Haunts

by Stephen Jones

  “And your husband is now…?” Harriet was obliged to ask.

  “He died nine months ago. It was a heart attack.”

  Harriet reached over and put her hand on Juliet’s.

  *

  Juliet Hyland set out along the coast path immediately after breakfast and arrived in West Cove at twelve. It had been a strenuous walk and she devoured the pub lunch and drank two large glasses of wine without noticing any effect. She had put the miles between herself and Harriet Dot with some enthusiasm, but the return to Easthaven was inevitable and could only be put off for so long. As she set back out she felt heaviness in her legs for the first time that day.

  The path she had walked with such ease that morning now seemed rough and uneven. The distance stretched out before her and it was further than she remembered between recognizable landmarks. Juliet felt the muscles in her calves start to tighten, and her pace slowed. A light rain began to fall but she continued, doggedly, to walk onwards.

  She was back at the edge of Easthaven when she noticed that the light was failing, and she congratulated herself on having returned while she could still see where she was going. At so many points she had considered stopping, if only for a few moments, but she knew that, if she had done so, it would have been twice as hard to resume her walk. Tired, but pleased with herself, she walked up the drive to the hotel and could tell that the wedding party had returned and that the reception was underway. There were cars parked all along the driveway and there was music thudding from the ballroom at the back. Many more lights were blazing than usual, and outside the main entrance was an assorted throng of merry smokers.

  It wasn’t until Juliet was walking through reception that she realized what a fright she must look—red in the face and bedraggled. She didn’t care; none of the people knew her, and many were already drunk. As ill luck would have it, though, Harriet Dot appeared between her and the stairs. She was with a group of women of similar age, and all were drinking tumblers of some bright red liquid. Juliet was pleased; the old woman had decided to join the wedding party rather than complain about it.

  “What have you done to yourself?” the woman asked as she noticed Juliet.

  “I’ve walked to West Cove and back,” she replied proudly. “And now I will go up to my room, send for some food, and have a long, hot bath.”

  “All the way to West Cove!” exclaimed the assorted women, who were impressed.

  “Did you have lunch at the Queen’s Head?” asked one of them. Juliet said that she had, and was pressed for details of exactly what she had ordered. She told them and agreed that it had been excellently cooked and good value. They said that she had done the right thing in ordering the second glass of wine, and thought that she had been very brave to walk back rather than simply phone for a taxi.

  Juliet was about to say goodbye to them and put her foot on the first stair when an overwhelming fatigue took hold of her. Pausing to talk to Harriet Dot and her new friends and had been a mistake; she had lost her forward momentum and was now unable to continue. As she was considering going around to the lift, another woman offered Juliet a glass of the red liquid they were all drinking.

  “Have some punch,” she suggested. “It will do you good.”

  Juliet decided that she might be right and took the warm glass gratefully.

  “I’m going to have to go upstairs, though, and do something about my wet clothes and hair,” she said to Harriet. She took a mouthful of the drink and felt an immediate warming effect.

  “Let us look after you,” said another woman, who linked her arm through Juliet’s, and soon the whole group were leading her to a room off the reception area.

  “This is where the bride prepares,” said a woman who introduced herself as Helen. Another, by the name of Margaret, was delighted to discover an almost full bottle of champagne and topped up her glass of punch with it.

  Juliet was relieved of her wet coat and sat down in a chair facing a mirror. She was horrified to see what she looked like, especially alongside all the carefully made-up women. She was too tired to get up though, and suddenly one woman was drying her hair for her with a towel and another had removed Juliet’s shoes and was giving her a foot massage. She laughed at the silliness of it and drank back her punch. When her glass was topped-up with champagne she decided that the mixture was surprisingly palatable.

  There were delighted squeals from two of the party who had discovered a box containing a lovely white, embroidered blouse. Juliet could see that all of the women were rather drunk and she enjoyed watching them, thinking that they were still just like young girls really.

  “This would suit you,” Harriet said, holding out the blouse to Juliet.

  “It’s very nice,” she admitted.

  “Try it on,” suggested another woman.

  “No, it belongs to somebody else. The bride?” asked Juliet.

  “Oh, go on. Where’s the harm,” said another.

  Juliet continued to protest, but then let them unbutton and remove her damp shirt. When they had put the blouse on her she admitted that it did feel and look lovely.

  Juliet couldn’t remember the name of the woman who was now using a dryer on her hair; it was Anne or Carol, possibly. Piling the hair up on top of her head, the woman found a large Spanish comb and fixed it all very professionally. It wasn’t something Juliet had ever thought of doing before; it felt a little odd, but looked rather good. She then closed her eyes and listened to the laughing, good-natured talk, and found that she had relaxed. The punch and champagne were soothing her aching legs, and, well, she reminded herself that she was on holiday.

  Juliet opened her eyes as a slightly intimidating woman came forward and began to apply makeup. It felt uncomfortable because she wasn’t accustomed to somebody else putting it on for her, but she wasn’t in the mood to argue. She succumbed to the foundation, powder, blusher, lipstick, eye shadow and eyeliner. It was a waste of time, she told them, as she would soon be removing it all and going to bed, but it seemed to give them pleasure.

  When the woman had finished she backed away, and Juliet saw herself in the mirror for the first time since she had appeared in it as a bedraggled mess.

  She looked lovely. She had problems fighting back the tears; it had been ten, perhaps fifteen years since her reflection had appeared so young. She tried to thank the laughing women around her, but was unable to hold back the emotion.

  *

  They were very good to Juliet. A large brandy was brought, tissues for her nose, and the woman who had previously appeared so intimidating was sweetness itself as she repaired the damage to the makeup. When Juliet again looked at her reflection she was able to find pleasure in her appearance, even pride.

  She was handed a long, flowing white skirt; it was just one of many items that the women had found in the boxes and had been passing between each other. She removed her own, still damp, skirt and put on the replacement. She admired herself in the mirror while the women praised her and she enjoyed their admiration. The alcohol made her feel happy and confident, and now she felt that her energy had returned. In the midst of the women she was escorted into the ballroom where they all made a grand entrance.

  As if on cue some rock and roll song was struck up by the band and the women started to dance, unselfconsciously and with some abandon. It was years since Juliet had danced. The floor had previously been empty, but members of the wedding party stood up and joined them. She danced with an elderly man who introduced himself as Margaret’s husband. Then she danced with a young fellow who said that he was the Best Man. The next man to dance with her did not say who he was, but she instinctively knew that she was dancing with the groom. The dance floor was crowded, the music was louder than before, and there was a great deal of laughter. She looked at the groom, with whom she was now dancing very close, and decided that he was good-looking. They made a fine pair, she told herself, and for a moment she continued the enjoyment that came from being the center of attention. She remembere
d how she and Nicholas had looked at their own wedding reception, and wondered how she would have felt if some impostor had gate-crashed her party.

  Juliet decided to leave. They were at the edge of the dance floor and Juliet felt herself being whirled around, allowing herself to spin towards a door that had been left slightly open to admit cooler air. Suddenly she was out of the door and into the night, running across the dark hotel garden. The music seemed to follow her, as did the laughter. As she ran, the laughter, if anything, was louder, and she was frightened by its pursuit.

  And then she ran into something and nearly fell forwards over it. For a few seconds she felt herself suspended in air, but then was back on her feet. She had run into the fence around the ravine garden, and had nearly fallen into it.

  She immediately thought of Harriet Dot’s complaints about “health and safety” and laughed with relief. She was about to look around at the hotel behind her when she saw the bridge over the ravine.

  It was unmistakably the Victorian cast-iron footbridge. She closed her eyes tight and when she opened them it was still there—a certain, physical presence. Juliet was confused; the previous evening she had experienced an illusion, but she couldn’t remember whether it had really been there or not. She walked over to where it set out across the ravine, and suddenly a hand was in hers.

  “Come with me,” said the voice, and she looked up to see the bridegroom.

  Juliet resisted, and he let go of her hand and walked forward.

  “It’s fine,” he said, in the softest of voices, and turned, walking backwards away from her, smiling.

  His features were indistinct, but she knew that it was the man she had danced with and she felt a longing for him. But she could not walk forward.

  Juliet took a deep breath. The figure had stopped in the middle of the bridge and was holding out his hand to her. Although she could not be sure why he wanted her to follow, she knew that she wanted to be with him. She wanted him to hold her in his arms and support her and reassure her that everything would be all right.

  “Go to him,” said a voice with authority from behind. Juliet turned and recognized Harriet Dot. “He’s your husband.”

  “No, he’s not. He’s the bridegroom.”

  “If you won’t recognize him as your husband, then I will.”

  Juliet watched as Harriet Dot slowly and purposefully walked out across the bridge.

  “But who is he?” Juliet asked helplessly, realizing that she had missed out on some magnificent opportunity. She would have rushed forward and pushed Harriet out of the way, but tiredness swept over her. She felt so weak, and it was as much as she could do to remain standing.

  Juliet closed her eyes for a moment, and when she opened them again everything before her had vanished.

  *

  Juliet awoke the next morning in the hotel bed with every part of her body aching. It was not just her legs—every muscle felt tired and refused to cooperate. It was as much as she could do to dress and go downstairs. She was not hungry, and did not go through to breakfast. She did not even look into the dining room to see who was in there.

  She was surprised not to have a hangover. Her eyes were tired but her head felt reasonably clear. Her thoughts were unimpaired, but she did not want to think why she had to go down into the ravine gardens.

  It took some time to find where Harriet Dot was laying, as though sleeping, just off the pathway, among the azaleas. She looked quite content. At least a decade had slipped away from her face. Juliet kneeled down and stroked her cheek. She thanked the woman, before standing again, very stiffly, and going back to the hotel. When she reported Harriet’s death to the receptionist it started a process of formalities that were surprisingly quiet and dignified.

  It was a policewoman who came up to Juliet’s room to ask her a few questions later that morning. She sympathized that Juliet had lost a friend, and Juliet didn’t admit that she had known Harriet Dot only slightly.

  “We need to know about next of kin,” the policewoman said. “Is there a husband?”

  “Yes,” said Juliet automatically.

  But when she thought about it later, she realized that she didn’t know.

  <>

  *

  Is There Anybody There?

  KIM NEWMAN

  KIM NEWMAN is a novelist, critic, and broadcaster. His fiction includes The Night Mayor, Bad Dreams, Jago, the Anno Dracula novels and stories, The Quorum, The Original Dr. Shade and Other Stories, Life’s Lottery, Back in the USSA (with Eugene Byrne), and The Man from the Diogenes Club, all written under his own name, and The Vampire Genevieve and Orgy of the Blood Parasites, which were published under the pen name Jack Yeovil.

  His nonfiction books include Ghastly Beyond Belief {with Neil Gaiman), Horror: 100 Best Books and Horror: Another 100 Best Books (both with Stephen Jones), Wild West Movies, The BFI Companion to Horror, Millennium Movies, and BFI Classics studies of Cat People and Doctor Who.

  He is a contributing editor to Sight & Sound and Empire magazines, writing the latter’s popular “Video Dungeon” column. He has also written and broadcast widely on a range of topics, and scripted radio and television documentaries.

  His stories “Week Woman” and “Ubermensch” have been adapted into episodes of the TV series The Hunger, and the latter tale was also turned into an Australian short film in 2009. Following his BBC Radio 4 play Cry Babies, he wrote an episode (“Phish Phood”) for BBC Radio 7’s series The Man in Black. He has also directed and written a very short film, Missing Girl.

  Newman’s most recent books include expanded reissues of the Anno Dracula series and The Hound of the d’Urbervilles (from Titan Books), and a much-enlarged edition of Nightmare Movies (from Bloomsbury).

  As the author explains: “All I remember about writing this story is that when Maxim Jakubowski asked for a contribution to a collection of Internet-themed fiction, it struck me that there was an equivalence between the spiritualist table-rapping craze of the early twentieth century and Googling as an attempt to wrest answers to any question out of the void.

  “Fraudulent medium Irene Dobson/Madame Irena is a mildly recurrent character in my work—she first appeared in my play, My One Little Murder Can’t Do Any Harm, and pops up briefly in my novel Jago.”

  “IS THERE A PRESENCE?” asked Irene.

  The parlor was darker and chillier than it had been moments ago. At the bottoms of the heavy curtains, tassels stirred like the fronds of a deep-sea plant. Irene Dobson—Madame Irena, to her sitters— was alert to tiny changes in a room that might preface the arrival of a visitor from beyond the veil. The fizzing and dimming of still-untrusted electric lamps, so much less impressive than the shrinking and bluing of gaslight flames she remembered from her earliest séances. A clamminess in the draught, as fog-like cold rose from the carpeted floor. The minute crackle of static electricity, making hair lift and pores prickle. The tart taste of pennies in her mouth.

  “Is there a traveler from afar?” she asked, opening her inner eye.

  The planchette twitched. Miss Walter-David’s fingers withdrew in a flinch; she had felt the definite movement. Irene glanced at the no-longer-young woman in the chair beside hers, shrinking away for the moment. The fear-light in the sitter’s eyes was the beginning of true belief. To Irene, it was like a tug on a fishing line, the satisfying twinge of the hook going in. This was a familiar stage on the typical sitter’s journey from skepticism to fanaticism. This woman was wealthy; soon, Irene would taste not copper but silver, eventually gold.

  Wordlessly, she encouraged Miss Walter-David to place her fingertips on the planchette again, to restore balance. Open on the round table before them was a thin sheet of wood, hinged like an oversized chessboard. Upon the board’s smoothly papered and polished surface was a circle, the letters of the alphabet picked out in curlicue. Corners were marked for YES—oui, ja—and NO. The planchette, a pointer on marble castors, was a triangular arrowhead-shape. Irene and Miss Walter-David lig
htly touched fingers to the lower points of the planchette, and the tip quivered.

  “Is there anybody there?” Miss Walter-David asked.

  This sitter was bereft of a fiancé, an officer who had come through the trenches but succumbed to influenza upon return to civilian life. Miss Walter-David was searching for balm to soothe her sense of hideous unfairness, and had come at last to Madame Irena’s parlor.

  “Is there—”

  The planchette moved, sharply. Miss Walter-David hissed in surprise. Irene felt the presence, stronger than usual, and knew it could be tamed. She was no fraud, relying on conjuring tricks, but her understanding of the world beyond the veil was very different from that which she wished her sitters to have. All spirits could be made to do what she wished them to do. If they thought themselves grown beyond hurt, they were sorely in error. The planchette, genuinely independent of the light touches of medium and sitter, stabbed towards a corner of the board, but stopped surprisingly short.

  Y

  Not YES, but the Y of the circular alphabet. The spirits often used initials to express themselves, but Madame had never encountered one who neglected the convenience of the YES and NO corners. She did not let Miss Walter-David see her surprise.

  “Have you a name?”

  Y again. Not YES. Was Y the beginning of a name: Youngman, Yoko-Hama, Ysrael?

  “What is it?” she was almost impatient.

  The planchette began a circular movement, darting at letters, using the lower tips of the planchette as well as the pointer. That also was unusual, and took an instant or two to digest.

  MSTRMND

  “Msstrrmnnd,” said Miss Walter-David.

  Irene understood. “Have you a message for anyone here, Master Mind?”

  Y