Difficult, but not impossible. Rather like firing a rifle, it was a case of taking careful aim to knock the intruder away, without disturbing the body’s true soul. He had seen it done on occasion, but he had never done it himself.
First time for everything, Albert, he thought.
He calculated his move precisely and aimed not at her, but at the struggling, bitterly frustrated spirit of Steven Bilks. WHOOSH! Off he went. They struck in a shower of light. Bilks flew off across the astral plane, his fury exacerbated by the intervention, by losing the body of the one person with whom he might have communicated.
But Fishwick’s own spirit was also deflected by the collision. Before he could reorient, he caromed like a billiard ball, collided with Sceptre and knocked her out of her body as well.
“Oops,” he said as much to himself as anyone.
*****
A sense of surprise flooded Sceptre when she came to herself. The landscape around her was unfamiliar. The sky was there, dark as it should be. But the sun was there too, shining with a steady, white light, and it called to her, beckoned her to enter. She could not hear it, but the call was there, somewhere in her being.
There were others nearby, human forms of various colours, ranging from dull and neutral whites to cool blues to high reds, and somewhere on the other side of them, a fiery ball of anger flitted across the starless night.
She looked down, and, with a shock, she understood. Pete knelt over her lifeless body, working frantically. She could not hear what he was saying, but she could see that he was trying to revive her.
I have died. This is the spirit plane.
A male form approached her. There were no distinguishing features, but she knew instantly who it was. “Fishwick? Fishwick! I’m so pleased to be with you, Fishwick.” She found that, with little effort, she was able to emanate waves of love. In a sense, she thought, she was love.
Fishwick was less pleased. “Madam, you don’t belong here. It’s not your time yet.” He gestured towards the real world in the cafeteria, where Pete continued in his efforts to revive her.
Sceptre looked down. A sense of calm acceptance had come over her. She felt sad for Pete. Sad that he did not know the peace that she had just attained. “But I like it here, Fishwick. It’s so peaceful.”
Her butler put some urgency into his voice. “Milady, that is where you belong. With the living. Your time will come, but not for a good few years yet. And if you do not get a move on, go back to your body, soon it will be too late. Despite Mr. Brennan’s efforts, your body cannot survive for long without the essential you.”
Sceptre ignored him and looked around at the other nearby figures. A steady stream of spirits soared into The Light. “Where’s my mother?” she asked.
“Your mother passed through The Light soon after she came here, Madam, as I have told you many times before.” Fishwick sounded as if he were reproving her. “She has moved on to the next life.”
“Ah. I forgot.” Sceptre felt a great forlornness come over her. “How did I come to be here, Fishwick?”
Her manservant gestured at the crimson form of Steven Bilks. “He tried to take over your body.”
Sceptre had a dim memory of a titanic struggle in the cafeteria, but like the waking memory of a dream she could not piece it together into a coherent sequence of events. “I forgot, again,” she said.
“Forgetfulness is the first sign of a spirit ready to move on, Madam.” Now Fishwick was practically begging her. He waved at the spirits moving into The Light. “They have already forgotten, Your Ladyship, but you haven’t yet. Your body is dying without you. You must return.”
Still Sceptre would not heed his words. “Should I go through The Light, Fishwick?”
“No!” The word was bitten off. “You must not go through The Light. Go back, My Lady, go back now.”
His insistence got through to her. “I owe you so much, Fishwick. For the companionship and guidance you have given me since I was a little girl, for your protection in times of danger. I don’t want to leave you here, alone.”
“I appreciate your concern, Madam, but I am all right here,” Fishwick assured her. “I am not alone as long as you are with me. There is only one way you can repay me for my work.”
“Yes?” Sceptre was eager to show her gratitude.
Fishwick gestured to the cafeteria, to her lifeless form, and indicated Pete’s desperate efforts to revive her. “Go back where you belong. Don’t come here again until it is truly your time.”
She understood, and with that understanding came further waves of gratitude for her butler. Had she been in her body, she would have had tears in her eyes. His concern had always been only for her welfare.
She was about to return to her body when Fishwick stopped her. ‘Wait, Madam. I almost forgot.”
She stopped. “Forgot, Fishwick?”
He stretched out an arm. “Take my hand, Madam.”
Sceptre reached for him. She could see no fingers on her silvery arm, but she nevertheless felt his hand close around hers. He drifted slowly towards The Light. Closer and closer they approached and, as they neared, it slowly expanded until it filled the sky. When she looked back on the cafeteria, it was like looking down a microscope, or, more correctly, a telescope turned the wrong way round. Her body and her friends were far away at the bottom of a narrow tunnel.
Sceptre felt no fear, only a tingle of apprehension mingled with a feeling of wonder at the sheer immensity of The Light. She noticed that its edges were not as sharply defined as she had thought. Instead there was a hazy area between the dark of the spirit plane and the rim of The Light, an area where the two boundaries undulated. It reminded her of a photograph she had once seen of the Sun. What looked like a steady, shining disc, was really a swirling mass of activity, pulsating with energy.
This, she reminded herself, was not the Sun. This was the gateway to the next life. When they reached the outer edges, she looked in. It was not a consistent light. Inside, there were areas where strong eddies were at work, creating a clockwise-turning vortex. The spirits of those recently come over sped past them, hurtling into The Light until they were swallowed up by these powerful whirls, swirling and twirling their way to the next world. She tracked one or two, but in an instant, they were hopelessly lost in the brilliance.
The lure of The Light was so much stronger here. She felt an intense yearning to leave Fishwick, to allow herself to drift until the power of The Light sucked her in, too.
“Why are we coming so close, Fishwick?”
“It’s all about energy,” Fishwick explained. “Those of us who have been here a long time have learned how to take energy from The Light. Go too close and it will suck you in, stand too far, and you will gain nothing, but get it just right and...” He reached his free arm to The Light so that it barely touched.
Sceptre felt pulses of energy running through her, invigorating her, investing her with enormous power. At the same time she could feel the pull of The Light, a desperate urge to be at one with it, to go through that white tunnel and learn what lay ahead.
“When a spirit returns to its body,” Fishwick explained as the energy continued to course through them, “it normally feels like hell. This infusion of energy will ensure that you are no worse than disoriented.”
He yanked his arm away and drifted with her back to the area above the cafeteria. “Now, My Lady, you can go back.”
“Thank you, Fishwick.” With a final gesture of farewell, Sceptre swooped towards her body and dropped precisely into it.
*****
To Pete and the others, it was as if, just before the last spark of living energy puttered from her, the message got through. She coughed, she spluttered, a trickle of saliva ran from her mouth and her eyes flickered open.
Pete sighed in relief. “Thank God for that.” He smiled down at her. “Welcome back.” He slid a strong arm under her shoulders and helped her sit up.
Sceptre became aware of her open blouse. B
lushing, she buttoned up the garment and looked into Pete’s eyes. Then she burst into tears and fell into his arms, sobbing.
Relief flooded through them all. Kevin, having finally got through to the emergency services, now told them to cancel the call. Shutting off his phone, he made his way to the rear of the service counter and made tea for them. Presently, they sat at a table and Sceptre detailed her experience to them while McKinley made notes.
“I remember everything clearly,” she reported, drinking gratefully from her cup. The tea restored her energy, helped calm her bubbling emotions. “Fishwick was away monitoring the far side of the house, and Steven Bilks moved in to possess me as I slept. He possessed me before I could stop him.”
His mind filled with memories of her open blouse, Kevin muttered, “He’s lucky then, isn’t he?” He realised they had heard and blushed. “I mean, it’s lucky Pete knew how to keep calm in a crisis.”
Sceptre gave him a prim stare, then turned her gaze to Pete. “I believe Bilks is trying to tell us who killed him. He wants to see them pay.”
“Sceptre,” said Pete gently, “you’ve been through an ordeal. You’re confused. Give yourself time to come round properly.”
“I am not confused,” she said. There was no conflict in her voice, no argument with Pete, just a simple statement of fact. Her face took on a beatific appearance. “While I was on the Other Side, I didn’t remember, but now I can recall it all quite clearly. For a brief moment, Bilks and I were one and I knew what he was trying to do. This message, wigjam or whatever it is, is telling us who killed him.”
“Someone who works in a jam factory and wears a wig,” suggested Kevin, and McKinley made a note of it.
Pete spotted the reporter’s pen wriggling across the paper. “McKinley, Kevin was joking when he said it. Right Kev?”
“I, er, yeah. Right. I was joking.”
“Doesn’t matter,” McKinley said. “It’s good copy.”
Sceptre brought their attention back to their purpose. “I had the impression of a keyboard linked to this wigjam.”
“Like the computer?” asked Pete, waving in the general direction of Kevin’s laptop.
“No, not like a computer. More like a calculator, but not like that. There’s a difference between this and a calculator, but I don’t know what it is.”
“If you want a third party opinion …” McKinley began, but Pete cut him off.
“We don’t. Just shut your trap and make up your stories, McKinley.” He turned back to Sceptre. “Listen luv, we can’t go to bolt and solution…”
“Who?” interrupted Kevin.
“Locke and Keynes. Solution. Key. Geddit?” Pete spoke to Sceptre again. “We can’t go to them with testimony from a ghost. The Chief Inspector won’t need much of an excuse for sending me down, and that might be enough of one. You’ve just had some kind of seizure and your evidence is no good. We need something more concrete.”
“Pete,” cried Sceptre in distress rather than anger, “will you get it into your head, this was not an epileptic fit? I was possessed by the spirit of Steven Bilks.”
Pete shrugged and took a sip of tea. In deference to her obvious anguish, he placated her. “All right, all right. Just calm down. All I’m saying is, it’s no use to us if all we’ve got is a confused message about wigs and jam, and even if we could sort it out, we’d still need more evidence before we could go to the law.”
Sceptre’s face took on a dreamier quality. “I saw Fishwick over there. He guided me back. He infused me with healing energy so all the damage done by Steven’s attempt to possess me, all the damage done by the whole episode, was healed.” She smiled. “It’s like I always imagined it would be. A place of peace and reflection, where life in this world can still be viewed and where we can study the errors of our fellow humans before moving on to our next life.”
“Just like you always imagined it?” said Pete.
Her features hardened again as she picked up the implications of his remark. She narrowed her eyes at Pete. “Yes. Just like I always imagined it would be, only this was no figment of my imagination. I have seen the Other Side.”
A bleep from the computer ended the argument.
“Hell’s bells,” said Kevin. “We’ve been so busy I’d forgotten about it.” He crossed to the console and studied the displays. “Attic,” he murmured, bringing the relevant camera to the centre of the screen. “Motion sensor triggered, EMF sensor going bananas, but I can’t see nothing.”
“Right,” said Pete, with fresh determination, “let’s get up there.”
McKinley stood and helped Sceptre to her feet.
Only Kevin held back. He squirmed under their disapproving stares. “All right,” he admitted, “so I’m scared.”
Pete nodded. “Fine. You wait here, Kev, and keep an eye on the rest of the house... alone.”
“I’m right with you, good buddy.” Kevin jumped up and scurried after them.
They hurried from the cafeteria.
Their progress up the stairs and along the landings was slow and cautious. Pete had a wary eye open for the human intruders he felt certain were in the house, while Sceptre called softly to Fishwick and received only intermittent replies as her butler busied himself with events on the Other Side.
They reached the top landing. Pete paused at the door to Aggie’s room and pressed his ear to it, listening for a moment. Gripping the handle, he yanked it and hurled himself in.
The place was empty.
Pete cursed. “They got away. Again.”
Kevin stared at the wall. “Look!”
Across the wall, written in large, dark red letters, was the word WGJAMW.
*****
“It’s writ... writ... written in b-b-blood,” stammered Kevin.
Pete crossed to it and dabbed the lettering with a tentative finger.
“Whatever it’s written in,” he said, taking a clasp knife from his pocket, “it’s dry and must have been here for a while.”
Fishing further into his pocket, he came out with a notebook, tore out a sheet of paper and folded it in half. Scraping at the lettering, he allowed samples to fall into the folded paper, which he then folded over again, before tucking it gently back into his pocket.
“Sceptre,” he asked, “did you notice this when you set up the cameras?”
“No, Pete. It must have been written there after we came up here.”
“And yet we all know that’s impossible,” said McKinley.
“But you didn’t notice it, either?” Pete persisted. “When you were up here with her, I mean.”
The reporter shook his head. “I swear it wasn’t there.”
“But then,” Kevin pointed out, his fear momentarily forgotten, “you’d swear Arsenal were a cricket team if it sold a few extra newspapers.”
For the first time the reporter reacted as if the slights on his character were getting under his skin. “I do not tell lies.”
“’Course not,” breezed Kevin. “Not compared to, say, politicians, or used car salesmen.”
“One of these days, Keeley…”
“Shut it, the both of you,” Pete ordered. “I have a pal in forensics. I’ll get him to analyze this stuff tomorrow, but I think it’s just paint.” He shone his flashlight on it, highlighting its crimson surface. “Blood usually dries dark brown, not red.”
“It doesn’t matter what was used to produce the message,” Sceptre objected. “It wasn’t here when McKinley and I checked the room earlier.”
“It doesn’t matter how it was produced?” Pete demanded in total amazement. “Suppose we find out it’s paint? What conclusion will you draw? That Bilko’s ghost nicked it from a decorator’s merchant, like he would have done when he was alive? Or maybe he bumped into Michelangelo over there and asked for a loan of his paint pot.”
“You know what I mean,” Sceptre argued. “This is Bilks trying to tell us who killed him.”
“I’ll reserve judgment on that until I’ve checked
the video footage,” said Pete, leading the way back out onto the landing.
“Checking the videos? What will that prove?” demanded Sceptre.
Pete stopped on the landing and turned to face her. “The cameras have been running in that room for hours. If that really did materialise by some supernatural method, we’ll have picked it up.” He turned again and led the way back along the landing.
*****
“Madam?”
Hanging back behind the others as they made their way along the upper corridor, Sceptre kept her voice low. “What is it, Fishwick?”
“The message on the wall in Aggie’s room. Steven Bilks did not produce it.”
Sceptre quelled her surprise. “Do you know who did?”
“No, Madam, I have been busy with many matters tonight.”
“Sir Henry? Aggie Devis?” She sounded more hopeful than convinced.
“Madam,” Fishwick insisted, “this was not produced by any spirit.’
“How can you be so certain?”
“A simple process of deduction, Madam,” her butler explained. “The raw materials are not available to him. There is no red paint in the house, and if it is blood, where did he get it? There is no blood, animal or human, in such quantities”
“Your conclusion?” Sceptre demanded.
“That message was left on the wall by someone from the real world, and it was there when you arrived.”
“Thank you, Fishwick,” said Sceptre, “I’ll keep all that in mind.”
*****
“I’ll say this for you guys,” said McKinley as they made their way down the stairs, “you certainly provide good entertainment.” He looked around at the long shadows. “And this place is seriously spooky.”
“Especially for an empty head like yours,” Pete noted.
“Bit barbed, Brennan. You know, I could do you a lot of good.”
“Not based on past form, you couldn’t.”
They reached the grand hall and the entrance to the Long Gallery. Pete stopped and faced the reporter. “Why don’t you tell us what you’re really after?”
A Spookies Compendium Page 23