The Ghosts of RedRise House

by Caroline Clark

  “Mary!” Matron screamed from below. The voice was dark, guttural, and worthy of a Carlsberg advert.

  Mary turned and pointed and there was anguish on her face. She mouthed something, probably hurry, and then she was gone.

  Jesse understood that she had been jerked back into Matron. That meant that the spirit was back in control. She was strong and dangerous now. His foot poised on the top step. Should he turn and run down to save Gail, or should he continue upward and destroy the altar?

  Trust your instincts.

  It was the most difficult decision of his life and what was only a fraction of a second, seemed like forever. He wavered between running up and down, but in the end he knew there was only one choice.

  If he went down, then Matron had won. If she could pull Mary back, then she was full of power. Too much for him to fight. He had to reduce that power and destroying her altar was the beginning.

  Racing up the stairs, he called on his spirit guides: “Guide me, wise ones. Lead me to the place of the Old Hag’s power. Let me help Gail, Amy, and Rosie. Be with me in the dark places and guide me back to the light.”

  Instantly he knew to turn right at the top of the stairs, and he raced past the first door all the way to the end of the corridor, to the very last door. He burst into the room. Would he be in time?

  48

  Rosie/Matron lay sprawled on the floor. What had happened? It was unacceptable that she could be knocked down, and now Mary was leading her enemy away. Looking for her altar. It was unacceptable, such betrayal. If he got there and destroyed her seat of power, then she would be weakened... she might even fail.

  For a moment she thought about running, just picking up this weak and useless body and leaving this place. Maybe she should go back to RedRise House. It had been safe there. She had been safe there. She could regroup and rest and then come out once more.

  Inside her mind. Rosie laughed. “I knew you would give in,” she taunted. “I knew you were weak and powerless. My friends will defeat you.”

  Matron screamed and rose to her feet. It was time to go, to leave this place and to flee back to safety. She hated to leave Geoffrey but he was all that kept her here. This had all been a mistake.

  Then she felt Rosie relax and her real thoughts were revealed. The coward was trying to save her friends. She intended to take her back to RedRise and kill this body. Once again Matron would be trapped in that house. How many years would it be before she could find another vessel with which to escape?

  Fury filled her with strength, and she closed her eyes. Summoning all her power, she sent pain into Rosie’s mind and pushed her away. More and more pain she sent until Rosie pulled back so far that she could not even sense her presence. Maybe she was gone for good. That didn’t matter. The pleasure she gained from taunting her could be transferred to Mary. With a grin on her face, she called on her, “Come to me, oh sacred blade and let me give you the blood you desire.”

  The knife, her athame, was still in Gail’s hand. The doe-eyed woman looked down at it as it twitched in her fingers. It was laughable and infused Matron with power.

  These fools had believed they could banish her, but they are weak, pathetic, and would make a wonderful addition to her dark harem of spirits.

  “Come to me, blade of mine.” The knife flew from Gail’s hand and straight to her. Reaching out she clasped onto it and then began a satanic ritual to bind her spirits and build her power. “I invoke the four Crowned Princes of Hell.”

  Pointing the knife to the east: “Lucifer, give your power to mine.”

  Pointing the knife to the north: “Beelzebub, grace me with your energy.”

  To the west: “Astaroth, I worship you, bind these souls to me.”

  To the south: “Azazel, complete me with your power.”

  The air darkened and she called on Mary, demanding that the weak old woman return to her side.

  It should have been easy. Rosie was gone, for now, hopefully for good. She had three spirits, three acolytes. They should instill her with power and yet, the only one to do so was Geoffrey.

  “Mary!” she screamed into the air. The word reverberated around the room and up the stairs.

  Nothing happened for seconds, and yet it seemed like forever to Matron. Every millisecond would bring Jesse closer to her altar. Closer to destroying her. If she got Mary back, she would be able to send a wave of destruction through this house. It would knock him off his feet and keep her power safe.

  Straining, pulling, panting with the effort she gave it her all, for if she could not control this one weak spirit then it was over.

  Would she fail in this simple task? Would this weak and timid creature beat her?

  Jesse was at the top of the stairs, so close to her destruction.

  No, never. With her right hand she held the knife; with her left, she grabbed onto the fabric of reality and pulled it to her, hauling Mary back by her very essence.

  A scream rang in her mind. Was it Mary or Rosie? She couldn’t tell but something broke. Something slick and wet inside wrenched free and the pressure eased. Power flooded through her, and Mary was coming back, adding her spirit, albeit reluctantly, to her base of power.

  Mary streamed down the stairs to settle at her side, once more wearing the dark robe of an acolyte. The weak old woman had fought hard, but now she would do as Matron needed.

  Matron turned her attention to James, the last of her acolytes. If she brought his will to hers then, she would be unbeatable.

  Entering his mind, she showed him his death. Terror turned his legs to rubber, but she hauled him up as he threatened to fall. “You are eternal now, strong, and meaningful. Be with me and I can show you the world.”

  James turned to her. Tears formed in his eyes and images of family and friends flooded his mind. She was going to lose him. Then she picked on the image of a young girl, maybe seven or eight years of age, wearing a princess costume. “Join me, or this will happen.”

  Into his mind she sent a picture of the girl pulled apart like a broken doll. Tossed to the floor, her lifeless eyes stared up at him, accusingly.

  James sobbed and it broke his mind. He retreated from the vision and swarmed to her side. The power was amazing and she was ready to take on the world.

  Matron raised her arms, commanding a wind with them, it whirled around the room. Picking up paper, ornaments, and an old shoe. It tore pictures from the walls and circled them like debris caught in a hurricane, tossing and turning with the ferocity of the storm.

  Gail and Amy were thrust to the sides of the room tossed aside like yesterday’s garbage. The tempest she invoked would fill the house. Jesse could not withstand it, and soon he would be beaten and battered by the power of her will.

  The noise and destruction rose to a crescendo of devastation until nothing in the room was still, except Matron. Like a demonic conductor, she orchestrated the melee with a smug smile on her face. Furniture joined in the squall… the faded pink sofa thundered around the room, joined by a matching chair, the television, and a cheap glass stand.

  Centrifugal force crushed Gail against the wall nearest to the door. Amy was flung to the opposite wall.

  Matron stood in the center of the room the knife in her right hand held like a baton. Surrounding her were the three spirits. Geoffrey’s face shone with darkness, his eyes lit with awe. Mary’s was blank, and the bemused expression on James’s face had changed to one of horror.

  She had won. With a sense of great satisfaction, she walked easily through the storm toward Amy.

  The fear in the woman’s eyes filled her with delight.

  Jesse knew he was going in the right direction. A tug inside pulled him forward and he searched his feelings. Was this instinct or was he being guided? It didn’t matter and there was no time to analyze it now.

  He rushed into the room and was rewarded with his goal.

  Across the room was a table with a black cloth on it. Behind the table, on the wall, a pentagram had been
painted. It was at least 8 feet high and wide and looked as if it was scrawled in blood.

  It pulled his eyes and filled his veins with ice water. Something about it made him feel cold, weak, and totally insignificant. The confidence that led him here was suddenly gone, replaced by doubt. It made him want to stop, to give in.

  Shaking his head, he walked forward. The effort for each step was like the last half mile of a marathon he had once run. It was too much. His muscles screamed, begging him to just give in. Exhaustion hung heavily on him, but he pushed on. This was the spirits’ enrapture. The altar was strong and was giving him these feelings of powerlessness. He must fight them.

  One more step; just focus on one step at a time. He grabbed hold of the bracelet on his wrist and felt the fuzziness clear away. He could do this.

  On each side of the table was a black candlestick, and in the middle was a large book. It was opened to what looked like a blank page.

  As he started forward, blood red writing appeared on the page. He was too far away to read it, but he knew that it was the story of his failure. It would tell of his, Amy’s, and Gail’s deaths… of how their souls were added to Matron’s power.

  No! How could he let himself be used?

  Then don’t. The voice in his head was Sylvia’s, and it spurred him on.

  That page wasn’t completed yet. And if it ever was, he would tear it out of that book and he would burn it and stamp on the ashes with every ounce of strength he had left.

  Spurred on, he surged across the room. He was so close. He knew that Gail would be undergoing something similar. She may be fighting for her life… he had to shut out those thoughts. If he could break a line on the pentagram and pull off the altar cloth, then Matron’s power would be reduced.

  It was a small room. He was half-way there. All he had to do was take five more steps and he could rip off that cloth.

  Dashing, running, one step, two, the room filled with a hurricane that picked him from his feet and pushed him back to the door. It knocked him through it and then slammed the door shut behind him.

  The once quiet hallway was a tsunami of sound and wind. Pictures flew past him as he fought to hold his ground, to work his way back to the door. He was fighting both the wind and the urge to race down the stairs to help Gail.

  Despair advanced toward him as the wind fought his limbs. He wouldn’t make it; he couldn’t make it.

  A vase hurtled through the air, crashing into his head.

  49

  Matron took the time to gloat, staring down at Amy as she shivered on the floor at her feet. The knife, her Athame, was strong, warm, and powerful in her hand. The handle, slick with blood, was like an old friend in her palm.

  Holding it high above her head, she let the wind die down, let her guard drop as she savored this victory.

  Once Amy was dead, all resistance inside would be gone. Rosie would be so broken, her mind shattered into a thousand fragile pieces of denial, despair, and what-ifs. Victory was sweet on her tongue, all her worries had been for nothing. How had she ever believed that these puny creatures were a threat to one as old and powerful as she?

  With her acolytes now on her side. She waited for Amy’s terror to grow, to rise to a crescendo. Amy’s eyes were so wide, her mouth, a thin line quivered, and her limbs refused to move.

  It was perfect.

  The knife began its gentle arc through the air. In just moments it would connect with Amy’s throat and would tear open her jugular, covering Matron with fresh hot blood.

  She licked her lips in anticipation as the knife fell.

  Pushed back against the wall, Gail could only watch in despair as Matron approached the other woman. The wind howled around her, pressing her against the wall with a force so hard it pushed her cheeks against her teeth and strained her neck.

  “Be gone, foul beast!” she shouted, but the wind caught her words in the air and threw them back in her face. It was like whispering next to a jet engine. No one was going to hear; no one was going to take notice.

  Jesse had followed Mary, he would be working to help them. All she had to do was apply pressure. Somewhere in the scramble, she had lost her Holy water, but she could repeat the exorcism in her mind. It was the thought of the words that counted. How many times had Jesse told her that?

  As she began to will that the spirit be driven from this room, Mary appeared behind Matron. She was back in the black robes and she looked scared, beaten. Maybe it was over.

  Rosie knew she was fading, losing. Matron was growing in strength at such a rate that she didn’t know how much longer she could hold on. But she could watch, and she had seen the courage that Mary had shown. The woman wanted to help and she deserved help in return. Maybe helping her would help them all.

  Digging deep inside, she wanted to scream as her body approached her best friend with the knife raised above her head. Would she have to watch as she killed Amy? It was almost too much to bear, but she tried to send a message to her friend, letting her eyes shine with love, not hate. Hold on, my friend. I will try to help you, she whispered in her mind before she pulled back inside her vault and concentrated on the releasing prayer she had found at RedRise House.

  It had been in the books The Sacrifices of RedRise House and the Resurrection of Old Hag, and she had used it to free the spirits of some of the children. Maybe she could use it now to release Mary.

  Searching her mind, she shut out the horror before her, shut out the sight of her friend, now very much afraid and in mortal danger. All she had time for was the words. Could she remember them? Almost straight away, they said in her mind as if they had been put there In the Name of Jesus, I rebuke the spirit of Mary Price. I command you leave this place, without manifestation and without harm to me or anyone, so that He can dispose of you according to His Holy Will.

  When she had done this at the house, the children had smiled at her and then had faded out of existence. She didn’t know where they went, but it felt good and right and she hoped that this act would release Mary and slow Matron down.

  Her arm was starting to fall. The knife would be rushing toward Amy. It was too late; her friend was all but dead.

  Mary fought against the Old Hag’s hold, but it was too strong. She was bound to her, forced to watch in horror as another soul would be claimed. Then she felt a tug inside, a warmth to chase away the cold, and she heard Rosie’s prayer.

  It was like a chain was removed from her neck, as though her hands were suddenly freed from the shackles that bound her to the spirit. She could leave; she could be free. But she watched as Amy cowered back against the wall. This strong woman was so afraid that she was unable to move. Mary wanted to go to her, to help her, but it wasn’t her place.

  There was another tug, one that felt like love. She glanced behind her and saw a bright white light. It welcomed her and she wanted to go to it with every fiber of her soul. It called her home, but the thought of Amy’s terror would not let her leave.

  For a moment, she turned, but then she rushed forward, through the Old Hag. As she did, Matron shuddered. It knocked her off balance and the knife fell from her hands.

  Mary turned to see Rosie beneath the façade of the Matron, and she smiled, nodding a thank you. The call of the light was overpowering now and she had no choice but to go with it. Matron was starting to stand. She was reaching for the knife, but so was Amy. Mary wanted to stay to help, but she couldn’t resist the calm, the peace that called to her. As she passed the Old Hag. she reached out to clasp the necklace, the pentagram that hung around Rosie’s neck. Instinctively she knew it was the woman’s power, but she was already leaving this plane and her fingers passed right through the chain.

  Peace washed over her as she was surrounded by light. There was a fleeting thought for those left behind, but soon even that was gone. Their journey was not hers and they would have to find their own way.

  As Mary smiled, Rosie felt Matron’s hold loosen, felt the knife fall from her fingers. Now she was
fighting once more. Struggling to stop her limbs from moving. At the same time she could see Amy. Her friend was throwing herself forward, trying to reach the knife before she could. It would be touch and go. They were closer, but Matron would have to fight Rosie every inch of the way.

  Amy reached for the knife at the same time as Gail came up behind Rosie. She pushed hard, knocking her away from the knife. Then she saw her bottle of Holy water. It had landed against the wall and was just a few feet away.

  Amy was stiff reaching for the knife. She grabbed hold of it but, the desperate plunge had left her off balance and she rolled over and closer to Matron. Gail could hear a struggle start as she picked up the water.

  Turning, she could see Matron beneath the skin of Rosie. It was as if a negative and positive image were laid one over the other. They were fighting an internal battle and Matron was struggling to get to Amy. The three-way fight continued while Gail took a breather. Jesse had told her that in situations like this, it was always quicker to step back, take stock and to let your instincts tell you what to do. She wanted to rush in, to shout, to scream, and to throw the rest of her Holy water over this evil witch, but she knew that it would have little effect.

  She began to chant, putting her heart and soul into releasing Matron from this plane. As she did so, Geoffrey appeared before her. There was malice in his eyes. They burned and knocked her back with their fury.

  For a moment, the two circled each other. Could he hurt her? She knew it was doubtful, from what she had learned. However, it seemed that with every case, the lines got redrawn as she learned a new trick or two.

  Then it came to her... she tossed Holy water over Geoffrey and watched him coil back with revulsion.