Phil returned Gloria’s kiss, devouring her with a deep passion unlike anything she had experienced before. His stubble scratched her face, her neck and her breasts as he slowly unbuttoned her blouse. She arched her back as Phil’s hands slid beneath her body to hold her. She ran her hands through his hair. It was soft to the touch.
‘I want you, my darling,’ he moaned into the soft, yielding flesh of her breasts.
‘Oh, yes,’ sighed Gloria, her eyes closed, head thrown back in rapture as Phil’s head moved ever lower. She clutched the back of his head firmly, pulling him closer. ‘Please, make love to me!’
Gloria’s fingers released their grip and Phil moved up once more, following the contours of her body with his tongue until his lips met hers. Their passion increased as they struggled to release themselves from their clothes. The moment of crisis arrived far quicker than either had anticipated.
‘Peter!’
‘Isabella!’
It was over as they sank into one another, still kissing with passion, completely oblivious to the words that issued forth from their lips. Consumed with their passions, the consequence was lost on Phil and Gloria, and it was only much later that they pondered the truth surrounding their sudden mutual love.
For the love Gloria and Phil had shared was not theirs; it was a passion played out of time and out of context; the love no more belonged to Gloria than it belonged to Phil.
The love was that of Isabella and Peter Neville.
*
That night as she lay in bed, Gloria wondered about the mysterious woman she had glimpsed in the mirror. The figure had certainly not been Isabella, so who was she?
A timid knock on the door interrupted her reverie. She sat up, clutching a hand to the locket around her neck, her heart suddenly racing with anticipation. ‘Come in.’ As the door opened, there stood Phil, wearing nothing but a towelling robe that was not fastened properly. When he asked if he could come in, Gloria nodded and he entered, closing the door softly behind him.
He stood in the centre of the room for a long moment of silence, giving Gloria the opportunity to gaze once more at his musculature, exposed from the waist up by the laxly secured belt, and then, inexplicably, he burst into tears, collapsing in a heap on the floor. Throwing back the bedclothes, Gloria ran to him and cradled him comfortingly against her. Phil glanced up into her eyes, struggling against some inner desire to kiss her. ‘What’s happening, Gloria?’ he managed to gasp between sobs.
Gloria shook her head, barely able to suppress her own tears of confusion. ‘I don’t know, Phil. I really wish that I did… but the only explanation I can come up with is preposterous.’ She could tell from the look on Phil’s face that he wanted to hear her explanation, however preposterous it turned out to be, so she took a deep breath and continued. ‘I think I’m possessed by the spirit of a woman called Isabella Neville. Earlier today, in the library, I could have sworn I recognised you as her cousin, Peter Neville. Only they were more than cousins, if you get my meaning!’
‘They were lovers? You mean you think we’re both possessed by the spirits of these two people, and they’re re-enacting their love affair through us?’
‘Perhaps. On the other hand, we could be their reincarnations. Oh, I don’t know…’ Gloria sighed. ‘It all sounds so ridiculous now I’ve said it out loud.’ She wanted to laugh, but neither she nor Phil found the situation funny. Slowly she recounted the story of Isabella and her various alleged lovers.
‘But why us, for God’s sake?’ gasped Phil. ‘I was quite happy with my life the way it was. I don’t need this! I don’t want this!’
Gloria sighed again, melodramatically. ‘If you think you’ve got problems, spare a thought for me. It seems like my destiny has been mapped out hundreds of years in advance, and I’m the last to know! And this only proves that the prophecy is coming true!’
Phil was even more confused. ‘What prophecy?’
‘Hundreds of years ago, Isabella wrote a book. It foretold her death… and many other things. It revealed the destiny of a woman of the future, whose spirit is Isabella’s, destined to relive Isabella’s life, right up to her murder. That woman it seems is me!’ Gloria paused, staring beseechingly into her own haunted reflection in Phil’s eyes. ‘Don’t you see – you… me… we are reliving the lives of Isabella and Peter. You will die in battle, some years from now, and I am to be murdered. My life, my entire family, will come to an end, and all because of the prophecy of a dead woman!’
‘Can we not change it? If you know what happened to Isabella in the days leading up to her murder, just make sure those things don’t happen to you!’
Gloria shook her head sadly. ‘It’s an immutable certainty: what has passed cannot be changed now; what is to come has already happened; the past is preserved, and Isabella lives again through me… and through me, Isabella must die once more!’
‘How long have you known?’ asked Phil, struggling to get his tortured mind to accept all that Gloria had said.
‘Only a day or so, and though Nana Turner has known for years, my mother doesn’t! I do have one question though.’
Phil managed a wry smile. ‘Just the one?’
Gloria did not laugh. She looked right through him, as though gazing into the hazy mists of the past. ‘If I’m Isabella, and you are Peter, then who are James, Samuel and Ria?’ Her eyes refocused on Phil as he gave her his best blank expression, and Gloria realised the other names were lost on him. She smiled and kissed him lightly on the cheek. ‘I think it’s probably best if you return to your room. We know now that we don’t really love each other, and whilst we cannot be parted in spirit, we must not be joined again physically!’
Phil nodded. He returned the kiss and left the room silently.
When he was gone, Gloria slid between the sheets of her bed and wondered whether it really was possible for the spirits of two people, long dead, to make love to one another through surrogate bodies, centuries later.
She fell into a troubled sleep, still wondering.
The dream did not disturb Gloria’s slumber that night. She slept so soundly that she did not awaken at the sound of footsteps outside her room. The door opened, and Phil slipped into the room once more. He stood close to the bed, staring at Gloria’s incumbent form, smiling.
‘Not long now, my darling,’ he whispered. ‘Soon enough we shall be reunited. Our spirits shall be freed, and we shall be together forever.’
He leaned across and planted a kiss lightly upon Gloria’s forehead, but she did not stir. ‘Sleep well, Isabella!’
Moments later, Phil was gone.
*
The following morning dawned foggy; the kind found only in mountainous regions, so dense that vision was limited to mere feet.
Gloria had always found fog mysterious. It reminded her of images of Victorian London: cobbled streets; horses and carriages; the Bobby, walking his beat; shadowy figures, lurking in darkened doorways; murder – a crime for Sherlock Holmes to solve.
Oh how she wished the redoubtable Sherlock Holmes would suddenly appear and solve all the riddles that surrounded her very existence. She had always been assertive in the past, always thought in a positive manner, and always had all of the answers to all of the questions.
Now though she was unsure of anything, and she certainly had no answers to any of her countless queries. Even if she knew the answer to just one, it would be a start – preferably to the all-encompassing question of what the hell is going on? Even that would still leave far too many others begging an answer.
However, there was no explanation; nobody could answer the questions. She knew her grandmother would be of no use to her in her quest, for it was clear that the old woman had already told Gloria everything she knew – more than she perhaps should, certainly, and definitely more than Gloria wished to know: wishing to know something and wanting to know something were two entirely separate entities.
At breakfast, Gloria and Phil exchanged tepid smiles, which di
d not pass unnoticed by Mary. She peered down her nose at Gloria. ‘Is there something the two of you would like to share with me?’
Gloria laughed self-consciously. ‘Of course not!’
It was the truth, after all, but her grandmother remained unconvinced. ‘Tell me, is there something going on between the pair of you?’
Gloria shrugged. ‘Believe what you like, Nana Turner,’ she responded frostily. ‘I’m telling you, there’s nothing going on between Phil and myself! I’ll be in the library if you want me.’
Gloria hastened from the room, and when she was gone, Mary turned to Phil. ‘What is going on between you and my grand-daughter?’ she demanded. ‘And don’t tell me it’s nothing, or that it’s none of my business. I don’t want lies and excuses, either. The truth, if you please!’
Phil sighed. ‘What Gloria said is true, Mrs Turner. There’s nothing going on between her and me. But there is something going on between Peter and Isabella.’
‘Peter… and Isabella Neville?’
Phil nodded. ‘Peter and Isabella were… are… lovers!’
Mary’s face betrayed her shock. Everything fell into place.
The time was indeed approaching: time for the future to unravel; time for the past to collide with the present; time for destiny to run its course.
Time to say goodbye.
*
The fog lifted by break of dawn the following day, and Gloria awoke feeling refreshed. She jumped from the bed, ran across the room and threw back the heavy drapes, basking in the glorious morning sunshine that crashed invasively through the glass. She threw open the window and inhaled the heady summer scent of nature, longing to remain, but knowing she had to return down south.
So enraptured was she by the tranquillity that, sounding like cannon fire, the loud knock upon the bedroom door startled her. She spun around to find her grandmother standing in the doorway.
‘I’m glad you’re awake, child. Are we heading down to London today?’
Gloria sighed. ‘Well, I suppose we really ought to make the most of this weather. It’ll probably rain for days if we delay. My things are already packed.’
‘Good. I have a case packed ready, enough for a good two weeks. I telephoned your mother yesterday, and she’s really quite excited that I’m coming to stay.’
‘And is Dad excited about you staying too?’
Mary shrugged. Like Gloria, she knew Jeremy did not exactly like her. ‘Whether your father is looking forward to my stay or not is no concern of mine. I’m going down there to see my daughter, not him! However, I intend to try and make my peace with him… before it’s too late.’
Gloria smiled. ‘That’s good to hear, Nana Turner. Life is far too short to live with enmity for anyone, least of all the man married to your daughter. Anyway, the drive to London is a long one, so we ought to leave as early as possible. I only have to wash and get dressed, maybe have a bite to eat, and then I’ll be ready.’
‘Shall we say one hour then? I’ll go and let Phil know. Leave your bags at the top of the stairs. Phil will bring them down.’
‘Is Phil staying here to look after the house whilst you’re gone?’
Mary nodded. ‘Someone has to keep an eye on things. Besides, with you down south and Phil up here, Isabella and Peter won’t be able to intrude upon our lives!’
‘How do you know that?’ cried Gloria, appalled that her grandmother could have guessed what had happened between Phil and her.
Mary raised a hand to calm her granddaughter. ‘Phil told me everything yesterday. Don’t worry, I shall keep the secret and take it to my grave!’ She offered Gloria a gap-toothed grin, and left the room.
Less than hour later, Gloria was ready to leave. She packed several history books from the library into her suitcase, along with the manuscript of The Master of the Scrolls and Isabella’s other two novels, all of which Mary graciously allowed her to borrow – indeed, she had practically insisted that Gloria pack them.
Dragging the suitcase down the passage, Gloria paused at the top of the stairs having noticed that the door to Nana Turner’s room was open. She could hear her grandmother’s voice from within, and wondered to whom she was talking. It certainly was not Phil, because he was coming up the stairs towards her.
‘Is this your case?’ he asked, trying to avoid eye contact.
Gloria nodded, trying to control her wildly beating heart. ‘Yes. Be careful… it’s heavy!’
Phil hefted it with ease, and as he slowly carried the case down to the next flight of stairs, Gloria could not help but yet again marvel at his musculature. ‘I’ll take it out to the car,’ he called over his shoulder.
Gloria mumbled her thanks absentmindedly, shaking her head to clear her thoughts. She returned her attention to the slightly ajar door of her grandmother’s room, from which Mary’s voice still emanated. She had never been inside this room, but knowing Nana Turner’s dislike for the wretched contraptions there was little chance that she had a telephone in there.
So to whom was she talking?
Gloria edged closer to the door, despising herself for eavesdropping. It was difficult to hear what her grandmother was saying. The old woman was speaking too softly for her words to be clearly discernible. Peering through the crack, Gloria could clearly see Mary facing half away from her, staring at someone out of view.
A sudden gust of wind raced down the passage, colliding with Gloria like an ethereal entity. Her throat went dry. The tingling sensation was as familiar as it was unexpected. It was the sensation she had experienced so often in the house, as if another presence hovered close by. She could feel a pair of eyes boring directly into her back. The prickling sensation down the nape of her neck told her someone was watching her.
But there was no one else in the house besides her grandmother, Phil and herself.
And whoever Nana Turner’s talking to, she corrected herself.
She turned slowly, not entirely certain what to expect.
There, at the far end of the passage, stood the ghostly image she had glimpsed so briefly in the mirror mounted upon the wall in the turret room.
Only this figure was no ghostly image. She was the image made flesh. Gloria could see her quite clearly. It was so uncanny, like looking in a mirror, yet the woman was oddly without colour.
Gloria took a couple of faltering steps forward. ‘Who… who are you?’ she called in a dry, cracked voice.
The figure smiled, beckoning to Gloria. A wind blew from nowhere, surrounding the woman, whipping her hair into a mad frenzy, billowing her dress wildly. She began to take on an ethereal quality as she walked around the corner of the passage. About to follow, Gloria halted in her tracks. That way led to the turret room.
‘Wait!’ she called as she willed her legs to move. She came to the intersection with the spiral stairs and stopped again, just in time to see the hem of the woman’s dress disappear around the central spiral. Sudden dread filled Gloria’s heart, but she knew she had no choice. Snapping on the light, she followed slowly, at a distance.
All her childhood fears about someone lurking around the twisting turning curves of the stairwell suddenly came back to fill her every thought. She stopped in her tracks, unwilling to venture any further, yet unable to retreat.
A ghostly voice called out her name from somewhere above.
It was her voice!
She continued falteringly, ascending with a slowness that was exaggerated by her unease, and when she reached the closed door at the top, an icy draught emanated from beyond it. Of the woman, there was no sign. The top bulb flickered almost menacingly as, shaking with trepidation, Gloria reached out for the handle.
She snatched her hand away: the handle was colder than a midwinter frost.
Why are you afraid?
The inner voice mocked her, echoing around her in the silence.
Gloria reached out once more, took a firm hold on the handle, twisted sharply and shoved the door recklessly. It remained stubbornly shut, thro
wing her off balance. Stumbling, she threw herself towards the door to prevent her from falling back down the stairs. Gasping at the coldness of the door, Gloria straightened herself, took a deep breath, and tried the door once more.
It was locked.
Gloria frowned, then shrugged, and turned to go back down the stairs, when without warning the flickering light extinguished itself with an audible pop, just as the door to the turret room opened of its own accord, creaking on rusted old hinges.
Inside, the morning light illuminated the room and a breeze somehow stirred the drapes at the closed windows.
Why are you afraid?
The inner voice once more echoed in her mind as she stepped cautiously inside, casting a fearful glance all around her, until she stood in the centre of the room.
The room was empty.
Only her reflection stared back at her in the mirror on the wall.
Suddenly the ghostly woman appeared too, smiling, beckoning to her.
Come closer.
The words, carried on a summer-scented breeze, warmed the air with their gentle resonance.
Do not be frightened, my dear. Come to me! Come; step closer!
Sudden female laughter echoed around the room as Gloria stepped towards the mirror, and as she moved, the figure slowly began to recede into the distance.
‘Wait!’ called Gloria desperately. ‘Please, don’t go.’ She turned to look where the woman should have been standing, but she was still alone in the room. She turned back to the mirror. The woman had almost vanished. ‘Wait… please… who are you?’
‘Do you not know?’
The deep resonant voice boomed unexpectedly from somewhere beyond the mirror.
The summer scent vanished in an instant, along with the welcoming warmth, replaced at once with iciness, and a lingering stench of evil. Mocking laughter permeated every fibre of Gloria’s being. The female figure in the mirror, now barely more than a figment of Gloria’s imagination, contorted her face in a silent scream, before vanishing completely.
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