The Haunting of Henderson Close

by Cavendish

  “OK, Hannah, would you join us at the table, please? Kate, please would you step out and observe?”

  Kate nodded and bolted out of her chair, clearly relieved to be out of the action.

  Hannah’s fear clenched her muscles, tightened her jaw and drained her saliva. She took Kate’s seat and placed her gloved finger lightly on the glass.

  “Right,” Andrea said. “Introduce yourself, Hannah, and we’ll see what the spirit wants to talk to you about.”

  Hannah tried to moisten her dry lips. Her words didn’t sound like her. Her voice wavered and she cleared her throat. “My name is…I’m Hannah. You have something to…to…say to me?”

  The planchette circled around the board, until it came to rest on ‘Yes’.

  Andrea nodded at Hannah, urging her on.

  “What do you want to say?”

  The planchette threw itself off the board. It sailed past Hannah’s left shoulder and suddenly she was somewhere else.

  The noise and clamor were almost deafening. Horses, carts, costermongers shouting out their wares. Drunken men singing outside a crowded pub. Inside, someone was attempting to play an out-of-tune piano. Badly.

  Hannah looked around. She was standing outside Murdoch Maclean’s printing shop and, as she glanced down at her twenty-first-century clothes, she understood why she was drawing some unwanted, curious attention.

  Behind her, Murdoch Maclean spoke. “Ye’d better come in, lassie. That’s if ye dinnae want tae get yersel’ mugged.”

  Hannah caught the eye of a man of indeterminate age, face blackened with grime, leaning against a railing across the street. His trousers were tied at the waist with a piece of filthy twine and were more rags than whole. He leered at her, showing blackened teeth. Hannah hastily retreated into the shop and banged the door shut.

  “Dinnae do that. Ye’ll have me hinges off.”

  “Sorry.”

  “Now what can I dae for ye?”

  How could she answer that? Ask him to point her in the direction of the twenty-first century?

  “I seem to be a bit lost.”

  Murdoch Maclean tossed back his hair and laughed. He wiped his ink-stained hands on his apron. “Ye can say that agin, lassie. In those clothes, ye certainly dinnae belong here. Where are ye frae?”

  Might as well tell a little white lie. Being a Scot he probably hated the English anyway. “I’m from Wiltshire. England.”

  “Aye. English. I guessed as much. The accent. So what’s a Sassenach lassie doing in the erse-end of Auld Reekie?”

  “Erse-end?”

  The printer tapped his backside.

  “Would you believe me if I said I haven’t the faintest idea?”

  Murdoch Maclean carried on wiping his hands and his eyes never left hers. Finally, he reached for a clay pipe and tobacco pouch. “Aye, lass, I would. I dinnae ken where ye come frae, but I do ken ye were in my shop not two weeks back. Dressed like ma auld granny.” He looked Hannah up and down. “Now I dinnae what to make of ye.”

  “You remember me being here? I almost believed I’d dreamed it.”

  “No, lass, ye were here awreet. Now, where was it ye wanted to go? Maybe I can tell ye how to get there.”

  Hannah wished she could tell him. She wanted to be where she was, but apparently more than a hundred years into the future.

  “I’m sorry…I.…” The room darkened, as if a total eclipse had blocked out the sun. The cacophony of street noise grew muffled and faded as rapidly as the daylight.

  “Hannah. Hannah.”

  She realized her eyes were tightly closed and opened them. A sea of concerned faces studied her closely.

  “Where were you?” Rory asked.

  “You mean I wasn’t here?”

  “You were physically here, but as for where your mind was.…” He shook his head.

  “Why? What happened? What did I do?”

  George touched her hand. “You were talking to someone. You seemed to be answering questions. Something about being lost, not having the faintest idea about something and believing you’d dreamed it – whatever it is.”

  “But I was here all the time?”

  “Of course,” Dave said. “We’ve all been sitting or standing around this table for the past twenty minutes. It’s been fascinating listening to you. Best trance I’ve ever seen.”

  “Trance?”

  “Something like it,” Andrea said. She indicated the planchette, which had been replaced to its central position on the board. “Now let’s try again. Hannah, ask it what it wants to say to you.”

  Hannah pushed her chair away and stood. “No, I’m sorry. I really can’t. I’ll stay and watch, but I’m not going to participate anymore tonight. Not after.…”

  Andrea frowned. She looked as if she was about to reprimand Hannah but thought better of it. “OK. Let’s see if anyone else wants to talk to us tonight. Kate, come and sit back down.” She did so, hesitantly, and the four who were now seated placed their forefingers on the planchette. Andrea called out.

  “We welcome any spirits who are with us here tonight. Is there anyone who wants to talk to one of us?”

  Slowly the planchette began to move. Scott had his pen ready and started to write as it quickly made its way around the board, stopping at letter after letter, until it finally came to rest.

  Andrea cleared her throat. “What have we got, Scott?”

  “Just deciphering it now. Got it. It says, ‘Tell Hannah to come and find me.’”

  “Find who?” Hannah said. “Mairead?”

  The planchette stirred and moved again. More rapidly this time. Scott seemed to struggle to keep up. Once again, it stopped.

  “Did you get that?” Andrea asked.

  “Think so. OK, it says, ‘In the graveyard. By my plaque. Come tonight.’”

  “What?” Hannah’s heart was racing.

  “Do you know who this is, Hannah?” Rory asked.

  “I think she does,” George said. “I think we both do. It isn’t Mairead, is it, Hannah?”

  Hannah shook her head. “I don’t know.”

  “OK, you probably don’t know. Maybe some of you do. Anyone here familiar with Greyfriars Kirkyard?”

  A few murmurs and nods.

  “Well, you’ll all be aware of the ghost of old George Mackenzie, who persecuted the Covenanters when he was alive and takes great delight in frightening unsuspecting tourists now he’s dead?”

  A little nervous laughter this time.

  “What you probably don’t know is that not too far from the prison where he incarcerated all those people is a plaque on a wall. All it says is ‘Miss Carmichael’. No dates. No first name and no one knows who commissioned it, or what their connection might have been to the lady of that name.”

  “Is that the same Miss Carmichael who was murdered here?” Rory asked.

  “It’s generally assumed so, although no one can actually say for certain.”

  “And you think Miss Carmichael has been in touch with us tonight,” Hannah said. “And that she wants me to go to her plaque tonight?”

  The group exchanged glances with each other, as George nodded.

  “You’re not going on your own though,” he said. “I’m coming with you.”

  The planchette shot out from under their fingers and landed on ‘No’. Then it moved again.

  “Alone,” Scott said. “It wants you to come alone.”

  “No chance!” Hannah stared at the now-still planchette. “I never believed in those things before. I always thought people used magnets or something to make them fly across the table.”

  Andrea’s voice was harsh. Indignant. “I can assure you no one interfered with that planchette. I don’t ever remember it doing that before.”

  The others murmured their agreement.

&
nbsp; “And what about that mist?” Andrea was in full flow now. “And the child with no face Rory caught on camera?”

  “I’m the resident skeptic in this group,” Dave said. “If that was a special effect, hats off to you guys. It’s the best I’ve ever seen. Most convincing.”

  “I can assure you that was nothing to do with us,” George said. “We don’t do that kind of special effect.”

  “It was real,” Kate said. “Why do you find it so hard to accept, Dave?”

  “After tonight, I doubt that I shall. It’s the first time I can honestly say I’ve been scared, and I’ve lost count of how many vigils I’ve been on.”

  “I’m sorry, Andrea, I shouldn’t have said what I said,” Hannah said. “I’m still trying to rationalize what’s going on here.”

  George stood up. “I think we should stop this. Now. This has moved on from being a harmless bit of fun into something none of us understands. I’m sorry but as the most senior member of staff here, I’m taking the decision to end this séance right now. Maybe another night and without Hannah present.”

  “Then nothing will happen,” Dave said. “It doesn’t usually. This is the best manifestation I can ever remember. That mist. The child with no face.…”

  “I’m not risking Hannah’s welfare.”

  “And what about the graveyard?” Rory asked. “Are you going there tonight?”

  Was she? A part of Hannah desperately wanted to go – but alone? Surely that was asking for trouble. She knew none of these people, except George, and she didn’t know him particularly well. What if someone here had an ulterior motive for getting her alone in a deserted graveyard in the dead of night? No, it was far too risky.

  She shook her head. “Not tonight. And certainly not alone.”

  “Wise decision,” George said. “Now folks, if you don’t mind, I think we’d better call it a night. We’ll refund your money. I’ll talk to Ailsa tomorrow.”

  The group muttered and took their time packing up their equipment.

  * * *

  George walked Hannah home through the deserted streets. A chill wind whipped up Hannah’s hair and her cheeks and nose tingled. Occasional icy raindrops splattered onto her coat and face.

  “Dreich tonight, isn’t it?” George said.

  “Dreich? Oh yes. Very wet and cold. I hate this time of the year. Everything is so grey and dead.”

  Their footsteps echoed on the silent street.

  “Do you want to go to the graveyard?” George asked.

  Hannah thought again before speaking. “On a fine night maybe. Daytime would be better though.” She stopped. A strand of hair blew into her mouth and she brushed it away. “Has anything like this ever happened to you before, George?”

  He faced her and laughed. “Not as such. But since I’ve been working at Henderson Close, I’ve become used to odd things happening. People tell me strange tales. One visitor swore he was possessed by the spirit of Miss Carmichael for about thirty seconds. He said she showed him who her murderer was. The one they never caught. I asked him who it was and he said she had left his body before revealing his identity. I could have simply dismissed the man’s story, but he was white-faced, shaking, and swore he wasn’t making it up. His wife assured us all that he wasn’t given to flights of fancy. Rather the reverse. He was a total skeptic about ghosts and such things. That was a couple of years ago and I’m still not sure whether he was telling the truth, having a hallucination or it really did happen to him. These days I keep an open mind. I find it’s the best way. But if you want to go, and you’re going at night, promise me you’ll let me know. You’ve got my number, text me or give me a call.”

  “Thanks, George. I will.” They carried on a few more yards. “This is me.”

  He nodded at the café. “Handy if you want a coffee.”

  “I could murder one. But they’re closed. I’ll have to make do with instant, at home.”

  “I’d invite myself in to join you, but it’s late. Not as late as it would have been if that séance hadn’t imploded, but I’m away to my bed now.”

  “Thanks for shutting it down tonight. It was getting a bit too intense. I’m still not sure what really happened.”

  “Beyond going back in time to visit the real Murdoch Maclean.”

  Hannah smiled. “Who knows?”

  “’Night, Hannah.”

  “’Night, George.”

  Hannah unlocked her door, ran up the stairs to her apartment and felt grateful for the warmth of the central heating that greeted her at her door. No smell of lavender tonight and she found she missed it in an odd sort of way.

  She undressed and put on pajamas and a warm fleecy dressing gown before making herself a comforting mug of hot chocolate. She would be warm and snug on the sofa. She curled up on it, her feet cozy in her sheepskin-lined slippers.

  Picking up the remote, she turned on the TV, and rapidly became increasingly irritated by the trashy shopping channels and endless re-runs of ancient programs best forgotten. Late night viewers and chronic insomniacs had little to cheer them from the hundreds of channels available.

  She switched off, closed her eyes and sipped her delicious chocolate. Her tension released and her mind wandered back a few years. Like a series of snapshots, she remembered her wedding day. So young and pretty in her long white dress and veil.

  Their reception. Her father had always been a traditionalist. He slipped her hand into Roger’s at the altar, a tear in his eye. Her mother had wept copious tears ‘of joy’ she insisted, while drenching a pretty, but useless, lace handkerchief. Roger’s best man gave a funny speech. In her mind’s eye, Hannah could see him now, standing, smart in his grey suit, telling outrageous stories of his and Roger’s exploits when they were teenagers backpacking in Europe. Hannah couldn’t remember his name. Strange how daft things like that simply wiped themselves from your memory when they were no longer needed.

  The years flashed by in her memory. Jenna’s birth. The smell of her as she lay, all pink and chubby-cheeked in a soft blanket. Tiny fists pumped the air, commanding the attention of anyone within sight or sound of her. Her legs kicked and bucked like an excited kitten.

  Her baptism. The poor young vicar almost dropped her in the font when she suddenly let out a plaintive wail he hadn’t expected at that moment. Maybe she had already decided her stance on religion even at that early age. She certainly hadn’t shown any inclination to attend since.

  Jenna growing up. Her early love of reading put her well ahead of the rest of her class when she began school. Between games and books, Jenna had not been a difficult child to please. Only if the weather turned nasty in the summer holidays and she had run out of reading material. Then she would be under everyone’s feet until a trip to the local library was forthcoming or the sun came out.

  Hannah sipped her hot chocolate and allowed her mind to drift further. She and Roger had done better than many and enjoyed fifteen or more years of a mostly happy marriage before things started to go wrong. She never saw it coming although she probably should have done. But she had been too wrapped up in her own career and Jenna.

  Roger seemed self-sufficient. Absorbed in his own career, which started to go from strength to strength right at the time Jenna was studying for GCSEs. He was promoted and began to work later at night. Sometimes his job would take him to London and he would stop over there for a night or two. Jenna achieved eight good GCSEs, followed by a clutch of A Levels and a degree in English. Then followed training as a teacher, and her unexpected decision to emigrate to Australia.

  “I’ve landed this amazing job in a school in Brisbane, Mum. You’ll be able to come and visit and I can come back over here for holidays. Please be happy for me. It’s the sort of opportunity I’d probably never get in this country.”

  Hannah refused to be one of those clingy, whining mothers – she had seen enough
of that already – so didn’t question why her daughter could only apparently get a decent teaching post thousands of miles away from home. Instead, she stiffened her backbone and plastered a beaming smile across her face. Jenna went off happy, excited at her new life. Hannah dried her tears. At least she still had Roger. And her career. She too had achieved promotion and the pressures of teaching and an increasingly heavy workload of administration kept her occupied day and night.

  Looking back now, she couldn’t understand how she could have missed all the obvious signals. With Jenna gone, enjoying her new life, she and Roger had nothing left in common. They were two individuals sharing a house. Sharing a bed they never even cuddled in anymore. Going through the motions of a marriage that, in truth, had been dead for years.

  Then it changed. At first, she enjoyed the flowers, the unexpected bottles of champagne. In all their years of marriage, he had never been one to shower her with gifts. Always something nice at birthdays and Christmas and he never forgot an anniversary, but spontaneous bunches of flowers? Never. Now, whenever he came back from a trip away for more than a day or two, he would arrive back home and shower her with gifts. Hannah would be amazed and thank him. She told colleagues at work. She saw them exchange glances and she knew what they were thinking. But she knew better. Not her Roger. He would never betray her.

  “I want to show my appreciation for everything you do for me,” he would say, always managing to just avoid her eyes. “You’ve always supported me. Financially in the early days.”

  That was true. He had been a struggling accounts assistant, studying for his full accountancy qualifications while working at a low-paid, monotonous job. She, on the other hand, had taught Drama in a large Comprehensive School. His career had blossomed, as had hers.

  Then she achieved a further promotion. She became Head of Drama. No sooner had they celebrated that, than Roger decided the time was right to give her some news of his own. But instead of telling her, he left her a note. She read it and re-read it countless times and could still remember every word even though she had long consigned it to the flames of the wood-burning stove in her former home.