“It’s like a bloody bomb shelter!” Paul had a smile on his face. “My Grandad used to tell me about these but I never thought I’d actually see one.”
“Who’s going to keep the generator going?” Ronnie asked.
“We can take turns,” Paul replied. “I can show you how. Unless you’d rather cook my dinner for me.”
“I shall be far too busy working to be bothered with a generator.” That was Dr. Chesney. Of course.
“Okay,” said Paul to the parapsychologist. “You can cook my dinner for me, then.”
“I’m sure we can work out some sort of rotation,” said Karen. “It’s not as if there really has been an apocalypse and we’re down here forever.”
Despite the heat coming from the generator and the number of warm bodies crammed into the confined space, a chill suddenly descended on the group.
“Fascinating how things can take on a more sinister meaning in the right environment, isn’t it?”
Chambers laid a hand on Dr. Cruttenden’s shoulder before he replied softly, “I think it’s just beginning to sink in that we’re here for the duration,” he said.
“And wasting precious time while we’re about it.” Dr. Chesney was making for the stairs. “I need to set up my equipment. I shall speak to you again when I need you.”
Paul waited until the parapsychologist was out of earshot before speaking. “Oh he will, will he?”
“At least he’s away from here for the moment,” said Karen. “I was getting close to all I could stand of him.”
“Well, it was your paper who asked him to come along,” said Chambers with a wry grin. “In his absence I would have expected you to be the one defending his honor.”
Karen pointedly ignored that. “I wouldn’t be surprised if ghosts refuse to appear when he’s around just to piss him off.” She caught the priest’s eye. “Sorry, Father.”
“Well I think I’ve seen enough for now,” said Ronnie. “Is there anything else you need to show us?”
Father Traynor shook his head. “Now you know as much as I do about the building. We will be discovering everything else together.”
As they made their way back up the stairs, something in what the priest had said didn’t ring true for Chambers. Maybe it was simply that the man’s manner had seemed a little unnatural the entire time he had been showing them around, or perhaps it was just that because of Chambers’s experiences with the Human Protection League he held an innate mistrust of those who represented religion. It wasn’t just that, though. He couldn’t help but feel that the Father knew more than he was letting on, and that if they should end up confronted by some hostile spectral apparition during their time here, it wasn’t necessarily clear whose side the priest would be on.
He also couldn’t help admitting to himself that he would be more than a little interested in finding out.
TEN
Thursday, December 22, 1994. 11:42 A.M.
“IS THAT A SEISMOMETER?”
Dr. Peter Chesney raised his head. The floodlight behind him gave his wavy, tightly cut silver hair an almost angelic appearance. The glowering eyes behind the black-rimmed spectacles, however, looked anything but.
Ronnie Quesnel wasn’t sure if he’d heard her. Or perhaps he didn’t know what one of those was? “You know, for recording earthquakes?”
His hands came away from aligning the delicate, ink-filled needles on the reel of graph paper.
“A seismograph,” he said between clenched teeth.
“I’m sorry?”
“A seismograph is what is used to record tremors of the earth.”
Ronnie peered at the flat sheet of paper and the needles poised above it. There were five of them, each connected to a wire that led to a machine beneath the low table upon which Dr. Chesney had placed the recording device. “Is that what it is then? A seismograph?”
The parapsychologist shook his head, causing Ronnie to be intermittently blinded by the lamp. “No,” he replied and then, when it became obvious that such an abrupt answer wasn’t going to make her go away, he added, “it works on a similar principle, but instead of detecting disturbances of the physical plain, this detects disturbances of the ether.”
Ronnie nodded. She had read about that in some of her husband Terry’s old books. “You mean that medium through which the ancient Greeks thought light traveled?”
Chesney nodded. “Sound, light, the entire electromagnetic spectrum. Of course it’s not a term used in common scientific parlance these days, but I use it to refer specifically to that part of the atmosphere through which spectral, ethereal, and paranormal activity is propagated.”
Ronnie pointed at the device. “And this is meant to pick them up?”
Chesney nodded again, obviously eager to get back to his adjustments. “I designed it myself,” he said, not without a certain amount of pride. “It showed some remarkable results at Borley Rectory, as well as at numerous other locations in the UK known for their psychic phenomena.”
“Has it picked up anything?”
Chesney answered with an exasperated no. “I haven’t plugged it in yet, because I haven’t calibrated it yet, and I won’t be able to, either, if I keep being disturbed!”
Ronnie finally took the hint and left the parapsychologist to his devices. The seismograph, several sets of microphones, a complicated-looking aluminum framework and what looked like a small portable generator took up, along with Chesney’s cot, most of the available space in the south transept. No wonder Father Traynor had been happy to sleep in the vestry, she thought, even if it was cramped and dusty.
She took a swig from the bottled water they had found an ample supply of downstairs. Turning on the taps to the sink had resulted in something a rusty brown color being ejected from both spigots. It had refused to clear, despite their running it for several minutes.
“Maybe that’s just what the water’s like down here,” Paul had said. “It can happen sometimes.”
“Well I’m not drinking it,” said Karen. “And I can’t imagine they would have thought we would.”
A quick search in the darkness near the thrumming generator had revealed a refrigerator/freezer amply stocked with drinks.
“Shame there’s no booze here,” Karen had said.
“There is,” Paul had replied, “if you like scotch.” He had been searching the cupboards and had found two bottles of J&B whisky.
“Not for me,” Karen had said wrinkling her nose. “I’ll wait until I’m out of here and then I’m celebrating with as many dirty martinis as I can drink.”
“Me neither,” Ronnie had piped up. “A glass of wine every now and then is about my limit. I never touch anything stronger.”
If she didn’t find something to keep her occupied Ronnie could see herself trying a tipple or two, though. She skirted two large fallen cornice stones, the intricate sculpted scrollwork still visible despite the obvious trauma they had sustained. She looked up to see the gap where they had fallen from. There were other spaces too, but no more stones nearby. Perhaps they had been cleared away in preparation for the team’s arrival, she thought, but it was rather odd that these two had been left here.
At the back of the church, sitting in the rearmost right-hand pew, Professor Chambers was scribbling away in his journal. Ronnie wished she had brought a journal, or at least something to write in or on, but it had been such a rush getting here. She had never been the most organized of types, and Terry was even worse. It was only when her husband was reminding her of the various client appointments she would need to change two days ago that she had remembered the competition she had won. She had packed her bags hastily. Changes of clothes, toiletry kit, her favorite, oldest and most trusted Tarot deck, and a couple of books had all been crammed in. To be honest, she had assumed there was going to be more of a showbiz element to it, that the paper would have laid on a program that they would be following, rather than this hanging around waiting for something to happen.
Professor
Chambers was still scribbling. Behind him, close to the west door through which they had entered, stood a font. It was without question the most beautiful piece of work in here. It appeared to have been sculpted from a single piece of blue-veined marble, and the quality of the stone was such that it had refused to succumb to the ravages of time, dust, and decay. A brown stain around the drainage hole in its base showed that it had indeed been used for baptisms and the like in years past. Now it stood there, empty, a reminder of All Hallows’ former glory.
Ronnie looked at her watch. It was hard to believe it was only two o’clock in the afternoon. Perhaps it was the windows. There were four of them on either side of the nave, each consisting of three narrow rectangular stained-glass panes. Ronnie wrinkled her nose. Stained was right. The newspaper’s tidy-up job had not extended to cleaning the windows, and the glass was so filthy it was almost impossible to make out what the illustrations depicted. It also meant that, no matter what time of day it was, or how bright the sunshine might be outside, inside the church was perpetual gloom.
Ronnie crossed the nave and entered the north aisle to take a look at the four windows there. She was wondering why the glass had not been smashed by vandals years ago, but on closer inspection the heavy metal meshwork over each pane became apparent. There was probably similar rusting grillwork on the outside as well, all that protection a significant barrier to any natural light.
What did the glass depict? She studied the more easterly of the four. Even now she was so close it was virtually impossible to make anything out. She thought she could see a hill, possibly with angels surrounding it. But surely, if they were angels, shouldn’t they have wings? And should they be so horribly thin? And to the right, were those meant to be shepherds? If they were, someone had made a terrible mistake with their flock—it looked as if some of the sheep had six legs, and they almost seemed to be jumping at the humans that were supposed to be tending them.
Ronnie shook her head. Perhaps some answers could be found elsewhere.
The most westerly of the four windows in the north wall was fifty feet away. In between lay the two other windows, their glass completely shrouded by grime, separated by an expanse of bare wall. Much of the graying plaster was still intact, with the stone beneath only showing through in a few places.
As Ronnie walked past them she felt a sudden shock, like fingers of ice touching the back of her neck.
She stopped and turned, rubbing the skin. Had she been bitten? That was ridiculous—it was hardly the time of year for insects that did that sort of thing. Perhaps there was a leak in the ceiling and she’d been dripped on? She looked up but could see nothing, then she looked down but there was no suggestion that water was pooling anywhere.
Yet still the chill sensation on the back of her neck remained. It was less intense now but she could still feel it, preventing her from thinking it was just her imagination.
She took a step back from the wall and its pair of obfuscated windows.
The feeling diminished.
She took a step forward.
The feeling became more intense.
Almost immediately regretting it, Ronnie took a stride closer to the plain, unremarkable, plastered wall of the north aisle.
The icy, spiking pain in the back of her neck nearly made her fall to her knees. She fought the urge to vomit as she backed away, the feeling subsiding as she put distance between herself and the stone. As soon as it was tolerable, she looked up at the wall.
Nothing.
Yes there was, she told herself. There was something there, but she just couldn’t see it.
“Be careful while you’re in there,” Terry had said to her. “You know how sensitive you can be.”
“That’s only when I’m with people who need my help,” Ronnie had replied. “I’m a psychic empath, remember? I feel the pain of those in distress, those who come to me for help, and through the cards I try to give them that help.”
Terry hadn’t been so sure. “I’ve seen you sometimes,” he’d said, “when you don’t think I’m looking. It’s not just people you have empathy with, it’s places. All Hallows is a bad place, and it might be especially bad for you.”
“I’ll be all right,” she had tried to reassure him. “And besides, I don’t know if you’ve noticed, but business hasn’t exactly been booming lately. Glastonbury’s started to become overrun with people claiming they can do readings, and there are only so many clients to go around.”
“You’re doing it for the publicity, then?” Terry hadn’t seemed too impressed with that either.
She had admitted that had been one of the reasons, yes. “But it’s not just that. All my life I’ve felt alone, even with you, even in a place like this where I’ve found more like-minded people than anywhere else. But loneliness runs deep if you experience it young enough and long enough. This is a chance for me to . . . oh, I don’t know . . . to reconfirm that it isn’t all in my head.”
He had held her then, tightly, and for a long time. “You know I love you, don’t you?” She had nodded, her face buried in his shoulder. “And you know that, no matter how much I might worry, I would do anything for you?”
“I know,” she said at last, “and that’s why I need you to let me go and do this. I need to be with these other kinds of people they’ve described in the newspaper, I need to be with them in a place like that, to prove to myself that it isn’t just all incense and nonsense—that I have an ability and that I can use it to make a useful and valuable contribution to the work of others. I even see the fact that I won the competition as a sign that I have to go.”
And so he had let her, and now here she was, rubbing the back of her neck and staring at a blank wall in a freezing cold church, convinced that something was trying to communicate with her, that she had picked up on something but at that precise moment she had no idea what it was.
She looked over at Dr. Chesney, fiddling with his machine, and at Professor Chambers, staring off into space. She thought of Karen Shepworth with her tapes and Dr. Cruttenden with her books, of Father Traynor with his faith and Paul Hale with his cheery goodwill and willingness to help out with the practicalities while he waited for the monsters to turn up.
She would tell none of them.
This was hers and she would tell none of them until she was absolutely sure, until there could be no doubt that there was someone, or something, in this wall. She would find out why it was there, and what it was that it wanted. Then, and only then, would she tell them.
She smiled despite the pain. Finally she had found something to do.
ELEVEN
Thursday, December 22 1994. 11:50 A.M.
PETER CHESNEY, AMATEUR PARAPSYCHOLOGIST (not that there was any other kind) and guest on a number of British television programs profiling the paranormal and those who investigate it, was not a real doctor.
Neither medically nor scientifically qualified to the level where he could have been offered a doctorate, he had earned the appellation by mistake. And, like all mistakes that can dog an individual for the rest of their lives, he had failed to deny his title right at the beginning, when he should have. Now he was stuck with it, and while it had opened doors, the constant fear that he might one day be revealed to be a sham in a field known for charlatans and tricksters was one that weighed more heavily on his soul with every passing day.
It was the television show that had caused it. After that he hadn’t been able to live it down. Three years ago he had been contacted by Central TV to ask if he would like to appear on an edition of its popular late night debate program, Central Weekend.
“It’s very popular in the Midlands,” the girl had said. “We get a forty percent audience share on a Friday night. We’re doing an edition on whether the paranormal really exists. I did a bit of searching and found your name. Would you like to be on?”
Chesney had said yes without even thinking about it. He had been a dabbler in parapsychology for ten years, and had been refused access to mo
st of the UK’s allegedly most haunted sites. He had attended the few conferences on the subject that had been held, but his attempts to talk to the lecturers afterward had met with little success.
He was sitting in his Nottingham flat one dreary Monday evening, holding the letter that explained why he was being “let go” from his management position at the Broadmarsh Centre branch of Our Price (the store was closing due to a management buyout and besides, there were already two large record shops nearby and no need for a third one) when the telephone call came out of the blue. He had nothing to lose and so of course he had said yes. It was only later that he discovered that the researcher had contacted over twenty people before him, and had simply been working her way down the attendance list of the Birmingham conference he’d been to the previous month after she’d tried the guest speakers. He was annoyed at first, then immensely grateful that he had a surname close to the top of the alphabet. He was the only one whistling when he signed on at the unemployment office that Wednesday, but that was only because he thought he had reason to. With any luck, an appearance on Central Weekend would be the springboard he had been waiting for. Perhaps then publishers would stop turning down his nonfiction book, Ghosts Everywhere. They might even offer him a contract to write another one—filled with pictures he would be taking at their expense. A nice, glossy hardcover of the type he regularly perused in Dillons bookshop.
It hadn’t turned out quite the way he was expecting.
First, he had arrived at Central’s Nottingham Studios fully expecting to be shown into some sort of greenroom where the guests would have access to plentiful drinks and nibbles. Instead, a young man whose only achievement in life had probably been to learn to chew gum and talk at the same time had told him that he was mistaken, that he was not on the guest panel, and that he was, in fact, a member of the audience.
“Are you the skeptics or the weirdos?” he had been asked.
“I beg your pardon?”
The young man indicated the near-empty auditorium into which he had guided Mr. Chesney. “Skeptics on the right, weirdos on the left. That way if there’s a fight it looks better on camera.”
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