“That probably means she isn’t in the woods then.”
“No. I guess not. They haven’t asked me to intervene, so I won’t till I am approached. Maybe they think I am mental; I have a feeling it was Mr Easton’s doing that I was even involved with the last girl’s case.”
“Yes, but you helped them find her body; why would they not ask you about it?”
“Who knows? Like I said, if they don’t want my help, I am certainly not volunteering it.”
Dr Maxwell decided to change the topic of conversation: “How are you? I have been worried about you; that’s why I came…” He rubbed his hands together slowly.
Her mind filled with the – whatever it was – that had appeared at the top of the stairs at the sheikh’s house. Last night, she had walked past her kitchen and swore she saw the same dark stain in a corner of her ceiling; she hadn’t paid it much heed as, since the brain bleed, her eyesight for the realm of the living hadn’t been what it was. It was probably a floater in her eye or something. Rachel remembered she had walked on to the living area and settled down to watch a film, but, in the back of her mind, she could almost feel the force from whatever it was.
Annoyed, Rachel had got up, walked to the kitchen and snapped on the fluorescent light in defiance. As the tube flickered into life, strange shadows appeared on the walls. The ghost of an old milkman in an apron and hat, clutching a rack of bottles, was standing by the washing machine, but there was no sign of the dark stain.
She had turned the light off, and had thought no more about it until she went to sleep and began to dream of it sliding up and down inside the walls of her house, covering everywhere, like some messed-up cavity wall insulation. She had awoken briefly in the night to, again, what she thought was a stain on the wall, but had gone to sleep almost moments afterwards.
She turned to the doctor. “I think I am OK… Tell me, in your… er… world… are there things other than ghosts?”
He looked up. “What things?”
“Like…er… dark-shaped things, dark forces… Things that are not human or the ghosts of dead people. Scary looking things…”
His face looked even paler than it usually did. Having ginger hair and a redhead’s pale complexion, Dr Maxwell had always looked washed out during his lifetime. Fortunately, he had lived during an era when the paler you were, the better. It was said that those whose skin became burnished gold by the sun were the lower classes in society, such as those who worked the fields or in the outdoors to make a living. Professionals such as him, and ladies, were pale by nature as their work or pastimes kept them within doors. It marked him out – rather like one’s wardrobe, shoes or method of travel – as being a gentleman. Nowadays, it appeared people liked to be brown and even sprayed a dark substance on their skin to dye it. He couldn’t understand why.
The Jews began calling out in the street; she could hear them distantly. The older man was shouting something in a foreign language. She tried to ignore them.
William swallowed then began. “Yes; yes, we do have such things in our realm. Those who were never carried in a woman, never born or died; inhuman things.” He hoped that would suffice; he didn’t like talking about these things, as if just mentioning their existence would conjure them up before him, like magicians drew rabbits from hats.
She wouldn’t let it drop. “What are they? Where do they come from?”
He frowned again; slowly, he picked at his nails. His colleagues had told him a gentleman should have clean, neat nails, but he picked at his, and so they had never been neat his whole life. His wife also used to mention it; she used to say his picked-at nails spoilt his appearance.
“There are many different things that are not ghosts. There is energy, which just comes from the earth. It is benign, but does sometimes cause chaos in your world; men often refer to it as a poltergeist. Then there are sprites, which, again, were never born of a human; they are most mysterious. There is residual energy, or memory ghosts, which are an imprint of a person who lived but who is not there now. And there are… er… others…”
“What others?” Rachel had a feeling this was what she was really after.
He shifted a little in his seat. “We do not like to speak of them; they come from somewhere else.”
“Evil things?” she asked.
“Yes… darker forces, entities and… others…”
“What do entities look like?”
He began to look uncomfortable. “Entities are like dark shadows or masses; they are like the foot soldiers of the underworld… They are there to drain joy, bring sadness and melancholy, or illness… to whomever they haunt.”
Rachel frowned; this sounded like the stain. “What about the others?”
“You won’t see them; they are invisible to mortals unless they inhabit the body of a host… You don’t need to even think about them. Why are you asking about this?”
“I think I have an entity in my house. A little while ago, Andy and I went to the home of a rich gentleman, a sheikh; you saw one of his wives when we last met. I saw this thing, like a dark stain on the stairs. I felt its power and its heat. It kind of rushed towards me and was gone. I now feel it is here.”
Dr Maxwell became annoyed. “You should not be interfering with dark forces; you are mortal and have no idea what you are dealing with.”
“I didn’t ask to bring it home, but I think it’s here. I am going to ask Andy if he can exorcise it and get rid of it.”
The Jews’ chanting became more aggressive outside.
Rachel stood up and peered out of the window. “Blasted people. I can’t help them. I think they want me to do something to get them into their Jewish heaven, but I can’t. I think I might tell them so.”
“I wouldn’t if I were you…” Dr Maxwell looked worried. “I am not sure that’s why they are there.”
She sat down again. “Then why are they bloody well out there? I am fed up with spirits asking me about ‘the outcome’ or whatever it is.”
“The answer,” he corrected.
“Well, I don’t know the answer, or the question or whatever else…”
He could see she was agitated, and he felt he needed to try to reassure her. He reached out to put his hand on top of hers, but, of course, it sailed straight through.
However, even though their skin had not connected, she had felt him. Slowly, she looked up and went to speak. It seemed like their eyes were locked for hours, but it must have been seconds only.
“William…”
Everyone jumped as Henry unexpectedly appeared around the doorframe, his wig, as usual, awry.
Dr Maxwell withdrew his hand rapidly and stood up, clearly alarmed. “What in God’s name do you want, Henry?” he bellowed.
“Sorry… I…” He looked at the doctor’s now flushed face and Rachel’s onesie. He swallowed then continued, “I thought you might want to know that the gentlemen outside are becoming somewhat aggressive.” He looked at Rachel. “I do not think they like you very much.”
“They probably want me to tell them how to get to heaven, but I can’t,” she suggested.
“I do not think that is what they are saying… They are saying—”
“Henry!” William snapped again. He turned to Rachel. “Henry and I will do our best to get rid of them; you stay in here and, whatever you do, do not invite them in or speak to them.”
In a flash, Henry and Dr Maxwell were gone.
She looked out of her window and watched them speaking to the older man with the black book. Voices were raised between them, but she could not hear the words as a strong wind was blowing. Whatever they said did the trick as the older man made a hand signal and they all hurried away, following their leader.
Dr Maxwell turned back to look at her, framed in the window. She raised her hand in a little wave and thought he might reciprocate, but he didn’t; i
nstead, he just turned with Henry and vanished slowly in front of her eyes.
Chapter 37
Four days had passed since Dr Maxwell had visited Rachel. In the meantime, she had not heard from him or that annoying youth Henry, but to not hear from the latter was a relief; she didn’t really like Henry, as he was too snobbish.
Rachel rarely went out of her flat now. She often suffered from panic attacks when she was out, being scared of when her head would start pounding and how she would get home; it was a vicious cycle. When she got migraines and headaches, she was in agony, and on the odd occasions when she wasn’t experiencing pain she was instead suffering from panic symptoms, as her brain raced along, envisioning all kind of horrors for her future. Her mind filled with visions of terror, such as she was going to have another haemorrhage or a stroke, or that she would end up living alone, sitting in a wheelchair. As the weeks passed, going out in public became more of a chore. She would feel the fear rise as soon as she was a certain distance from her flat, like waves engulfing her, and certain situations made her particularly unwell, such as large crowds, heat or loud noises.
She had meant to stay in her flat that day and watch some tedious TV documentaries to distract her troubled mind, but then Andy had texted her, saying he needed to go over a few things. She wished Dr Maxwell could ring or text her, she would welcome his messages, but there were obvious issues with this. Firstly, she doubted a ghost could even hold a phone, and a Victorian gentleman was hardly likely to know what a text message was, let alone send one.
At 1pm that day, Andy arrived in his new car. She watched him park outside and hurry up the steps. There had been no Jews outside since Dr Maxwell’s visit. Goodness knows what he had told them, but she didn’t care; they were gone and that was good enough.
Rachel led Andy to the small balcony that could be reached from her spare bedroom. A tiny, circular table and two iron chairs had been set up there. On the table there were two glass cups, a bottle of lemonade, two teacups (one chipped) and a teapot. There were no cakes or biscuits, only hot and cold drinks. Andy was disappointed.
He pushed his slightly overweight frame around the table and sat on one of the uncomfortable iron chairs, looking out over the back gardens. In the distance, a large block of flats dominated the skyline with the name ‘Shangri-La House’ displayed across its facade.
“You wanted to see me, Andy?” Rachel sat down opposite him with an overlarge, dark cardigan pulled round her shoulders.
“Er… yes.” Not having been offered a drink, he poured himself some lemonade, didn’t offer any to Rachel, and continued. “I just wanted you to know that the business is going really well. Bookings are coming in thick and fast. As you know, I am dealing with the smaller ones…”
Yeah, you get all the money, that’s why, thought Rachel.
”But, with the larger, high-profile jobbies, we need to go in as a team.” He gulped the lemonade down, lifted the lid of the teapot and sniffed the tea. Wrinkling his nose, he replaced the lid. “Even though I thought it was a total clusterfuck at Howland Hall, as you know, the feedback we got from it was really positive, and they want to do more, bigger hunts, not only in the house but in the grounds. Some dude hung himself in a tree in the gardens once, so maybe his ghost is floating about.”
“Hanged, not hung.”
“That’s what I said. Anyway, it’s all good. I spoke to Luke, the reporter bloke, about us maybe doing some column thing in the paper, every couple of months or so. People could email in with stuff like problems with spooks, and then we can offer advice.”
She looked back at him, but said nothing. Somewhere off in the distance, a magpie called out.
“Anyway… another idea of mine was that we could maybe speak to your ghost mate Dr Mantell and ask him about what it is like being dead, what happens when you die… shit like that. We can write about that as well,” Andy explained.
Rachel frowned. “It’s Dr Maxwell. Look, I don’t think you are taking this seriously, Andy. For you, it’s all about making money, putting on some kind of show, and trying to explain something that is very difficult and complicated in an easy way; it can’t be done. And all this talk about getting rid of ghosts… They don’t want to go most of the time. For example, the rabbi in Victor’s house hasn’t gone anywhere; we will probably get a call any day now saying things are worse than ever.”
“You’re a bloody pessimist, that’s your problem,” grumbled Andy. “You’ve got this great gift to see dead people and all you do is mope about. We have this unique chance to really make a difference.”
“Make you money, you mean. What about pondering the meaning of life? Asking why do some people pass straight on when they die, and why some get stuck as ghosts on earth? That’s the big issue. If we solved that, could you imagine the enormity of it?”
Andy was pouring himself more lemonade. His phone went off. Like lightning, he snatched it up and walked off into the hallway to answer. Rachel frowned.
His voice, although lowered, could be clearly heard. “I told you to wait till I rang you… Yes, yes, I know… I was going to ring…”
Getting up, she walked slowly to the kitchen to see if she had any food to offer Andy.
Then she saw it. It was the middle of the afternoon, and her kitchen was well lit – not dark or shadowy – but there it was: the entire far-left corner of her kitchen was in dark, seeping shadow. The stain, entity or whatever the hell it was, as first seen in the sheikh’s house, had returned. It looked so out of place against the bright room, but the sunlight, streaming in from the window, did not touch the enveloping darkness.
It appeared to have been in the process of spreading throughout the room until she walked in, then it abruptly stopped, as if caught out. She stopped, and it stopped. For a second, her mind went blank. What should she do or say to it? Then she saw it was moving slowly again as its quest to cover the kitchen continued. Her sink, worktops and cupboards were gradually being hidden behind an unrelenting, thick, silky blackness. On the back wall, where it appeared to have started, that face began to form again, with eyes first, then mouth…
“Andy?” She looked back nervously.
The eyes began to take a slanted shape, and a smaller circle within the eye started opening. The mouth began to gape. She felt a force again coming from it; the feeling was like the silent bass from a speaker, and there was an icy coldness in the air, like a door to Alaska had been opened. She stepped back.
“Andy… Andy!” she screamed louder now.
“All right… for fuck’s sake…”
She heard his footsteps coming.
Almost the second he entered the room, she felt the rush of whatever it was sucking back into the wall, sliding and whooshing, back to wherever it came from.
“Is there any grub going?” he asked.
“Did… did you see it? By the wall… on the wall? I think you scared it off!” declared Rachel.
Andy had indeed seen something, but he was unsure what it was. When he walked in, he saw half of the kitchen kind of get a little hazy in front of him. He had wondered for a moment if it was due to the magic mushroom he had sniffed in the hippie shop during the week. But it seemed as though Rachel had seen it too.
She hurried towards him and grabbed his arm. He stood back; he wasn’t overly keen on physical displays of affection or touching.
“What was I meant to have seen?” Andy enquired.
She stood back from him, fixing him with her gaze. “You never saw it, did you? The black thing on the wall.”
“No.” He decided that she was seeing something frightening due to her migraine attacks; didn’t people see zigzag lines or something when they were coming on? Or maybe she was just bloody barking mad; all those pills she popped couldn’t be good for the mind.
“Jesus; God.” She walked over to the sink and leant on it heavily.
“Lo
ok, I had better go now, but I am glad we had that catch up. The business is doing better than ever, keep up the… er… good work…” With that, he left.
Rachel sat in her kitchen, staring at the now ordinary looking room. It was clear that whatever she had seen in the sheikh’s house had come back to haunt her instead, but what was she to do about it? She felt very tired and ever so slightly sick.
*
It was 11.30pm, and Andy was sitting in his special captain’s chair, fashioned to look like the chair Captain Kirk sat in while commanding the Starship Enterprise through its various adventures. In front of him was his new computer; the only thing out of place was the old writing desk the laptop sat on. It had been his father’s. His mother wanted to throw it out when his dad had died, but Andy had saved it by asking a friend to tie it to the top of his Land Rover and take it to Mrs Braithwaite’s. This was before he had officially moved in, but she had still kindly stored the writing desk for him without qualm or complaint. He honestly didn’t know what he would have done without Mrs Braithwaite. She was like a friend, mother and grandmother in one, and he often had low moments wondering what he would do when she passed.
He was in the middle of writing a press release for Luke Fairfax, to introduce their new newspaper column, which was due to start in two weeks’ time. Called simply ‘Ghost Stories’ it was going to be an agony-aunt-type page for people thinking they may have a paranormal problem. Readers would email the paper with their issues, experiences and, hopefully, photos, and then Andy and Rachel would answer them, giving advice as to what type of haunting they may be experiencing. They would also be heavily plugging Spirit of London Paranormal Investigations if the haunting seemed troublesome. Andy rubbed his hands together with the thought of the new income stream this would generate.
He then felt it, caressing his body coldly like a kind of mild panic attack. It raised thoughts of Rachel, the kitchen and the ethereal haze he had seen there. He rubbed his face, and once again blamed his time spent in the hippie shop. He must have inhaled something he shouldn’t have.
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