The Haunting of Highdown Hall

by Shani Struthers

  “Even the crystals,” confirmed Ness. “And, Cash, see if you can find some way to ventilate this room, perhaps the bathroom window might open?” Thinking about it she added, “You know what? Break it if you have to. The air in here is desperate.”

  Everyone sprang into action, Ruby as surprised as Ness and Theo that they were not being met with resistance. The room bereft of potential missiles, they re-gathered.

  “Join hands,” commanded Theo.

  Ruby held Cash and Ness’s hands. Corinna stood the other side of Ness, in between her and Theo, who also held hands with Cash.

  “Jed,” called Ruby, “come and sit in the middle.”

  The dog sloped forwards.

  Ruby spoke first.

  “Cynthia, we’re back. And this time we’re not leaving until you’ve left too. Remember, the light is where you belong and nothing, no one, has the power to keep you from it.”

  Pleased at how confident she sounded, she continued. “We know a second spirit resides in this room. A spirit weighed heavily with human issues.” Attempting to address the second spirit, Ruby said, “And I know it was you who attacked me, not Cynthia, but I also know that you did so out of fear and frustration. I don’t like being attacked and I’d like you to refrain from doing so again. But I’ve no hard feelings. I want to help you too.”

  There was no response, all was silent, but it was a false silence Ruby knew – a predatory silence. There was only one way to break it.

  “The second spirit who resides here, we know who you are. You are David Levine.”

  Ruby was right, speaking his name did indeed provoke a reaction, but not from Levine. Suddenly Cynthia shot forward, stopping short just behind Ruby. In her head Ruby heard her scream at her.

  He is not David Levine!

  “Cynthia,” Ruby endeavoured to explain. “It is David Levine. He was a guest at your party; he passed the same night as you, not far from here. His car left the road; hit a tree, the accident was fatal. He returned to Highdown Hall, to the last place he remembered.”

  He is not David Levine! He is the Devil!

  No, they’d established that there was no such creature; they’d proven it to her, that Rawlings was a liar and a cheat, no more capable of conjuring up a demon than Cynthia herself had been. Why was she still so insistent?

  “Cynthia,” Ruby tried again, cursing the slight note of hesitancy that had crept into her voice. “It is not the Devil, it’s...”

  Before she could finish, Cynthia interrupted.

  IT IS!

  Ruby gasped. Beside her, Ness flinched.

  The energy in the room was building, becoming taut around them like a rubber band, making it difficult to breathe.

  Ruby was thankful when Theo took control.

  “Cynthia, calm down. I want no more of your childish displays of temper. You might have got away with that sort of behaviour in life, but in the spirit world it holds no muster.”

  To Ruby’s amazement, the energy depleted slightly as though Cynthia had actually taken notice of Theo’s admonishment. All five of them inhaled deeply, taking the opportunity to fill their lungs whilst they could.

  Deciding on a different tack, Ruby addressed the second spirit again. She could sense he was holding back, but why? Gathering strength for a repeat attack? Just let him try.

  “Is what Cynthia saying true? Are you a demon? Perhaps even the Devil himself?”

  Ruby sensed rather than saw Theo’s look of absolute astonishment that she could ask such a question. But she had to know. Had she been wrong all along? Had Cynthia been right? Her mother too?

  An echo of laughter rang out, but it was joyless, containing instead all the dark emotions she had felt both downstairs and at the site of the car crash.

  “Please,” Ruby beseeched. “Speak to us. Tell us who you are.”

  As soon as the last word left her mouth, Ruby was torn from the circle and spun violently around, almost losing her footing in the process. Preparing to face David, Cynthia’s ‘unknown’ father, or even Lucifer himself, she was stunned to see Cynthia in front of her, not fully manifested but stronger than she had ever been before.

  “Wait,” said Ruby, as all four companions rushed to help. “Hold back. It’s Cynthia.”

  Looking at the ethereal face before her, a face that was rapidly gaining in substance, Ruby could see why her beauty had had such an impact on the world; Cynthia was breathtaking, exquisite beyond compare. No photograph, no film could ever do her justice. But that wasn’t all there was about her, there was something else, something just as appealing – vulnerability. It was a look she remembered seeing in the eyes of Gayle Andrews in The Phoenix, a look that Ruby had thought Cynthia had only adopted for the role. But clearly not, it was very much a part of the actress, it defined her somehow. The life-long devotion of Sally Threadgold and John Sterling was easier to understand now. It was a look that made you want to help her, to move heaven and earth to do so.

  “Cynthia,” Ruby appealed again, but to the film star this time, “help me.”

  Cynthia’s hands, gentle now instead of forceful, moved down to cover Ruby’s. They were cold, as light as air and as soft as gauze. As their fingers clasped, the room and those who inhabited it – Theo, Ness, Corinna and Cash – began to fade, becoming no more than shadows themselves. As Ruby entered another world, a glittering world, her heart leapt with elation, elation laced with hope. Had Cynthia Hart, at last, remembered?

  Chapter Thirty

  Christmas Eve

  A fabulous party! A roaring success! Of course it was. How could it fail to be? She, the great Cynthia Hart, had the Midas touch; she could do no wrong. It was her thirty-first birthday and so many from showbiz and high society were celebrating with her, their generosity unrestrained when it came to lavishing gifts. A steady stream had been arriving at Highdown Hall all day; rubies, sapphires, pearls and diamonds, set in gold, set in platinum – everybody trying to outdo everybody else, to impress her the most. And from John, a Jaguar XK120, sprayed to match the colour of her hair. His valet had driven it to her door this morning; Sally had burst into her room, excited to tell her. How she loved sports cars, John knew that. She owned several of them, but this new addition was the best by far, as beautiful and elegant as she was. She looked forward to racing it along the country lanes, “...but with whom I haven’t decided yet” she had deliberately teased when he’d phoned to check her reaction, delighting at how her artful remark had affected him, imagining all too well the frown that would darken his handsome face.

  For hours she had lain in bed, flicking through magazines and newspapers, indulging herself in frivolous articles, reserving her energy for the evening ahead. Late afternoon, Sally had drawn a bath for her, deep, warm and scented. She had fussed over her, scrubbing every inch of her back, teasing at her curls, ensuring her fuchsia dress was as smooth as the skin on her mistress’s face. She had stepped proudly aside as Cynthia had left her bedroom, watching devotedly as she descended the stairs to greet the anticipating crowds.

  As they had marvelled at her, Cynthia couldn’t help but marvel too. Before her stood a star cast of her own devising. Faces from film made flesh – but none as famous as her. She was set to soar beyond the stars, higher than even she had dared to imagine, in demand the world over, the lead in the most eagerly anticipated film in cinematic history.

  Of course there were those who were jealous, she wasn’t stupid, she knew that; the smile never quite reaching their eyes when they greeted her. Young starlets mostly, knowing in their heart of hearts that they would never reach the dizzy heights she had, but occasionally more established actors and actresses too, those who had been eclipsed by her. ‘Where has she come from?’ she could imagine them whispering. ‘Nowhere special,’ the reply. That might be true, but she was special now, none could deny it. And she had worked hard to become so – doing everything and anything to shine. Few would have gone as far as she had. She deserved her glory.

  She’d
noticed David Levine amongst the throng immediately and had shuddered at the sight of him. She hadn’t wanted to invite him but had had to concede in the end. He’d written to her two weeks before the party, congratulating her on her forthcoming role in Atlantic, informing her that he too was travelling to America to talk with producers, hinting that he might even be working on Atlantic itself. When she’d worked with him on Later in the Day, he was an assistant to the director, no, not even an assistant, more of the director’s pet; she’d found him sly, insidious – a weasel of a man. Thankfully, he was easy to avoid, although at the wrap party, not so easy – he had virtually stalked her, frighteningly so. The last thing she ever wanted was to see him again but, remembering the old adage to keep your friends close but your enemies closer, she had followed its advice. If he was more up and coming these days, if he was going to work on Atlantic, she would find out and put a stop to it; she was, after all, the one who called the shots now.

  Ignoring Levine, she concentrated instead on her other guests, laughing with them, dancing with them, toying with them. By nine that evening, the party had been truly under way; her guests sipping on the finest champagne, feasting on canapés and fancies sent direct from Harrods. Although she had refrained from eating, she had allowed herself a drink or two, which quickly turned into three or four, the tiny bubbles of champagne bursting inside her like perfect spheres of happiness. And then he had collared her, David Levine – had laid his hand upon her.

  “We need to talk,” he had whispered into her ear, not seductively as so many had whispered that night but with a harsh edge to his voice.

  “Unhand me,” Cynthia had hissed back, desperate for such interplay to go unnoticed. Now was not the time to enter into any sort of discussion concerning Atlantic.

  Levine, however, was undeterred.

  In a slightly louder voice, he continued, “Come with me, Cynthia, or I will say what I have to say in public, right here, right now. Destroy you where you stand.”

  Destroy her? What was he talking about? How could he possibly destroy her?

  With deliberate slowness, she edged away from the guests she had been regaling with anecdotes of working with Hitchcock. She thought they would be reluctant to let her go, would protest, but their circle had quickly closed again, locking her out. Her surprise that they had done so made her momentarily forget Levine. But soon she became aware of him again, his eyes boring into her. Although she didn’t want to, every fibre in her being fought against it, she looked into his face – it had a hardness about it, but also an emptiness too, the latter infinitely more disturbing. How many years had passed since their encounter, she briefly wondered. Four or five? What on earth did he want now? Blackmail? Or worse?

  Cynthia’s eyes searched desperately for John; suddenly she felt a need for him, a need as strong as a newborn child for its parent. All night long John had followed her with his eyes, silently begging her to favour him, and only him, but now, when she truly needed him, he was staring no more. His attention had finally been captured. Adelaide Dearborn, a British actress, was pretty, but not spectacularly so, not compared to her. Their heads were close together, laughing, their dark hair, Cynthia noticed with a painful stab of jealousy, almost exactly the same shade. A terrible loneliness descended upon her then, the same loneliness she had felt on her first day in London, aged fourteen: the same loneliness that had plagued her ever since and wouldn’t let go, that seemed to have caught her in its grip, ensnared her. She also felt guilty. She shouldn’t have taunted John tonight, he didn’t deserve it, had never deserved it. He was the one she should have kept close, not her enemies. If she had done so, Levine wouldn’t have been able to reach her.

  There was nowhere private to go except her bedroom. She was loathe to take Levine there of all places, but what choice did she have? Whatever he had to say to her, she didn’t want it said in public. Her guests would miss her if she disappeared though, the party would come to a standstill. Surely? She looked about her and was amazed to find everybody looked happy enough, very happy in fact. She felt invisible all of a sudden; expunged from centre stage. Even John, faithful John, was ignoring her. Stumbling slightly, she blamed the champagne – just how much had she had to drink? She beckoned for Levine to follow, praying she’d encounter Sally on the way. Sally could run and fetch John, tear him away from the clutches of that two-bit actress. But Sally was nowhere to be seen.

  In the Grand Hall waiters rushed past her, intent on keeping the guests’ glasses full, just as she had instructed them – under no circumstances was any glass allowed to run dry. As she started climbing the stairs, Levine instructed her to wait. As if in a dream, she watched him retreat. Only seconds later he was back, a brown box clutched to his chest. A non-descript looking object, tatty she would say, why had he bothered to go and get it? Together, they ascended. Where was Sally? She hadn’t seen her all evening.

  Walking slowly down the corridor to her bedroom, Cynthia noticed the sounds of the revellers below becoming increasingly muffled; every step she put between herself and them was rendering her more and more vulnerable. Drawing closer, she was relieved to find anger stirring. How dare Levine think he could treat her so!

  Not so much pushing as shoving open the bedroom door with the palm of her hand, she entered the room fully before swinging round to face him, her head held high, her eyes, she knew, firing sparks at him. Nobody gave orders to Cynthia Hart.

  “I’d tread very carefully if I were you, Levine. Dare to threaten me and I’ll bring down the wrath of the entire British judicial system upon your head.”

  “I’m sure you will,” Levine replied, far too coolly she thought. Taking time to survey the sumptuousness of their surroundings, he added, “God knows, you can afford it.”

  Cynthia was undaunted. “I can ruin you with one click of my fingers, Levine. I am not afraid of you.”

  “Then why scurry upstairs with me so willingly Cynthia, if you’re not just the tiniest bit afraid? Or is it that you simply want a replay of our night together?”

  Cynthia started as though she’d just been shot. What night together? Did he mean the wrap party? He must, it was the only time she had spent any extra-curricular time with him. On the night they’d finished filming Later in the Day, Levine had been one of several she’d ended up in a hotel room with – how he had managed to inveigle his way in she didn’t know – he was nothing but a glorified lackey, but she’d been too preoccupied to question his presence fully. As always, the relief of finishing the picture had prompted a recklessness in her. Pills had been involved, white lines of cocaine, gleaming and endless, bottles and bottles of champagne. Of that particular crowd, she hadn’t wanted him to touch her, something about him set her teeth on edge, but she’d had to work hard to avoid him, at every turn he was there. Surely she had managed though? She remembered sandwiching herself between her naked co-stars, Diana Lambton and Oliver Byrne, using them as a form of armour against him. She didn’t remember much more than that – the night had passed in a white haze, a blur, but she was sure he hadn’t touched her – not him.

  She had refused to have anything to do with Levine again after that evening – the very thought of him made her feel uncomfortable. If a film was offered to her that he was involved in, she had simply refused it. When asked why, she would not hide her feelings about him. It was usually enough to have him removed from proceedings, even if she still refused to take the part. The only contact she’d had with him since, his recent letter.

  “Get out,” she snarled at him. “The sight of you sickens me.”

  “Oh, Cynthia,” he laughed, such a hollow sound. “Are you telling me you didn’t enjoy our lovemaking?”

  Lovemaking? How dare he even insinuate? They’d done no such thing. She doubted he even knew what love was. About to reply, her eyes fell on the box he was still holding.

  “What’s in there?” she demanded, a cold fear trickling down her spine. If there were pictures of her from that night, naked pictures,
there would be pictures of others too, her co-stars – all of them significant in the film industry, all of them with friends in high places. He wouldn’t get far with those pictures – they would ensure the media shunned him.

  Coming closer, making her flinch, he placed the box on the edge of her bed.

  “I’ll tell you what’s in that box, Cynthia, but first I have something to reveal to you: my true identity.”

  Cynthia was taken aback. She hadn’t expected this.

  “Your true identity? What...”

  “I am David Levine.”

  “I know who you are,” her voice was derisive.

  “But that’s not the name I was given at birth.”

  “Don’t speak in riddles, man, what are you talking about?”

  “My real name is Jack Hart, Cynthia. I am your brother.”

  She stared at him in horror. What nonsense was this? He was nothing like her brother! Levine’s hair was dark; her brother’s had been fair, not quite blonde but not quite brown either, an in between shade, mousy. Jack had been a scrawny little kid, a snivelling kid, she remembered, whereas this man had a respectable build, as though he were no stranger to fitness. His eyes were brown like her brother’s, but it was a common colour, not a clue. Jack had been a boy of eleven when she’d last seen him, almost twelve, clinging to his mother’s skirts as he’d done all his miserable life, their mother content to let him, indulging him, Cynthia had often reflected bitterly. Their devotion to one another so complete, it excluded her.

  “You can’t be... You’re not my brother,” she managed at last.

  “Oh, but Cee-Cee, I am.”

  At the mention of her brother’s pet name for her she felt her legs buckle. Her breath caught in her throat and seemed to get stuck there. Quickly, she staggered over to the bed and gripped hold of one of the posts. Jack had called her Cee-Cee since he’d been a toddler, when he couldn’t pronounce her name properly. Her mother had called her that too on occasion.