Master of the Scrolls

by Benjamin Ford

  ‘If only other ghosts would let the past lie,’ whispered Gloria. When her mother questioned her to explain what she was talking about, Gloria waved a hand dismissively. ‘Nothing, Mum, I was just thinking aloud.’ As she followed her mother into the drawing room, she saw a gorgeous couple seated on one of the settees. ‘Oh, you have company. I hope I’m not interrupting?’

  ‘Of course you’re not. Lesley and Jack came to apologise, so since your father’s gone out, I invited them to stay for dinner.’

  Gloria laughed. ‘Up to your old tricks, eh?’

  She knew Lesley and Jack Standish very well, having struck up a friendship with Lesley while on their journalism course. Lesley and Gloria had subsequently worked together at the same newspaper for a short time, before Lesley had gone off to work on The London Chronicle, a rival paper that had still been in its infancy back then. She had done very well over the years, eventually becoming the paper’s editor – a position she loved.

  Lesley Forrester had been an outspoken character in their early college days. She had brightened up the dull everyday monotony of college life by wearing outrageously revealing clothes and had dyed her hair a variety of equally outrageous colours, until her hair had eventually fallen out. Lesley then decided she quite liked being bald, and as her hair started growing back, so she would shave it off. Eventually she had grown bored of being bald, mainly because other students started following her trends and there were a whole gaggle of bald girls trailing Gloria, Louise and herself around, which the trio found rather irksome.

  They still hung around together after they finished college, though sometimes Gloria and Louise unintentionally made Lesley feel like an outsider herself, such was the closeness of their own bond, but it did not unduly bother Lesley – especially when she met and fell in love with Jack Standish, the entertainment editor at the newspaper she herself would eventually edit.

  If there were two people well suited to each other, it was Lesley Forrester and Jack Standish, the most gorgeous hunk of a man to ever walk the Earth – though not even Gloria had thought the couple would end up in matrimonial bliss. Jack was as outrageous as Lesley was, with a penchant for wandering around their house nude, a practice Lesley joined in with once she discovered how liberating it was. Gloria was in no doubt they also enjoyed rather more personal outrageous elements within the privacy of their home, perhaps not limited to just the pair of them, but she never pried – what a couple got up to in the privacy of their own home was their own business.

  ‘I’m afraid that Jack and I rather startled your grandmother this morning.’

  Gloria cracked up hysterically. ‘Oh, poor Nana Turner! I’m sure having to watch you two gorgeous creatures cavorting naked made her day!’

  ‘Gloria!’ laughed Rachel in mock outrage. ‘I’m quite sure Mother no more wants to see naked people at the end of the garden than you would!’

  ‘Oh, I don’t know… if they looked like these two!’

  Lesley arched an eyebrow in Rachel’s direction. ‘Didn’t bring her up very well, did you, Mrs S.’ They all laughed. ‘This is like college,’ Lesley added, glancing at Gloria. ‘Do you remember how you, Louise and I would tease Ingrid Patterson for her dress sense and hair?’

  Gloria’s eyes widened. ‘Oh my God – Ingrid Patterson! I’d forgotten all about her!’

  Gloria and Lesley saw the appalled looks on both Rachel’s and Jack’s faces and they burst out laughing.

  ‘I don’t see what’s so funny about ridiculing some poor girl for how she looked!’ snapped Jack. ‘Even I wouldn’t be that cruel!’

  ‘Don’t worry, darling. Ingrid had the last laugh on us,’ chuckled Lesley. ‘On the very last day of term before Easter one year, she turned up at college dressed as badly as ever, glasses askew, hair in ridiculous pigtails. She ran straight into the toilets, and was in there for ages.’

  Gloria took up the tale. ‘Lou and I were about to go in to see if she’d flushed her head down the loo or something, when the door opened, and out walked this really stunning girl, beautifully understated make up, gorgeous tousled hair, tanned skin, slimmer figure than any of us, and big boobs. It was Ingrid, and she was naked!’

  ‘Of course she was made to put some clothes on,’ added Lesley, ‘but not one of the lads could take their eyes off her. No one recognised her to begin with. She had all the boys chasing after her for the rest of our time at college, and ended up dating the most gorgeous eligible guy at college. Stole him right out from under Louise’s nose actually!’

  ‘Well I hope you learnt a lesson from that!’ said Rachel, quite appalled at her daughter’s behaviour.

  ‘Oh yes,’ smiled Lesley. ‘I don’t think Ingrid ever considered us her friends, but we all got along after that. And speaking of Louise, how is she?’

  ‘Fine, I think,’ sighed Gloria. ‘We had a bit of a fight, but I’m sure it will blow over!’

  Rachel was shocked. ‘You and Louise never fight! What on earth happened?’

  Gloria held up a hand. ‘Best not to ask at the moment.’ She turned to Lesley, promptly changing the subject. ‘How’s the paper?’

  ‘I got the sack last month,’ sighed Lesley.

  ‘What?’ shrieked Gloria. ‘What did you get the sack for? You’re the best thing that happened to that paper! You’ve doubled circulation over the years.’

  ‘I know, but when you use your paper as a platform upon which to slag off the Prime Minister–’

  ‘Oh Lesley, you didn’t!’

  Jack sighed. ‘She did! Then, when they fired her, I quit, so we’re both officially unemployed!’

  ‘Private Eye has approached me to write for them,’ added Lesley, ‘and Jack has his new novel coming out in the autumn, so it’s not really a problem.

  ‘Besides, no offence to our neighbours, but we’re a bit bored with London anyway, so the house is going on the market next month.’

  Gloria laughed. ‘If that’s the case, Jack, make sure you keep your clothes on when the Estate Agent shows prospective buyers round! Sorry about your job though, Lesley.’

  Lesley shrugged. ‘Don’t sweat it, Glory. I couldn’t give a monkey’s really.’

  ‘Oh now I don’t believe that, Lesley dear. You loved that job!’

  ‘I was getting a little bored, Mrs S. I guess I was feeling how Louise felt before she quit her job at the magazine. When you cannot make the paper any better than it is it needs fresh blood. I need new challenges.’

  Jack chuckled, leaning over to whisper conspiratorially in Gloria’s ear. ‘She’s writing a bodice ripper… with all the juicy bits left in!’

  Gloria laughed. ‘Really? My, my, Lesley – I’m shocked!’

  As Gloria, Lesley and Jack drifted off into Writer’s Limbo, Rachel leaned back in her chair and scrutinized her daughter closely. Despite her cheery smile, there was a haunted look in her eyes, which she was trying desperately not to show. It could have had something to do with her fight with Louise, but Rachel knew it was something else altogether.

  Last night, Mary had told her daughter and son-in-law everything about the family curse, about how it began with her grandmother, Victoria Trevayne, and ended with her granddaughter, Gloria Schofield.

  Rachel had treated the tale with a great deal of scepticism. She and Jeremy had talked at length about it. Was it even remotely possible? Plausible, no; possible, perhaps: it made sense of many things to both Rachel and her husband. Mary believed it to be true, and knowing what little they did about their daughter’s nightmares, Rachel and Jeremy decided to keep an open mind.

  Now though, Rachel wished her mother had not shared the tale with her.

  It was a burden she did not need.

  *

  Gloria joined her mother and guests for dinner, enjoying the company. Somehow, Lesley and Jack Standish’s good humour was infectious and she forgot about her woes until after she departed at nine o’clock. She declined her mother’s invitation to spend the night. Although she wanted to stay and sp
eak with her grandmother, she knew the old woman would be exhausted upon her return from the theatre. Rachel was not expecting them back until nearly midnight, and even she was not waiting up for them.

  On the drive back to Neville Hill, her mind started drifting to recent events, most of which were still hazy, and as a chill started creeping up her spine as she thought of Isabella and Peter and Samuel, she forced herself to think of something else.

  My new novel.

  She had her notes back at her house. She would go through them briefly before going to bed, she decided, as she stopped en-route in Mayfield for a Chinese takeaway. She did not know why, but she was oddly hungry, even after the large dinner her mother had cooked. She felt strangely calm as she realised she could not recall what title she had decided upon for her novel, nor what it was about. Why worry about that lapse of memory? There were so many other stolen memories; memories she would not get back. At least she had safely written all her notes in an A5 ring binder.

  Once back in the comfort of her house, she tried not to think of Louise and George down the lane. Opening the packages of her takeaway and stuffing the food greedily into her mouth, she settled down in front of the desk in her study and opened the red ring binder, to be confronted with the title of her new novel.

  Isabella.

  The word leapt from the page and attacked her subconscious. Images flashed before her: Isabella’s murder at the hands of Samuel Wylams; the dreams; the events at Ravenscreag Hall; Phil and…

  ‘Oh my God, Isabella and Peter,’ she whispered. ‘Me and Phil!’

  Peter Neville!

  The name jarred with her as images of Phil McFadyen and herself making love at Ravenscreag Hall filled her mind; only it was not really Phil and I, she thought as a portion of the fog cleared. It was the spirits of Isabella and Peter Neville, having restlessly transcended time to continue their affair. Their spirits took over our bodies and they made love to each other through us!

  It must be Isabella blocking my thoughts! It must have been Phil on the phone when Louise overheard us: Peter, talking with Isabella through Phil and me. I was having a conversation with a ghost after all!

  But why me? Why couldn’t Isabella have chosen someone else through which to continue her liaison with Peter? Why this need to carry on their affair at all? Using someone else’s mind to reveal the truth about her murder is one thing, to cling desperately onto another life that doesn’t belong to her is something else altogether!

  Isabella, you had your life! I’m sorry that you were murdered, but now I know the truth about Samuel Wylams, why can’t you rest in peace? Leave my body and give me back my life. I don’t want to relive your life. I don’t want to be murdered!

  A memory from the dreams returned suddenly to her.

  Samuel’s face – Allan’s face. The same, yet different. Older, scarred, and filled with hateful rage.

  If she really was Isabella, destined to die at the hand of Samuel Wylams, then Wilma must surely not have been his reincarnation. Perhaps his spirit had taken hold of her because she had access to Gloria whilst Allan did not, due to his assignment abroad.

  If Louise were to tell Allan about ‘Peter Neville’ then he might lose control, kill out of jealous rage – destiny would be fulfilled. It was unlikely, since Allan was a placid man, but with him being the spitting image of Samuel – in some twisted way it made sense to Gloria

  Gloria was determined to try to break the cycle. Her rational mind told her both possession by a dead spirit and reincarnation were pure fantasy, no matter what had happened between her and Phil up at Ravenscreag Hall. If it was all true, then she could not tell Louise, or anyone else. Who would believe something that she could barely believe herself?

  Was it Isabella’s intention, perhaps, to drive her mad?

  If she drives me mad, she would be able to take control of my life permanently! She wants to live again! That has to be it!

  No, that is not my intention.

  Gloria shrieked almost hysterically as the voice echoed within her mind. ‘Isabella, if that’s you then please, just tell me what you want from me!’ she gasped.

  Have no fear, my dear. All shall be soon revealed to you.

  The woman from the past who had control of her thoughts had done little so far to prove her intentions were benign; a voice in her head, telling her that everything would be okay, did not reassure Gloria. She dare not call Phil at Ravenscreag Hall, for Isabella was sure to wrest control of her body again, causing Gloria to suffer another blackout. The very sound of Phil’s voice, it seemed, was enough to awaken Isabella’s passion, almost as much as reading Isabella’s manuscript did.

  She stroked her grandmother’s locket ponderously as she stared at the telephone, before making a decision. She dialled the number for Ravenscreag Hall, surprised but relieved that it was not out of order this time. The ringing went unanswered for several long minutes before Gloria replaced the receiver, disappointed.

  She decided she would try again later. Pushing the telephone out of the way she reached instead for her notes and glanced through them, appalled to see little more than scrawled names and dates and precious little in the way of plot ideas. She felt certain she had written more notes than this. It was not overly unusual for her to start with vague ideas, which she would jot down as they entered her mind, and which she would elaborate upon once the process of writing had started. It was only after writing a dozen or so pages that the novel would start to take on a life of its own.

  She picked up a pen, and wrote – it starts with the murder of a young woman.

  She lowered the pen, reaching for her takeaway, indelicately scoffed a large mouthful and wiped sauce from her chin.

  After the murder, the discovery the woman’s journals leads to her friends and family piecing together the mysteries surrounding her secret life. From the journals, the dead woman herself will narrate the story, giving clues as to the identity of her murderer.

  Piece of cake, thought Gloria now her creative juices were in full flow. She was writing about Isabella; it was as though her thoughts had been suddenly released from their prison, running amuck as they enjoyed their newfound freedom. Her hand sped across the page as she feverishly wrote down the ideas as they poured from her mind.

  An hour and a half of frantic scribbling later, Gloria set down her pen, yawning. She glanced at her watch, shocked to see it was nearly one o’clock in the morning. Though thoughts of Isabella and Peter, and James and Samuel filled her mind, suddenly they were merely characters from her new story. All notions about reincarnation disappeared from her mind as her fear of possession evaporated.

  None of it was real. She had imagined the whole thing.

  Convincing herself that it had just been the new story struggling to surface, she read the notes with difficulty. Her handwriting was little more than a scrawl, a common problem for her when trying to make her pen keep up with her thoughts. Still, she now had the flesh and bones of the story written down.

  She decided she would rewrite her notes more neatly in the morning. For now though, her need for sleep was too great. As she tidied her desk, she yawned several more times and turned off the lights, then made her way up to her bedroom. She had only sat on the edge of the bed to start removing her clothing when sleep stole consciousness from her. Her eyes grew heavy and by the time she toppled sideways on the bed, she was already asleep.

  *

  Gloria awoke at eight the following morning to the buzzing sound of the alarm, feeling fully refreshed and alert. A quick shower and breakfast later, and she sat at her desk, writing away with feverish abandon.

  The actual writing of the novel was proving problematic though, and her waste bin quickly became a mountain of screwed up paper as she struggled to get the first page right..

  As a writer, she knew she had to hook her readers quickly. The descriptions of the murder she was coming up with were too violent and graphic for her returning readers, many of whom she knew to be retired wom
en who dreamed of recapturing the romance in their lives.

  Start with the dream.

  Still with me then, Isabella!

  Start with the dream and all shall fall into place.

  So Gloria started the first page again. She wrote of Peter, dreaming of his beloved cousin, of the mysterious man from her past, coming to her in the middle of the night to seek vengeance. She wrote of James, asleep in another room while the terrible deed occurred, of his discovery of her body, and of her funeral. She finished with his discovery of his dead wife’s journals.

  Gloria broke for lunch, eating ravenously whilst she read what she had written. As she read, she found her mind wandering back to Phil.

  Why did he consume her thoughts so?

  Against her better judgment, she found herself dialling the number for Ravenscreag Hall again, and once more found her heart sinking when there was no answer. Where was Phil? He would not have strayed far from the house – he was its sole caretaker in Mary’s absence.

  Trying to distance herself from her stray thoughts concerning Phil McFadyen, Gloria immersed herself totally in her writing, and the next time she looked at her watch, it was gone seven in the evening. She suddenly realised she was starving yet again and phoned out for another takeaway, much preferable to one of her own inedible home cooked meals.

  When half an hour later the front doorbell chimed, she hurried to answer it, a ten pound note in her hand, thank you ready on her lips and keep the change half formed in her mind.

  Gloria froze when she realised it was not the deliveryman standing silhouetted against the evening sun in her doorway.

  ‘Hello, Isabella. I could not stay away.’

  Gloria backed away, wondering why she was suddenly so afraid. ‘No, Phil, you’ve got it all wrong. Isabella isn’t here anymore. I’ve banished her from my mind.’ She thought, rather naively, that if he believed Isabella was gone, then Peter too would leave.

  Phil McFadyen stepped over the threshold into the sanctity of Gloria’s home, closing the door gently behind him. Gloria could see love in his eyes as he looked at her. ‘No, my darling, it is you who are mistaken. Isabella cannot be banished from you like a mere thought.’