by Sarah Dalton
Then there is a dapper gentlemen in a pinstriped suit. He grips a cane in one hand, though he can’t be much older than forty, and taps the top of the cane with long fingernails that make me shudder. His skin colour is not quite as dark as his suit, but very close, and there are little black dots on his cheeks. He tips his hat in greeting, revealing another set of long fingernails. Emmaline shows us to our seats opposite the row of misfits and unlikely guests. There’s no glass of Kir Royale as expected, which seems a little strange and now to be an empty promise.
“Drinks will be soon, darlings,” she says, as though reading my mind. “First I would like us to get to know each other a little. And I have a, well, a little exercise for that.”
As we sit down, a tall, thin woman with a pointed chin drifts out of the shadows. She wears a long black gown and her black hair falls down to her waist. Her skin is white. Whiter than the walls in our new home. I suspect she uses make-up to achieve the effect. Emmaline heads the table. Finally, a last guest comes to take up the last spot at the opposite side of Emmaline.
He’s the shortest man I’ve ever seen. I’ve come across people with dwarfism before, but this man doesn’t share the same features. His limbs and head are in perfect proportion, he just seems to be a smaller version of a full-grown man. He has some trouble getting onto the seat, yet Emmaline does not seem concerned. When he is on the chair, I share a look with Mum.
The strangest aspect of this encounter is not the odd combination of people at the party, it’s the fact that Mum hasn’t flipped out. She isn’t sweating, or fussing, or heading for the door. She isn’t faking a migraine to get out of an awkward situation. She isn’t even sitting there with a frozen grin on her face pretending everything is okay. She seems fine. She seems completely normal and at ease.
This is not the woman I know.
Lacey flits around the table with her jaw hanging open. “Have you seen these people, Mares? This is the weirdest thing that’s ever happened to us. Seriously. We’ve coped with ghosts and serial killers and stuff, but this is it. This is the jackpot. These people, this room, this place… it’s the weirdest thing that’s ever happened to us.”
Emmaline begins to speak. “Welcome, Susan. Welcome, Mary.”
Everyone at the table mutters the same words. The collective growl of their voices causes a jolt to run up my spine. The man with the cane has a voice so low I feel the bass rumbling through the table.
Emmaline turns to us. “You must be wondering why I brought you here on the pretence of a dinner party. Well, I’m sorry that I had to deceive you, but I sensed that it would be important for you to come here, to see what you do. You’re both touched by it.”
For the first time, Mum shuffles in her seat as though she’s uncomfortable. “Touched,” she mumbles. “No, not touched.”
But Emmaline only nods. “Oh, yes, Mrs. Hades. I see it quite clearly in you. You block it out as much as you can, but it’s there as plain as day.”
“Plain as day,” repeat the others.
Mum stands.
“No, no. Why, you must sit down, Mrs. Hades,” says a strangely effeminate voice from the small man. He has an American accent. Not the faint trace of New York you get in sitcoms, but the drawl of someone from the South. “Come now, honey. Sit yourself down now. Re-e-lax. It’s all gonna be okay. I swear it.”
Mum, a woman who returns soup if it isn’t hot enough, who yelled at my swimming teacher for making me jump in the pool, who never ever lets anyone boss her around, sits down like a meek little rabbit.
“That’s right, Mrs. Hades. That’s perfect. Now, y’all just go ahead and listen while Miss Emmaline talks us through.” His adjusts his wide-rimmed glasses and then folds his hands together on top of the table.
Emmaline clears her throat. “If everyone could join hands.”
I glance from Mum to the strange American man on my left. He reaches out to me, nodding encouragement. When I take his hand, it’s strangely smooth and dry. I expected clammier, softer skin. I swallow and try to block out how weird this is, but when I take Mum’s hand a shock travels up my arm, prickling every hair on my forearm and making me gasp. I look for Lacey, to see whether she was the culprit, but she’s in the corner of the room with her arms folded. I almost let go of Mum’s hand, but she’s gripping me so tightly that I can’t. Then another jolt runs through my body, dissimilar to anything I’ve ever felt before. It’s completely different from the static electricity of Lacey’s presence. It’s like… power.
“That’s right,” Emmaline says, her voice turning low, into a drone. “Feel the connection. Commune with the spirits. Mr. Anthony, take it from here.”
And then it dawns on me. The creepy guests. The holding hands. We’re at a séance.
“I reach out to the spirit realm. I reach out to you with friendship. I reach out to talk with you, to ask you to join us. We must empty our minds. And we must clear our thoughts. Let them in. Believe. This is a safe space for them. Safe for you to come. Come to us. Come to us, spirits. Walk with us. Talk with us.” His voice goes on and on, barely taking breaths. “I can feel you, now. Yes, yes. I can feel you a-coming. You feel free to join us, now. This is friendship. Easy, now. Yes. Yes.”
I keep my attention focussed on Lacey. Her expression is frozen. She stays very still.
“Mary, I…” she begins. “I think there’s… I think there might be someone…”
“Oh, I feel you now, little girl. Don’t be afraid. You can come to Mr. Anthony. I will hear you. Yes, now, my child. Come forth. Come out of the spirit world and into ours.”
Mum’s grip tightens on my hand. All around us the candles burn. The shadows dance on the walls. There’s a chilling draft snaking through the room. I long to rub my arms, to get the cold off my skin. My teeth chatter and my lungs chill as I breathe.
“That’s right, now,” he continues.
I long to talk to Lacey. I want to tell her to be strong, to keep away from him. She folds herself into the shadows, her back hunched over. So small. Emmaline watches me watching her but I don’t care anymore. I only care about my friend.
“Come on, now,” Mr. Anthony continues. “Oh my. Wow. Oh my. Come forth now, spirits. Yes. I know you’re there.”
Lacey’s head jerks to the right and gasps. When I follow her gaze to the wall, the blood drains from my face. The walls bulge. My mouth opens in wonder. What I’m seeing isn’t possible. Something is pressing itself against the wall, coming from inside the wall. I gasp. The bulge moves, travels from left to right, and then five fingers become visible. A hand appears, pushing out from inside the wall. I turn to the others, my glance furtive and incredulous. Why is no one else reacting? No one else seems to see it. Only Lacey.
A deep moan pulses through the room. I turn to see Mr. Anthony with his eyes half closed, lashes fluttering. There’s another pulse as a face emerges from the wall, little more than a lump with an open mouth. The empty eye sockets push through. I imagine the famous Scream painting by Munch.
“There are more of them,” Lacey whispers.
The blood drains from my face. I return Mum’s grip on my hand, and I think I squeeze Mr. Anthony tighter too. All around us the walls are bloated with spirits. Hands long to claw their way through. Legs attempt to kick through the plaster. The wooden panels distend with their hands and faces; the air is filled with their sighs. They hiss to each other, and to me. They understand who I am and what I do and they are looking for me. I can feel it, feel their need and their longing to be seen.
A hand forces its way through, stretching the wall as far as it will go. As Mr. Anthony’s head rolls around his shoulders, and his mouth opens to let out a long groan, the panels break with a scrape and long fingernails emerge. I swallow down a scream as the spirits climb through the wall.
Lacey covers her ears, shaking her head, backing as far into a corner as she can go. In a matter of seconds she’s lost in a sea of ghosts. The room is full. It’s full and there’s nowhere for them
to go. We’re covered in them. They crowd us. I’m staring deep into dozens of eyes.
The spirits come, all right. They come in abundance. And I can see them all.
May 21st 1847
Miss Stevens took us for a walk today. We went into the woods behind the house and she taught us the names of all the plants. There are many different types of trees. Some of them I remember from when we used to go hiking with Father. Lottie spent most of the time dragging her feet along the path. Once, I turned around and she seemed to be nodding to herself as though she heard someone talking. Then she smiled widely.
I’m not used to seeing Lottie smile. She grins mischievously sometimes. She frowns a lot when she does not want to do something. But it is not very often that she smiles in that way, as though she knows more than I.
I didn’t like it.
Miss Stevens didn’t appear to be bothered. The governess seems to have relaxed into the house. She spends more time here than before and she has grown very fond of Lottie. She smothered Lottie with praise for getting the names of trees right. The strange thing is, I don’t remember Papa teaching us all of those names. I don’t understand where she learned them. Perhaps she has been studying on the sly to make me look stupid. I wouldn’t put that past Lottie. In fact, it almost resembles the Lottie I knew before.
And yet, she is still not herself. She no longer talks to me at all. Instead she talks to herself, as though there is someone in the room with her.
Liza
Chapter Nine
As Mr. Anthony drones on, the spirits crowd us. They don’t speak. They don’t move. They only stare at us, all with blank expressions, completely devoid of animation. Some of them are so old that they are tinged with the dark, as though gradually being pulled into shadow, limb by limb. Some seem disorientated, as though they’ve been dragged into the room without realising. No one else appears to see them apart from me, but Emmaline’s scrutinising stare never strays far from me.
“Mary, this isn’t right,” Lacey says. I can hardly even see her through all the other ghosts.
I’m sweating. My blouse is clammy against my back. The air is tinged with mould, as though the ghosts brought the mildew and dust from the walls they stepped out of. My hands are like numb lumps.
“That’s it, now. Take me… take me…” Mr. Anthony slumps in his chair. His hand is limp in mine.
“Is he all right?” I ask.
Emmaline flashes me a harsh stare. “Shush.”
My heart beats hard against my chest. All around us the ghosts gather, leaning in, closer and closer. I breathe hard. Mum glances at me with a concerned frown on her face. She opens her mouth to speak, but at the same time, Mr. Anthony lifts his head and pulls in a deep, aching gasp.
His body begins to convulse. At first it’s as though his middle folds in on itself, then he jerks back, almost pulling his hand from mine. My first instinct is to let go, but Emmaline barks at me not to break the circle. I can’t stop staring at Mr. Anthony. He shivers so hard that his chin wobbles. He exhales steam as though we are outside in the winter. All the time the spirits lean in, their eyes boring into mine. They ignore Mr. Anthony.
“Jerry?”
The voice makes my insides squirm. It comes from Mr. Anthony, but the voice is of a young man with an English accent. It’s higher than Mr. Anthony’s voice. High-pitched.
“Jerry, can you hear me?”
Emmaline speaks. “There is no one of that name in this room, spirit. Can we help you?”
“Tell Jerry that hell is waiting for him.”
The words are said with such complete calmness that I think it’s more frightening than if they were growled in my face.
“Jerry, you bastard. I can’t believe the things you did, you BASTARD!”
When Mr. Anthony shouts the last word we all start. It’s a relief to finally see the others react as though this isn’t your average Friday night sat round in front of the TV. Finally, some confirmation that whatever is going on is very fucking weird.
Mr. Anthony slumps onto the table and his body twists forward, snakelike and vile. His eyes are closed and his jaw works as though he’s chewing something unpleasant. A strange growling sound comes from him. I want to let go of him, and yet I don’t. I should get out of this place right now. But I don’t. I can’t stop watching.
And as I watch… As I sit and watch the man twist and turn his body in those unnatural ways, a strange, cold sensation worms its way up my arm. I can’t describe it, because it’s so different from anything I’ve ever felt before. It’s as though darkness itself is flowing through my veins, spreading through my muscles. Part of me wants to resist. It wants to get up and leave right now, but a larger part of me says to stay right where I am. Transfixed. No, worse than that, enticed.
One of the ghosts moves through the room, travelling so fast that it’s a blur. It hovers over Mr. Anthony, but it continues to stare at me. Then, in a flash, it’s gone.
“Emmaline. Emmaleeeeeen.”
Mr. Anthony sits up straight, with a dopey-looking grin on his face. His eyes are closed but his body is relaxed. I redirect my gaze to Emmaline, who sits rigidly, her face a frozen mask.
“You again,” she says in a voice more akin to a hiss. “Aren’t you sick of returning? Aren’t you fed up of coming to this house?”
“Aren’t you sick of it, Emmaline?” comes the teasing voice. A shiver runs up my spine, but it could be the darkness. The ghosts watch. “Sick of calling me? No, you can’t be. Otherwise you wouldn’t have these ridiculous séances, would you, darling?” Mr. Anthony flips his head to one side as though tossing long hair. Then he licks his lips. “Do you still dream of the flames?”
Emmaline’s eyes flash. “That’s enough!”
A powerful jolt runs up my body and I find myself falling forward. Mr. Anthony’s hand grasps me tighter.
“Let it come, little girl,” he says. His voice has returned to normal now, but it sounds strange, as though I’m hearing him underwater. “Let it talk through you.”
But I won’t. I’m fighting against the darkness spreading through me. My body senses a presence trying to worm its way into me, attempting to force its way in. It’s like a fist forming around me, squeezing me, moulding me into a new person.
I won’t. I can’t.
“No!” I let out a low growl. My body jerks back and I lift my head to the ceiling. “No, I won’t… I…”
“Mary,” Mum says in an urgent voice. “Mary, what’s happening? I have to get her out of here.”
“Don’t break the circle, Mrs. Hades. This is important. Your daughter is communing with the spirits for the first time. It’s important you let her do this.”
“No, this is ridiculous. I’m taking my daughter home. She shouldn’t be subjected to this… this freakshow!”
Darkness coming in through my veins. Filling up my mind with its chill…
“Calm down, Mrs. Hades. Your daughter is very special. This is a rite of passage.”
…cold seeping through me. Cold eyeballs…
“Emmaline is right. The girl has a gift, all right. You’re gonna have to let her do this.”
…cold fingers. Stiffness. Taking me over. I don’t feel like…
“No, that’s enough. Come on, Mary. I’m taking you home.”
…myself.
“I have no home.”
Mum drops to her seat.
Lacey steps through the ghosts until she faces me. “Mary?”
I stand up. Except that it isn’t me anymore. I’m not me. My voice is not mine. It’s deep and slow.
“I’ve not had a home for centuries. I live only in your minds. Your filthy rotten minds, so obsessed with the dirty, dirty things. I live in the shadows watching you. I see you all and what you truly are.” I point to Emmaline first. “You. Old woman. Old maid. Wish you’d done it before your face melted, don’t you? Wish you’d had it at least once before you burned yourself. Go back to reading your dirty books. You’ll never
have it.” Then I look at Lacey. “Your friend thinks you should be at peace. What a stupid thing. At peace. Peace doesn’t exist. Does it, Lacey? You’ll return to rotting in your body. Won’t you?”
Lacey’s top lip trembles. “No.”
I spin around to face my mum, my body not my own and trembling from head to toe as I try to fight the spirit that has hold of me. “And I know all about you. I know your past. Little exhibitionist, weren’t you? You’ve had it. Oh, my, have you had it. And you enjoyed it. Enjoyed being watched.”
Mum leaps up to her feet. “How dare you!”
“Whore!”
Mum slaps me hard round the face. The darkness seeps out of me, and my body is once again mine. But I’m so limp and worn out that I collapse forward onto the table. My cheek stings and I’m stunned with everything that just happened.
“Mary,” Mum says. “I’m so sorry, honey. I didn’t mean it. I’m so sorry.” She strokes my hair. “I’m so sorry.” I can’t see her, but I know tears are running down her face. “So sorry. So sorry.”
*
“…I’m all wrong. That’s what it is. It’s because of who I am, where I came from.” Mum paces up and down the living room, her cheeks stained with runny mascara. “The Quirke girls. We’re all the same. Headstrong. It found me. Oh, God, it found me again.”
“Mum, what are you talking about?” I ask.
I sit on our plastic-covered sofa with a cold glass of water against my stinging cheek. We haven’t got anything in the freezer yet so this will have to do.
Lacey follows Mum as she paces up and down. “I think she’s lost it and I don’t blame her. That was some serious shit in there.”