Bim, who was almost like Rachel’s shadow because he stayed so close to her, suggested that they start in the library. So, the solemn group, led by Bim and Rachel at the front, snaked up the grand, wooden stairs and through the ornately decorated corridors that were awash with paintings and tapestries, till they entered what was known as the Great Library. The library did not look as impressive as Rachel had been led to believe; it was nice, but certainly didn’t take your breath away. Carved, wooden bookshelves, standing five rows high, lined the room. Lines of shiny, wooden tables and chairs ran down the centre, and large, yellow, glass lights hung low from the ceiling. There was also a musty smell coming from somewhere.
Rachel looked about; there were about five spirits in the room, and three of them turned to look when the group came in. She motioned to everyone to stand still by the door, then walked boldly up to a largish man who was wearing a red cape lined with white fur and a sloping, black beret on his head.
“Excuse me, sir, these people are here to see what spirits reside in Howland Hall. I wondered if I could ask your name?” On this occasion, instead of using her usual telepathic communication, Rachel instead spoke very quietly, only appearing to the tourists to be mouthing the words, so the crowd could see she was speaking, but without hearing what she was saying.
The spirit man glanced at her impassively. He was about sixty, with heavy whiskers on his reddened face; he reminded Rachel of a walrus. “Tell ’em to bugger off, that’s what I say.”
The crowd watched intently as Rachel stood, looking at an empty corner, her mouth moving noiselessly.
“She is communicating with the dead,” reminded Andy loudly from the back.
“These good people have come to see what spirits live in Howland Hall. Couldn’t you at least give me your name, sir?” Rachel asked the shirty spook. He turned back to her, with a snarl on his face. “Why would I speak to a whore like you? Begone from my house.” He began walking off.
Rachel frowned. The dead had been getting a bit feistier lately; memories of Rabbi Lieberman returned to her mind. She called after him, “What year did you live here? Who was your master?”
He turned to her, then strode back; she thought for a moment he might strike her, but then concluded if he tried to do this his hand would simply whip through her. “I am not telling you anything. You and your kind come here to gawp at us like animals… You have no right!” he yelled into her face.
She looked up, but the other spirits, probably wanting to get away from the argument, had slipped through the walls. Rachel felt the crowd beginning to mutter behind her.
Andy’s voice rose up again from the back of the group, like a flock of gulls, “Miss Holloway is communing with a ghost; she is now crossing the fragile tissue between life and death.”
“Piss off,” hissed the spirit man, and Rachel was left to watch as his body slowly slid down into the floor. His large frame, like mist, disappeared gradually downwards till only the top of his black beret could be seen; there was a little jolt, then he was gone completely.
Rachel looked up at the crowd, described the man she had seen, and remarked that he wasn’t very cooperative.
Bim confirmed it sounded a lot like Sir Aloysius Hyde, one of the owners of the house back in the late 1700s. Flicking through a large guide book that he had been carrying around, he showed her a picture of an oil painting of Sir Hyde. His fat, reddened jowls were unmistakable, as well as his emotionless eyes that stared out across the ages from the well-thumbed pages.
“Yes, that’s him,” sighed Rachel.
“How do we know you saw this bloke?” said someone in the crowd.
“Yeah, why can’t we see ’im?” asked another man.
As people were becoming restless, Bim said it was best that everyone moved on to the North Tower, a place apparently well known for hauntings, strange noises and experiences. As they walked along, he told her how the mayor, on a recent visit, had felt something touch him repeatedly whilst in the tower. Rachel did not know how to respond.
Ascending the North Tower was going to be a difficult exercise, that much was clear when they all got to the small stone arch and battered, wooden door that guarded the spiral staircase. The door itself had thick, black hinges and a huge, ring door handle off to the right. A sign was affixed to the door that said, ‘Do not pull the knocker’.
“What’s the hold up?” asked the familiar voice of Andy from the back.
Rachel wasn’t sure how safe it was for the 130 or more people to make their way up the narrow stairs, but, before she could say anything, Bim had pulled the door agape and called for people to follow him up the small steps. The tower itself, like much of the house, was made of ancient stone; the steps each had a small slope worn in the middle, where centuries of walking had eroded them away. Only a small piece of rope, attached to the spiralling wall, gave visitors anything to hold on to as they climbed the darkened, damp, twisting staircase.
Rachel got to the top to find that it opened into a circular room about fifteen feet in diameter; the domed roof echoed sound, distorting it and making it hard to hear. A small arrow-slit window let a tiny amount of light pierce the gloom, which was supplemented by a small, flickering, orange emergency light on the ceiling. Worried that not even one-third of the group would be able to stand in this enclosed space, Rachel stopped people from coming out from the stairway after about thirty people had passed her. The tiny room was already cramped; the 100 or so others would have to just wait on the stairs.
Where the hell was Andy?
Rachel’s eyes caught a young spirit girl, aged about nineteen, in a long, white dress, sitting in the shadows. She had long hair, which was tied back, and it was clear she had also been crying.
“Who are you?” said the girl “What are you doing here?”
Rachel was surprised, because the dead usually let her speak first, as they often didn’t know she could see them. If anything, they usually jumped when she spoke to them, so used were they to walking unseen amongst the living.
The crowd in the tower roof watched silently, resisting the gentle press from those caught on the stairway who couldn’t see.
Again, Rachel appeared to be mouthing words to something that wasn’t there; everyone watched intently.
“My name is Rachel, and I am able to see the dead. These people here are interested in the spirits that haunt this place; what is your name?” Rachel enquired in her normal speaking voice.
The girl removed a handkerchief from a pocket in her dress and wiped her nose. “My name is Becky. I died here; I threw myself from the tower.” She said it with almost no waver in her voice. “Now I am stuck here forever as punishment for ending my life, and I’m caught here with my child.”
Rachel couldn’t see anyone else in the room.
“What happened?” she asked.
The girl looked towards the crowd, who were still watching silently. “I became with child, from the head valet of the house. He said he would not marry me; I had no parents and no support…” She sniffed. “So, one day, after drinking some of the Lord’s wine, I cast myself from the top of this tower. Now I sit in purgatory, waiting for judgement.”
“We can’t see nuffink!” came a strangled cry from the middle of the stairs.
Becky’s face darkened. “They come… to haunt me… Can you feel them? I must leave.” And, with that, her apparition rapidly faded away.
Rachel was alone in the room.
“What did you see?” asked a middle-aged lady at the front of the queue.
Rachel went to answer when it happened. Out of the blue, the tower was filled with an ear-splitting, thunderous cry of what sounded like hundreds of babies. The wails spun around the circular room and hit those standing in the stairway full on. Then a series of ghostly screams began, ever closer and louder than the baby cries, compelling those at the top of the stairs to immed
iately turn around in a frenzied attempt to get away.
The screams and cries grew progressively louder and shriller, all competing against each other until Rachel thought her ears would burst. The tower began to rattle slightly, as if it had been struck by an earthquake; Rachel stumbled a little and fell to the floor with the vibrations. Shrieks and howls from the visitors now filled the stairway, and a scrum broke out as hundreds of bodies tried to squeeze back down the tower.
“Demons!” someone exclaimed.
“Help us,” cried another elderly woman.
Rachel remembered calling out for Andy, but, as usual, he was nowhere to be seen.
*
Andy had decided not to snake his way up the tower with everyone else. He was at the back, so he had no chance of a decent view; besides, Rachel was the one who could see the spooks, so what could he do? No, he would wait here in the entrance hall for everyone to come back down. That was way more civilised.
A few feet away from him there was a large, red velvet, wingback armchair, with a small chain strung between both arms. A sign with ‘DO NOT SIT’ written on laminated card had been placed on the seat, together with a thistle, presumably to punish anyone who dared to sit on the chair. Gingerly, he unclipped the chain, removed the sign and thistle, and then sat down.
Ah, peace… he thought.
He heard footsteps crossing the hard floor slowly. It was a latecomer, no doubt, which meant more cash for him. He turned his head to greet whoever it was who had bothered to turn up almost 45 minutes late, only to see his mother walking towards him.
Dressed like a teenager as usual – in tight, shiny trousers, fashionable boots and a fur coat – she came closer, her slim and slightly gaunt figure dwarfed by the largeness of the coat. Her face, as usual, was heavily lined, something no amount of make-up could disguise.
The taste of sick entered his mouth as he felt his heart almost jump in his chest. “Mother.” He leapt up on his feet in an instant.
Her face broke into a sardonic grin. “Think you could have kept this little soiree from me, do you? Shame on you for not asking your poor, old mum to come and see your little performance…”
“What do you want?”
“Want?” she walked closer to him. “To congratulate my son on his unexpectedly successful business. I know it won’t last; sooner or later, someone will expose it for the bloody sham it is. Using that poor, crazy lady who sees things, and pretending it’s ghosts to make you rich, really is shameful.”
Andy looked towards the crammed stairway; he could hear voices drifting down, mainly complaining they couldn’t see. Where was Rachel when he needed her?
“Rachel really can see spirits; she had like an… ahem… illness, and then started to be able to see them. It isn’t a lie,” he clarified.
She smiled again. “Now you’re rich, I hope you’ll remember your poor mother, who’s left in poverty. All those years I did without to look after you, so maybe it’s time you repay me. I mean, you are obviously raking it in… I saw you arrive in that nice car outside.”
Andy was spooked. She must have been watching him for the entire evening if she saw them arrive; was she stalking him?
As they continued their conversation, Dr Maxwell drifted through the closed doors of the main entrance. He had seen a poster advertising this ‘ghost walk’, and he thought it was the ideal time to speak to Rachel. He was aware that they had parted on bad terms – it wasn’t her fault, he was just touchy about his earlier life and didn’t much like people asking about it – but she meant well. It was time he made amends; besides, he missed her in a way and also wanted to make sure she was becoming accustomed to her growing power. She could easily become unstuck if she weren’t careful.
He looked around the hall and saw a man in front of him, about ten feet away, talking to an older, skinny woman. This must be the man Rachel was telling him about, the psychic investigator. She has described Andy rather well, he thought, smiling. He looked closely at the woman; there seemed to be a physical resemblance between her and the man, so he assumed they were related. He considered floating up the tower and finding Rachel, as he could hear her voice in the distance, echoing down the steps, but then his attention was drawn to the obvious tension between the pair.
Inquisitive, Dr Maxwell crept closer; they couldn’t see him, so why not find out what was occurring?
”Your father would be here if not for you, Andy; I would have a husband, so you owe me…”
Andy was visibly shaking in front of this woman, so Dr Maxwell came closer still; he realised this must be Andy’s mother.
“You wouldn’t like this event mother; maybe its best you go,” stated Andy.
“Let’s say £100 to start; that will help me pay my heating bills, when I am left home alone and cold,” she suggested.
Andy thought her boots alone must have cost more than that. He felt sickened. “You want money off me?” He frowned.
“You owe me!” Her voice became shriller, and her face twisted into a snarl, with her red lips resembling a slashed, bleeding wound.
Andy went to speak, but the words caught in his mouth.
Her voice began again, “You’re bloody pathetic, you know that? If I hadn’t pushed you out myself, I would have doubted you were anything to do with me.” She came closer.
Dr Maxwell had seen enough; this woman was a bully, and he could see Andy struggling to respond. Slowly, he walked right up to her left ear as she stood there, still grinning at Andy, and roared with all his might, “Get out, bitch!”
Andy leapt two paces back. They had both heard it, clear as a bell, ringing around the hall. His mother froze momentarily, then, without a backward glance, she sprinted towards the main entrance. A terrified scream escaped her as she scrabbled at the large, iron handle on the door, breaking off several false nails in the process. She then fled into the night, leaving the ancient door to slowly close behind her with the help of a modern locking mechanism.
Andy turned deliberately from staring at the closed door to the source of the shout. In front of him, he could physically see nothing, but he could feel the presence of something there, merely inches from him. For that long moment, he and Dr Maxwell stood, just a foot apart, facing each other. The feeling that something or someone was in his personal space was becoming overpowering, but who or what?
The spell was broken as a huge seething mass of bodies poured from the staircase doorway, scrabbling, screaming and shouting.
Andy finally snapped his eyes away from the empty space as he thought, for the second time that night, Where the hell is Rachel?
Chapter 31
News of what happened during the tour of Howland Hall spread like wildfire. At first, Andy thought it had been an unmitigated disaster and a total flop. Health-and-safety legislation had been compromised by the storming of the staircase, and they had only encountered one (or two) definite spooks: the library man and the girl in the tower. Well, he had also heard the man’s booming voice, but he alone was witness to that, so unfortunately it didn’t count. But he was proved wrong.
People had been terrified by the tour, and news was spreading on social media that ghost hunts held by Spirit of London Paranormal Investigations were a must-see. Even Victor the footballer tweeted that he personally knew Andy and Rachel, who were the real deal. Andy could not have paid for PR like this. He was already planning the next hunt, which would be even bigger and better. He hadn’t spoken to Rachel about it, but he knew she would be up for it.
*
Rachel found herself walking towards Shore Moat again. It was a windy morning, and a gentle rain was carried by the cold breeze that hit her face. She had been increasingly troubled by the thing she had seen during her last visit, and after struggling through a bad night, she had been woken up in the early hours by a terrible headache. Rachel had been halfway through another dream, in which she
was moving among shadows and being pressed from all sides. Then thoughts of the moat came to her, telling her that that she should go there again.
She wasn’t sure why she should return to that place. Kayleigh’s body had been found, so what was left there to see? She didn’t know, but she felt absolutely compelled to go there. Who knew, maybe she would see Winston again, trying to lure Marmalade from the tree; she liked him, as he gave off a good aura.
To be fair, she had nothing else on her agenda to do, so she had caught the bus and now found herself on the path leading right down to the moat. Everything smelt so fresh, gently damp, from the soft rain that was still falling like a light spray.
Winston wasn’t there today; perhaps he had succeeded in coaxing Marmalade down, and they had both gone to a cat-loving heaven somewhere. She only saw one ghost, who looked like a Roman soldier marching up the hill a little way off from her; as she walked along, she pondered whether it was a real Roman soldier from history (she had never seen a ghost who had been dead 2,000 years) or someone dead who was just dressed as a Roman.
Rachel forgot this conundrum as soon as she entered the moat area. There it was again, that peculiar green space. It was crowded with trees and plants that filled the void where there was once civilisation, dense enough to protect her from the wind and rain. She saw the little island ahead of her, surrounded by the green, algae-covered moat. The perfectly still water reflected countless tiny speckles of sunlight that had filtered through the canopy above. Slowly, Rachel walked across the narrow causeway that bridged the outer bank to the island. Just eleven steps were all it took for her to reach it. She then sat heavily on a large fallen tree trunk. What now? There’s nothing here.
Rachel looked up and saw the tree across the water, on the mainland. It was the tree that the spirit of Kayleigh had first vanished behind. As her mind began to wander, she sensed a fluttering all around her; the trees and plants where she sat began to flicker and fade, and greyness descended like a dark veil falling from the sky. At first, she wondered whether she was having another brain seizure and felt the panic rise within her. She stood up and, without warning, saw grey walls and stone floors materialise around her. She could see them clearly, yet they had a glassy, translucent quality. Looking through them, she could still see the mainland across the moat. What madness is this?
Seeing Things Page 17