The Haunting of Blackwych Grange

by Amy Cross

  “Is this boring?” Toby asks suddenly.

  Helen and I both turn to him.

  “I mean, nothing's happening,” he continues. “We're just sitting outside a big, empty house. Is anyone else starting to think that maybe we're wasting our -”

  “There it is again!” I say suddenly, pointing at the monitor. “A faint blur!”

  “It's just a technical error,” Helen replies immediately, as the blur fades from one of the windows. “It's within the margin of -”

  “There!”

  I point at another part of the screen, where the faint blur briefly appears and then disappears at another window.

  Helen sighs. “The equipment has a certain range that -”

  “And there!”

  The blur appears for a third time, at the next window along, and quickly fades.

  This time, Helen stays quiet for a moment.

  “Three windows in quick succession,” I point out, turning first to her and then to Toby. “Almost like...”

  “Almost like something inside was moving through the room,” Toby whispers, leaning closer to the monitor.

  “That makes no sense,” Helen says, although she sounds a little less sure of herself now. “Why would a ghost pass through a room and allow itself to be seen like that?”

  “Maybe it doesn't allow itself to be seen,” Toby replies, already rewinding the footage so we can watch it again. “Maybe it's an accident.”

  “Or a coincidence,” I suggest uncertainly. “Maybe it was just a...”

  My voice trails off as we watch the footage through. Sure enough, the faint whitish blur appears at each of the three windows in turn, although it's certainly possible that all we're seeing is some kind of digital artifact.

  “It's not conclusive by any means,” I point out, turning to Helen, “but we should log it, shouldn't we? Maybe someone should go fetch Mac.”

  She glances out the window, looking toward the other van.

  “Someone go tell him,” she says finally, and Toby is already climbing out. “He'll probably agree with me that it was nothing, but he's in charge so he gets to make that determination.” She turns to me. “This would be a lot easier if he'd let us all read the entirety of Josephine Pullman's notes. That way we'd know if we're experiencing the same things that she experienced five years ago.”

  “You haven't read all the notes either?” I ask.

  She shakes her head. “Nobody has. Apart from Mac. He says he doesn't want our perceptions to be swayed, so he's holding back some of the items from the notebook.”

  Behind her, through the van's window, Mac can be seen climbing out of the other vehicle, with Toby explaining things to him. For a moment, silhouetted against a faint reading light, Mac looks like such a slumped, hulking figure, like a man who was strong once but who's now perpetually drained.

  “Not too long until sunrise,” Helen points out. “It'll be good to see this place in daylight.”

  Turning to look toward the house, I can't help agreeing with her. No matter how many times I tell myself that the blur on the monitor was just an error, I know deep down that the odds of three such errors occurring in quick succession are low, especially when the blurs appeared to pass from one window to the next. More than ever, I feel as if maybe as I sit here staring at the dark house, something might be staring right back at me from inside.

  Chapter Five

  When the sun begins to rise several hours later, Blackwych Grange finally emerges from the dark of night. A large, stone-built house with light gray walls, the Marringham family home stands defiantly on its own patch of land, with no other hint of civilization for miles around. When I looked at old photos of the house, I was always struck by the harshness of the stone, and by the way the walls seemed to mirror the cold sky. Of course, back then I was safely ensconced in study rooms at the university. Now that I'm finally here in person, it's the dark windows that really stand out, and I can't help looking at each of them in turn, just to make absolutely sure that there's no sign of anyone already inside the building.

  “Stay calm,” I tell myself. “Stay rational. Focus on the facts.”

  I know the history of the house. I know the place inside out. I've studied every detail. I know how the stones were transported hundreds of miles, at great expense, from the quarries of North Yorkshire. I know how the land-owner designed the place himself, spurning all advice and instead reinforcing the walls by layering them two-stone thick. I know all the dimensions, and I know the layout, and I could give a two-hour lecture with slides and notes on the minutiae of the house's history. But all of that seems to pale now that I'm actually here, and now that the house is right in front of me with its dark front door, waiting for us to go inside.

  The shield of facts has fallen away, leaving me shivering here.

  Suddenly a cold gust of wind blows in across the moor, and I head around the van to grab a thicker jacket from one of my bags. If I keep shivering, the others might think it's due to fear.

  “None of the other sensors picked anything up,” Mac announces, as he trudges back to join us. He has one of Josephine Pullman's notebooks in his hands, and he's leafing through the pages. Even when he's not actually looks at what's written, he seems to have a compulsive urge to flick from page to page. Perhaps this tic gives him comfort. “All we have is the series of blurs from the main monitor, and those could have been anything.”

  “What about Doctor Pullman's notes?” Helen asks, looking up from one of the data recorders. “Did she and her team see anything similar on their first night?”

  Mac glances at her, and he seems just a little annoyed. “No,” he mutters, although he quickly looks away and opens the other van's side door.

  “Can we take a look at her notes?” Helen adds.

  No reply. Instead, Mac seems far more interested in rummaging through a box of old power cords. It's hard to tell whether he's deliberately ignoring Helen's request, or simply too busy to even notice that she spoke.

  “It's 10am,” Toby announces. “Should we maybe go unlock the front door and take a look inside this place?”

  “I want to do some more calibration first,” Mac replies quickly, still rooting through the box of equipment. “We'll wait another hour.”

  “11am,” Helen whispers with a faint smile, glancing at me. “See? He really does want to stick to Josephine's schedule.”

  “Yeah,” Toby mutters under his breath, hugging himself tight against the cold morning air, “and look how that worked out for those guys, huh? I don't know about either of you, but right now I'm pretty damn glad I'm not superstitious.”

  Behind him, a slate gray sky threatens more rain. Even the wet grass is almost gray out here. But the house stands defiant against the elements, just as it has stood defiant these past few hundred years. And as I join the others to help unloading the vans, I can't help feeling very small, as if we're just ants crawling around the base of something we can't possibly understand.

  ***

  “Now that's a hell of a key, isn't it?” Toby says with a nervous smile as we reach the house's front door. “I think all houses should have a fuck-off giant-ass key like that, just to show that they mean business. None of your modern shite.”

  Mac is holding the key, but he seems to be hesitating before sliding it into the lock. He has big, bulky hands, with raw knuckles that look to be cracking. As he turns the key, he seems almost nervous.

  “I mean,” Toby continues, turning first to Helen and then to me, “what's the deal with keys, anyway? Why are they always so boring? If you ask me -”

  “Nobody asked you,” Mac says firmly.

  “Yeah, but -”

  “So shut the hell up.”

  Toby opens his mouth to reply, but thankfully he stays quiet just in time. It's clear that he's worried about finally going into the house, and for the past few minutes he's been gabbling away almost as if he's on the verge of panic. Now there's fear in his eyes, and he looks deeply uncomfortable. I g
uess he knows about Mac's reputation, so he doesn't want to risk pushing him too far. Even Toby isn't completely suicidal.

  “You all know what you're getting yourselves into,” Mac mutters, staring down at the key for a moment longer before turning to each of us in turn. There's no fear in his eyes now, so I guess either his nerves have settled or he's very good at hiding his true feelings. “I won't hold it against any of you if you'd rather leave. The most important thing to me is that there's no unnecessary drama. If you want to leave, then leave, but don't waste my time. Decide now.”

  It's so tempting to tell him that I want to quit, but somehow I can't get the words out. No matter how terrifying the house might seem, I know that I willingly signed up for this project, and I also know that I've never been a quitter in my life. I'm going to see this thing through, even though I'm almost shaking with fear. Besides, it's just a house.

  “Okay, then,” Mac mumbles, before turning and slipping the key into the lock. He tries to give it a turn, but he has to make several attempts before he finally manages to get the job done, and then he hesitates before taking hold of the handle. Every movement seems heavy for him, as if he's filled with doubt, but slowly he starts to open the door, revealing the cavernous darkness on the other side.

  It's cold out here, but somehow I can already feel colder air drifting out to meet us, from inside the house.

  “That's the first time in five years that this door has been opened,” Toby points out, and his voice seems thinner, as if fear is tightening his chest. “I'm gonna hazard a guess that it'll be rather dusty in there.”

  “We have covers for the equipment,” Helen replies calmly. “Don't worry, dust was one of the hazards we accounted for in the planning stage.”

  “That's not what I'm worried about,” he mutters darkly.

  We stand in silence for a moment, waiting for Mac to lead the way, but he seems frozen. I can see Josephine Pullman's tattered notebook sticking out of his jacket pocket, and the pages already look so worn and well-thumbed. I'd love to read that notebook, to get a better idea of exactly what happened to Doctor Pullman's team when they entered Blackwych Grange five years ago, but I know that there's no point asking. I guess maybe I'll get a chance later, when all of this is over.

  “Right, then,” he mutters finally, pushing the door all the way open and then stepping through, partially fading into the darkness of the house's interior. “We need to get some light in here. Rig lights first, then the rest.”

  Toby glances at me, and I can see the unease in his eyes.

  “I'll start running the generator cables through the door,” Helen says, turning and making her way back down the steps. “It'll only be enough to light the entrance hallway, but that's better than nothing.”

  Mac is all the way inside the house now, but Toby and I are still on the doorstep, as if neither of us wants to be the next to go inside.

  “After you,” he says cautiously.

  “Are you sure?” I ask.

  “Absolutely. Ladies first n'all.” He swallows hard. “I'm nothing if not a gentleman.”

  Despite my reservations, I step forward and into the cold air of the house's interior. For a moment, it's hard to make much out other than a high, distant window at the top of the stairs, but after a moment my eyes start to adjust.

  The entrance hallway is huge, dominated by a large chandelier that hangs down in the curling embrace of a winding spiral staircase. There are several doorways leading deeper into the house, and all of them have been left shut, while various desks and chairs are still in place at the walls. The house was clearly glamorous once, and its past owners were well-known for having lots of money to throw around, but everything seems so faded now and I can feel the dust as it drifts all around me. Still, the house seems reassuringly undisturbed. Even a ghost would have left some kind of mark behind.

  Mac is a little way ahead, over by the foot of the stairs and looking up toward the landing high above. Light is streaming down from the large window at the top of the stairs, illuminating more clouds of dust.

  The place is so silent, I feel as if I don't dare make a noise. It even feels wrong somehow to take a breath.

  “Bloody hell!” Toby exclaims, waving a hand in front of his mouth to clear the dust. “We couldn't have had someone come on ahead and give the place a clean, eh? Sod protecting the equipment, if I end up with some kinda lung problem, I'm gonna seriously consider legal action.”

  “Quiet!” I whisper, still watching Mac. He hasn't moved for a few minutes now, instead preferring to look up the stairs.

  “What?” Toby asks.

  “Just don't be so loud,” I tell him, keeping my voice low.

  “Why? Are you worried we'll wake the ghosts?”

  “Don't you think it's kind of beautiful?” I ask, stepping forward and looking at the grand furniture. “This was somebody's home once. It wasn't always a dark, abandoned old place. A family lived here.”

  “It's a bit of a dump now, though,” he mutters. “My old Granny'd have another stroke if she saw so much dust. She has this Chinese woman who comes in once a week to clean her flat. That girl's like a wizard, she'd have this place spruced up in no time.”

  Making my way across the hallway, I stop in the center and look directly up at the chandelier high above. Huge, unlit and cold, it has a dozen partially-melted candles still in position, almost as if it's waiting to be brought back to life. After a moment, I turn and see that Mac still doesn't seem to have moved. His left hand is resting on the staircase's dusty banister, but he's clearly lost in a world of his own. Whatever's on his mind, he seems to be focused on the empty spot at the top of the stairs.

  “So what's our first move?” I ask, hoping to spur him back to life.

  I wait.

  No reply.

  “Mac?”

  Nothing.

  “Nobody help me!” Helen gasps suddenly, and I turn to see her lugging the generator through the doorway. “I'm fine! It's not that heavy!”

  Hurrying past the still-awestruck Toby, I grab the generator's side and help Helen as she maneuvers it into position. I want to make sure that we don't accidentally scratch the house's wooden floor, but the generator is too heavy to lift properly and we have to simply budge it into position until it's safely away from the wall. My arms are already aching as I step back, and I watch for a moment as Helen starts attaching a series of leads to the panel on top of the machine.

  “Are you sure we need this?” I ask.

  “You'd rather sleep in the dark tonight?”

  “Fair point.”

  “This must be worth a pretty penny,” Toby mutters, and I turn to see that he's holding a vase that he evidently plucked from one of the tables. Wandering over to join me as Helen drags more cables to the generator, he holds the vase up so I can see it better. “How long's it been since the last family moved out of this place? A hundred years at least, right?”

  “The Harrisons left in 1912,” I tell him, “so... Just over a century.”

  “Then all this shit is antique,” he continues, peering into the vase for a moment. “I can't believe the place has been left untouched ever since. Did the Harrisons not need any furniture where they were going?”

  “Apparently they couldn't find any workers who were willing to come up and clear the place out,” I reply, “and they certainly weren't going to do it themselves. The house already had a reputation back then. I actually uncovered the letters of rejection that were sent by some nearby city movers, it was quite fascinating to see how...”

  I catch myself just in time, before I start rambling on about obscure details.

  “Well, it's just interesting,” I add, “that's all.”

  “Aye, I suppose,” he mutters, turning the vase over to check the other side, “but still... I can't believe they didn't grab whatever they could on the way out.”

  He turns to walk away.

  “And whatever happened to -”

  Suddenly he trips on one of
the generator's cables. Stumbling forward, he drops to his knees and fumbles for the vase, quickly losing his grip and watching in horror as it smashes against the hard wooden floor.

  I step forward to help, but it's already too late.

  “Sorry,” Toby gasps, looking over toward Mac. “I'm really sorry, it was an accident!”

  Mac has at least turned to look at us, but he doesn't seem bothered at all.

  “I bet that was worth hundreds,” Toby mutters, getting to his feet. “Thousands, even. Damn it, I'm not touching anything else. I've always been a little clumsy and -”

  Before he can finish, there's a sudden rumbling sound behind us, and we both turn just in time to see that Helen has finally got the generator up and running. It's not as loud as I'd expected, although any kind of noise at all seems a little intrusive in a place like this.

  “Let there be light,” she mutters, adjusting some switches as a faint smile crosses her lips. “I'm assuming this hallway is going to be our base-camp for the next two nights?”

  I turn to Mac, and the noise of the generator seems to have finally woken him from his daze.

  “Absolutely,” he says, sounding a little shocked, and he quickly takes the tattered notebook from his pocket and glances at the first page. He pauses for a moment, before putting it away again and coming over to join us. “Our first job is to bring all essential equipment inside, and get set up properly. I'd like to be done within the next hour, so we can start checking the rest of the house. We have a strict schedule to keep and there isn't much room for error.”

  He heads to the front door, but at the last moment he stops and glances back at us.

  “I didn't mention this before,” he continues, “but I want to make one thing very clear. Under no circumstances are any of you to wander off alone. Is that understood? Anywhere you go in this house, you go with someone. Even if it's only a quick trip. There are to be no exceptions to this rule.”

  “What about the potty?” Toby asks.