by Peter James
We stayed the night in our kind neighbours’ spare room, and in the morning ventured home. All was quiet there, back to normality. We packed some of our belongings into a suitcase and moved, temporarily, to Kerry’s parents’ home in Surbiton. Later that morning we drove to see our vicar – who we had never met before. He was a young clergyman, who although a tad sceptical at first, listened intently to our story. While we were sitting in his house, he phoned the police and asked to speak to the Sergeant who had attended last night, and was told he was currently off duty and to call back that evening.
At around 7 p.m. he called us at Kerry’s parents’ home, sounding shaken, telling us the Sergeant had verified our story, and that he was going to contact his diocesan Minister of Deliverance, Francis Wells, for advice.
A week passed, during which we heard nothing, and Kerry and I began to doubt our sanity, despite the fact that the two police officers had witnessed what we had witnessed. Then we received a phone call from Francis Wells, asking if he could come and see us at our house. He was insistent that both of us should be there.
We did some research on him, and learned that he was a highly respected clergyman, with particular interest in the paranormal, and came from an academic background. Both his parents were medics, and he had achieved a double first in psychology from Oxford. He seemed exactly the right person, with a practical mindset, to investigate the phenomena we had encountered, and Kerry and I felt reassured.
Kerry drove us to the house in my van, but refused to go in. Although it was the middle of the day, I was also too scared to go in alone. We waited outside, and after about twenty minutes, a bright red Alfa Romeo saloon pulled up, and out clambered a very good-looking man in his early thirties, dressed in a business suit, with a very pleasant and gentle demeanour.
Francis Wells was far from what we had been expecting – perhaps a priest in robes, holding a bell, book and candle, like something out of The Exorcist. He was so normal, so ordinary, and warm-hearted, instantly putting us at our ease and expressing his deepest sorrow at our loss. He asked if he could go inside and take a look at where the apparitions had appeared.
We agreed, although neither Kerry nor I would go further than the front room. We sat on the sofa, feeling very uncomfortable being back in the house, while he went upstairs. After what seemed an eternity, he came down and sat in a chair opposite us. Kerry found the strength to make us all a coffee and when she had handed out our cups, together with a plate of biscuits, he told us his findings, smiling benignly at us, as if to reassure me and my wife that we were not bonkers, and speaking in a soft, gentle voice.
He started by offering us prayers, and did not seem at all offended when we thanked him but told him that both of us had a problem with religion. He was totally understanding. ‘That is absolutely fine,’ he said. He sipped some coffee then continued. ‘Well, Geoff and Kerry, I’ve just been upstairs and all seems quiet, for now. I’ve been researching into the background of your home, and I’ve discovered something that may offer an explanation, however strange it might seem to you, for what has been happening. I’m assuming you both studied history as part of your curriculum at school?’
Yes, I told him, but it had never really grabbed me. Kerry, however, said it had been one of the few subjects she had loved.
The Minister of Deliverance nodded approvingly at her. ‘Do you remember the Great Plague? The bubonic plague?’
‘I remember a ditty we learned at school,’ Kerry said. ‘1665 no one left alive. 1666 London burned to sticks.’
The Minister smiled. ‘Indeed. But before that – three hundred years earlier – the bubonic plague started; it was called the Black Death. It wiped out over 30 per cent of our population. Towns and villages had plague burial pits. My team has discovered that this housing estate, where we are now, is on the site of an ancient plague burial ground. And the precise location of your house is over a pit where infant victims of the plague were buried.
He went on to tell us that he could not say whether it was the negative energy from all the young babies buried here that had caused the cot death of our baby son, Darren, or whether his death had for some reason triggered this eerie replay of parents bringing their dead infants here.
We put the house on the market, without ever telling prospective buyers about our experience. To our relief, the eventual purchasers were a middle-aged couple with grown-up children. We now live thirty miles away and have never been back.
GHOST PAINTING
This fictional account is based on the second of the two true stories that Francis Wells, the chief Minister of Deliverance of the Anglican Church, told me when I asked him if ever, during his experience of dealing with the paranormal, he had encountered anything for which he had no rational explanation, and which had convinced him of survival of some element of the human spirit beyond death. As before, to protect their privacy, I have changed the names of the people involved and the precise location. This incident occurred shortly after he had taken up a post which gave him direct responsibility for Sussex.
*
The house had a sad look about it, Meg Ryerson thought, as she stood in the rear garden with her husband, Paul, and the estate agent. Then they walked around to the front again, along the narrow passageway down the side and through the gate, squeezing past the bins.
The interior needed modernizing and the garden, which was a good-sized plot, had been badly neglected. But Meg did not mind that; she had always wanted a garden. The street itself was bright and pleasant, lined with a mixture of bungalows, semi-detached houses and small, detached ones, like number 8. But strangely, on this sunny morning, the house looked like it was permanently in the shade. Meg was good with colours; it had been one of her strengths at art college a decade ago. Perhaps, she thought, standing on the pavement in front of the house now, it was the drab grey paint on the pebbledash rendering on the walls that was doing it.
Whatever.
The house just wasn’t ticking many of the boxes on their list. She’d set her heart on somewhere with character, and her dream was one of those elegant white villas in one of the Regency terraces in the Clifton area of Brighton, steeped in history, with canopied windows and views over the rooftops towards the sea. But in all the particulars they had seen – and they had seen a lot, from just about every estate agency in the city of Brighton and Hove over the past three months – those houses had always been out of their price range.
This small, detached Edwardian house, with four bedrooms – two of them tiny – was in a pleasant but uninspiring street that ran south of Brighton’s Dyke Road Avenue. It ticked just two of the boxes on their list. The first was that it had a really nice outbuilding at the end of the garden which could, with some TLC, become a studio for Meg to paint in. The other was that it was in their price range – just.
‘It does have character,’ the agent said. ‘And of course the location is very sought after. Just a short walk from the Hove recreation ground and Hove Park. You could make this into a very lovely home.’
‘Position,’ Paul said to Meg. ‘Don’t they say that the three most important things in a property are location, location and location?’ He looked at the estate agent, who nodded confirmation.
Meg gave a wan, dubious smile, wondering what it would feel like to live here.
‘At the price they are asking,’ the agent said, ‘It’s a bargain.’
Paul led Meg a short distance away, down the street, out of earshot of the estate agent. ‘The thing is, darling, you have terrific taste. We could buy this, transform it, and in a couple of years we could make a good profit on it, and then be able to afford something we love more, perhaps in the Clifton area.’
Megan stared up at the mock-Tudor gables, then the brick-tiled carport and the integral garage, feeling a conflict of emotions. Paul was right: it was a great buy. It had a nice garden at the back, with three beautiful, mature trees, and the wooden structure at the far end could make a pleasant studio. But . . .
But.
It really was so suburban.
Was it John Lennon who said, Life is what happens to you while you’re busy making other plans? What would happen if they bought this place and then, for whatever reason, they couldn’t sell it in a couple of years? She knew from experience that life never did work out the way you planned it. What if they ended up stuck here for years? Spending the rest of their lives here? Could she be happy in this house forever?
And suddenly she realized she was being ungrateful. There were many people who would love to live in this area, and she was lucky to have a husband who worked damned hard, in a job he didn’t particularly enjoy as an accountant in a small Brighton practice, to support her ambition to become a portrait painter. OK, so it didn’t have the character she had dreamed of, but they were still young – she was thirty-one and Paul was thirty-three – and if the family they had been hoping to start did come along, this was actually a good and safe location to bring up young children.
‘Why are the owners selling?’ she asked the agent, a smartly dressed woman about her own age. ‘They’ve only been here just over a year, right?’
‘The husband’s an economist with an oil company. From what I understand, he got offered a five-year contract in Abu Dhabi, with the chance to make a lot of money, tax-free. They had to make a quick decision, and they took it. They’ve already gone, and I’m told they are throwing in all the carpets and curtains – and they’ll sell you any of the furniture you’d like at a good price.’
‘Carpets and curtains cost a fortune,’ Paul said, ever the accountant. ‘That could save us several grand easily.’
Megan nodded. None of the rooms was furnished to her taste, but they could change that, she supposed, in time. Not having to buy curtains and carpets was a big saving – but not enough to justify buying a house you did not love.
But, she had to admit, the agent was right on one thing. This house was a bargain – and would be snapped up quickly.
*
They moved in on a Friday in late May. Megan was feeling a lot more positive about the house, and already thinking ahead to Christmas that year. The dining room was big enough to seat ten people at a pinch, unlike the one in their flat in Kemp Town where six had been a squeeze. They could have Paul’s parents, her brother, her sister and brother-in-law and their four-year-old over. Magic!
By Saturday afternoon, they had got the old-fashioned kitchen, their bedroom and the lounge straight. The dining room, the two spare bedrooms and the garage were still filled with unopened tea chests, put there by the removals company. The summer house at the end of the garden – in reality little more than a glorified shed – was a long way from being habitable, so she had made the lounge into a temporary studio, setting up her easel at one end, and laying out her paints on an old trestle beside it.
At around tea time they had both come close to losing the will to live, and were looking forward to an evening out at the trendy fish restaurant at The Grand – GB1 – with their best friends, Tim and Sally Hopwood.
For the past week, Megan had done nothing but pack, pack and then unpack. She’d been covered in dust from head to toe, and had begun to despair of ever looking human again. But tonight, hey, she was damned well making an effort! They were in their new home, and today was the start of their new life. She felt happy about the house now, loved the view from their bedroom out across the long, narrow garden, with the summer house at the far end – beneath the three beautiful old trees – that would, one day, be her studio. She had started making big plans for the garden, sketching out a design which included a Zen pond, a brick-walled vegetable plot and groups of shrubs.
Paul was in the small third bedroom, upstairs, facing the street, which he had commandeered as his home office, working away on his computer. Megan stepped out of the shower in her dressing gown, a towel wrapped around her head like a turban, and sat down at her Victorian dressing table. She stared into the mirror, and began to apply her make-up.
And froze. A shiver snaked through her.
In the reflection she could see a middle-aged woman standing right behind her, on one leg, supported by crutches. The woman was staring at her, as if curious to watch the way she was applying her make-up.
For an instant she did not dare move. It felt as if a bolus of ice had been injected into her veins. She spun around.
There was nothing there.
She felt an icy chill crawl up her spine. She broke out in a rash of goose pimples that were so sharp they hurt her. She could, literally, feel her hair rising from her scalp, as if pulled by a magnet.
For some moments she wanted to shout for Paul to come up. But if she told him what she had just seen it would sound stupid, she thought. And besides, she knew that he was well aware she did not love this house, but had agreed to buying it and moving here because it was a good investment opportunity. With his logical mind, he would give her an explanation that would make perfect, rational sense.
So she said nothing.
They went to dinner with their friends and had a great time. Later, in the taxi heading home, nicely fuzzed with several glasses of the delicious wine Paul had chosen, Meg dismissed what she had seen earlier. It had been her imagination working overtime, she decided. They went to bed, and all was fine. All was fine again, throughout Sunday. And Monday.
On Tuesday, one of Paul’s clients had invited them both to a dinner at the Hotel du Vin in Brighton. Paul warned her in advance that the client was big in international media, rich and flash, and to dress to kill.
After several hours of retail therapy on the Monday, Megan again sat in front of her dressing table mirror at 6.30 p.m. on the Tuesday night, putting the finishing touches to her make-up. Then she saw the one-legged woman again, standing behind her.
She spun around in her chair.
And again saw nothing.
But this time she was convinced it wasn’t her imagination.
In the back of the taxi on the way to dinner, she was about to tell Paul what she had seen when the cab driver, a strange little man, suddenly said, ‘Nice perfume, madam. Armani Code?’
‘Yes!’ she said, delighted. ‘How did you know?’
‘Oh, I know these things, uh-huh.’
She grinned at Paul and squeezed his hand. Then she whispered to her husband, ‘There’s something I need to tell you.’
‘What is it?’
‘Later.’
‘I’m all ears!’
*
Shortly before midnight as a taxi dropped them home, she waited until they had entered the house and closed the front door behind them. Then, emboldened by a little too much wine, she told Paul what she had seen on Saturday night, and again tonight.
Maybe it was because he had drunk too much also, but his reaction was less sceptical than she had been expecting. ‘If she’s appeared so vividly, why don’t you paint her portrait, darling?’
‘Maybe I will,’ she replied thoughtfully.
Despite a hangover the next morning, Meg set up a fresh canvas on her easel in the living room, then sketched in pencil, the way she always began any portrait, the woman’s head and shoulders. So clear was her memory of what she had seen that within half an hour she had begun painting. The face of a handsome woman in her early fifties, with elegant, brown wavy hair tinged grey in places, and wearing a soft green cardigan over a cream blouse, began to appear. As she stood back for a few moments, she noticed a sad expression in the woman’s face.
She reminded her of someone, and then she realized who. She looked a little like a younger, less beautiful and less vivacious sister of the actress Joan Collins.
She was so absorbed in her work that two hours passed without her being aware. Then the ringing of the doorbell cut through her concentration.
She was irritated by the interruption, and for a moment was tempted to ignore it and carry on. But there was a ton of stuff she had ordered online for the house, so she put down her brush and walked through to th
e front door, not wanting to risk missing a delivery.
To her surprise, a pleasant-looking silver-haired woman of about sixty stood there. She was dressed in a baggy tracksuit top, shapeless brown slacks and trainers. ‘Hello,’ she said. ‘I’m Jenny Marples. My husband and I live right opposite you, at number 17. I’m also the local Neighbourhood Watch co-ordinator. Just thought I’d pop over and say hello to our new neighbours!’
‘Nice to meet you,’ Meg said, and she meant it. So far she’d not seen a soul in the street, and had been planning to pop round to all their immediate neighbours to introduce herself. She invited Jenny Marples in for a cup of tea, which the woman enthusiastically accepted.
They went first into the kitchen, which Meg was a little embarrassed about as it was so drab and still very untidy, part of the work surface and the table still piled with crockery and kitchen utensils she had not yet found a permanent home for. While the kettle was coming to the boil, Jenny Marples said, ‘We barely met the previous owners, you see, they were here for such as short time. They moved in, and then, almost before we’d even got to know their names, they’d gone! Overseas, I’m told.’
‘Abu Dhabi. Do you take milk? Sugar?’
She set their cups and saucers on a tray, shook out some chocolate digestives onto a plate, then led the way through into the living room.
‘You’re an artist?’ Jenny exclaimed.
‘A struggling one! I’m hoping to get some commissions.’
‘You’re good!’ her neighbour said. ‘That is really – ’
Then she stopped in her tracks and peered more closely at the portrait on the easel. She turned, with a frown. ‘Is that yours, or did you find that here?’
‘It’s mine,’ Meg said, setting the tray down on the coffee table. ‘Sort of a work in progress.’ Then she caught the strange look on Jenny Marples’ face. ‘Found it here? What do you mean, exactly?’
‘Well . . . that’s extraordinary! You see – ’ her neighbour’s voice trailed off. She stared back at Meg. ‘Is it someone you know?’