The Haunter (The Sentinels Series Book 2)

by David Longhorn

  “You should have gone home,” says a small voice.

  The barefoot girl is standing right beside her, and yet Maisie's sure the child wasn't there when she entered.

  “Who are you?”

  “Nobody in particular. I met him a long time ago.”

  “What do you mean? Who is it, out there? Is it . . . a ghost?” she whispers.

  Maisie likes children, at least when they're not teasing her. She hopes this one can help her.

  But the girl only shakes her head.

  “I'm sorry, it's too late, now,” she says, with a sad pout.

  “You seem nice. I'll see you again in a while, I suppose. Then perhaps we can play!” she adds. And then the child is gone, simply vanished as if she had never been there.

  I must be seeing things! And hearing things, too! I'm going mad! Yes, that girl was just my imagination.

  Maisie turns and listens with an ear to the door. Nothing. She cautiously opens it a crack and peeps out, seeing only the colorless winter landscape. If her taunting, giggling pursuer was there, it's gone now.

  She opens the door another few inches.

  There's a stealthy noise behind Maisie, as if something large is being shifted. It's the sound of stone grating on one another. There's a sudden whiff of something foul, like when her dad cleans out the drain in summer. The stink is terrible, the girl almost gags, puts a hand over her nose. She starts hearing a padding sound, like the dull flump of dough when her mother makes bread.

  The heavy footsteps get closer, then stop. Maisie is frozen in fear. She can't bear to turn round and see what's behind her. The loathsome reek is now almost palpable, her eyes watering from the stench.

  The mocking voice says,

  “Maisie, oh Maisie, come to me my pure little dove! For all your coyness, I knew I'd catch you in the end!” And a pair of inhumanly strong hands reach around and clamp themselves on the sides of her head before Maisie can begin to scream.

  ***

  “I am afraid that Madame is unable to see anyone this evening,” says the maid.

  Charlotte looks at her friends, and says,

  “Are you sure? We have an appointment.”

  “Madame has been taken ill.”

  “Well, I suppose that's it-” begins Tony.

  “Just a moment,” Rachel says firmly, putting her foot in the door before the maid can shut it.

  “Will you please tell Madam Castanos that Lord and Lady Furniss are here, and that we are seekers of hidden knowledge?”

  The maid still seems unwilling to comply, but then a powerful voice echoes in the dark interior of the house.

  “I will speak to them, Ruby!”

  Ruby ushers the three into the sitting room where yesterday's séance was held. The curtains are drawn again and the red-shaded lamp provides the only light. But this time, instead of sitting at the table, Madam Castanos is lying on a sofa that – to Rachel – looks barely able to support her considerable mass. The medium is wearing a silk dressing gown and an eye mask.

  “Please, sit down,” says the medium gesturing lazily at chairs. “And tell me why you have come.”

  “Don't you already know?” Rachel asks, before she can stop herself.

  The big woman removes her eye mask and gives Rachel a calculating stare. Her eyes are dark, and rather small in her big, fleshy face.

  “Madam Castanos is not a vulgar fortune teller! She communes with the spirits of those who have gone beyond this earthly realm!”

  Oh great, thinks Rachel. One of those people who talk about themselves in the third person. They're always such fun.

  But, she apologizes gracefully and sits. A good reporter knows better than to blow an interview before it even starts.

  “You have come to ask about yesterday's debacle,” says Madam Castanos. It is not a question.

  “Yes,” says Charlotte. “We wondered if you could cast any more light on what you said. Especially the reference to Furniss Manor.”

  The medium heaves a huge sigh.

  “Madam Castanos is not a mere artisan, to be quizzed about her work! And even if she were, there is an obstacle, one imposed by the Inscrutable Forces that work beyond the Veil. They do not permit me to recall anything that the spirits communicate through me.”

  “What?” asks Rachel, incredulous. “You can't remember anything you say when you're in a trance? That's absurd!”

  Again the medium gives her a hard stare.

  “You doubt the word of Madam Castanos?”

  “No, no, not at all,” says Charlotte, hastily. “It's just that most mediums don't seem to suffer from this, erm, psychical amnesia.”

  “Most mediums are vulgar impostors! Madam Castanos is the ‘real deal’, as your American friend would say. She does not make these rules.”

  “Would you object to having one of your séances recorded? By a machine?” asks Tony.

  The big woman switches her gaze to him, and asks:

  “Are you the heir to this Furniss the spirits spoke of?”

  Tony nods.

  “I will not be recorded. I am not a sideshow freak or a music hall act.”

  Disappointed, Tony tries a new tack.

  “I wondered if you could explain what you – sorry, I mean, what the spirits might have meant? According to Charlotte there was a tower, a garden, something about stars ...”

  Again, the medium gives a languid wave, this time of dismissal.

  “Madam Castanos provides a channel between this world and the next! She does not condescend to vulgar explanation!”

  Tony, duly chastened, gives up.

  Rachel tries again.

  “Madam, we appreciate that you are not a performing ...”

  She gropes for a word, Don't say seal, don't say seal!

  And inevitably Rachel is visualizing a plump seal in a dressing gown balancing a pool cue on its nose.

  “Er, not a performer. We're simply seeking knowledge, in all humility. If you can't help, we'll leave you to rest. Please accept our apologies for disturbing you.”

  She stands up, calculating that the big woman won't want to lose her audience. She's right. Madam Castanos swings herself upright with surprising agility. She seems graceful in a ponderous way.

  “Do not leave, my dear! I apologize for my short temper. I have suffered a terrible migraine since yesterday's incident, but now, it is lifting. Perhaps your arrival is a good omen.”

  The medium gestures Rachel over.

  “Come, let me take your hand.”

  Rachel gives it hesitantly, and is surprised to find that the medium's, though plump, is even smaller than hers. Madam Castanos sits for a moment, then frowns in puzzlement. At the same time, Rachel feels an odd sense of lightness, as if she's about to float up to the ceiling. There's a distant roaring in her ears, which gradually becomes a rising tide of voices. Suddenly, they are surrounded by ghosts.

  Faces crowd the room, drifting and hovering around Madam Castanos. Most are peering eagerly at the medium, seeking contact. Rachel sees a man in the white uniform of the British Royal Navy, one side of his face hideously disfigured, his mouth miming a silent plea. She looks away only to gaze into the eyes of a tiny old woman in a nightdress who is terrified, clutching at the heart that must have failed her, perhaps amid the terrors of an air raid. Here, is a boy in Scout uniform, there a nurse, behind them a nondescript man who might have been a clerk. There are so many ghosts here that they overwhelm Rachel and she pulls free of the medium, almost falling before Tony and Charlotte catch her.

  “You did not say you were a sensitive, my dear,” says Madam Castanos. Her tone is a little amused, but she also seems impressed. “You, too, see them, but not as I do. Yours is a rarer gift. In many countries, in many years, I have seen very few like you.”

  The ghosts are gone.

  Rachel asks “Are all those people waiting to speak to you?”

  The medium shrugs.

  “I do my best, with what talent the Creator has given me
.”

  “She's got a very long waiting list, believe me,” says Rachel to Tony and Charlotte, who are looking concerned.

  “If you wish, my dear, I will give you an informal reading – you and your husband, and this other reporter,” says the medium, with a sidelong glance at Charlotte.

  “I didn't say I was a reporter,” replies Rachel.

  “I know.”

  The medium gives a smug smile, then walks majestically to the table, where she stands motionless until Rachel nudges Tony and he pulls out a chair.

  “Thank you – better late than never, as you English have it.”

  The others sit and start to link hands.

  “No, that will not be necessary,” says Madam Castanos. Then, turning to Rachel, she asks for a notepad and pencil.

  “I will go into a light trance and use automatic writing. This way, at least your lordship will have a record, of sorts,” she adds, with a gracious nod to Tony.

  “I make no promises. Please, clear your minds of all worldly concerns and remain silent until they move through me.”

  The medium sits, pencil poised, and the visitors try to relax. Just when Rachel thinks her numb buttock will force her to shift position, the big woman starts to write.

  “Who is it?” asks Tony under his breath, only to be shushed by Charlotte.

  Madam Castanos writes faster, the pencil straying off the page and onto the tablecloth, covering page after page with what looks, from Rachel's perspective, like an unreadable scrawl. As she scribbles, Rachel again feels the room fill with ghosts, though they're less conspicuous now. She sees shadows moving behind the medium, the occasional glimpse of a distorted face, or a clutching hand.

  Whispers seem to fill the air as someone, or something, drives the medium to write faster and faster.

  Chapter 3: Communication and Confusion

  “Yes, I quite understand, sir, and I will submit a formal request in writing, but . . . Yes . . . Yes. Well thank you.”

  Inspector Croft slams the phone down.

  “Thanks for nothing you arrogant, big city snob!”

  “Problems, boss?” asks Sergeant Armstrong, placing a mug of dark, sugary tea on the detective's desk.

  “Yes. The problem is that London lawyers are idiots who won't answer a simple question over the phone.”

  Croft gulps a mouthful of tea, then gestures at the heap of files on his desk.

  “I've got a death on someone's property. Standard procedure says I contact the owner. Trouble is, I don't know whose property it is because Mister La-di-dah fancy lawyer won't tell me unless I send him a pretty-please request in writing.”

  “Typewriter ribbon's worn out,” observes Armstrong. “Very faint. New one hasn't arrived yet.”

  “You are a little ray of sunshine today,” replies his boss. “And just to add to my joys, there's this.”

  Croft holds up a new-looking file marked AUTOPSY.

  “More problems, boss?”

  “No, it just underlines the mystery. The doc just confirms that our victim, if that's what he was, died very slowly. But he still can't work out exactly what killed him. 'General and catastrophic failure of metabolism' is the phrase he's chosen to cover himself. Very scientific.”

  “And we still don't know who he is?” asks Armstrong.

  “No, but the doc did manage to obtain one very useful clue.”

  He opens the folder and hands a sheet of paper to the sergeant.

  “The one thing that wasn't stripped from the poor guy were his fingerprints. Get them off to Scotland Yard, pronto. If he has a record, they'll have his prints on file. Then get back up to Furniss Village, start knocking on doors, see if anybody remembers a stranger passing through.”

  “Aw, boss!”

  “I know, you were looking forward to spending a relaxing afternoon with the crossword and the racing pages! Sometimes I wonder ...”

  The phone rings and the Inspector snatches it up.

  “Northumberland police? What? Calm down, please, madam, and just tell me what's happened!”

  Croft, who's been slouched in his usual dejected posture, suddenly sits upright. Armstrong recognizes the sign. More bad news.

  “We'll be up there in half an hour. And please, Mrs. Marlow, don't under any circumstances tell anyone about this, not yet. Oh the girl's mother? Well, fair enough. Yes, just hang on. And thank you.”

  Croft puts the phone down gently, this time. He looks worried, all thought of berating his sergeant forgotten. He gets up and takes his hat and coat from the rack behind his desk.

  “Come on, Armstrong. You, and a couple of the brighter constables, are coming with me. A girl's gone missing up at Furniss. I think we're going to be knocking on a lot of doors today.”

  As Armstrong goes to fetch two more officers, Croft looks down at an untidy heap of files, some dating back to the Victorian era. Then he mutters under his breath:

  “Lord, if you're listening, please don't let it all start up again. Not on my watch.”

  ***

  “May I?” asks Rachel.

  Madam Castanos nods without speaking, then slumps back in her chair like an immense, silk-clad blancmange.

  Rachel studies her notebook while Charlotte and Tony assist the medium back to her couch. The pages are covered with tiny illegible handwriting and also what looks like drawings and even diagrams. She's itching to scrutinize the book under her own desk lamp but instead goes to thank Madam Castanos.

  “And can we offer you a small gift?” adds Tony.

  The big woman pauses while putting on her eye mask.

  “Young man, I do not do this for money, no matter what you might think. If I could return this gift to the Creator, I would. Ask your beautiful wife if it is a pleasure to commune with the dead!”

  “I'm sorry, I didn't mean–”

  “No,” she waves him away, “I will speak to the one who has the sight.”

  She takes Rachel's hand, pulls her close enough to whisper.

  “Trust no one!”

  The medium hesitates, before adding,

  “Beware the one who cannot die!”

  Before Rachel can ask her what she means, the woman puts on her sleep mask and booms out in her theatrical way.

  “And now all must leave! Madam Castanos is fatigued!”

  ***

  Out in the street, they find Bill Rolt, who's pacing the sidewalk smoking a pipe.

  “How did it go?” he asks.

  “Weird, as usual,” replies Charlotte. “I didn't know you were meeting us here, darling?”

  “Well, it's a clear afternoon, so I thought I'd take a stroll,” Bill explained.

  They set off to a nearby pub.

  “So, did the voluptuous medium reveal all?” asks Bill.

  “You're hopeless!” replies Charlotte. “It was quite fascinating, and her bosom hardly heaved at all.”

  “Yes, we got some kind of message, this time in writing,” adds Tony.

  “Automatic writing?” asks Bill. “Well, that's interesting. I've often seen it done by these people, but it's usually gibberish.”

  When they're settled in the pub, at a well-lit table, Rachel takes out her notebook and take turns trying to decipher Madam Castanos' scribbles. One by one, they give up. Only Bill offers a tentative theory.

  “Some of this looks like medieval or Renaissance script – early European handwriting, not modern at all. And it's not in English, or not all of it. See? This word is Latin, sidereo, relating to the stars. And here's Greek lettering. And Hebrew.”

  He sits back, frowning.

  “If I had to guess, I'd say this was some kind of centuries' old discourse on magic, with a hefty amount of astrology thrown in.”

  “’The Garden of the Cosmos!’” exclaims Charlotte.

  Rachel peers at the notebook again.

  “So, all these weird drawings could be something to do with the constellations? But somehow they're also a garden?”

  “Go figure,” says Ton
y.

  “Well, maybe we will figure it out if we go and see,” says Charlotte.

  “Could I take those with me?” asks Bill, pointing at the notebook. “I could compare them with some texts at the British Museum Library. Articles on magic, that sort of thing?”

  “Sure, why not? I think all I'll get from them is a headache.”

  Rachel is about to ask Bill a question about his paranormal research, but she forgets what she's about to say. She's distracted by a figure standing at the bar; a tall, lanky man in a gray suit. He's sad-looking with a pale, haggard face. He tries to attract the barmaid's attention, but she looks right through him. The man's colorless face shows dejection, but no anger. Rachel guesses that he was a lonely, self-effacing sort of guy, the sort of person who's used to being overlooked or ignored.

  The pale man takes out a handkerchief and coughs into it.

  Tuberculosis, Rachel thinks. Really common in this damp climate. Seldom fatal, but incurable. It shortens the lifespan, that's for sure.

  The man starts to wander out of the pub, so Rachel gets up to intercept him. This one is easy, the colorless figure vanishing like smoke at her touch. And now he's moving on, Rachel hopes, to a realm where he won't be overlooked or neglected.

  “Doing my bit for the recently deceased,” she says to Tony as she sits down again.

  Turning to Bill, who looks baffled by her behavior, she goes on.

  “If we're going to hunt ghosts together, I'd better fill you in on just how real they are.”

  ***