The Lost Village

by Neil Spring

  They’re like ghost lights, I thought, and I remembered what I had learned from the projectionist at the beginning of this journey: The ghost light does not keep spirits away. It attracts them.

  With the scratch of a match, a small bluish flame sprang up from the table’s central candle. Our faces shimmered strangely in the guttering light.

  As Price lowered himself into his chair, Sidewinder said, in a flat voice, ‘Everyone now join hands. Bow your heads.’

  Price signalled to Vernon, who was still standing at the main door, to bolt it. He did so – but oddly, I noticed, keeping one hand behind his back. A bristling anticipation settled over the group as Sidewinder recited the words that, according to convention, were supposed to protect us from devilish deceptions and demonic illusions:

  ‘Saint Michael the Archangel, defend us in battle. Be our protection against the wickedness and snares of the Devil. May God rebuke him, we humbly pray; and do Thou, O Prince of the Heavenly Host, by the Divine Power of God, cast into hell Satan and all the evil spirits who roam throughout the world seeking the ruin of souls.’

  I’m not a religious woman, never have been, but I admit I found something comforting in that prayer as I glanced around the cramped table, my gaze jumping from Sidewinder, to Price opposite me, to the commander and, finally, to Hartwell on my left, whose right hand in mine was warm and clammy. I became aware of how closely we were sitting. The lingering scent of cologne and tobacco served as a reminder that I was the only woman here. Imagine if my friends back in London could see me now, I mused.

  Hartwell squeezed my left hand tightly. Nerves – most of us were crackling with them. Not Price, though. He gazed hard at Sidewinder, as if challenging him to prove something.

  ‘If there is a spirit present who wishes to communicate, please make yourself known.’

  Nothing.

  The tawny light thrown up by the small hand mirrors played across our faces.

  Outside, it was pitch black. The candles guttered, shadows dancing across the walls as the wind moaned. How could anyone present not be highly suggestible under these conditions? I knew, from the look of hardened concentration on Price’s face, that he was acutely alive to this possibility; should anything sinister or untoward occur at this moment, he would be the first to doubt it.

  ‘If there is a spirit present who wishes to communicate, please make yourself known to us,’ Sidewinder repeated.

  Then he nodded down at the planchette.

  Fighting my nerves, I joined everyone else in placing the fingers of my right hand down upon the board.

  Still, nothing happened.

  The wind died down, and the mill was still and silent. It was as if a thick blanket had settled over the crumbling old building, deadening the outside world. Price noticed it too, I think, and his eyes shifted to me with curious expectation.

  That was when the table began shaking and vibrating.

  ‘Jesus!’ Hartwell whispered.

  The commander’s normally firm jaw had become slack.

  The table began rocking hard, as if a tremor was ripping through the ground.

  ‘Everyone remain seated!’ Price instructed, sounding more annoyed than alarmed.

  But it was Sidewinder’s reaction I found most intriguing: the man who was supposed to be leading the séance looked quite stunned, white at the gills.

  Incredibly, the table began to rise into the air, as if suspended on invisible threads.

  ‘What the—’ Sidewinder jerked his chair back.

  Hartwell’s hand clenched mine painfully hard. ‘Who’s doing that?’

  ‘Watch the table,’ Price said firmly, and we did; we couldn’t take our eyes off it. It was floating just a few inches above the floor. Then, in a heartbeat, it wasn’t. It dropped with a thud and a puff of dust.

  The silence stretched. We stayed that way, too tense for words, for perhaps a full minute, listening, watching the table. Staring into the blackest corners of the mill and wildly wondering what horrors might lurk there, scenting us.

  Hartwell spoke first, his voice thin and wavering:

  ‘Was that him? My boy?’

  ‘I don’t think so,’ Sidewinder whispered. He caught Hartwell’s gaze and shook his head, breathless and dumbfounded.

  ‘Then who?’ I asked.

  Then came a new sound: flat and metallic, from far beyond the mill’s walls.

  Clang . . . clang . . . clang . . .

  Metal striking metal, blow upon blow.

  Hartwell’s hand was now vicelike around my own. Opposite me, the commander’s mouth was twitching, his stoicism beginning to slip. Price, next to him, was stock-still.

  Everyone was still holding hands. I threw a quick glance at the door. Vernon was where he had always been. No one was pulling any tricks.

  Coolly, Price looked at the commander and then at Sidewinder. They were sharing a private glance, and looked alarmed; remembering, I suspected, the heartbroken blacksmith, who had vanished when Imber’s civilians were evicted. But then the commander snapped out of his reverie, releasing my hand and breaking the circle. He stood up.

  ‘Sit down,’ Price ordered.

  ‘No,’ he said. ‘No. I don’t accept this. Someone’s outside, having a game with us.’

  ‘I don’t think so,’ Sidewinder whispered. ‘Look at the planchette.’

  No longer holding hands, we looked and saw that the board was jittering. And yet no one was touching it.

  My eyes widened. So did Price’s and Sidewinder’s. At the door, Vernon was shaking his head – whether in fear or disbelief I did not know.

  ‘Everyone rest a finger on the planchette,’ Sidewinder said slowly. He glanced up at the commander. ‘Even you, sir.’

  Warily, Williams sat down and stretched out a trembling forefinger to the surface of the planchette. The device was set on castors. It would roll and point to letters on the Ouija board under the slightest pressure from our hands.

  ‘Spirit! I beseech you, make your purpose known,’ Sidewinder said. ‘How did you die?’

  Slowly, smoothly, the planchette glided from one letter to another:

  M–U–R–D–E–R–E–D

  Everyone looked at one another in fear and fascination.

  ‘Where?’

  C–H–U–R–C–H

  ‘Rubbish!’ the commander exclaimed. He glared at his warden, who was now trembling visibly. ‘End this at once.’

  ‘Not yet!’ Price interjected. ‘Spirit, what is it you want?’

  The planchette started sliding again, more quickly now.

  V–E–N–G–E–A–N–C–E

  Nervous glances were exchanged all round.

  If we were to believe this was indeed a spirit from the great beyond, then its intentions were clear: it had come to torture the soldiers who occupied the village of Imber, and to drive them to madness or death, until they left.

  ‘Tell us who murdered you,’ Price demanded.

  ‘I said stop this – now!’ the commander thundered.

  But the planchette was already moving to the letters.

  T–H–E–A–R–M–Y

  That seemed to electrify Price. ‘Who murdered you?’ he said urgently. ‘We need a name.’

  H–A–R . . .

  I threw a questioning glance at Hartwell. He shifted uneasily in his seat. Was it spelling his name? Surely not. But, oh God – wait. What about Price’s name? That was quite a leap, but possible?

  The planchette continued to glide.

  O–L–D

  ‘Harold?’ Price repeated. ‘Somebody called Harold murdered you?’

  I held my breath; I think we all did.

  ‘Is that correct, spirit? Harold attacked you?’

  Y–E–S

  A sensation of agonising dread sliced through me.<
br />
  H–A–R–O–L–D–G–R–E–Y

  And then, outside, we heard it again: the metallic strike of what sounded distinctly like a blacksmith’s hammer.

  – 23 –

  THE UNKNOWN GUEST

  I leapt up, breaking the circle and almost toppling my chair.

  Bolting from the doorway, Vernon was the first to make it to my side, but I quickly waved him away. ‘Sarah,’ he said, ‘what’s wrong?’

  ‘You broke the circle,’ Hartwell called, sounding disappointed. ‘How am I supposed to see Pierre?’

  I said nothing, looking back across the room at my companions. I was willing to bet Price already knew what had shocked me, why I had broken out in a cold sweat.

  ‘We must try again,’ said Hartwell, grabbing for my hand.

  I stepped back, out of his reach.

  ‘No,’ the commander said firmly. ‘Everyone is shaken, that’s clear. We should get back to the camp. Miss Grey is evidently upset, and the warden looks . . .’

  I think the word he was about to use was ‘exhausted’, but he trailed off as he looked as Sidewinder.

  Behind his circular spectacles, Sidewinder’s eyes had rolled so far back in his head they looked like white marbles. His breathing was deep, cavernous. He was apparently in a trance.

  ‘Sit down, Sarah,’ Price said quietly. ‘Now is not the time.’ He glanced towards Sidewinder.

  With unbearable apprehension, I took my seat. The commander did the same, though with noticeable reluctance, and we locked our eyes on the warden, who was slumped in his chair, head lolling.

  There is something distinctly unsettling about seeing someone entranced, even if you suspect them of faking it. It isn’t so much the way their personality vanishes, it’s the fear of whatever may slide in to replace it.

  A cold blast of air rushed through the mill. There seemed to be more smoke in the room too, probably coming from the candles.

  Sidewinder’s whole body jolted, as if he had been struck with a bolt of electricity.

  The commander reached forward. ‘Warden?’

  ‘Silence!’ Price hissed.

  Sidewinder jerked his head back and his chair began to creak as he coughed fitfully, as if he were about to be sick. I smelt something. Strange, unpleasant.

  I tried to ask, ‘What’s happening?’ but I couldn’t open my mouth. The atmosphere was thick. Oppressive. The only sound Sidewinder’s tortured breathing. The outlines of everyone around the table were blurred by a thin mist. Even the edges of the table seemed to melt away. I felt weary and light-headed.

  For a few seconds, nothing happened. Then Sidewinder took a long, shuddering breath.

  Something, some ghastly white substance, was coming from his nose. I thought at first it must be mucous, but seconds later, it seemed also to be streaming from his eyes, his mouth.

  Next to me, Hartwell whispered in astonishment, ‘Is that ectoplasm?’

  The substance was gleaming. Glistening. There was so much of it that it began dripping from Sidewinder’s chin. I began to feel sick.

  Price was staring rapturously at the luminous matter streaming from the warden’s face. The glutinous substance was flowing down his chest, pooling in his lap.

  Slowly, Price extended a cautious hand, dabbed one finger in it.

  He flinched with surprise. ‘It’s freezing!’ he whispered, his eyes flashing with amazement. And just then, I thought I saw, only for the briefest instant, some of his defiant scepticism slip from his features.

  At the same moment, the pungent, chemical smell from before grew even stronger.

  And then we all heard it.

  Emanating from the furthest and darkest corner of the room, far beyond Price’s shoulder, came a low sigh, a soft whisper.

  At the head of the table, Sidewinder’s whole body went rigid. He said, in a curt voice, ‘We are now in the company of the dead. Pierre is here. Do not speak.’

  I felt the temperature plummet.

  Price gave a small shudder, and half-turned his head, as though he had sensed someone behind him. A presence.

  The whisper came again, more clearly this time. A child’s voice.

  ‘Papa . . .’

  Price’s eyes bulged. Again, he cast a look over his shoulder into the gloom. There was an emotional cry from Hartwell next to me, and an exclamation of fearful surprise from the commander. Vernon Wall, at the doorway, didn’t flinch.

  My first thought was that Price was up to his old tricks. Anticipating that nothing would happen, he had decided not to break Hartwell’s heart, and to give him a little hope by rigging the room.

  But since when did Price care enough about other people’s feelings to betray his passionate and sincere desire to get at the truth?

  ‘Oh my God,’ the commander whispered. ‘Look!’

  All eyes swivelled towards the darkest corner. I could make out the faint outline of a figure, slowly shimmering into visibility. The shock was immediate.

  ‘You see it?’ I whispered across the table to Price.

  As he looked slowly round at me, I sensed there was a change beginning in Harry Price, a change he had perhaps yet to acknowledge even to himself; a vital change.

  ‘I see it,’ he whispered back. ‘But I’m not sure I believe it.’

  ‘Papa . . .’

  Hartwell began sobbing. ‘Pierre? Is that really you? I can hear you . . . Oh my Lord. It’s not possible. I can see you.’

  Shortly after this occurrence, when Price wrote about the mill séance in an exchange of private letters (carefully changing the names of the location and everyone involved), he would describe what happened next as ‘the most remarkable case of materialisation, or rather alleged materialisation, I have ever witnessed’.

  It is with considerable hesitation that I publish this account, as I have had only one sitting and have been unable, as yet, to obtain independent corroboration of the extraordinary ‘phenomenon’ that I witnessed.

  Many times have I been asked for my ‘best ghost story’, for the most thrilling and sensational incident in a lifetime’s inquiry into the unknown and the unseen. I have investigated hundreds of alleged haunted houses, sometimes, as at Borley Rectory, with exciting results. I have attended thousands of séances, many of them in my own laboratory, in an attempt to pierce the veil that separates this world from the next. I have sat in poltergeist-infested homes in which objects have flown about – objects which no human hands could possibly have propelled. I have seen crude limb-like materialisations form before my eyes when experimenting with mediums. I have shivered again and again as I watched the mercury level plunge during a séance.

  But only once have I seen what YOU would call a ghost – a solid, three-dimensional spirit from, apparently, the other side of that veil.

  Inside the dark and icy mill, no one moved.

  A ghostly figure was faintly visible in the farthest and blackest corner. It had the unmistakable shape of someone small . . .

  Hartwell’s eyes met mine in mute disbelief. I could see that he was only just keeping himself together. The memories and desires of a father were fusing in his eyes.

  ‘Oh my God,’ he managed, with a look of painful regret. ‘Marie was right.’

  ‘Not so fast,’ Price whispered. He had turned in his chair to face the motionless apparition. His face was invisible to me; I could see the back of his head shaking from side to side. He kept his voice low, controlled, as he asked, ‘Is this the figure you saw at the roadside, Sarah?’

  My hands shook. I found myself quite unable to answer him. I was holding my breath. Fascinated. Scared to death.

  The figure, it’s almost translucent!

  ‘Sarah?’

  ‘I – I’m not sure.’

  The noxious chemical smell from before pervaded the mill with greater intensity. I was
becoming light-headed. Wispy tendrils of smoke were slipping around our heads. The whole atmosphere was one of unreality; a dreamlike haze of gloom.

  ‘Now do you see?’ Sidewinder said in a low drawl, slumped back, his head lolling. ‘It is no lie.’

  More of the white substance was flowing from his nose, pooling on the floor. Gleaming. A trail of it led to the figure . . .

  ‘He will approach us now,’ Sidewinder said. ‘Join with us, spirit.’

  A stunned silence spun out. A terrible silence.

  I swept the hair from my eyes, straining to see more of the dark figure. We can’t all be hallucinating this, can we?

  And then, as if hearing my thoughts, the figure slowly tilted its head to one side, watching us.

  My heart almost burst out of my chest!

  I screwed my eyes shut and at the same time heard a gasp from the commander, who was just as shocked as the rest of us.

  ‘It’s moving,’ Price whispered.

  My stomach sickly tight, I braced myself to look again, and saw the dark figure lumbering awkwardly towards us, not making a sound. The scene before my eyes began to sway a little. A dreamy, almost euphoric sensation stole over me. Price and the other men looked similarly affected, their faces drowsy and pale in the quivering candlelight.

  ‘Harry, what’s happening?’

  Glancing anxiously over his shoulder at me, Price looked a little less suspicious than before. He looked almost, well, helpless.

  ‘Pierre?’ Hartwell muttered. ‘I am here. Pierre, my dear boy!’

  Boy? It seemed an odd choice of words. Before us was a cadaverous wraith, its legs concealed by billowing grey rags, its naked torso skeletal and bone white. It glistened with the same horrid substance that exuded from Sidewinder’s body.

  ‘Come to me now. Come to your foolish father.’

  Price turned in his chair, watching frantically as the ghostly, hollow-eyed figure slowly moved behind Sidewinder, stopping at Hartwell’s left side. Silent; as still as ice.

  At the doorway, Vernon – like the commander – was staring in rapt fear. The room had become so cold that my breath was frosting before me. And all the time, my vision was blurred with that dreamy, ethereal quality.