Village of Ghosts

by Ralph E. Vaughan

  “No,” she said after a long moment. “He wouldn’t.” She sat pensive for awhile, silently considering their options. “All right. At the oak, as planned. I suppose it really is too late to make changes. You up to speed on what you need to do?”

  “I know the script by heart, Aggie,” he said. “Don’t you worry about me none. All you have to do is give me the cues and I’ll do what needs to be done.”

  “I hope so. It really is just you and me now, Freddie.”

  “Poor Prudie.” No matter how Agnes felt about her, he had always liked her, and liked the way Sir Phineas was so happy around her. His eyes wanted to water, but he dared not let them do so in front of Agnes. “Poor, poor Prudie.”

  “She was a money-grabbing little vixen. and we’re better off without her.” She studied her friend’s melancholy face, then said: “But no one deserves to die like she did. Yes, poor Prudie.”

  “Poor Prudie,” Pettibone repeated. “I miss her, and Sir Phineas too. And old Mrs Banberry, she was sweet. I even miss Simon. He was an old reprobate with few good qualities, but he was likeable.”

  “Stop being so mawkish, Freddie,” Agnes said. “It’s too bad about all of them, even the stranger found in Pooks Wood, but think how good for business it’s been. Now, come on. We’ve each a full day of tours and lectures, then much to do before the séance.”

  * * *

  Dusk stole over Little Wyvern. Unlike most nights in the tiny village, the cobbled streets were thronged with pedestrians. All the car parks were full up. Anyone with a vacant patch of ground or even an empty driveway was raking in cash, demanding ten pounds or more from outsiders, both to park their autos and keep them safe from mischievous poltergeists. Many shops were open, selling what they could to people wanting to commemorate their night in the village of ghosts.

  “I can’t believe how bloody gullible people are,” Stark said. “They’re buying every homemade gewgaw with ‘England’s most Haunted Village’ painted on it. The village has gone mad.”

  “Not everyone.” Ravyn pointed at cottages along the lanes off the high street, into the streets on the other side of the bridge. “See all the darkened cottages? The cottagers are at home, sitting in the dark, hoping their ghosts do not take umbrage at the tomfoolery, perhaps even praying the Warlock will not choose to visit them.”

  “FOG doesn’t have the support Agnes thinks it has?”

  Ravyn shook his head. “Not among the people who count, men and women whose roots grow deeper than trees in the most ancient forest. Their ancestors lived here before there was a village, and their descendents will remain long after humanity abandons Earth for the stars.”

  Stark shuddered as he surveyed a village mapped in patterns of light and dark. The lit cottages and businesses slightly outnumbered those shrouded in night, but the darkness seemed ever on the verge of overwhelming the light.

  “And this also,” Stark said, “has been one of the dark places of the earth.”

  Ravyn smiled. “Marlow, speaking to the others gathered upon the deck of the cruising yawl Nellie. I’m not surprised you’ve read Conrad’s Heart of Darkness, but I am that you can quote it.”

  “My English Literature instructor would be surprised as well,” Stark said. “That, and Moby Dick, all I remember out of that class. Darkness and obsession—our job in a nutshell, isn’t it?”

  “Too often, yes,” the chief inspector agreed.

  Ravyn observed uniformed officers casually strolling with the throng, not attracting any attention. He reached inside his jacket and withdrew a small radio.

  “Units One and Two, take opposite stations in the vicinity of Hopkins’ Oak. Unit Three keep Swanner under observation. Unit Four, remain mobile. Unit Five, maintain close surveillance on Pettibone.”

  One by one, the teams reported in.

  “I’m surprised we got authorisation for the support,” Stark said.

  “After what happened to Prudence Holloway, it’s been taken out of Heln’s control,” Ravyn said. “Tacitly, of course.” He sighed. “That probably makes it worse.”

  The radio in Ravyn’s pocket crackled, He put it to his ear.

  “Find him,” Ravyn said. “Now.”

  Ravyn started off at a fast walk, heading in the direction of the old oak from which a warlock was hung more than three centuries before. Stark followed after. They joined a river of people.

  “What is it, sir?”

  “Pettibone,” Ravyn said. “He gave Unit Five the slip.”

  “Perhaps the little fellow lost his nerve and rabbited home,” Stark suggested. “Even now he might be hiding under his bed.”

  “I hope so, but it’s doubtful,” Ravyn said. “He and Agnes have cooked up some scheme to carry off an outdoor séance. Since she’s the medium, it’s his job to pull all the wires, handle the smoke and mirrors. He won’t let her down. There’s a little fear there, but much more of something else.”

  “They’re faking the séance?”

  Ravyn gave Stark a sharp glance.

  “Well, yes, I know it’s all flummery,” Stark stammered, his face burning in the twilight. “But I thought those two…their beliefs and… Oh, never mind! Let’s just find Pettibone.”

  The two constables comprising Unit Five met them in the car park behind the Blithe Spirit. Neither looked happy; both looked as if they feared their heads might be lopped off at any moment.

  “We had him under observation,” said Bodkins, who was the senior constable.

  “Then we didn’t,” said the other, Starling. “He slipped away.”

  “He did it deliberately, sir,” Bodkins explained. “He knew we were keeping track of him. He even came over and spoke to us, thanked us for keeping him safe. We didn’t think he’d scarper on us. He knew we were here to protect him.”

  “Why’d he do it?” Starling demanded. His voice held no tone of concern for the missing man, only the whine of self-preservation.

  “I’d like to know how he did it,” Bodkins said.

  “Because he’s smarter by half than you pillocks,” Stark said.

  Ravyn started to speak, then changed his mind, biting down on his lips to keep invectives from spewing forth. Were his eyes lasers, two constables would have become pillars of fire in the deepening twilight. They squirmed in the half-second of silence.

  “Where did you see him last?” Ravyn asked.

  Bodkins pointed toward the pub. “Said he was going to pop in for a quick one before the spook show started. We hesitated about going in…you know, how it might look, sir, being in uniform.”

  “But we figured it was all right since we were to keep him in sight,” Starling added.

  “We went in, but he was nowhere to be seen,” Bodkins said. “We went all through the place. It’s pretty crowded, but he’s not there. We’re sure of that.”

  “The séance is open air,” Ravyn said.. “Swanner is under the oak, the audience seated in front, arrayed in a semicircle. No spectators will be behind her, some local lads have been hired to see to that. He has to be in a position to see her and her signals.”

  “That limits it,” Stark said. “Could he be behind her?”

  Ravyn shook his head. “Has to be able to see her face, her hands. Their script can’t be based on timing, else something would surely happen out of sequence with her motions.”

  “To the front or sides,” Stark said. “Has to be able to see over the crowd.”

  Ravyn let his eyelids droop in concentration. The village layout whirled around him. He dismissed everything except that portion of Little Wyvern near the storied oak tree. The view expanded in three dimensions as he added his observations to the map. He drew lines of sight from the various buildings to where he had seen Agnes and her hired hands setting up. When he finished eliminating buildings with no view a half-dozen remained.

  Ravyn’s eyes opened. To Stark and the constables no time had elapsed since Stark’s comment.

  “You two go to Hopkins Walk, third house from t
he corner and search the upper storeys,” Ravyn told Bodkins and Starling. “Do not brook any interference. Go!”

  They scarpered, glad to escape.

  Ravyn activated his radio and issued search orders to Units One and Two. “Maintain observation on Swanner,” he told Unit Three. Unit Four was ordered to separate, to keep watch over the growing crowd. “I didn’t want to split the units, but those two ponces didn’t leave us much choice.”

  “What about us?” Stark asked. “Try to find Pettibone?”

  “The patrols will find him, sooner than later, hopefully,” Ravyn said, continuing toward Hopkins’ Oak. “As you heard, his options are limited.”

  Stark matched Ravyn’s hurried pace. “Some of the buildings you told them to search are private residences, aren’t they?”

  “Yes,” Ravyn replied. “But I don’t care.”

  “Why would he do it, sir?” Stark asked. “He knows the danger of being alone.”

  “Because he doesn’t want to fail his friend,” Ravyn replied.

  “I guess I’d be afraid of her too, were I him.”

  “Fear?” Ravyn shook his head. “He fears failure, not her. It’s love, Stark. That’s why’ll he’ll risk facing the Warlock—love.”

  They reached the oak minutes before the start of the séance, breezing past the ticket taker with their warrant cards. Outside the roped-off area were those unable to get tickets, as well as the media.

  “Couldn’t let them get close, could they?” Stark gestured at the television cameras and journalists. “Might see too much.”

  “Watch for her to look one way more than another,” Ravyn said. “She’ll try to misdirect the audience, but her attention will be predominantly drawn to Pettibone unconsciously.”

  The flood lamps switched on at twilight now dimmed. Agnes was seated at a circular table. In the fading light, she was indistinct. Around the table were four empty chairs. Soft ethereal music wafted through the gathering night. Mist rose behind her, flowing across the ground. Gauzy coloured lights now lit the area around Agnes, illuminating her features, making her eyes seem to glow.

  “Could Pettibone be back there after all?” Stark suggested.

  Ravyn shook his head. “Hired stagehands, hired equipment.”

  “At least we now know why FOG was always short of funds,” Stark said. He watched Agnes, but all the while swept his wary eyes through the shadows. “This is pretty lavish.”

  “It’s to seal all those deals Swanner brokered last night at the Ghost Gala,” Ravyn said, keeping watch. “The investors don’t necessarily believe in ghosts, but they are watching keenly to gauge the reactions of spectators, believers and sceptics alike. They want to know if people can be sold a bill of goods, if Little Wyvern can give a return on their investments.”

  “Welcome to England’s Most Haunted Village.” Agnes’ voice was soft, breathy, but it reached the farthest rows, thanks to a hired sound system that cost the earth. “The spirits are moving among us, through us. Can you feel them? Are you sensitive enough to see them, these wandering shades?”

  Agnes was garbed in a long, glittering purple robe. Its borders were decorated with occult symbols etched in silver. As she spoke, a wind rose and fell, the sound generated electronically but quite convincing to the crowd.

  “This tree has seen much suffering and pain,” she said. “The guilty and innocent hung from its branches. They all have stories to tell. They all want to be heard.”

  A pale luminescent sphere seemed to detach from somewhere within the tree. It floated downward, drifting toward Agnes. As she reached for it, it vanished. The audience watched breathlessly.

  “The spirits want to speak, but they need help,” she said. “They cannot cross the Great Barrier without help. They need your help to come out of the House of Dust and Darkness. Will you help them?”

  A few people responded, prompting others. All of them had come to see ghosts. Even the most sceptical now yearned for the reality of the Other Realm, a sure knowledge that death was not the ending it seemed to be.

  “Only the most sensitive may call the spirits forth,” Agnes continued. “The ghosts of Little Wyvern know who you are, the ones with psychic powers. Did a friendly ghost take you by the hand and lead you to your seat? Look under your chair and see if you have been chosen to join me at the Spirit Table. Do it. Do it now.”

  People looked under their chairs, desperate to find an invitation. More glowing spheres rained upon Agnes out of the boughs.

  “Oh, they want to speak to us,” Agnes said, moving her arms. As she touched each globe it burst silently into dying sparks. “If you are chosen, please come forward and take a seat.”

  “Pettibone is releasing those gas-filled spheres in response to her actions,” Ravyn said. He looked back and forth between Agnes and the buildings behind them. “They can see each other.”

  Those chosen by ‘kindly ghosts’ made their way forward, every one of them a true believer. Fervency was etched upon their faces, shown by lights dancing in their eyes. They sat at the Spirit Table.

  “Please join hands,” Agnes said. “We will bring back the long-departed.” She paused. “The dead shall speak!”

  At her last shout, all lights were extinguished.

  The crowd murmured nervously, their voices like the whisper of the sea as it gathers strength to batter another wave against the shore. The lights of the television cameras switched on, despite their agreement not to, but they were too far away to do anything but light the backs of the audience. Strobes flashed impotently.

  Two village bully-boys hired by Agnes ran among the media, silently threatening to bash the lamps if not switched off. In seconds a great blackness returned. In the immensity of the night the audience on both sides of the rope grew quiet and pensive.

  Someone gasped.

  Ghosts now moved through the ancient streets of Little Wyvern toward the séance. The diaphanous blobs of light were without form, lacking any details, but that did not stop people from seeing spectres in Victorian garb, and shadowy Roundheads and Cavaliers now brothers in the grave. Phantom Druids and Romans passed through the bodies of the living.

  “They’re some kind of projections, right, sir?” Stark said. “A kind of hologram?

  “Yes,” Ravyn said, searching darkened windows of the facing buildings. “Probably.”

  “Call forth the spirits!” Agnes shouted, instantly drawing their attention back to the table under the tree.

  The shapeless glowing forms faded away, leaving spectators bubbling with excitement. A luminescent haze formed above the table. Even to those seated with Agnes it seemed as if the mist issued directly from the centre of the table. Within the soft glow of the cloud a shape took form—a woman’s head.

  “Why have you called me from the world beyond?”

  The voice was eerie, seeming to rise and fall like a night wind. Her lips did not move, but everyone thought they did.

  “Will you speak to us?” Agnes asked. “Will you tell us of loved ones who have passed on?”

  “A newly arrived shade once known as Mary tells her daughter she is in a better place,” the spirit said. “The cancer is gone.”

  “Mother!” a young woman cried in the audience, leaping to her feet. “Mother, it’s me. June.”

  “Another spirit, a child, says to say, ‘Billie feels fine now’.”

  A woman jumped up, hand over her mouth, tears in her eyes.

  Stark whispered: “In a crowd this size, there’s bound…”

  “There,” Ravyn said, pointing. “Top floor, left.”

  Stark followed Ravyn’s finger. The building was three storeys tall. The ground floor was a chemist’s shop, the floors above, flats. On the uppermost level, faint lights played upon the window-glass of a darkened flat. Ravyn used his radio to direct the units.

  “There is yet another shade here who…”

  When the apparition above the table ceased speaking the crowd began to murmur. Then the image winked out o
f existence.

  “O Spirit Guide, return to us,” Agnes said, a hint of confusion and anxiety entering her voice. “Come forth once more to speak to those who have gathered to hear you…both the living and the ghosts of Little Wyvern…England’s Most Haunted Village…”

  “Something’s wrong,” Ravyn said. “She is starting to panic. Come on. Let’s go!”

  Agnes made furtive gestures to the stage hands behind her. The gauzy mood lights again rose and unearthly music drifted through the air. She tried to call back her Spirit Guide, but the mist began to dissipate, the glow to subside.

  “The ways of the spirit world are capricious,” Agnes said. “But, uh, you have seen that death is not the end.” She watched with alarm as the crowd began to move. “Thank you for attending Little Wyvern’s séance.” She glanced at a high window now totally dark. “Be sure to visit the shops of England’s Most Haunted Village before you leave.”

  Agnes pushed away from the table, nearly upsetting the delicate mechanism within. The four people chosen from the audience watched in confusion as Agnes ran from them, then began to drift away themselves, heading for the shops.

  Agnes nodded amiably to the people she pushed out of her way, but was cursing under her breath. The séance should have gone on another ten minutes. With their endless rehearsals, the show should have been flawless. Somehow Freddie had made a cock-up of the situation. She hoped she had managed to save the day with her final remarks, but she was filled with doubts.

  She rushed through the back entrance of the chemist’s shop to find some constable barring the way. Agnes ploughed through him without slowing. She banged up the steps, finding more constables in the way, none of whom slowed her down.

  When Agnes burst through the flat’s door, she was grabbed by Sergeant Stark. She tried to break free, but could not. Only then did her anger begin transforming into fear and worry. She tried to see beyond Stark, at what he was trying to keep from her.