Tara said. “Trust me, he’s the best.”
***
“Not bad,” said Mortlake. “A definite spike.”
The EMF device
was clicking like a Geiger counter in an old sci-fi movie. It had several audio settings, but the professor had switched to what he called “the classic” one. Tara felt it would be better described as alarming. But Ellie seemed to enjoy waving the gadget around and getting it to respond.
As soon as he’d been brought up to speed, Mortlake had insisted on action, bustle, getting stuff done. It took Tara a moment to grasp that he wanted to keep everyone busy. But he also wanted to gather information.
“I like to see things for myself,” he’d explained as he was unpacking some of his ghost-hunting kit with Carl’s help. “I don’t doubt what you’ve all experienced is valid, but a good observer makes sure of everything.”
Between them, Ellie and Mortlake checked the living room for the cold spot, which was now inactive in every part of the spectrum. The same was true of the attic room, with just a few residual clicks. Mortlake checked the room, installed a motion-sensitive infrared camera, and then asked Carl to fix up the door.
“Doesn’t hurt to close it up,” the professor said. “It was smart of you to find it, by the way. Just the kind of forensic research we need for this kind of job.”
Carl was visibly pleased by this praise and quickly set about fixing the smashed door. If Mortlake wanted to keep the workman from brooding on the situation, it worked. Meanwhile, Mortlake took a look at Ellie’s drawings, after asking permission very politely. He didn’t ask her many questions, simply commenting on how interesting or striking various pictures were. He quickly went over most of the ground on Helen York but was careful not to mention her death in front of Ellie. When Carl came back down from the attic, Mortlake surprised Tara by asking him a few general questions about wood and how quickly he might be able to make a large cabinet.
“How large?” Carl asked cautiously.
“Big enough for me to sit in, on one of those kitchen chairs,” Mortlake replied. “I need to have a word with our Victorian medium.”
“But we know that’s dangerous!” exclaimed Tara.
Mortlake gave her a slightly miffed look, raising an eyebrow.
House of Whispers: Supernatural Suspense with Scary & Horrifying Monsters (Mortlake Series Book 2) Page 10