Figures came into view. They were men. Perhaps fighting men. They were clad in dark cloth and leathers, their hands bound with rags as if to offer protection, and some wearing helmets. She walked straight through the translucent wall (thinking this must be what it was like for ghosts who passed through solid walls) and went to the edge of the island. Looking back, she could see the outline of a formidable, dark fort, looming against the sky. It reminded her of the castle she had seen before – shimmering, but clearly visible. More men now – mean, muscular men – milling about. They did not seem able to see her, as if they were a memory imprinted on the place. Rachel reflected how glad she was that she was unseen; men like this didn’t look like they knew how to respect women.
She hated it when these transitions took place, and it still unnerved her when she saw these apparitions. As walls and people started forming and changing around her, she always felt the rise of panic, beginning like pins and needles in her hands and feet, then running like a cold, icy claw up her limbs and through her body to her head. Rachel did not like seeing these things, and often pondered why she had been chosen to have this sight. Every time her surroundings shifted like this, it felt increasingly uncomfortable to her, and brought all the horror back anew.
This must be the building that once stood on the island. It was made of dark stone, stretching to the sky, with small arrow-slit windows. It stole the light from the surrounding area, like a spreading oil stain. She looked again at the men. She could see them clearly, but could also tell they were not like ordinary ghosts, as she could not interact with them, or they with her; it was like watching a film playing.
Turning away, again feeling relieved that these intimidating men could not see her, she walked along the little causeway, towards the outer bank, feeling herself pulled towards the tree. Then her mind was full of Kayleigh, remembering the photos showing a beautiful, young woman full of life. Rachel sat down on a tree stump, avoiding the damp part, and looked up; the fort had almost vanished, like it had never been there. The men were fading slowly from the banks of the moat. Rachel rubbed her eyes; blasted visions.
Her mind kept going back to that thought. Kayleigh should be remembered. This place should recognise the death of this young woman; maybe it should be turned into a place of remembrance or even a shrine that people could go to. Yes, that was it. As soon as her mind fixated on the thought, she felt better; yes, a shrine should be set up to mark the death of this promising local girl. She would speak to the reporter, Luke Fairfax, about it as soon as she could; maybe he knew some sponsors. Yes, this was a good idea.
The wind began to blow cold, and spray from the rain hit her face. The fort was now totally gone. Rachel rose and began her walk home, resolute in her determination to get her latest project off the ground: a proper place to remember Kayleigh. She would have to speak to Andy about it, but she knew he would agree, as he would no doubt see it as yet another money-making venture.
Chapter 32
Dr Maxwell stood on the corner of the high street, with Henry behind him. In the last three weeks, Henry had attached himself more to the doctor and was spending less time with Nanny. He said he wanted to learn more about what it was like to be a ‘proper spirit’ and how, as a dead teenager, he was meant to make his way in the world.
William was unconvinced that he could help. He had never been a father, knew little about teenage boys (except from his own experience), and did not want this flamboyant hanger-on. He also had a concern that, as a spirit, Henry was never going to get any older, mature or grow into a man. So, unlike a living person, who would pass through the teenage phase over several years, Henry was likely to be struggling with it permanently, unless God took his soul. Guiding him through this eternal turbulence did not appeal to Dr Maxwell at all.
Henry had asked him whether he was pally with Rachel again. William didn’t know. He had only spoken to her briefly after the business at Howland Hall, as he could see she had been shaken by the whole thing, so he had just said hello, asked how she was, then said goodbye. Had they made their peace with each other? He wasn’t sure.
At the moment, he was preoccupied with a front page headline on a pile of free newspapers outside a shop: ‘LOCAL MAN QUESTIONED OVER KAYLEIGH LOVALL MURDER’. The article didn’t give a name or much information, he assumed this was in the event that it should prejudice the case, but William had heard two women gossiping about it outside. They had said that the person arrested was a man with a history of being violent, who lived just five streets from Kayleigh. They also said he had been seen near the area where she was killed only a week before. Interesting.
“Dr Maxwell, are you concerned about that lady, Rachel… the one who sees us?” enquired Henry.
The doctor started. He had forgotten about his new shadow. “Me? A little, yes… She seems to have taken on this new mantle of being able to see the dead very well, but I am still not convinced she is as aware as she should be about the things that exist in our realm.”
“Those from the underworld?”
“Yes, but also, as news of her power spreads, I fear she will enter turbulent times. The living will become dismayed that she cannot conjure up at will news of their loved ones who have passed, and spirits will become disgruntled as she cannot deliver the answer as they wish. Basically, the living and the dead will despise her.”
“You think it will be as serious as that?”
“Yes. She holds within her grasp a great power. I don’t think she understands it. She just thinks she sees ghosts, and that’s that; she has no idea what this means for our kind. Spirits may rally against her, questioning the origins of this power. Darker forces may also begin to open their minds to the possibility of exploitation; we must be on our guard and watch out for her.”
Henry frowned. “What of this Andy Horton? Does he not have her welfare in mind? After all, she is the reason that his business thrives.”
Dr William Maxwell had no doubt as to Mr Horton’s primary goal. “No, Henry, I don’t think he does. He only has one priority, and that is to fill his coffers with gold, to the devil with what souls he distresses on the way.”
Henry looked closely at the newspaper poster. “I wonder if he did it? This man they speak of here.”
“Who knows? We have to simply have faith that the justice system will out the guilty.”
“You have more belief in our legal process than I do, Doctor. Many innocent men have gone to the fire and the gallows.”
“Indeed.”
Dr Maxwell decided he would try to find out more about the arrested man, and, more importantly, whether Rachel had given any input into these latest happenings. Perhaps the dead girl had made contact with her.
These were exciting times, but also worrying. Thanks to Rachel, the thin tissue that separated the living from the dead had almost been removed altogether. Dr Maxwell was pleased Rachel could see him, but he could not help but feel some fear; ghosts remained unseen to the majority of the living for a reason, but now, as the two worlds began to collide through Rachel, he did muse over what would become of it.
*
Rachel sat on the Tube train heading into central London. As the gentle clacking of the rails lulled her senses, she thought about the last two weeks. They had been insane. Andy had reported being inundated with requests for help with paranormal problems, all fuelled by the ‘Howland Hall event’. Luke Fairfax, their new pet reporter, had also published a piece in the local paper about what had happened in the hall, referencing Victor Adeyemi, and that was all it took; it was like a media bomb had gone off.
For some reason, most of the attention seemed to be gravitating towards Andy this time, rather than her; not that this was necessarily a bad thing. The begging letters – which, up till now, had been pushed regularly through her letterbox – had slowed a little. Andy was making some personal appearances at local fetes, events and business seminars, and had also se
t up his own social media pages. To be honest, if she really looked inside herself, this suited her well enough, as her stress levels had been through the roof recently. Andy seemed to thrive on the attention, like some plants flourished in bright sunlight; she on the other hand merely wilted and withered into a pulp.
She was on her way to central London to meet Sheikh Mohammad bin al-Rahman. Andy had described him as a ‘rich, Saudi Arabian dude’ who lived in a £8,000,000 mansion right in the centre of town. Apparently, he had made his fortune in real estate and luxury hotels in the Middle East, but had contacted Andy on quite another matter.
According to Sheikh al-Rahman, his palatial home, including his numerous wives, were being haunted by something terrible. He reported dark shapes, whispering voices and some of the wives being touched by something whilst in bed. Andy had told Rachel that the sheikh had called in Spirit of London Paranormal Investigations because he needed complete confidentiality. The sheikh also claimed that, as they had dealt with a Premier League footballer incredibly successfully, this also confirmed in his mind that they could help him. Rachel still wasn’t honestly sure if they had helped Victor Adeyemi at all. Rabbi Lieberman was still probably hanging around in the house, more furious than ever. She expected a phone call at any moment, bringing news of the haunting starting again with a vengeance.
Andy had already gone to the sheikh’s house a day ago and reported back that it boasted a splendid swimming pool and spa, which he seemed more enthusiastic to check out than any ghostly goings on. He told her that, so far, he hadn’t seen anything untoward, but that he wanted Rachel to come and give the house the once-over.
So, there she was, off to this big house in Belgravia.
It was 4pm when she alighted from the Tube. Not surprisingly, she felt a migraine coming on; she got them daily now, which was very depressing. Oddly enough, even though they were a regular occurrence, she forgot about them until about the time when they always started to come on. Leaning by a wall, she took one of her pain pills with a swig of water. Please God, this will kill it off. Right, where is this place?
After consulting the map given to her by Andy, she turned down a side alley. As she walked down it, ghostly shapes began to form around her, like steam. Two figures could be seen collapsed on a wall as she passed, their faces disfigured through being covered in boils. A man, dressed in ragged clothing, with blood running from his mouth, screamed to the sky. She realised she was stepping back in time again and seeing events of the past, but from when?
She recoiled as a wooden cart pulled by a shabby horse rumbled by, piled high with bodies, some in a state of decay, bobbing around with the cart’s side to side movement, and all covered in blistered boils. The man leading the way was himself dressed in brown sackcloth, with a twist of the coarse material covering his nose and mouth. For just one second, as they passed, she smelt it: the stench of decay and putrefaction. Holding her mouth, she hurried down the street, only to be confronted by a priest, hurrying by and clutching a large book.
“Oh Christ,” she said aloud. Where was this bloody house?
There were more bodies appearing on the ground now: some dead and some dying. Children could be heard crying in the distance. She started to feel increasingly unwell. A sharp pain pulsed in her temple.
Picking up the pace, she saw the name of the road she needed, but how would she know which house it was? She need not have worried, as the mews only had two houses in it, and the first was whitewashed, with golden gates. It had no number, name or sign, but Andy had told her to look out for the ‘really white gaff’, so she assumed this must be it. After walking up to the gates, she pressed the intercom.
A voice with a foreign accent responded, saying something incomprehensible.
“Er… Rachel Holloway here to see Sheikh al-Rahman?” she offered.
More foreign sounding words came, then a click when the person hung up.
Rachel then saw a movement out of the corner of her eye. A tall man – or, at least, she assumed it was a man – dressed in a long, black robe walked slowly towards her. He wore a wide-brimmed hat and his face was hidden by a dark, shiny, bird-like mask, complete with a large, hooked beak. In his hands, he carried a long cane.
The golden gates began to open noiselessly before her, and she hurried in. As she turned, she watched them close slowly behind her, stopping just short of the hooded figure. She saw his body jerk slowly up and down, then she realised why: he was laughing.
Chapter 33
Andy and Rachel sat in Sheikh al-Rahman’s front room, or they assumed it was his front room. It was the size of what looked like a quarter of a football pitch. Heavily themed in red and gold, with thick carpets on the floor, it must have cost a fortune to decorate. It was not to Andy’s taste though. A huge picture of the sheikh hung on the wall, in the pop art style of Andy Warhol.
The sheikh himself looked in his mid-sixties. Dressed modestly in the traditional dress of spotless, flowing, white robes and a headscarf, he stared at them, expressionless, from the high-backed, golden chair he sat upon. His face revealed a man who liked his food, as he was a little overweight; he had keen, small eyes and a very neat but clearly greying moustache.
Andy shifted about on the hard chair that he had been offered to sit on. The back and legs were gold (Was it real? Certainly, it was at least gold leaf.). The backrest and seat cushion were sumptuous, red velvet. He would have, however, preferred to sit on a massive sofa like Victor had offered them. His backside was starting to go numb.
“Prince al Mohammad, I am so pleased you asked us here to your beautiful home,” Andy stated. “I do hope we can help you with your problems. This is Rachel Holloway, ghost hunter and gifted psychic. She can see the spirit world and will be able to see what ails your palace.”
The sheikh frowned. He said, in perfect English, but with a slight accent, “Please address me as sheikh, if you would.”
Rachel realised Andy had pronounced his name incorrectly and called him prince. That wasn’t the best start.
Andy looked at Rachel, then back at the sheikh. “Er… Mr Sheikh, would you please tell us what has been happening here, to whom and in what room? Any detail, however small, would be very helpful.”
Sheikh al-Rahman frowned again. He went to speak, stopped and then began again. “I have lived here with my wives for a year and a half now. The house was purpose built to my instructions, and I do believe an old house was in this position previously; this may have a bearing on what has happened. It all began very suddenly, about four months ago, when some of my wives said they had seen what they described as a ‘dark figure’, usually in the corner of a room, like a shadow, but moving as if alive.”
Andy was rummaging in his suitcase; he took out his Stetson with the crucifix on it.
The sheikh looked at it doubtfully. “We are Muslim here, sir.”
Andy sat up. “You are, but maybe the ghosts aren’t; we cannot be too careful.”
Again, the sheikh went to say something, but clearly thought better of it. He looked at Rachel, who smiled back. The sheikh continued, “Anyway… er… yes, the shapes. Dark shapes were appearing in corners, but then noises started; loud whispering could be heard in darkened rooms and at night. My wives ignored it at first, wondering if it was possibly sound carrying, but then the touching started.”
“What happened?” asked Rachel.
“In bed, they said they felt hands… on their bodies… where hands should not go; do you understand?” He began to flush. “One wife, Laya, said that it was a man’s hand, on her leg and breast. She was alone in the room at the time; she screamed and it went away.”
Andy looked unconvinced. “She was not dreaming, was she?”
“No, there was a bruise on her leg the next day where whatever it was gripped her tightly,” the sheikh confirmed. He then abruptly stood up. “My wives,” he said, and he waved his hand to gesture b
ehind them.
Andy turned to see a line of dark shapes – about forty women in long, black robes and face veils, appearing to be almost floating – passing silently through the doorway and beginning to stand, side by side, like a bizarre police line-up. One by one, the black robed figures – who were a mixture of fat and thin, short and tall – glided to their positions next to the woman in front of them. Some had niqabs, showing only their eyes, and others simply covered hair with hijabs, revealing ages between approximately mid-twenties to mid-sixties. Once they were all in a formation they stood silent and still, as if waiting for further instructions.
“Please,” began the sheikh, “ask them anything you would like.”
“If I may,” said Rachel, “would I be able to borrow someone please, to show me the places in your house where the haunting took place, especially the bed?”
Sheikh al-Rahman nodded. “The women cannot go anywhere with your friend unaccompanied, but with you, yes, certainly… Laya…”
A slim, black robed figure with a full face veil stepped forwards.
“Please show Miss Holloway where the trouble has been happening,” requested the sheikh.
The figure inclined her head slightly and gestured that Rachel should follow her. The two women left the room, and as Rachel walked behind her dark guide, the voice of Andy could be heard in the distance, obviously asking more questions. Rachel preferred to simply go to where the trouble was and see who or what could be found lurking, that was usually the quickest option.
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