A Cry From Beyond

by WR Armstrong

  I found his comments infuriating. At the same time I realised I’d have to give in to his demands in order to discover what he meant. But for the meeting to happen, I’d first have to rid myself of Des and his two bimbos.

  “I’m away on an assignment during the early part of the week,” Norris said, unintentionally helping me out, “How about Thursday? It’ll give me a chance to get a photographer lined up.”

  “Why do you need a photographer?”

  “To take photograph’s of course.”

  Ordinarily I’d have told him to take a running jump, but he had me bamboozled, so I grudgingly agreed to the arrangement.

  The conversation ended and I sat wondering what on earth was happening to my life. It seemed I’d landed slap bang in the midst of some great supernatural mystery, in which I experienced psychic events, was visited upon by spirits and bore witness to people mysteriously disappearing into the vast unknown. And then of course, there was the gypsy clairvoyant and the outlying haunted buildings.

  Leave! a voice inside my head suddenly screamed.

  But that of course was impossible. Whether I liked it or not I had to find out what’d happened to Terry and Mary Louise. I had at least to try to clear up the mess and get to the bottom of the mystery. I’d been running away from things all of my life. Cowardliness was no longer an option. It was time to face up to problems rather than flee from them.

  I returned my attention to present matters. Downstairs, Pixie began playing up to me again. I somehow managed to snub her advances, but boy was it difficult. She wore little beneath the night gown and it would’ve been so darned easy to slip upstairs to the unoccupied bedroom to take advantage of the situation. It was only the thought of reconciliation with Michelle that kept my resolve intact.

  “But I’m lonely and I’m bored,” she complained when I told her I had to return to the attic room to work. “Can’t you write your songs after we’ve gone?” She offered up a cute little pout and patted the sofa, indicating I join her.

  “I’ve got an important deadline to meet,” I explained with an apologetic smile. “I’m afraid you’ll have to amuse yourself.”

  She frowned, perplexed. “So why did you invite us over here if you’re too busy to have fun?”

  “I didn’t. It was Des’s idea,” I said bluntly, forced against my will to revert to the direct approach.

  She finally seemed to accept defeat. “It’s your loss,” she said with a dismissive shrug.

  No sooner had I arrived back in the attic room, than I heard her climb the stairs and knock on the door to the bedroom occupied by Des and Dixie. The door was heard to open with a creak and then close. There followed the muffled sounds of giggling. That was the last I saw of Pixie until evening time, when she and my other two guests reappeared in search of food and drink.

  We sat around the table eating a spaghetti and pasta dish, complimented by a light Italian wine, saying little.

  “You’re going to have to entertain your two friends on your own,” I said privately to Des after the meal.

  “They’re going to bloody well kill me at this rate,” he moaned.

  I almost laughed. “Guess a man’s got to do what a man’s got to do.”

  “Yeah, I suppose so.” He flashed a wicked grin at me. “It’s a tough life, is it not?”

  “Tough enough”

  “But first we do the séance, right?”

  “I don’t know,” I said, sensing it was a bad idea.

  “Come on man,” Des urged, “it’s the main reason we came up here.”

  I conceded he had a point and reluctantly agreed. Minutes later, having explained the principles and aims of a séance to Pixie and Dixie, we sat around the table and linked hands.

  While Des and I took the occasion seriously, Pixie and Dixie behaved like immature school girls. All that changed however, when Des asked the semi darkened room if anyone was there. While Dixie rolled her eyes indignantly, Pixie’s whole demeanour changed. She began to tremble and sob for no apparent reason. When asked what the matter was, she found it difficult to explain, saying merely that she sensed incredible sadness around her.

  “A-and danger,” she suddenly added.

  I asked her what she meant. She thought long and hard before finally, looking deeply bemused, she said, “It’s in the ground. The sadness is in the ground.” She seemed to speak with genuine insight and with uncharacteristic maturity and intelligence.

  “And the danger,” I asked. “Where is the danger?”

  “All around,” she said simply.

  Des and I looked at each other.

  “When you say something is in the ground,” Des said, leaning forward attentively. “Do you mean something is buried?”

  “It’s so terribly sad,” she replied staring fixedly, her lips barely moving. Tears welled in her eyes and trickled down her flawless cheeks. To Des she said, “Can we stop this game now please. I-I really don’t like it...”

  Realising she was on the verge of hysteria, Des agreed and we broke the chain.

  “Time for a drink,” I said, trying to defuse the tense atmosphere. I quickly left the room, bound for the kitchen. Des followed and caught up with me in the hallway, where he said, “You do realize she’s psychic don’t you.” He gave a disbelieving shake of the head. “Who the hell would have thought it?”

  “Yeah, well, psychic phenomenon is based on sixth sense, not necessarily common sense,” I said, trying to ease the tension.

  Back in the lounge over drinks and with Pixie having regained some of her composure, Des and I tried to coax her into discussing her feelings on the subject of the séance. Unnerved by the experience, she refused to elaborate on what she’d previously said, complaining instead of a severe headache. Dixie seemed to pick up on her unease, saying she too felt unwell and suggested we all turn in for the night. It was decided by mutual consent that the girls would be best served if they occupied the master bedroom together. Des and I flipped a coin for the guest room. Des won, which meant I ended up with the booby prize, being the couch. Pixie’s unexpected reaction to the séance had dampened everyone’s enthusiasm for fun and games, which in turn allowed me to escape a potentially awkward situation.

  Having retrieved the sleeping bag from the airing cupboard, I tried to make myself comfortable, eventually managing to fall into a restless and dreamless sleep. Sometime during the night however, I was abruptly woken by hysterical screaming coming from the direction of the master bedroom.

  Upstairs I was to discover Pixie sitting bolt upright in bed with the sheets drawn up around her, while Dixie sat on the bed next to her, trying to offer comfort. Both girls were in floods of tears, though Pixie looked by far the most upset. I asked them what had happened. Shaking uncontrollably Pixie told me she’d dreamt that Des had been abducted.

  Aware that he had so far failed to put in an appearance despite the commotion, I rushed across the landing to the guest room, flung open the door and flicked the wall switch. Light instantly flooded the room, which, much to my dismay, was deserted. I was suddenly gripped by a horrible sense of déjà vu. Returning to Pixie and Dixie, I gave them the unwelcome news and suggested they remain together in the bedroom, while I searched the cottage and nearby grounds.

  “Two faces,” Pixie suddenly blurted; eyes wide with disbelief. “It had two faces. Oh my God, what on earth did I see?!”

  Dixie demanded to be taken home. “I don’t like it here. Something’s not right.”

  I tried to offer reassurance. “Please don’t worry, the police are onto it!” The comment received sudden looks of horror.

  “What do you mean?” Pixie demanded to know.

  “Didn’t Des tell you?”

  “Tell us what?” It was Dixie. She looked petrified.

  “It’s the reason we had the séance.” I began to detect renewed hysteria in my two young house guests. In an attempt to play down High Bank’s problems, I kept Terry’s disappearance from them, mentioning only that someone h
ad strayed off during a party at the cottage and that the police had mounted a search of the area.

  Dixie burst into fresh floods of tears nevertheless. Pixie by contrast stared blankly, as if she’d fallen into a trance, or a state of shock. I reached out, touching her tentatively on the shoulder.

  “Hey,” I said, “are you all right?”

  She continued to stare blindly at the far wall. Finally she spoke, though the words were barely audible. The words sounded horribly like “Mary-Louise”.

  Oh my God, I thought feeling completely numb, she really is bloody psychic.

  “Terry,” she then whispered, before reeling off a string of other names that proved unrecognizable. She ended with those I’d come to know so well since arriving at High Bank, “Melinda” and “Kayla”, and finally, the name I dreaded hearing more than any other: “Des”.

  Pixie slowly turned her head so she faced me, her baby blue eyes still eerily blank and unseeing.

  “Dead,” she said chillingly, “all dead.”

  Next to her, Dixie collapsed back onto the bed, sobbing her heart out, completely overcome with fear.

  “Des can’t be dead,” I said, the idea too horrifying to contemplate.

  “Dead,” she repeated with absolute certainty.

  I grabbed her by the shoulders, wanting to shake her, but managed to restrain myself and said simply, “I want you to stay here with Roxy, while I take a look around. Do you understand?”

  “Des isn’t here,” she said with finality.

  “Then where is he?”

  She failed to respond.

  I got Roxy aka Dixie to sit up. “Take care of her. I’ll be back as soon as I can.”

  “Please don’t leave us.”

  “I have to look for Des.”

  Pixie started to mumble incoherently, her face still a vacant mask.

  “Oh my God,” Roxy stammered hopelessly. “What’s wrong with her?”

  “I don’t know. I have to go.” I started for the door, but then stopped dead.

  Pixie’s words had suddenly grown intelligible.

  “The lake,” she said, referring to that which was located to the west of High Bank; and a stone’s throw from the chapel.

  I returned to kneel at her side and took hold of her trembling hand.

  “What of it?”

  Her eyes were wide and vacuous. Her whole body shook with tension.

  “Something is there,” she whispered.

  “Can you tell me what it is?” I moved closer, expectant.

  “Your father,” she said, startling me.

  “What about him?”

  “He knows.”

  “Knows what?” I was confused. “My father is dead.”

  I gave Roxy a gentle nudge. She stared through her tears, but appeared not to see.

  “Take care of your friend,” I told her. Her eyes cleared and she nodded her head.

  I went in search of Des. Of course, I knew instinctively Pixie was correct in her claim that he was gone, but I nevertheless felt the need to at least go through the motions of trying to locate him. When I failed to find him anywhere inside the cottage, I took Lennon with me to search the grounds outside, again without success.

  In the morning, having composed a note explaining my whereabouts, I left the girls asleep inside the cottage, while I made another search of the grounds, accompanied by Lennon once again.

  We found no sign of Des. Like the others, he’d vanished into thin air. Something had taken him and I had a dreadful feeling he was never coming back. I was forced yet again to contact the police. Pixie and Dixie and I were taken to the nearest police station in a patrol car, where we answered a series of questions and made individual statements in a bid to help the cops with their enquiries. The interviewing detective instructed us to keep him informed of our movements and forewarned us that police activity in and around the cottage would intensify.

  They descended upon the place straight away, accompanied by sniffer dogs and a forensic scientist. The news media also put in an appearance, seeking information and interviews. Marcia Climes along with Mr Smooth and the ginger nut with the camera made return appearances, vying for an interview, along with a couple of representatives from the national press. I barricaded myself inside the cottage, having first pleaded with the police to get rid of them.

  That evening I had the dubious honour of being featured on national, as well as local television and radio news programmes, something from which Pixie and Dixie escaped involvement, having boarded a train bound for London shortly after leaving the police station. I didn’t know it then, but it was to be the last contact I would ever have with them. The following morning a structural engineer arrived at the cottage to carry out preliminary checks on the cellar walls, floor and ceiling.

  I phoned David to update him on events.

  “Oh my God,” he said, “Whatever next?

  In the background I heard Jenny say, “What’s happened now?” to which he replied, “Another one has gone missing.”

  Jenny didn’t respond.

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  “So, what will you do?”It was David. He looked worried sick. Jenny, sitting beside him, wore a similar expression.

  I tried to speak, but words failed me. My head was spinning with thoughts of Des and the others, and what might’ve happened to them?

  The house that ate people!

  Why the hell did David have to go and say that?

  Jenny and David glanced at each other, mutual concern clouding their normally carefree faces, and then Jenny said, “Why don’t you talk to Madam Lee again?”

  I looked up, startled by the suggestion. “What on earth for?”

  “Maybe she can help,” Jenny said.

  “I don’t see how.”

  We were in the front room at High Bank Cottage drinking coffee, whilst trying to come up with an idea that might help get me out of the mess I was in.

  “You were convinced she was keeping something from you the night we visited the fair,” Jenny reminded me. “Perhaps it’s time to find out if you were right.”

  “You may have a point,” I said. An idea suddenly sprang into my head. “Why don’t we hold a séance with Madam Lee at the helm?”

  They looked unsure. I told them about the one in which Des, along with Pixie and Dixie had participated.

  When Jenny learned of Pixie’s apparent psychic abilities, she said, “You were lucky you didn’t invite more trouble. Séances can be dangerous if you don’t know what you’re doing. Your friend may have suffered psychological damage as a result. It’s one thing to be psychic, quite another to manage the effect such an ability may have.”

  “Have you ever taken part in one?” I asked.

  “No, but I’ve read quite a bit about them. In order to be effective and safe, the process requires someone who possesses extra sensory powers and personal experience of what is involved, a professional medium in other words, together with a number of willing and open minded participants. The joining of hands is a protective gesture and quite essential.”

  “What’s it protection against?” I asked, suddenly realising I failed to understand even the basic concept.

  “Demonic forces,” Jenny replied simply. “Not all spirits are friendly. The joining of hands symbolises the thinking that there is strength in numbers. It also enables the medium to draw energy from the other participants of the séance. Their mental energy strengthens her psychic awareness and her ability to communicate with the other side. There have been numerous accounts of people being psychologically disturbed as a result of being involved in a séance, and of course, there are lots of stories about people making contact with demonic spirits that cause mischief. But the evidence of such phenomenon is really inconclusive. If it was, everyone would be seeing the world through slightly different eyes I dare say.”

  “Do you really believe the dead can be contacted?” I asked.

  “Yes,” she said unhesitatingly. “I’m also of the opinion
that it can be a dangerous exercise, if one doesn’t know what one’s doing. As I said, you were lucky.”

  “We lost Des,” I pointed out.

  “Not as a direct consequence of the séance,” Jenny countered. “It would probably have happened anyway. Mary Louise and Terry didn’t disappear as a direct result of a séance.”

  “I really don’t know what to do for the best,” I said, voicing my sense of desperation.

  And then, feeling the need to confide, I told them about Melinda and Kayla and the mouldering contents of the blanket Kayla carried around with her. By the time I had finished, David was tense and silent, reserving judgement no doubt. Jenny however looked genuinely horrified.

  “You must consult Madam Lee!” she urged. “Something is reaching out to you, pleading for help. If that help is unforthcoming, God only knows what else will happen!”

  “Okay, how do we go about it,” I asked, referring to arranging another séance.

  Jenny was thoughtful for what seemed like a long time. Finally she turned to me and said; “If we’re to have any hope of success, Madam Lee will have to hold the séance here at the cottage. I’m doubtful she will agree.”

  “Who’s going to ask her?” David asked, his gaze alternating between Jenny and I.

  “I think you should,” Jenny said looking at me.

  “But she knows you better,” I argued.

  “That’s true. However, you’re the one in the thick of things, John. I think it would be better coming from you.”

  I looked across at David, who stared dispassionately into his coffee mug.

  “Okay,” I said feeling I had no real choice in the matter.

  “We’ll need a couple more people if we’re to have any chance of success,” Jenny advised.

  David volunteered Rick and H.

  Jenny rolled her eyes, “Those two idiots!”