The Haunting of Highdown Hall

by Shani Struthers

  Lytton! A voice beside her screamed. He sold my soul. I want it back!

  Neither Corinna nor Cash could hear Cynthia’s words but Theo and Ness stiffened immediately.

  “Lytton has not sold your soul,” Ruby’s voice was resolute. “Neither he nor any other human being has the power to do so. Lytton was a fraud, Cynthia, a charlatan. He was exposed as such not once, but twice. You wouldn’t have known, because it happened two years after you’d passed, in 1960. He tricked you, Cynthia, and not just you, other women too. He used your desire for fame to trick you. Your soul is your own.”

  There was silence again. Was she listening, Ruby wondered? Taking in what had been said? Trying to comprehend? Or perhaps she was already moving towards the light, the lie that tethered her in fear to this realm revealed at last.

  Ruby opened her eyes and glanced around. The atmosphere was calm. Too calm.

  Suddenly Ness’s eyes flew open too.

  “She’s still here, Ruby, she doesn’t believe you, she’s...”

  Before Ness could finish what she was saying, a bulb in the chandelier above them exploded; then another and another. The sound making Corinna and Cash jump.

  “Visualise light and love,” Theo advised. “Don’t be distracted by theatricals.”

  In a repeat of last time, the dressing table and bed started shaking – the atmosphere around them darkening considerably, and not just because of the loss of electric light.

  “This isn’t working,” whispered Ruby to Theo. “We’re just irritating her further. I’ve got no choice; I’ve got to get Rawlings in.”

  “I really don’t think you should,” Theo whispered back but urgently.

  Ruby stood her ground.

  “It’s the only idea I have right now. We need to send Cynthia to the light, not only for her sake but for Psychic Surveys too. You know the damage Mr Kierney could do us.”

  Before Theo could retort, Ruby let go of her hand and Cash’s, joining them together instead. Making for the door, she had to use her hand to feel her way, unable to believe how dark the room had become despite the natural light streaming in through the tall windows.

  The door was stuck again, keeping them in this time instead of locking them out. She didn’t know if she’d be able to yank it open by herself or whether she’d need Cash to come and help. Gradually, it relented.

  “Mr Rawlings,” shouted Ruby, startling him. “Would you please come in?”

  Although he looked wary, he obeyed. Ruby surrounding him with more white light as he shuffled forward.

  “It’s okay,” she said, taking hold of his hand. “You’ll be safe, I promise. I just want you to explain what happened, that Cynthia did not sell her soul to the Devil. That her fame was due to her talent and persistence, nothing more. Speak loud and clear. And, Mr Rawlings,” she added, “it might be an idea to say you’re sorry.”

  Leading him to the safety of the circle, Ruby prompted him to speak.

  “Cynthia,” he said, his voice quivering at first but gaining in strength the more he spoke. “It’s me, Raw... Lytton.”

  Abruptly, all activity seized.

  “I... I’ve come to apologise for duping you all those years ago. I never thought for one minute you would believe me. I... I just wanted to... to be with you. You were so beautiful.”

  “Go on,” Ruby encouraged.

  “It was a bad thing I did, a very bad thing, I know that now. But I want you to know, I was never in league with the Devil. Of course I wasn’t. I tricked you. I’m sorry.”

  “Cynthia,” Ruby took over, “your rise to fame, I believe it happened soon after the incident with Lytton. But it had nothing to do with him or with any satanic force. You were, quite simply, a talented actress, one of the finest the world has ever seen. That was the reason for your success, nothing more, nothing less. Stop hiding, Cynthia. Come out.”

  Nothing. No response at all. Where was she? Was she even listening?

  “Has it worked?” Rawlings asked, but as soon as he opened his mouth, the dressing table chair flew across the room, landing just short of the bed.

  “Get him out!” yelled Theo, referring to the old man, but she needn’t have bothered. He was already running on surprisingly nimble legs towards the room’s only exit, disappearing into the safety of the corridor.

  Grabbing hold of Theo’s hand, Ruby closed the circle yet again.

  “Cynthia!” she yelled, but in her mind only.

  Liar, came the acrid reply. You’re all liars, him as well as you! “Cynthia,” Theo tried to remonstrate. “Cynthia, we don’t want to upset you, believe me, that is not our intention. We brought Lytton here only to help you realise that you do not belong to evil, that you belong to all that is good, whatever he made you think then. Please, I implore you, linger here no more. Look to where the light is shining and go to it. You are quite safe.”

  This is my home! I will not leave.

  “But why, Cynthia? Why won’t you leave?” It was Ness this time.

  Because he’s there, in the dark, waiting for me. I cannot leave.

  Ruby was nonplussed. Who was waiting for her in the dark? Not the Devil, they’d established that.

  “Cynthia,” she beseeched, “look again, there is no one waiting for you in the dark, no one at all.”

  Yes there is!

  As Cynthia flung these words at them, the room was plunged into complete darkness. Ruby could only feel the others now, and she could also feel the energy around her building to catastrophic proportions. Suddenly another agonising scream rang out, but one that was all too human.

  As the daylight began to edge its way warily back, Theo was the first to step forward, shouting Corinna’s name. Looking over, Ruby could see Corinna, slumped in a heap on the floor, blood pouring from the side of her temple.

  “Oh God,” she breathed, rushing to Corinna’s side also.

  “Be careful, don’t touch her, not until we know what’s wrong,” said Ness, calm and level-headed.

  It was Cash who found the perfume bottle, lying just a few feet from where Corinna lay.

  “Could Cynthia have thrown this?” he asked, alerting the others to it.

  Ruby nodded. “Yes, I think she could have done.”

  “A ghost can do that?” replied Cash in horror.

  “Only when severely provoked,” said Theo, her accusatory tone not lost on Ruby.

  Corinna was coming round.

  “Ugh,” she said groggily. “What happened?”

  Her hand reaching up, she touched her head gingerly with her fingertips.

  “Blood,” she said. “Why am I bleeding?”

  “Don’t worry, sweetheart, it’s okay,” Theo replied tenderly. “Cynthia got a bit upset, that’s all. We need to get you out of here though, to a hospital, straight away.”

  “No, I’m fine...” started Corinna, trying to get to her feet but quickly becoming overwhelmed by wooziness, she sank back down again.

  Cash hooked his hands underneath her arms and raised her gently to her feet. Lifting Corinna into his own arms, he cradled her there whilst looking at Theo.

  “Take her to my car,” instructed Theo. “And Rawlings too; take them both.”

  As Cash carried Corinna out of the room, Theo and Ness turned to Ruby.

  “You should never have brought him in here,” said Theo, her eyes blazing.

  “I thought it would help,” replied Ruby, feeling small suddenly.

  “Well, now you know,” said Theo, turning abruptly and leaving the room. Ness, who had said nothing but looked decidedly more sympathetic than Theo, followed her.

  Alone in the grand, empty room, Ruby looked around. Everything was normal. Well, as normal as it could be in a haunted shrine. She knew Cynthia had used up all her energy in that strike against Corinna, she’d be exhausted now, drained completely.

  “I’m not done with you, Cynthia,” Ruby shouted out, anger temporarily replacing any sympathy she might have previously felt for her. “What you did
today, attacking Corinna, was not acceptable. You don’t belong at Highdown Hall, not anymore. Face up to it. And you are wrong. There is no one waiting for you in the shadows. You belong in the light, Cynthia, and make no mistake; I will be the one to send you there. I won’t rest until I do.”

  As she turned to go, Ruby was sure she could hear the sound of weeping.

  ***

  How dare they bring that man in here, the man who insisted he was Lytton. How could he be? Lytton was younger than her, a year or so, not an old man almost at the end of his days. He was further proof they were lying, that they hadn’t got a clue what they were talking about. Via Corinna, she had shown them she was a woman not to be messed with.

  A cry of anguish escaped Cynthia. Did they really think she would believe them? Lytton, his face, she would never forget it, or his legacy. The very first time they had met she had known there was something about him. He seemed to walk alone, tall and straight, a confident air about him. She had been appearing in a play at the Strand at the time, Summer’s End, as the daughter-in-law to the main character, and Lytton; he had waited outside for her, at the stage doors. Many people would wait outside the stage doors, pencil and paper in hand, poised to ask the stars for their autographs; but never her autograph, they didn’t want the signature of someone who uttered less than ten lines in just under two hours. Of course she’d been flattered by his attentions.

  “You’re the real star of that show,” he had said, catching up beside her as she hurried along the Embankment. “You knock the others into a cocked hat.”

  “Go away,” she had replied lightly. How she wished she had meant it.

  “It’s a lovely night, let’s go for a drink, I’ll buy.”

  When she had started to protest, he’d turned on the charm. “No, really, it would be such an honour if you did.”

  He wasn’t a bad looking man. He had a twinkle in those blue eyes of his. A certain charisma, she supposed. Besides which, she was lonely. Since arriving in London she had made numerous friends but many had fallen by the wayside over the years, often citing her ambition for driving a wedge between them.

  “You think of nothing else,” one friend, Elsie, had said to her once. “It’s... it’s stifling.”

  Stifling it may be, but she held onto her dreams and one day she would show them, she had promised herself that.

  One drink with Lytton had turned into two, one night into another. He appeared to be her greatest fan, constantly telling her how beautiful she was, how talented, how damned unfair it was that the world would not wake up and take notice. He seemed to understand her; he also said he could help her. She couldn’t deny it, she had been intrigued.

  He had a flat in Central London, in the Lancaster Gate area. When he had told her, Cynthia had been impressed. She rented a room from a lady in the East End, in a house no better than the one she grew up in, something that irked her terribly, particularly when she lay awake in the lonely hours of the early morning. That evening she had finished work and hurried along to the address he had written down for her on a scrap of paper.

  “There might be others in attendance, you don’t mind, do you?” he had asked her.

  Of course, she didn’t mind. In fact, she thought she might prefer it. Even though she craved attention, she found him overbearing at times. Perhaps it was the way he licked his lips when he spoke to her or the way his eyes flickered constantly to her bosom. Lascivious was a word she had just learnt. It had been used to describe a character in a new script she was reading, and it seemed to suit Lytton perfectly. Still, he said he could help her and how he could do so, she was keen to know.

  Arriving at his flat, just around the corner from the Bayswater Road, she had been disappointed by what she had found. It was not grand at all, but positioned at the top of a once grand but now run-down Victorian town house. Less than salubrious characters peppering the streets about it.

  The front door had been left open. She let herself in and climbed three flights of stairs, trying not to breathe in the stale smell of urine, sweat and something else, something vaguely familiar.

  Reaching No.8, Lytton’s flat, she found the door to that open too. Before entering, she listened carefully to see if she could hear anyone inside, but all was silent.

  “Mr Lytton?” she had called upon entering. And then, more daringly, “Clive?”

  The room was empty. Looking around, she had noted a large bed in the far corner, grubby curtains hanging at the windows and little else. Had it not been for the tempting promise of what he could do for her, she would have turned on her heels right then. Where was he?

  “Ah, my darling,” said a voice to her right. Mr Lytton emerged from the bathroom, clad in a silk dressing gown. “There you are. Come in, come in. Just us tonight, I’m afraid. Lucinda and Arabella couldn’t make it. Terribly disappointing, I know.”

  Briefly, Cynthia wondered who Lucinda and Arabella were; she had also wondered at their names, they seemed to belong to creatures far more exotic than her. Walking towards her, Lytton reached out an arm, shutting the door behind her. She was in his lair. A fly caught in a spider’s web.

  Lytton must have noticed how nervous she was.

  “Relax,” he had said, “have some of this.”

  It was the smell she had noticed in the hallway, the smell that sometimes drifted out from the dressing rooms of the back street theatres she worked in, making her feel lightheaded whenever she breathed it in.

  “Go on,” he had noticed her reluctance, “it won’t hurt you.”

  She did as he wanted her too, took a few drags of the cigarette offered to her, wanting very much to relax; it was something she didn’t allow herself to do very often.

  After a few moments her head started to spin but she found herself giggling too, suddenly everything seemed funny; she remembered that, gloriously funny.

  She continued smoking, one cigarette perhaps or was it two? She had drunk vodka too, not her normal tipple, shot after shot. She couldn’t remember having so much fun. Mr Lytton was clearly having fun too.

  How many hours had passed? She didn’t know. Time was as hazy then as it was now. Finally, she had asked him the question she had longed to ask him all night.

  “How can you help me?”

  She remembered his words.

  “Your dreams, I can help you achieve them. It’s what I do.”

  Beating back a faint wave of nausea, she had leaned forward, eager to hear more.

  “Tell me...”

  And he did. About the Devil he served, the dark lord who made all things possible. Cynthia remembered giggling even more at his words, taking another shot of vodka, her head lurching violently as she did so.

  Recovering herself, she had scoffed, “And the Devil’s going to help me?”

  “The Devil is on your side.”

  Which was more than God was, she remembered thinking. She had prayed so hard for recognition, her fervent pleas falling on deaf ears.

  “And how do I get in touch with the Devil?” she was still only teasing, or so she had thought, her mind swimming by this time.

  “Through me,” had been Lytton’s reply, reaching for the bottle and pouring the contents straight into her mouth, some of it missing, dribbling down her chin, onto the dark green dress she had been wearing.

  Darkness had claimed her then. Not the all-consuming darkness that held her in its grip now, but a patchy darkness she had woken from to find herself riding Lytton, sitting astride him, completely naked as was he, her dress discarded. Peering closer she realised it wasn’t Lytton. It was the creature he had been talking about, the Devil himself, impossibly handsome but with depthless eyes, eyes she could drown in. And then he had smiled; a smile that had both scintillated and terrified her, his mouth a cavern which she had to stop herself falling into. His hands had come up then to grab at her breasts, sharp claws leaving trails of blood behind them she was sure. She had ridden him harder, harder still, realising after a few moments that it was sh
e who was the one laughing, a wild sound, joining him in madness. She had – and she shuddered to admit it now – enjoyed rutting with the creature below her. She had wanted all he had to give, at whatever price.

  Again blackness consumed her; again she had come round. Lytton was nowhere to be seen. She remembered sitting up in bed, the carnage surrounding her jolting her fully awake; empty vodka bottles, several of them, cigarette ends, clothes strewn everywhere, hers not his. Moving slowly, she had felt sore, violated in places she hadn’t thought possible. Testament to the evil she had courted.

  Gathering her clothes, she had hurried from Lytton’s flat, vowing never to return. For days after she had lain low, sobbing, aching and refusing to move from the dismal confines of her tawdry room. She had lost her part in Summer’s End; they couldn’t afford to wait for her. Life had seemingly fallen apart; but then it had blossomed, unexpectedly, spectacularly, the Devil true to his word, despite the fact that she had doubted him.

  And now it was payback time. Now he had come to collect. The Devil didn’t forget.

  Chapter Fourteen

  Back at his flat, Ruby and Cash continued to soothe a highly agitated Rawlings; Ruby terrified that today might spawn another casualty. She suspected that at his age his heart might be weak, perhaps prone to angina which could easily lead to a heart attack. However, after keeping a careful eye on him, he gradually calmed, eventually asking them to go.

  “Are you sure you’ll be alright?” Ruby was worried still.

  “Fine, I’ll be fine,” he said, but his voice was subdued.

  Having settled him in his armchair with a fresh cup of tea, she found a tartan blanket in his bedroom, thrown on top of a hard-backed chair in the corner. Sniffing it, it didn’t smell too bad. She returned to the living room and tucked it round his legs. Next she switched the TV on.

  “Leave it on BBC1,” he ordered, “always rubbish on the other side.”

  Doing as she was bid, some drama in full flow, she turned to him. “I’ll phone you tomorrow and perhaps I’ll come by later in the week? Check you’re okay.”

  “Suit yourself,” the old man grunted in reply. Before she and Cash took their leave, however, he spoke again.