But presently – and how it happened Mrs Clyrard was not precisely aware, for the change came by such gradual degrees – her equable daily routine became disrupted; not seriously, but just enough to be noticeable.
The form taken by the disturbance was this: Mrs Clyrard, seated upstairs in a state of recollected tranquillity at her typewriter, would suddenly find her concentration broken by an odd urge to go below and perform some slight unnecessary task in the kitchen. Sometimes her more rational self was able to withstand the trivial impulse; but sometimes it was not and almost before she was aware of the process she would find herself at the kitchen sink washing teacloths, or cleaning the leaded glass panes in the front door (which made no difference to the light, for the untrimmed privet hedge grew within six feet of it), or polishing shoes, or defrosting the refrigerator.
This was very annoying, but Mrs Clyrard had no intention of submitting to it. She was a woman of total practicality. If she felt a twinge in a tooth, she consulted her dentist; if she detected a rattle in her car, she referred it to the garage. Possible psychic phenomena weighed no more and no less in her estimation than failures in the electrical system or mice in the pantry: as she would call in an electrician or a cat for the latter inconveniences, for the former she had recourse to an exorcist. Fortunately she was acquainted with one: an old friend of hers, a rural Dean, living in semi-retirement in Bath, still took an active interest in paranormal occurences, and occasionally officiated at a ceremony to remove some unwelcome or disturbed spirit.
Mrs Clyrard wrote and invited him for a visit, arranging to have him accommodated at a nearby guest-house, since she detested having people staying in the cottage.
When he arrived she lost no time explaining the nuisance to him.
“Somebody is trying to occupy my mind – or my house,” she said matter-of-factly, though with a considerable degree of irritation. “I should be very much obliged if you could deal with it for me, Roger.”
The Dean, delighted with the odd problem, promised to see what he could do. To assist him, he fetched over a medium from Bath – a city much plagued by psychic phenomena, possibly due to its enclosed, low-lying and damp situation.
The medium, Mrs Hannah Huxley, a portly, blind lady, acquiesced with the Dean in taking the problem as a most serious challenge. They turned back the carpets, they inscribed formulae and diagrams repellent to invading spirits on the floors of all the rooms, they recited incantations, they lit candles and sprinkled water, they performed various rituals involving the doors, the windows, the curtains, the mirrors, the stairs, the fireplace, the lights. At one point during the proceedings, which were long, and to Mrs Clyrard somewhat tediously repetitious, Mrs Huxley went into a trance.
“Did your husband,” she suddenly inquired, emerging from this condition as abruptly as she had gone into it, “did your husband die of a head injury, Mrs Clyrard?”
“Certainly not,” said Mrs Clyrard with asperity, startled, and not best pleased at this intrusion into her private affairs. “He died of intestinal carcinoma.”
“That’s odd. I have distinct evidence of a presence quite close to you who has at some time suffered from a head injury. Are you quite sure that you can think of no such person?”
Mrs Clyrard moved a step or two aside, distastefully, before replying again, “Absolutely not.”
Her faith by now somewhat diminished, she watched in ironic silence as the Dean and Mrs Huxley came to the conclusion of their ritual, having now apparently located the intrusive entity.
Kindly, cajolingly, uttering mellifluous Latin phrases formed for the purpose of coaxing such undesired visitants from their lodgings, the Dean walked slowly, backwards, beckoning, to the front door, opened it, waited, and recited a final prohibiting admonition, before closing the door and returning to the fireside.
“There, it’s gone!” he said with a beaming smile. “It can’t come back inside now.”
It? thought Mrs Clyrard, on an impulse of strong protest; how can that vague, unhappy, intrusive, indefinable emanation be compressed into and pinned down by such a brusque, particular little monosyllable as it?
“Poor thing, it simply hated to leave,” the Dean went on. “No, I’m afraid it didn’t want to go in the very least. Did you hear it whimpering?”
Mrs Clyrard had not.
Stifling her scepticism, however, she civilly thanked the Dean and his colleague, refreshed them after their exertions with tea and cakes from the village shop, conversed for a polite hour, and finally, with relief, saw them to the door and said goodbye. Still sceptical, but in a cool spirit of scientific investigation, she went upstairs for an experimental hour’s writing. – And the Dean had been completely right, perfectly justified in his confidence: there was nothing to disturb her concentration; she found she could work in untroubled peace for the whole hour. Not a single thought of the tea-things waiting unwashed downstairs so much as slipped over the edge of her consciousness.
When Helena Soames presently arrived for a glass of sherry, at half-past six, Mrs Clyrard was in a highly self-congratulatory state of mind and, contrary to her usual reticent habit, related the story.
“But I still can’t imagine who the person suffering from a head injury can be,” she concluded.
“Oh, can’t you?” said Mrs Soames, who had listened with the greatest interest. “But it’s perfectly obvious, my dear. It must be poor Miss Morgan.”
“Miss Morgan? Did she have a head injury? I never knew of it.”
“It was over before you came to the village, of course. In fact it happened while Miss Morgan was looking after my mother in this cottage; after Edward had installed the chairlift. Miss Morgan had strapped Mother in and then – stupid woman – stuck her head over the banister to say, ‘Is there anything you want me to bring you, Mrs Musgrave?’ Of course the counter-balance came down, hit her on the head and knocked her silly. She was never quite the same after that, but then she hadn’t been too bright to start with. Luckily Mother died not long afterwards.”
“Miss Morgan – yes, of course,” said Mrs Clyrard reflectively, remembering the doleful little woman’s plea to be allowed to return to the inconveniences of Number Three, Vascoe’s – “I’d be so happy to look after the house for you while you wrote your memoirs. I wouldn’t dream of asking for a salary. All I want is a home.”
“It simply hated to leave,” Roger had said. “It didn’t want to go in the very least.”
Looked at through those eyes the dark and poky sitting-room with its Tottenham Court Road furnishings momentarily took on the appearance of a warm and happy haven.
“Miss Morgan,” Mrs Clyrard said again. “What became of her?”
“Oh, she went to live with that married sister in Lanlivery. The sister had always despised her. Miss Morgan didn’t want to go, but what could she do? At her age she couldn’t get another job. Anyway, evidently it was a disastrous arrangement, for about six months later I heard that she drowned herself in a brook. All for the best, really; as I said, she’d never been quite with it after that accident. Well, you must have noticed it – she used to come wailing round to you often enough.”
“Yes. So she did,” Mrs Clyrard said in the same thoughtful manner.
Miss Morgan: that melancholy, ineffectual little woman; ineffectual in death as in life, apparently.
Or was she?
Seeing Helena to the door, half an hour later, closing it briskly behind her, Mrs Clyrard was aware for the first time that the previous trivial though irritating mental distractions which had assailed her might have been exchanged for something even more unaccustomed: a sensation of discomposure, disquiet; perhaps even – to analyse it closely – fear?
For although the Dean and Mrs Huxley had led the whimpering reluctant whatever-it-was along to the front door and out of the house, that was all they had done; they did not claim to have annihilated it, or driven it any farther than the threshold.
Mrs Clyrard allowed herself an uneasy glanc
e at the door which framed its glass-paned square of dark.
Might not her visitor – out there in the little privet-enclosed garden – out there behind the glass-paned door in the rainy night – might it not feel, now, perhaps, a certain degree of resentment at its exclusion?
Mrs Clyrard heard the garden gate – which as usual had failed to latch properly – begin to creak and clatter as it swung to and fro in the rising wind.
She knew that she ought to go and fasten the gate before the hinges were damaged. And yet she lingered in the dreary little hallway, strangely reluctant to set foot outside the security of her house.
The Ghost Hunter
James Herbert
Prospectus
Address:
Edbrook, near Ravenmoor, England.
Property:
Nineteenth-century country mansion with swelling apses and bay windows. A tall, imposing building set amidst terrace garden, lawns and bordering woodland. Suitable for large family with its attics, library and cellars.
Viewing Date:
Late autumn, 1988.
Agent:
James Herbert (1943–) was born in Bethnal Green, London, and after several years working in advertising, achieved popular success with his first novel, The Rats (1974). His successive books have all become bestsellers and he is today rated as one of the world’s most popular authors of horror fiction, alongside his American counterpart, Stephen King. Herbert has written two major novels featuring haunted houses, Haunted (1988) and The Ghosts of Sleath (1994), both cases of the resourceful but troubled David Ash of the Psychical Research Institute. The dangers facing a ghost hunter investigating a haunted building are explained in this chilling episode from Haunted.
Ash spent the rest of the evening setting up equipment around the house. Four thermometers, whose lowest reading during the night would be registered, were placed against walls or rested on furniture; tape recorders with noise-actuation devices were located in the library and kitchen; cameras linked to capacitance change detectors, so that any movement in the vicinity would trigger off shutters, were set up in the drawing room and study; at certain points, both upstairs and down, he sprinkled a fine layer of powder on the floor, and across one or two doorways he stretched black cotton.
Later, by lamplight, he sat in his room and studied rough plans he had drawn up of Edbrook, with its labyrinth of rooms and corridors, occasionally taking a nip from the vodka bottle standing within hand’s reach on the bureau. He smoked one cigarette after another as he made notes in a pad and now and again he would glance towards the window where the night seemed to press against the glass.
Eventually he left the room to roam the house, treading warily around powder patches, not entering those places containing detection instruments, nor disturbing doors with cotton stretched across.
Edbrook was quiet. And it was still.
Somewhere in the house a clock chimed the late hour. Ash, using a flashlight for guidance, walked the length of the corridor, passing his own room, heading for the window at the far end. Even though he was tired physically, his senses were acutely alert, as if his mind were a restless passenger inside a rundown vehicle. Kate McCarrick’s considered diagnosis of his usual condition was always clear-cut: “You drink too much, and smoke too much. And one day – it may be some time in coming, David, but it’ll happen – your brain will be dulled as your body often is.” Might be no bad thing, Kate, he thought. No bad thing at all.
He reached the window and switched off the flashlight, standing close to the glass to see beyond. The blanket clouds had finally given way, although not entirely: milky-edged cumuli remained, almost motionless, tumbled in the night sky like frozen avalanches. The moon had a space all of its own, as though its white-silver had eaten away the surrounding clutter, and deep shadows were cast across the lawns and gardens below the window. There were forms down there other than those arboreal, statues whose clearly-defined shadows pointed towards Edbrook like accusing fingers. From a distant place amidst the wooded areas came the hollow shriek of a night creature, a sound no less disturbing for its faintness.
Ash looked on, but his gaze did not rove, for his thoughts were directed inwards at that moment. The piteous, animal cry had stirred a memory, one more distant in his own mind than its catalyst from the trees. He remembered the sharp, human screech that had once skited across rushing water and possibly the vision would have emerged as a whole had not a noise from behind caused him to turn.
He flicked on the flashlight and shone it along the corridor, the beam swift to repel the blackness. The light caught a vague movement by the stairway.
Without hesitation, Ash hurried towards it and as he approached he realized that the fine powder he had laid earlier that evening was swirling in the air as though caught by a wind.
He stopped at the edge of the billowing, torchlight catching a million tiny motes in its glare, and stared in astonishment. There was no breeze that could flurry the dust so, and no person who might have caused the disturbance was on the stairs. He quickly checked a thermometer hanging nearby from a light-fitting on the wall and was alarmed to find the temperature was close to zero. Yet he felt no chill himself.
More sounds. From below. Like bare feet on wood.
Ash went to the balcony and peered over, shining the light into the hallway there. He glimpsed something grey or white disappearing round a corner.
Quietly, no more than a loud whisper, he called: “Christina?”
He moved to the stairs, brushing the still-swirling powder away from his face as he passed through. Descending hastily, he swung the beam around the hall until satisfied that all doors were closed, his attention then caught by further sounds. He pointed the light down the hallway towards the rear of the house, certain that the noises had come from the kitchen area.
As he went off in that direction he noticed the door beneath the stairs – the cellar door – was slightly ajar. He stopped, aware that he had shut it earlier, but another sound from ahead sped him onwards.
Ash entered the darkened kitchen, the flashlight darting from table to cupboards, sink to old iron ovens and grate, dresser to window. The low snarling seemed terribly close.
He turned too quickly, the torch catching the doorframe, the light instantly snuffed. With less control than he would have liked, Ash scrabbled on the wall by the door for the lightswitch, his fumbling fingers finding and striking down. The light was dull, but enough for him to see that the kitchen was empty. And that a door opposite, which he knew led to the terrace and gardens, was open.
He heard someone outside, a muffled giggle.
Leaving the broken flashlight on the table, Ash went through the kitchen and out into the night.
Bright though the moon was, it was several moments before his eyes adjusted to the contrast, and a second or two longer before he could be sure of what he was seeing. A figure dressed in flowing white was flitting across the terrace. It suddenly vanished from view.
Ash’s eyes narrowed, his face washed in moonlight. Again, almost under his breath, the question: “Christina?”
He followed, breaking into a slow run, reaching the steps that led down from the terrace into the gardens. He searched for the figure in white, certain that he had lost sight of it at this point. Yet nothing moved among the flowers and shrubbery below.
Ash descended and took the centre path towards the pond, eyes seeking left and right. He reached the low crumbling wall and looked down on the water, its still surface shiny with moonlight, the silver sheen somehow compelling.
His fascination was broken by the sound he had heard before – the soft padding of footsteps. Only this time they were hurried, and the bare feet were against flagstones.
He whirled around to face whatever it was rushing towards him, but was struck by a powerful force so that he hurtled backwards, the wall catching his legs, sending him toppling.
Stagnant water closed over his head, its grip cold and slimy. Ash struggled in panic as weed
tendrils clutched him. He twisted frantically, their grip tightening. Clouds of mud stirred and swelled sluggishly so that the moonlight ceiling above was smeared.
As he fought to free his arm of syrupy fronds he saw, sinking towards him through those eddying clouds, a silhouette, a shape whose arms were outstretched, as if crucified, whose flimsy robe billowed and swayed with the currents, whose black hair spread outwards in Gorgonian tresses.
Foul-tasting water gushed in to stifle Ash’s scream.
Computer Séance
Ruth Rendell
Prospectus
Address:
Kendal Street, Edgware Road, London, England.
Property:
Nineteenth-century building converted into flats. Comfortable and intimate apartment with sitting room, kitchen, bathroom and two bedrooms. Convenient for Oxford Street and Mayfair.
Viewing Date:
December, 1997.
Agent:
Ruth Rendell (1930–) was born in London and began her working life as a reporter in Essex. The publication of her first novel, From Doon with Death (1964) featuring Chief Inspector Reginald Wexford, heralded the arrival of a major new talent in crime fiction. Ruth Rendell’s subsequent books about Wexford, along with a separate series as “Barbara Vine” that deal with various outré subjects, have established her as arguably the leading crime writer of her generation. She has also written a number of supernatural tales, notably “The Haunting of Shawley Rectory” and “Computer Seance’’, which puts a completely new twist on psychic phenomena.
Sophia de Vasco (Sheila Vosper on her birth certificate) was waiting at the bus stop when she saw her brother coming out of a side turning. Her brother looked a lot younger than he had before he died seven years before, but any doubts she might have had as to his identity were dispelled when he came up to her and asked her for money.
The Mammoth Book of Haunted House Stories (Mammoth Books) Page 58