Seeing Things

by Suzanne Linsey-Mitellas

  As they walked along, Andy pulled a strange contraption from his bag (Rachel noticed that he was a little quieter than usual and looked a bit paler, so thought maybe he had also been ill). The little machine resembled an old-fashioned tape recorder, attached by a length of wire to a handheld microphone. He pushed a button on the main part of the machine and replaced it in his bag, which he then slung over his shoulder. As they walked, he waved the microphone to and fro in the air, as if trying to capture something.

  “I didn’t see her here,” said Rachel, wondering if he was trying to record a spirit. “It was further on in the woods.”

  “I know,” he confirmed.

  They walked on. The wood people, or whoever they were, could still be seen. Chopping and hewing in the shadows, dirty and crumpled with sweat-stained clothes; one lifted his hat in greeting as she walked past. She responded with a nod. Two boys in jackets and small caps pushed a go-cart past, with one sitting inside, pulling at the guide ropes, and one pushing; she heard their laughter before she even saw them. On this stretch of the path, she noticed that some people, such as the woodsmen, appeared from about the knee upwards; the boys with the go-cart appeared from the middle of their shins upwards. The go-cart had no wheels she could see; it was like it was buried in the earth, as if floating along the ground. Rachel supposed the earth on this path had built up over time; when the boys ran down this path, the earth level must have been a little lower, and when the woodsmen were here, even further back in time, it was clearly lower still.

  It was as if the trees drifted past them as they walked, with some clearly centuries old; she wondered what they had witnessed in their lifetime: lovers meeting beneath their boughs, wars, ancient squabbles, entire empires being built up and destroyed. Trees, unlike the dead, always remained silent, with their long, spindly arms, showing the first buds of spring, reaching towards the sky as if in exclamation.

  Andy stopped and raised his hand. “I hear something,” was all he said as he dashed into the bushes, waving the mike franticly backwards and forwards.

  She was left standing on the path. In front of her, as before, was the large man with the big moustache, shouting at the cat, which was apparently still stuck in the tree, although on a different branch this time.

  She walked up to him and, just by using her power of thought (she had stopped using her voice now when speaking to the majority of the dead, as it brought her too much unwanted attention), she simply said, “Hello.” Spirits understood this just as well as speaking out loud, but by utilising her mind, she could communicate with them far more discretely.

  He spun round rapidly and, instead of showing alarm or fright (many spirits did when Rachel spoke to them), he swept his hat from his head and bowed. “Good day, lass.” He had a countryside accent, though Rachel didn’t know exactly where from. “You can see us?” he asked.

  Rachel was used to this question. “Yes, do you have a problem with your cat?”

  “Yes, indeed,” he said, not seeming to notice her swift change of subject. He straightened up, beamed a smile and pointed upwards to a rather fat ginger cat, sitting upright in a stiff position, about ten feet above them, on one of the oak’s broad branches. “This is Marmalade; he sits up in the tree and refuses to come down. It is a constant source of aggravation to me.”

  “How long has he been there for?”

  “Oh, since about 1931 I think… May 1931, but forgive me, lass, I cannot remember the day.”

  She stared at the cat, which – if she hadn’t known better – looked completely real and alive as the sun dappled its fur.

  “He never comes down, and I am stuck here most days, trying to get him to descend, but he never does… Oh, my manners…” He whisked his hat off again. “I am Winston Mallory, from Kewstoke in Somerset; I had a heart attack.”

  “Oh, I am sorry to hear that,” she said.

  “What?”

  “About your heart attack. You didn’t have to tell me that, although it’s interesting.”

  He frowned. “We always say that, don’t you know?”

  She looked puzzled.

  “When a spirit greets another, whether living or dead, they should say their name, where they are from and why they died; it is politeness. Spirits will always do this; to not do so is rude.”

  “Oh.” Rachel had never heard about this before. “I guess it would be embarrassing if you died in an odd way, such as on the toilet, like Elvis… then I guess you wouldn’t say…”

  Mr Mallory seemed unamused. Rachel looked over her shoulder and saw Andy had removed his Stetson with the crucifix from his bag, and now, with it firmly on his head, was doing an odd little jig in the glade, still waving the mike about.

  “Is he unwell?” Winston asked, tapping the side of his head.

  “Er no…” Rachel looked back. “We are investigating the murder of a young woman, here in the woods, a couple of weeks back; did you hear about it?”

  “No, I have to say no; most of my time is spent here with Marmalade. Some of the spirits of the wood say that the day Marmalade comes down, we will all find the answer and ascend to heaven.”

  Rachel groaned inwardly at this the answer thing again; at least this gentleman didn’t think she was his ticket to heaven, which most of them thought, including the Jewish men who had been bothering her more recently.

  “I am probably stuck here due to this blasted cat.” He looked back up in the branches again; the cat hadn’t moved. “He was my companion for fifteen years, he died a year before me, and now we are reunited in death.” Mr Mallory fixed her with a stare. “It’s like a challenge, you see… I believe that if I can get him to come down out of the tree, it means I have done the task set for me and I get to go to heaven.”

  Rachel wasn’t convinced. The dead all made an excuse for what they believed that they needed to do to move on and go to heaven, and they all had a reason why they were stuck on earth. Usually, it was associated with not being diligent enough with religion or not being good enough to people whilst alive, or the one supposedly bad thing they said they had done in their lifetime that they were ashamed of. Then they always set themselves a seemingly impossible task that, once completed, would guarantee their spirits would fade gently from earth and go to their maker (or wherever).

  She had an idea. “You say you talk to the spirits of the wood; do you see them often?”

  “Not often, no. The woods have sprites – they are like balls of energy, they never were people – but sometimes they speak to me.”

  Abruptly, Rachel felt the image of the dark, ape-like thing enter her mind; that was probably what it was: a woodland sprite, and harmless. It was only that it had taken her by surprise. “What do they look like, these sprites?”

  Andy let out a loud moan in the bushes. Both Rachel and Winston turned to look at him. He stood there still for a moment, then – without warning – he started jigging about again.

  Winston answered, “Nothing much, darkish shadows; they mean no harm.”

  “I think I have seen one, in the wood; it reminded me of a chimpanzee. I am sorry, I know that sounds silly, but it’s the only way to describe it,” explained Rachel.

  Winston stopped looking in the direction of Andy and turned to her. “An ape? It looked like an ape?”

  “Yes, that’s right; it was dark, hairy and had pointy teeth.”

  He blanched a little; she could see it.

  “Yes, well, I wish you luck with your search.” He turned back to the tree.

  Andy came up beside her, and she turned to him. “What did you find?” she enquired.

  “Sod all. I stepped in some freshly laid dog shit, but that was it,” he grumbled.

  “Oh.” She turned back to find Mr Mallory had gone, and so had Marmalade.

  “We better get going; we need to find Kayleigh,” urged Rachel.

  With the S
tetson and microphone packed safely in Andy’s bag, they trudged on until they got to the edge of the moat.

  As soon as Rachel saw the little causeway that led from the main forest to the island, she pointed in front of her. “This is where I saw her.”

  But, today, there was nothing.

  Andy reached inside his bag again; this time, he drew out what looked like a small child’s toy; a spinning, tiny umbrella attached to a box, which presumably had a motor in it. Rachel couldn’t be bothered to ask what these gadgets were anymore, or whether they added any value to the hunt. He stretched, emitted a slight burp and then started walking around the moat, minus his Stetson this time.

  There appeared to be no sign of anything spiritual there, except for a couple, who were having a picnic and dressed in what looked like 1920s clothing. She heard the gentle sound of music coming from where they sat; was it from a gramophone? She couldn’t see one.

  She sat down on a log again. “Show yourself,” she said quietly, almost willing the soul of the girl to appear. Although ghosts appeared around her with growing regularity, she wasn’t sure yet that she could actually compel them to appear; they just seemed to pop up when they wanted to. If she could actually invoke them to come, and choose who came, now that would be something. Personally, she would like to speak to some famous dead people – Kurt Cobain and Marilyn Monroe were at the top of the list – but then she began to wonder what if you didn’t get a choice of who you spoke to? She could end up with Genghis Khan or Adolf Hitler. She blanched.

  Rachel watched Andy in the distance; he was walking on the island of the moat, holding this spinning, little umbrella box in front of him like some kind of divining rod. It was odd that he hadn’t asked her exactly where she had seen Kayleigh’s spirit; that she had seen her in this vicinity seemed to be enough. She had decided a while ago to not question the way Andy worked, although it seemed a bit haphazard to her.

  Snap.

  She looked around. The wood was full of noises; yet, for some reason, this made her start. Her eyes darted amongst the bushes that ran around the outside of the moat area, and then she saw it; about twenty feet away, there was a small movement behind a bush. All of her senses came alive as she turned her body around to face the ape-like creature, slowly revealing itself.

  Bloody thing. It must be the woodland sprite that Mr Mallory had referred to. It shifted unhurriedly from behind the bush, on its haunches, with only half of its body showing and the rest concealed by the bush. It looked at her and returned her gaze. Abruptly, it grinned – that nasty, pointed-toothy grin – and started waving its right arm back and forth. What was it doing? She felt the unease start up in her again. It looked like it was… Wait, was it gesturing she should come nearer?

  She looked back towards the moat island. Andy was gone. Where on earth was he? She twisted back. The thing had gone back behind the bush; all that was showing was one ludicrously long, hairy, muscular arm, which was almost beckoning her. She got up slowly and walked towards the foliage. This time, she felt a little braver. Twenty feet, ten feet, nearer…

  “Hello?” she called. Why did she always say that?

  Then she saw it again; it had somehow moved from behind the bush and was now sitting on the path a little way off, in shadow. She narrowed her eyes and looked at it. The creature was so very black, its fur must be so thick, its head… She was looking closely at it now; the head was an odd shape, not human or ape-like at all, but much more rounded. As Rachel watched, it brought up a huge hand and rubbed its face, and she saw that it had enormous talons, claws or whatever they were, which were at least two inches long, and such spindly fingers, like a big, skeletal hand without flesh. It cocked its head to one side; blinked its bright-red, little eyes; gave a little wave; and shuffled off.

  Where was it going? Was this a trap? Was she being lured to her own death? She debated following it, then somehow, deep inside her, she heard a voice (it wasn’t loud but it was insistent), telling her that following the thing was the only way she would find Kayleigh. She pushed on, walking through twigs that smacked into her face and roots that tripped her. Rachel could not always keep it in her line of vision, but somehow she found it impossible to lose in the woods, as if her senses always knew where it was. She could actually feel it.

  Finally, she found herself in a small grove and stopped dead. The thing sat under an ancient tree, by a river, frantically scratching its flank and waiting for her to appear. When it was certain it had her full attention, in a grand gesture, it swept its large arm in an arc and pointed clearly to a spot under the tree with those evil-looking fingers. Its every move was over exaggerated, like an actor on stage that needs to be easily seen by people in the back row.

  “Here,” was all it said, and then it shuffled behind the tree. The voice was dark, rumbly, and without sex, accent or soul – how was that even possible? A voice to be so soulless?

  Rachel hurried after the creature and, for some reason, started to feel brave. Slowly, she peered behind the tree, but there was nothing there. She then turned to the spot that the creature had pointed to, and with great care, she got to her knees and touched the ground with her hands. She jumped up; it was like an electric shock had leaped out from the ground and shook her entire body. Instinctively, she shook her hands, as if they had been burnt, and held them to her body in a defensive motion.

  Then, almost on instinct, she ran as fast as she could from the spot; what direction she was running in she didn’t know.

  Chapter 25

  She sat in the entrance to the hospital, watching the revolving doors, and people coming and going, obviously to appointments or to visit people. The first thing that struck Rachel was how well everyone looked; they marched in at a quick pace, with many fiddling with their mobiles, paying no attention to the ‘Switch off your phone’ signs everywhere. Did people even switch off phones anymore? Most people she knew simply muted them.

  Rachel had come to the hospital in the hope of seeing Dr Maxwell again, as she needed advice from him urgently. As usual, there were some spirits standing around, most of whom looked perplexed. One, a man in his thirties, stood by the far wall, wearing a heavily bloodstained, green hospital gown and looking totally confused, as if he didn’t know where he was. He looked at her for a moment, with sheer sorrow in his eyes, and then shuffled off. Her eye was then caught immediately by a stumbling figure making his way down the corridor; he looked as if he was straight out of some kind of medieval fancy-dress competition. Dressed in filthy clothes – a leather jerkin, ragged trousers and what looked like two big rags tied to his feet – she heard him coughing as he approached. The man carried a gnarled staff, which he was resting his weight on, and bore a disgusting, yellow-stained eye patch, which roughly covered one eye.

  “Hello,” Rachel conveyed to him, intrigued by his appearance.

  The man looked in her direction, squinting, with what was obviously his only functioning eye, and carried on towards her. “’Ow do,” he said, half attempting to bow, but pulling himself up quickly enough when he looked like he was about to fall. “Would you be Rachel, mistress?”

  She turned to him. “Yes, do you know of me?”

  “Aye… the doctor be telling me about you. You is the woman what sees us.” He sat heavily in one of the waiting-area chairs, removed a little flask from under his jacket, took a large swig of whatever the contents were, then replaced the flask with a wince. “I be Jeremy, from London, by the water; I passed with a contagion.”

  “A what?”

  “A disease what rotted my skin and made me piss blood; bain’t sure what it was, but I remember me passing to this day. Buggers burnt me corpse afterwards. Took me clothes, though.” He sat back.

  “Oh, I am sorry to hear that; you look like you have been gone… a while?”

  He sat back in the plastic seat, eyes closed, and for a moment she thought he had gone to sleep, or passed out, t
ill the good eye opened. “King ’Arry did reign when I passed; ‘e be sickening when I died. I saw ’im once in Whitehall, when I was waiting for alms at the door. After all the rich ’ad finished eating, they used to throw their scraps out, like. One day, by Jesu’, it was ’im – King ’Arry ’imself – at the door with an alms bowl. He probably did it to ease ’is soul and to get ’imself a place in ’eaven.” He rubbed his arm with a filthy hand. “No matter why ’e did be there on that day, not many can say they ’ave seen ’Is Grace up close, eh?”

  “Er no…”

  “You wouldn’t want to cross ’im; by Christ’s blood, ’e ’ad the smallest eyes.” He closed his own eye again and looked like he was drooping back into the chair.

  “Jeremy, would you know where I might find Dr Maxwell?”

  He didn’t even stir.

  “I need to speak with him.”

  The eye opened slowly again.

  “Pah, there’s no rest for poor, sick Jeremy, not in life nor death.” With a slow heave, he pushed himself to his feet again, using the stained staff. “Follow me; ’e probably be walking the wards or sitting in the garden, thinking. Doc does too much thinking for ’is own good.” With that, he limped off, with Rachel following, trying not to look too conspicuous due to walking at such a slow pace behind her invisible guide.

  After what seemed like an age, they came to a bright, airy corridor, with large glass windows that opened out to a maintained garden area. As Rachel walked behind the coughing, stumbling Jeremy, she glanced out to see two nurses – clearly from long ago because they wore long skirts and white wimples, similar to nuns – playing with some children dressed in what looked like tweed hats and coats. She walked on till they got to the exit; Jeremy vanished through the closed door with a kind of falling motion. Rachel followed, opened the door carefully and walked out into the sunlight.