“I’ve only seen one child,” Celia pointed out, “although I’ve heard others. I think there’s four or five.”
Miss Broadfield-Blythe closed and opened her watery blue eyes, then rubbed her long nose.
“Bound to be more than one, but not more than six I’d say. Never in my long experience have I known there to be more than six ghost-children in one group. When I received your most interesting letter, I said to Mildred—we’ve worked on many a case together—I said, Mildred, a mass juvenile haunting, but not more than six, I’ll be bound. Tell me, Miss Watson ... It is Miss?”
Celia nodded.
“How sensible. Tell me, Miss Watson, how did you come to contact me? Did someone recommend me?”
“No, I saw your advertisement in the tobacconist’s window. As I’ve made no progress myself, I thought an expert might be more successful.”
Miss Broadfield-Blythe screwed up her face into an expression that might have denoted puzzlement and asked:
“Progress? Success? I’m not with you, dear. What kind of progress had you in mind?”
“Well, to bring the children out of hiding. I mean—I only hear or see them just before I wake up. Properly wake up, that is. I want to—well—make contact. See and hear them when wide-awake.”
“For what reason, dear? Not to experiment I hope. Our spirit friends are not at all happy when experimented with.”
Celia fluttered her hands. “No, indeed. I want ... want ... to sort of adopt them.”
A wonderful smile spread slowly over Miss Broadfield-Blythe’s face and for a while lent it a kind of beauty. “That’s simply gorgeous, dear. Simply heart-stopping.” She pulled forth an enormous handkerchief from a patch pocket. “Want to adopt poor, love-seeking spirit children! God bless you, my dear.” She patted her eyes several times, then resolutely put the handkerchief away. “But let’s get down to our muttons. What can I do to help you?”
Celia put on her little-I’m-lost-girl act, which had never been known to fail when dealing with masculine inclined middle-aged spinsters. “I rather hoped you’d be able to do something that will bring them out. Let me see and talk to them.”
The lady medium looked thoughtful. “I will do my best, dear. Can’t do more. No one can. I’ll see what can be done with the atmosphere. Sort of taste it.”
She pushed her tea cup to one side, laid her hands palms uppermost on the table, then closed her eyes. Presently she giggled. “One of them is tickling me. Right in the center of the right hand. How charming.” She called out in the same sing-song voice that Celia had used a few days before:
“Come to me, children dears. Come to your Auntie Ag, who you need not fear. Put your tweeny hands in mine and we’ll say hullo to your mummy-to-be. Won’t that be nice? Yes, it will. Yes, it will.”
A loud crash came from above the stairs, which sounded as if the cut glass perfume container that resided on Celia’s dressing table, had been knocked—or thrown—on to the floor. But that was all.
Miss Broadfield-Blythe intoned other inducements, but for all the response they received, she might as well have saved her breath. Presently she released a gentle sigh and said:
“Well, I’m sure I’ve stirred them up. Brought them to the surface, so to speak. You’ll probably get results after I’m gone. Nothing startling at first. It takes time for this kind of thing to get really under way. But so far as I’m concerned there doesn’t seem to be much more I can do. Not for today at any rate.”
“I can’t thank you enough,” Celia replied. “If nothing else, you’ve put the entire business on a commonplace plane, which is truly remarkable. At least I won’t be frightened now, no matter what I see or hear.”
“Frightened! Why on earth should you be frightened? Those who have passed over, have no wish to frighten us. No wish at all. Just one little point, dear. My fee is ten pounds.”
For several days after Miss Broadfield-Blythe’s visit, Celia saw and heard nothing, which was both a relief and a disappointment. A relief because she had by no means lost that inner dread which afflicts everyone who comes face to face with the unusual; disappointment, because she wanted to play the game of adopting dream children. One of those fantasies which it would be well if it never came to fulfillment.
Then one Sunday morning when the time erupting sound of church bells was disturbing the dust of long dead memories, a ripple of childish laughter came from the landing, followed by the thud of footsteps running down the stairs. Celia, who was about to open the front door, spun round, but there was nothing untoward to see. Nothing at all.
So she went out into the porch, double locked the front door behind her, then went to church—a weekly social event she always enjoyed.
The old church with its stained-glass windows and lingering aroma that was comprised of burnt candles, prayer books and damp, made her for some reason think of crumbling tombs and deep underground vaults, where the noble dead have slept for centuries. Then the sunlight was filtered through the stained-glass and did something wonderful to a young girl’s hair, even while it revealed the gaunt face of an old man, and caused a shadow mask to form round his deep sunken eyes.
Choirboys’ high-pitched treble voices sent a melody of sound up to the ancient rafters, before crashing open doors in Celia Watson’s brain, and an impression of long-long ago childhoods came drifting out on multicolored clouds, even as dust-motes drifted along light beams formed by sunlight and stained-glass.
The brain was quite unable to deal with this experience and closed down its awareness, so that Celia’s next impression was that of shaking hands with the vicar who had hastened to the front porch for that purpose. She walked home in a not unpleasant bemused state, even though she knew—positively knew—something exciting was about to happen.
When she opened her front door, she could not be certain if three or four small shapes raced up the stairs and disappeared on the landing, but the brain suggested in an abstract sort of way that such may have been the case. She removed her hat and coat, went into the kitchen, there opened the gas oven door and inspected the fillet end of a leg of lamb, which had been sizzling gently on a low heat for two hours. Almost ready. The roast potatoes had also acquired a rich crisp brownness, and it only remained for her to ignite the gas ring under a saucepan of garden peas, for Sunday lunch to be well on its way toward full preparation. She had long ago dispensed with apple pie and custard, which had been a permanent feature of childhood Sunday dinner, but those were the days when plumpness was considered to be a sign of good health.
She turned, reached out for a towel on which to wipe her hands—and saw them.
The little girl—the one she had seen before—and a slightly older boy dressed in a blue velvet suit—were standing in the kitchen doorway, watching her.
First the dread-chill which ran up from her feet and threatened to paralyze her heart; then the wonderment—the suggestion of joy—and the realization she was viewing two ghosts (hateful word) in full daylight, while wide-awake and at close quarters. And it was no use trying to quell the racing heart and rub sweaty hands on the skirt of her dress, for the blend of emotions was sending some kind of current down through her nerve grid and she was laughing and crying, both at the same time, and the two children continued to watch her, the hint of a smile on their angel faces.
With one hand she wiped tears from her streaming eyes and stretched out the other toward the two apparitions, half-hoping, half-dreading to make some kind of contact, but they continued to stare at her, the smile more pronounced, verging on derision. Then they started to drift away from her, back through the doorway, across the hall until the two shapes were nothing more than splodges of colored light on the far wall—the product of sunshine and glass.
Celia called out: “Come back ... come back,” and as though in derisive reply, the sound of childish laughter came from above stairs.
She slept hardly at all that night, the habit of trying to look in every direction at once, which she had acquired
during the daylight hours, became even more pronounced once the sun had set. To lie in bed with the lights full on, jerking the head from side to side, straining the ears to catch every sound, became nerve-racking to say the least, particularly when fear became stronger than the desire to acquire ghost-dream-children. To Celia it seemed nothing short of ridiculous that she should dread and desire. It was a state of being that surpassed being distinctly funny and verged on insanity.
Not until the sun sent its first infant shafts of light through the window curtains, did she relax on her sweat-moist pillows and slip into an uneasy sleep. When she awoke much later in the morning, she was in time to see a small arm and shoulder disappear round the half open door and experienced the by now familiar feeling of pleasure blended with fear.
No further phenomenon manifested for the next few weeks, and such was Celia’s anxiety, she often forgot to eat, wash or change her clothes. In consequence people—particularly those who did not like her—began making half-pitying, half-scornful remarks and generally conjecture why this lapse from pride-in-appearance had taken place. The vicar decided it was his duty to investigate.
“The place is in an awful mess,” Celia objected.
The vicar, a tall handsome man with thick white hair, gave her a most charming smile and said: “But I’ve come to see you, dear lady, not your house. Please, I have walked a long way this morning and really would appreciate a cup of coffee.”
This request—some might call it a command—for hospitality from a man of the cloth, could not be ignored, so Celia could do no less than stand to one side and allow the reverend gentleman to enter. He gave the living room a quick glance and had to agree the place was indeed in an awful mess, for apart from an accumulation of dust, screwed up balls of writing paper lay on the floor, table, chairs and mantelpiece; one half sheet which seemed to have unrolled itself, caught his eye and he managed to decipher the words scrawled with a black ball point pen: “COME TO ME CHI”
But if the room was in an awful mess, the woman could be aptly described as a wreck of her former self. Gray hair—strangely he could not remember seeing a single gray hair on her head before today—hung in rat-tails round and over a white-lined face; heavy blue pouches drooped under watery eyes, which seemed to be in danger of running down sunken cheeks. A slight but persistent tic quivered at the right of her mouth, while there was a distinct tremor of the right hand.
This she raised and waved in the direction of a deep armchair. “Seat yourself, vicar, and I’ll fetch you a cup of coffee.”
The clergyman shook his head. “No, allow me to get you one. The kitchen is through there—” he in turn pointed to an open doorway—“as I remember. I used to visit this house in the days of Mrs. Fortescue.”
“Really, I could not possibly allow you to ...”
“Nonsense. You are clearly unwell and I’m quite capable of waiting on myself and you. Now you seat yourself. I’ll find everything.”
Celia did as she was bid, but watched the vicar disappear into the kitchen with great concern, and once called out: “It’s in an awful mess ... The coffee jar is on the shelf over the sink and there should be milk in the fridge ...”
He returned after a lapse of ten minutes, carrying two mugs of steaming coffee and wearing an expression of deep anxiety.
“I found the coffee, but the milk in your refrigerator seems to have gone off, but fortunately I managed to unearth a tin of condensed. In fact your supply of fresh food seems to be—well—rather in the same state as the milk. Due no doubt to the sultry weather. But I do think someone should do something about clearing out—the debris—and restocking. I do really. But first drink this coffee. I did find some biscuits, but they were distinctly soggy.”
“I’m so sorry, but I’ve been very busy lately, I’ve rather let things go ...”
The vicar seated himself on the edge of the chair, and took a tentative sip from his mug of coffee. “Please, no apologies are necessary. My job is to help and understand. Miss Watson—Celia—you are without doubt sorely troubled. Trouble shared is trouble halved. Please allow me to halve your trouble, then possibly discard the remainder.”
This rather puzzling offer was accompanied by such a charming smile, Celia for the first time in a long while dared to hope that a male might have the necessary acumen to give sound advice and even understand what must be an unique situation. But still she hesitated.
“I’m not sure, Mr. ...”
“Rodney, Celia. Please.”
“Yes, well, yes, Mr. ... Rodney. I mean I’m not sure if you’ll fully understand my problem. You see ...”
“Yes, Celia?”
“The fact is this house is ... well ...”
“Rather lonely for one person?”
“No, far from it. No ... it is haunted by the ghosts of at least five children.”
The Reverend Rodney emptied his coffee cup and placed it gently on a nearby low table, then took one of Celia’s hands in his.
“Dear Celia, let us take one point at a time. Firstly we know that ghosts—as such—do not exist. When the body dies the soul goes straight to heaven, or—sadly—straight to the place of atonement. There can be no lingering.”
Normally Celia would have accepted this dogma from a man of the cloth as literal truth, but now, having some first-hand evidence of ghosts, she was inclined to question the reverend gentleman’s logic.
“But Mr ... Rodney, cannot some souls, such as children’s souls, be not quite ready for such an extreme—grand place as Heaven—the other place being out of the question—and prefer to—well—stay where they were in life. Right here. It makes sense to me.”
“What makes sense to us, Celia, need not make sense to the Almighty. This is the plane of sin and flesh. I need hardly point out how the two go together. Above is the world of light. Below the world of darkness. There are no age groups in eternity.”
Celia took a deep breath and released a flow of words that revealed the truth as she saw it.
“But I have seen and heard the ghosts—disembodied souls of children. Here in this house—this room. First as dream figures—then as clearly as I see and hear you. And they need love. And I have so much to give, having sort of saved it up over the years. Please don’t lie and tell me they don’t exist.”
The Reverend Rodney assumed a very grave expression and clearly thought deeply before answering. Then he cleared his throat and after regaining possession of Celia’s right hand (which she displayed signs of wanting to withdraw), said in his deep attractive voice:
“Dear Celia, I am not going to dismiss what you have told me as the result of a fevered, even neurotic, imagination, brought about by loneliness and frustration—for I have heard stories about this house, which up to this time I never credited as being other than complete moonshine. But now ...”
He paused for a while, then went on. “So far as I can gather this house—a long while ago—was inhabited by a couple called Ferguson—Jacob and Sarah Ferguson. And they did have five children—four boys and a girl. That must be admitted. There were five children. All ranging from five to thirteen years. The parents practiced what they and some of their contemporaries called the old religion. In other words the black arts, devil worship—witchcraft. The children were corrupted from birth and in time—for young minds are malleable—became even more evil than their parents. No one knows how the end came about, but it is assumed that the children killed their mother, then the father massacred them, before committing suicide himself. But there is one school of opinion that maintains it was the other way around. The children killed both parents, then themselves by some secret ritual, which ensured their souls would be withheld from torment and confined to the walls of this house. This I must disbelieve, but in view of your experience I am inclined to believe some personality residue, or manifestation of past evil, still lingers here. There can be no doubt you must leave this house at once. Leave it and never come back. It seems possible you have the kind of mind that can pick
up impressions, time debris ... I don’t know. But you must leave this house.”
Celia gazed upon the vicar with mounting anger, all her mistrust of the opposite sex revived. When he had finished speaking and given her hand a final squeeze, she remained silent for some little while, before saying in a carefully controlled voice:
“First of all, vicar, I do not believe a single word of that horrid story. If there is a basis of truth in it, then the wicked parents left the poor little things to die of ill-treatment, and now their innocent souls are demanding—demanding, do you hear?—the love and protection that was never theirs in life. I intend to remain here and provide that love and protection.”
“Celia ...”
“My name is Miss Watson.”
“Celia, you are dreadfully mistaken. This house is bad for you. Believe me. I am convinced that is the truth. A hundred other people might be able to live here undisturbed. But not you. Come to the vicarage until ...”
“I would be obliged if you would leave now.”
“You must allow me to convince you ...”
“I do not wish to be rude. Please leave now. And do not come back.”
He conjured up a very wry smile. “I do hope I’m wrong and sincerely apologize if I have needlessly upset you. I should not have told you that ridiculous story, but if you can see and hear ...”
“Shut the door behind you as you go out.”
“I hate ... simply hate ...”
“Pull the door sharply to or the Yale lock will not engage. I believe the wood is warped.”
The slam of the front door was a prelude to an unnatural silence and the ensuing loneliness (a state she had never known before) possibly the reason for the sudden fit of crying. Her shoulders shook, tears poured down her cheeks, and it seemed as if the grief of a lifetime had suddenly found an outlet and was now smashing down all the carefully erected barricades of indifference.
But the fit passed, she wiped her eyes, gulped back one last sob and went into the sitting-room.
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