by Dean Cole
‘Have to say that what Esther was saying about us all being connected by the same Source was interesting, though,’ he said, his voice softened again.
‘Yeah,’ I agreed.
‘Ever tried this? He reached his arm across the table and placed the palm of his hand on the back of mine. A shiver ran the length of my arm in response to the sudden touch. ‘Close your eyes.’
I did.
‘Do you feel that?’
I concentrated on the sensation of his hand on mine. In seconds there was another sensation. A heat felt like it was flooding out of Will’s hand, through my skin, into the flesh, the veins and the bone. ‘Wow,’ I said, smiling.
‘Jesus,’ Will hissed, tearing his hand away.
I started at the abrupt interruption and flipped open my eyes. Will was staring at the window, his eyes wide with fear. I followed his gaze and saw the caretaker, Stan Crouch, standing outside, looking in at us. I pushed away from the table, an instinctive reflex, the chair legs squeaking against the floor tiles.
The old man was wearing a raincoat that shadowed half of his face, but there was no mistaking that same cold, impenetrable stare he had given me when I first arrived. He watched me for a second longer before turning and vanishing into the turbulent fronds. There were sighs of relief from both of us.
‘God, he creeps me out,’ I said.
Will said, ‘There’s a cottage at the bottom of the garden. Saw it from one of the upstairs windows earlier. Must be where he lives.’
Brilliant. I wasn’t sure which was worse. The ghosts residing in the walls or that Grim Reaper lurking at the bottom of the garden. It’d be a small miracle if I managed to get any sleep tonight.
The mood in the room felt even colder than its draught suddenly. I stood, removed Will’s dressing gown and laid it on the table. ‘Thanks for the wine,’ I said. ‘Even if it wasn’t yours to give.’
Will looked surprised to see I was leaving. ‘Any time.’
I left the kitchen, walking back down the shadowy corridor, my head dizzy. But it wasn’t just the wine that was affecting me. It wasn’t just the caretaker with his weird stare. Will was getting into my head. And it felt as good as the warmth that had flooded from his hand into mine.
- CHAPTER FIVE -
Robins and Butterflies
THOSE DAMN CROWS wouldn’t stop squawking when I woke up next morning. One of them even started pecking at the window, rapping the glass like an annoying parent refusing to let you sleep in. I don’t know why, because I’d never felt any animosity towards the common bird before, but the ebony-feathered creature with its beady eyes and clawed feet gave me a deep sense of unease. It was as if it was trying to tell us something. Warn us, even. The way it tap tap tapped, threatening to break the glass. It finally got the message when Kat’s heel went sailing through the air and ricocheted off the pane with a reverberating rattle, even gave us an angry squawk as it flew away.
‘Wretched thing,’ huffed Kat, swinging her legs off the bed and slapping down her eye mask.
She stood and stretched, her silky nightie cascading down the back of her pale, shapely legs. In the soft light pouring through the window you could see just how attractive she was, her skin as fresh as a raindrop, her body as lithe as a ballerina’s. There was a delicacy about her reminiscent of a china doll. Pity the same couldn’t be said of her manner.
My body was nowhere near as graceful this dreary morning. It ached like a creaky antique, something that always happens if I don’t get at least eight hours sleep. To make matters worse the wine had disagreed with my system, making my head throb as if I had a bird of my own in there, trying to peck its way out. I should have known it would, having been abstinent since that time I drank too much at one of the two parties I’ve ever attended and ended up passing out in that graveyard. I had to face it: when it came to alcohol I had the tolerance of a newborn. I knew I’d be desperate to crawl back to bed come noon, not that Kat, my drill sergeant, would be having any of that.
‘Hurry up,’ she ordered. ‘I’m starting my interviews today. When I’m finished you’ll need to take some group shots of the Freaky Foursome.’
As she rummaged through her belongings, I yawned and stretched out my legs, my feet looking like mole hills beneath the plush duvet. It was the first time I’d slept in a fourposter, and this one with its ornate posts, sheltering roof, even a curtain for those private moments, made me feel so protected I was reluctant to get out. Maybe I was harbouring a subconscious memory from my childhood crib. Though if the rumours about my infant years were true then protective environments had been no part of them.
Kat pushed herself up from the position she’d adopted on the floor. She had retrieved from her suitcase a bathrobe, a towel and a collection of toiletries that could fill a small store shelf. ‘Up, Quentin!’ she reminded me, carrying them to the door. Then she vanished into the corridor with an energy that should never be allowed in the early hours of the day.
Reluctantly, with a long groan, I sat up and reached for my specs. I pulled open the drawer in the bedside table and felt around for my pills. I unscrewed the bottle and was just about to pour out my morning dosage when a thought stopped me. Something Will had said during last night’s conversation niggled at my mind: ‘we numb them with addictions — prescription medications, drugs, sex, video games, shopping, dopamine hits we get from likes on social media.’
What if the anxiety the pills were supposed to suppress had something important to tell me? What if the dreams did? How long would it be before the pills began to suppress those as well? I tilted the bottle, listened to the pills rattle, debated. Would it be worth the withdrawal symptoms? Had I, deep down, known they were never the answer all along? I resealed the bottle and stowed it back in the drawer, deciding the risk was worth it. There’d be no more running from my own ghosts. Hilderley Manor’s, however, could be a different matter.
When I met Kat in the dining hall for breakfast, it was obvious from the look on her face I hadn’t done enough in the ten minutes it had taken me to get ready to conceal how rough I was feeling.
‘Are you ill?’ she asked.
‘I got up last night to use the loo and bumped into Will,’ I replied, sliding into a seat. ‘We got chatting and I ended up having a drink.’
She pursed her lips thoughtfully. ‘Then you’re probably dehydrated. Here,’ she said, pushing a tumbler and a jug of water across the table. ‘Make sure you drink at least two glasses. Have you been sick?’
I nodded sheepishly, remembering my visit to the bathroom before creeping back to our room. I hadn’t needed Annie’s creepy tales or my vivid imagination to scare me that time. It was like my very own horror film, that vomit scene from The Exorcist. But I don’t think it was the wine alone that caused the sickness. The entire evening had been a shock to my system.
‘Then you’ll need something sugary. Vomiting causes hypoglycemia. Have a pain au chocolat.’ Kat pushed a plate of pastries under my nose. ‘It’ll also soak up the rest of the alcohol still floating around your system.’
Nurse Brannigan certainly knew her stuff.
She poured tea into a cup, watching me concernedly. I did as she recommended, pouring myself some water and downing the glass in a few gulps. I nibbled the pain au chocolat, but knew that what I really needed was to fill my stomach with a substantial meal for the first time in days. When the caterers arrived I didn’t hold back.
Breakfast was a full English. I polished off two rashers of bacon, a slice of buttered toast, three sausages, a fried egg, mushrooms, two large tomatoes and a generous helping of baked beans, washing it all down with a cup of strong coffee. Almost instantly I began to feel better. Kat, a vegetarian, had beans on toast, cutting it into delicate triangles while she scrolled through her tablet, checking emails and her Twitter account, courtesy of the manor’s inclusive Wi-Fi connection.
‘Meat’s as bad for you as it is for the planet, you know,’ she said, not looking up.
‘So is smoking.’
Her eyes narrowed dangerously, but thankfully at that very moment we were interrupted by a young woman with kohl-rimmed eyes and her hair in a chignon wheeling a trolley over to the table.
‘Anything else?’ she trilled in a melodious Welsh accent.
Any more food and I’d have probably burst. I shook my head courteously while Kat eyed up the tomatoes and mushrooms on the trolley. Dabbing my mouth with a napkin, I leaned back and observed the tranquil atmosphere in the room.
Barbie and Ken, as Kat had dubbed them, were sitting at the table in the bay window, Ash feeding toast to Cottonball while Matt guided a fork-speared piece of egg into his mouth. Esther Hill and the ghost hunters were conversing across a large table in the middle of the room. Well, the hunters were; Esther was busy applying blusher in a hand mirror, sucking in her cheeks to locate her cheekbones. A few of the other tables were occupied by unrelated guests also staying in the manor over the weekend. That left one person conspicuously missing amongst the hum of voices and scraping cutlery.
‘I’m going for some fresh air,’ I said, but Kat barely noticed as her pot of Earl Grey was refilled.
My eyes protested to the stark morning light the moment I stepped outside. The fog of early morning had lifted, the skies had calmed for now, but dull clouds foreshadowed more bad weather to come. All that remained was a light drizzle, which dampened my face but didn’t warrant a trip upstairs to fetch my blazer. I pulled my fingers into my jumper sleeves and headed around the building to investigate the manor’s rear garden, more pesky crows surveilling me from high in the trees as I trundled through mulch and leaves blown about during the evening’s storm.
The garden was an impressive expanse of land, with sprawling lawns, trimmed hedges and a fountain positioned in the middle of it all. At the far end stood the cottage Will had seen from one of the upstairs windows, a miniature abode with a stable door, leaded windows and red and gold ivy spreading unchecked over its face. So that’s where Mr Crouch resided when he wasn’t creeping around in the middle of the night, spying on the manor’s guests.
I halted at the top of the steps that led to the gravel courtyard, inhaling deep lungfuls of fresh morning air, which was flooded with the scent of the garden’s flora. I entwined my fingers and stretched out my arms, squeezing out the stiffness in the muscles and sinew. It was only then that I noticed Will sitting on a bench near the fountain, the canopy of a leafless oak sheltering him from the drizzle. I began down the steps towards him.
Hearing the crunch of my feet, he lifted his head out of the journal he was writing in, squinting in the bright light.
‘You look as awful as I feel,’ he remarked.
Charming.
I perched beside him.
‘Manage to get any sleep?’ he asked.
‘Ghosts must have been having a night off. Didn’t hear a peep from them.’
There was a crooked smile, then he slapped the journal shut and dropped it in the empty space between us. He stretched and yawned. Watching him I marked he had the pasty, puffy complexion people get when they’ve been up beyond the early hours, drinking until they collapse in an undignified heap. But he was still impossibly handsome. Nothing could change that. He lit a cigarette, folded his arms and glanced at the house.
‘Just look at the place. Depressing as a ruptured haemorrhoid.’
I was beginning to think I preferred drunken Will. Either he wasn’t a morning person, or something had happened in the few hours since our chat at the kitchen table to make him so crotchety. ‘You don’t like old buildings?’ I asked cautiously.
‘I don’t mind ‘em if the mood’s right. But that place lost its charm a long time ago, when they decided to turn it into some third rate haunted house attraction. D’you know they’re selling souvenirs? Teacups of all things.’ He shook his head and drew in yet another laboured breath that seemed to carry the weight of the world with it. ‘Still, I s’pose they need some selling point if they’re gonna pull the punters all the way out here. And they get enough by the looks of it. Ghost hunting teams are popping up all over the country like weeds. God help us.’
I opened my mouth to reply but was interrupted by Will’s phone ringing, the ringtone the theme to an ‘80s film I struggled to remember the name of. Will fished it out of his coat, scowled at the screen and jabbed a button.
‘Hello?’ He waited. ‘No, he’s not here … Well, Mr Anderson is sharing with his personal number. I should know, I’m his massage therapist.’ He threw me a glance, rolling his eyes. ‘How the hell should I know? Bye.’ He rang off before the caller could say anything else, shaking his head disbelievingly, as if mobile phones weren’t supposed to ring and people weren’t supposed to try and contact you via them. He acknowledged me again with a curt nod. ‘Sorry, business matter. You were saying?’
‘You confuse me,’ I said. And I wasn’t referring to those poor business skills.
He looked at me askance.
‘You write books about the supernatural, yet it’s as if you hold a disdain for anything associated with it. Like when you accused the ghost hunters of being frauds. Like how you’re staying in one of the country’s most haunted buildings but acting as if it’s a nursing home you’ve been forced to visit to see a dying grandparent.’
‘Supposedly haunted building,’ he corrected me.
‘Doesn’t the not knowing thrill you? Shouldn’t people like you be trying to convince people like me that this stuff is real, that ghosts really exist?’
‘People like me? You know nothing about me.’
I know you could learn a thing or two about manners, I felt like saying, but held back.
‘Fine, I’ll admit it,’ he said. ‘I’m getting tired of this stuff. But is it any wonder? When most people’s understanding of the supernatural comes from tacky fiction full of cheap scares and gimmicky misrepresentations — even people who work in the field itself. I’m not interested in folklore or magic tricks. I’m fascinated by what’s really going on out there.’
‘Such as?’
‘I want to know what’s happening when I have deja vu, when I predict what someone’s about to say a second before it comes out of their mouth. I want to know why there are remote viewers who can picture a target in their mind they’ve never seen, that’s in a country they’ve never even visited, then draw it to almost exact detail. Why there are people who couldn’t tell you who Jack the Ripper is but can recall vivid past lives under hypnosis with historical accuracies that would leave your average historian stumped. That’s the sort of stuff that fascinates me.’
‘If ghosts are just folklore, why not write about those topics then?’
He shrugged. ‘I have professional obligations, this nasty thing called a contract. And everyone needs money. Ghosts sell.’
I eyed him as he sat bordered by the old house, trying not to look too cynical. It mustn’t have worked, though, as he said in a tone that sounded as if he was trying to explain himself, ‘I got an idea and ran with it, mainly to block out how shitty life was at the time, to prove to myself that I really could finish my own book, not spend my life filling drawers with unfinished manuscripts. And, if I’m honest, to stick my finger up to all those people who said I couldn’t do it. I never thought someone would want to publish the damn thing, or that it’d become a mild success. Plus, just because my book centres around hauntings it doesn’t mean I don’t explore other themes I’m interested in. And it doesn’t automatically make me a believer.’
I stared at him, watching mist escape his mouth. I wasn’t sure I believed him. He didn’t seem the sort of guy to commit to a task as all-consuming as writing a book series unless there was something in it for him. Especially when the last I heard your average author makes a pittance from their work. Or maybe I just didn’t want to believe him, didn’t want someone whose judgement I felt I could trust telling me ghosts were for fantasists. If Will believed in them, enough to want to write about them, then it validated my ow
n belief.
He spotted me ruminating. ‘Look, I’m no sceptic. And I never said ghosts were folklore. I was fascinated with the topic for a while, even a little obsessed at one point. And I still am to some degree. It’s just that if there’s one thing I’ve learnt immersing myself in this world over the last few years, it’s to believe something only when your own eyes are able to back it up. There’s simply too much division between the scientific and metaphysical fields to believe anything else.’
A low breeze whistled and a bird squawked as I took a moment to digest this along with the huge breakfast sitting heavy in my stomach.
‘You have seen something, though. Haven’t you?’ I said.
His eyes flicked in my direction. He might not have remembered what we talked about last night, but I did.
‘Jesus, you never stop pecking,’ he said, avoiding my question. ‘Why are you so obsessed with finding out if ghosts are real, anyway?’
I averted my eyes to the gravel path. What was I trying to avoid by concealing my secret? Shame? Ridicule? Fear?
Will lit another cigarette. Quiet fell on the garden, just the patter of light rain hitting the dead leaves blown against the edges of the dew glistening stretches of lawn. I stared at the fountain, watching water trickle down each tier, the sound soothing. A robin redbreast alighted on its crest, surveying its surroundings before flying off again. Its brief appearance brought a flicker of a smile to my lips. I remembered Elliot telling me they were an omen of strength, the red breast representing the shield of a warrior. He loved searching for meaning in everything. And I loved that about him.
Could it have been a sign from Elliot himself, letting me know he was around? The notion wasn’t new to me. A prayer I had read on a flyer at Grandma Ethel’s funeral had put the thought in my mind, the way it talked of the dead returning to the earth and being born anew to nature. And there had been signs before. Like the robin that sat on my bedroom windowsill after Grandpa Seth’s funeral, silent, watching, consoling, staring in at me as I lay on the bed in the foetal position, struggling to understand why people I cared about kept dying, wondering where they went when they did. Then the blue butterfly that landed on the frame of my specs when I was sitting in the garden one summer, returning to the same spot no matter how many times I brushed it away, as if determined to make sure I knew it was there. Blue because that was Elliot’s favourite colour? Or was that just wishful thinking?