A Spookies Compendium

by David Robinson

  “Hear, hear,” said Kevin.

  They all stood.

  “If you two want to concentrate on the first floor and the library,” said Pete, “I’ll deal with the chapel and the crypt.”

  “Great,” moaned Kevin. “I have to climb stairs again.”

  “All right,” Pete said, “you deal with the crypt and the chapel, Kev, me and Sceptre will see to the top floor.”

  “Can’t Sceptre and me do the ground floor, Pete?”

  “Sceptre has to put those books back in the library,” Pete pointed at the volumes.

  “I’m not putting the books back in the library,” she said, “I’m taking them home. I have more research to do and they’ll provide me with a nice excuse to come back and see Mr Trent.”

  Pete grinned. “Looks like you’re on your own, Kev.”

  Kevin clapped his hands and rubbed them together like a market trader about to offer a deal. “If you’re fit, Sceptre, the library and top floor it is.”

  They parted company outside the dining hall, Kevin and Sceptre making their way upstairs. They stopped at the landing camera.

  “Shall I deal with the library?” Sceptre asked.

  “Shouldn’t we stick together?”

  She pointed at her watch. “Time, Kevin.”

  “Yes but I’ve seen the man in black, and the other rotten sod threw all those books at me, and I don’t fancy bumping into Mr Punch here on the …” A mean look from Sceptre trailed him off. “Oh all right. You do the library and I’ll dismantle this one.”

  Sceptre entered the library, took a careful look around, and began to take the camera apart.

  *****

  On the landing, Kevin took the equipment down with the practised ease of complete familiarity, while his eyes roamed the corridor.

  “Sick of these spooks bothering me,” he muttered, pulling the jacks from the back of the camera and dropping them carefully on the floor so they would not tangle. “Always me. I mean, why not Pete? I’ll tell you why not Pete, because nobody but a lunatic ghost would haunt Pete. He’d smite ’em.”

  He reached beneath the mounting and tackled the butterfly nut that secured the camera. Space was tight and he could not move it. With an irritated cluck, he bent down to examine it. The tripod arm was in the way. He loosened and lowered it then gripped the nut again.

  “Vali.”

  Kevin froze then began to tremble. “Not again.”

  “Vali.” It was not much more than a whisper.

  Slowly, he raised his head over the level of the camera. He could see nothing.

  “Vali.”

  The sound felt as if it was all around him.

  “Vali.”

  And it was gaining in volume. Much louder and it would be positively a shout…

  “VALI.”

  *****

  A full moon hung low over the horizon. Looking over the crenellated walls of the roof, the orange lights of the town lay spread before them. Of the four flagpoles, three were barren. The fourth flew the standard: the face of Loki.

  The disciples broke the circle. Swede looked down on the great seal, the hideously grinning face of Loki embedded in the roof. The others, six in all, brought the cover, a large sheet of rigid polyurethane, lowered it over the seal and anchored it into place with steel bolts that shone in the moonlight.

  His ceremonial robes exacerbated the heat of a summer’s night. He was hot and uncomfortable, disgruntled. He wanted to divest himself of the robe, go back to his jeans and T. He walked away from them, to the walls, and stared.

  The High Master approached, his hood still drawn over his head, hiding his face. “You are disturbed, my friend?”

  “Unhappy,” Swede admitted. “I love her.”

  “Sacrifices,” said the High Master.” We all have them to make, Swede. In order to serve our purpose, we must make small sacrifices.”

  “Small?” Swede sneered. “To rob the woman I love of her life?”

  The High Master removed his hands from his sleeves and spread them, palms upwards, his elbows tucked into his waist. It was a small gesture, but one of great significance, saying, ‘I too have known such sadness.’

  “I have to think about it,” said Swede.

  “You of all people should understand,” the High Master said. “You have to decide where your loyalties lie.”

  In an effort to ignore the High Master’s words, Swede turned to look over the town again. “I don’t know if I can do it.”

  The High Master’s hand rested on his shoulders. “Swede. My friend. You really want a life with a woman whose disruptive influence would threaten us and our future prosperity, or with your true destiny. There is time, yet. Use that time wisely. Think about where will you stand after its done.” the High Master gestured back at the disciples. “At my right hand.”

  Swede snorted. “At your right hand? Leading this … this travesty.”

  “You know what this travesty is about, Swede. Think about it.”

  The High Master turned and left with the others. Swede looked out across the town again. He knew he could not do it.

  *****

  Going through the same procedure in the library, making sure she left the door open, Sceptre envied Kevin. He was more sensitive than she. She could communicate with only one spirit: Fishwick. Before tonight, despite her attempts to contact others, she had managed only one or two feeble contacts.

  “I think, Madam,” Fishwick had once said, “it is because I was so dedicated to serving, and you are a borderline sensitive. Capable of receiving limited communication from this side.”

  It sounded reasonable, and Sceptre would love to have investigated the possibility more scientifically, but that kind of research needed funding and money was in short supply.

  Kevin, she decided, would make an excellent subject for study. His abilities had probably been with him since childhood but it was only now, when they were actively engaged on the subject that he was beginning to realise his potential, even if his fear left him running from it. It would be interesting to run an EEG or CAT scan on his brain to see where it might differ from a more logical one like Pete’s.

  Thoughts of her favourite ex-policeman forced her to consider his bland scepticism. She had come to the conclusion that no matter what she did, she would never persuade him.

  “It would take an invitation to the Monster’s Ball to convince him,” she said detaching the camera from its mount and placing it on the table.

  A cry from the corridor alerted her. Forgetting the tripod, she hurried out into the corridor, and found Kevin cowering in a corner.

  “What?” she asked. “What is it?”

  “Him again,” wept Kevin. “The man in black. He shouted at me then showed me some more of what they were doing.”

  Sceptre hurried to him, crouched at his side and took his hand. “Shouted at you? I never heard anything.”

  “You were in the library,” Kevin objected, “and even ghosts know to be quiet in there.”

  Sceptre suppressed a smile. “Fishwick?”

  “Madam?” came the voice of her butler in her head.

  “Is the spirit we know as Vali in the vicinity?”

  “Indeed, Madam. He’s at your left shoulder.”

  Automatically Sceptre looked to her left, then sheepishly checked herself. “Can you communicate with him, Fishwick?”

  “No, Madam. He’s calmer than he was, but he is still very angry and all he can say is Vali.”

  “Can you move him on then?” Sceptre asked.

  “I shall try, Madam.”

  She concentrated once more on Kevin. “Take it easy. You’re all right now. Fishwick is dealing with it.”

  Kevin’s hand trembled in hers. “Why is it always me?”

  “Because you’re special, Kevin. You have a gift and you’re going to have to get used to it.”

  His eyes brightened, then faded again. “I don’t wanna be special. I never wanted to be special. I just wanna be me.” His
chin worked agitatedly as he spoke. “They wanted him to kill some woman, but he loved her and he wasn’t gonna play ball.”

  “All right, Kevin.” Sceptre helped him to his feet. “Come on. Let’s get the cameras taken apart and get back downstairs. You can tell me about what you saw when we get home.”

  “I’ve a better idea,” Kevin said, dusting himself off. “Why don’t we go downstairs and let Pete come up here.”

  “You rely too much on our friend,” she scolded. “You should find the courage to face your problems alone.”

  “That’s the trouble. I am always alone when the problems come up.”

  Chapter Ten

  Sceptre looked up as Pete entered the living room dressed only in a pair of boxer shorts. It was not an unpleasant sight, but it still caused her to look away and check the time on the DVD player.

  “Don’t you ever sleep?” he asked.

  Fixing her eyes on her borrowed copy of Pagan Cults of Ancient Britain and her notes alongside it, she replied, “I’ve had about four hours. I got up about twelve and I’ve been busy formulating my theories.”

  “On last night’s Punch and Judy show?”

  She nodded. “If that’s how you choose to describe it.”

  Pete picked up the book and skimmed through it. He paused at a cartoon image of Loki, and put it back down in front of her. “You showed me this last night. Now tell me, your experience in the library. Is that what you saw?”

  She shuddered. “Yes.”

  He stared her in the eye for a long moment, a half smile spelling out his opinion and then turned his back to go to the kitchen. Sceptre followed him.

  “Pete, I didn’t imagine it.”

  “Fine. Whatever.” He dragged two beakers from the overhead cupboard. “You want tea?”

  “Yes please. Why don’t you believe me?”

  “I do believe you. I think what you saw was very real … to you.” He switched on the kettle. “I just disagree about the cause.”

  In the living room, the phone rang. “Oh, I forgot to tell you,” Sceptre said, “the phone has rung several times. Andrea Keynes. Your favourite detective.”

  Pete strode back into the living room and snatched up the receiver. “Brennan.”

  “About bloody time too,” came the voice of DC Andrea Keynes. “You left a message for me late yesterday afternoon.”

  Pete sat down. “So I did. I miss your sweet voice, your shapely body and even sweeter …”

  “Knock it off, Pete,” Andrea interrupted. “I’m busy. What did you want?”

  “Gus Nordqvist,” he said.

  “Never heard of her,” Andrea responded.

  “Well you should have done. Roadie for the Wicked Witches. He went AWOL about a month ago. After they played Eastlands. They reported him missing and they’ve asked me to look for him.”

  “Oh him. So what do want with me?”

  Pete grinned. “You really need to ask that?”

  “Knock it off, smartarse. What do you want?”

  “I was at the Bower yesterday,” he explained, “and Ranji told me you took away a CCTV video. He’s cleared me to collect it. And danger …”

  “Leave it with me,” Andrea cut in again. “The old man’s in a dangerous mood. If I mention your name, it might send him off on one.”

  “Okey-dokey,” Pete agreed. “Any danger we could meet so you could bring me up to speed on the investigation?”

  “Yes, but it won’t be today. I’ll get back to you.”

  Pete dropped the phone back on the hook and returned to the kitchen where he accepted a beaker of tea from Sceptre.

  “What’s the story with this Briscoe chap?” she asked as they came back into the living room. “I mean how does a man like that become manager to the Wicked Witches?”

  Pete shrugged and put his tea on the table and reached for his jeans and trainers. “Not much I can tell you. He was into the South Manchester mob scene. Drugs, loan sharking, prostitution. He went down for ten after a botched robbery. While he was inside, he opted for retraining in the music field. Management, A&R, you know the kind of thing. Reports suggested he was genuinely looking to go straight and fancied getting into the world of music. Personally, I’d have had my doubts, but you know how uncharitable I can be. We got the bulletin on him when he was scheduled for release after five years. He came out, behaved himself and the rest is history.” Pete gave a cynical chuckle. “He makes pots of money now. More than he ever did dealing and pimping.”

  “He was lucky, Pete,” said Sceptre sipping her tea. “He dropped onto the Wicked Witches.”

  “Ha!” Pete sneered. “You think so? Sceptre, he made the Wicked Witches. Found them singing in the pubs and took them to the studio where he worked, cut a few demos, wangled them onto the Star Light Star Bright show.” He fastened his trainers. “Right. We’d better get sleeping beauty up. I have a missing person to find and I’d like to get back to the Ashdalean during daylight.”

  “Well Kevin and I could go to the Ashdalean if you’d prefer,” Sceptre volunteered. “That would allow you to go on with your investigation.”

  He shook his head and sat with her again. “I have to speak to Nag Lane.”

  *****

  “Pete’s car is warmer than your van, Kevin,” Sceptre said.

  In the rear seat Kevin cradled his camera on his knee. “I don’t see why I have to go at all. You want to talk to the movie crew and Pete wants to speak to Nag Lane, and I have those recordings from last night to sort out. What am I gonna do here?”

  Sceptre half turned in her seat so she could look at him. “I thought we were a team, Kevin?”

  He scowled. “Were we a team last night when the bloke from the Guinness adverts got stuck into me?”

  “Kevin,” Sceptre encouraged him, “these movie people are having trouble with their video cameras. They see the same apparition that you saw. I know nothing about video other than you put the disc in the players and press the buttons to make it work. You’re an expert. You can talk to these people on a level they will understand.”

  “And failing that,” Pete said as he cruised along Ashdalean Road, “you can always fart and blow the man in black away, can’t you?”

  “Bog off, you,” Kevin sulked.

  A crowd of Wicked Witches fans had gathered by the main gates, held back by the combined forces of the police and Sherlock’s security personnel.

  Looking over Sceptre’s shoulder, Kevin could see PC Robb, one of Pete’s old enemies, trying to keep the crowds back. Some of the fans had backed off several yards, and stood on the car roofs in order to get a better view through the gates to the school beyond.

  “You’ll have time later to sort last night’s videos,” Sceptre said. “When we come back here tonight and we’re waiting for things to happen.”

  Pete cast her a quick glance as he brought the car to a halt and killed the engine. “Optimist.”

  “And that’s another thing,” Kevin continued whining, “We’ve done the Ashdalean once. Isn’t that enough?”

  Sceptre smiled in what she hoped was an encouraging manner. “Oh, Kevin, where were you when the courage was handed out?”

  “At the back of the queue playing with his X-box,” Pete said.

  To the sound of their laughter, Kevin sank into his seat and stared miserably through the windows. They understood nothing.

  All his life he had been seeking the big score. He supposed a psychologist would say it had to do with never having had a proper father, but whatever the reason, he figured it was there for the taking in television. If only he could find a way in.

  And he thought he had found it in ghost hunting. It was a fun idea. Everybody knew that ghosts were figments of the imagination, but it was the kind of stuff that people found interesting. If he’d realised how scary it all was, he’d have probably changed his mind.

  “Why couldn’t you have been an opera diva?”

  Sceptre gave a throaty laugh. “I don’t have the voice.
” She looked down at her chest. “Or the boobs.”

  They got out of the car and approached the back of the crowd. Had he or Sceptre been alone, they would have struggled to get through, but with Pete ahead of them, it was less of a problem. He gently shouldered his way past people, receiving one or two mean glances, but no one gave him anything more than that.

  “Must be nice to be six foot four,” Kevin said.

  “Yes, but the air’s thinner up there, so he doesn’t get enough oxygen to his brain.” Sceptre giggled. “It’s probably why he keeps it in his boxer shorts.”

  “What? His brain or his doings?”

  “Both.”

  “I can hear all this,” Pete said without looking back.

  They reached the barrier and Sherlock’s men holding them back. While Pete went into negotiations, Kevin looked past him into the site.

  Five hundred yards away, the Wicked Witches were performing, singing, dancing, twirling along the narrow gaps between the battlements.

  “God help them if they fall,” Sceptre said.

  “They’re wearing harnesses,” Kevin told her.

  Pete turned from his chatter with the security guard. “Where?”

  “Trust me,” Kevin insisted. “You don’t put several hundred million potential dollars worth of talent up on a twelve inch wide wall and ask her to do the dance of the Sugar Plum Fairy.”

  “Well I can’t see any harness,” Pete objected.

  “Under their tops,” Kevin explained. “By the time the CGI team have done with the videos, there’ll be no trace of either the harnesses or the wires, the album will go gold and the Lane sisters can bank another million or two.”

  Pete turned back to his negotiations, Sceptre agreed with their taller friend. “I can’t see the wires, either,” she said, “and as for a potential billion dollars worth of talent, I’ll reserve judgement on that.”

  Kevin leapt to the Wicked Witches’ defence. “They won the Star Light, Star Bright talent show.”