Feeling this pressure, I thought about how I’d stage the summoning. The last time I’d summoned a spirit had been in the burned house. On that occasion, I’d used a candle with Katy Johnson’s name etched onto it, and had rubbed it in oil. I’d lit it in the dark, and Katy had come.
I decided that I’d do the same again, just without a name. But I’d need to stage the summoning in a dark place, so that the spirit would be attracted to the light. I thought about doing it in my bedroom. Then I remembered the night before, Dad returning with the saw. There must have been a shed outside. If the shed didn’t have windows, and I closed the door behind me, I was sure I’d be cast into near total blackness. Plus, I’d be distant from Zara.
Rushing to the kitchen window, I looked out to their back garden. What with the awful weather, I’d ignored it so far. But now, looking across the expanse of green, the neat beds of purple, yellow, orange flowers, I noticed that at the very end of the garden there was a small wooden shed. No windows. Just a door.
Perfect. I had the place. Which meant that all I needed was a candle, oil, sage and salt. Especially the latter two. Because if I was going to summon a spirit that was capable of possessing others, then I definitely wanted protection.
Hopefully, this time, that protection would be enough.
After hunting through the cupboards, I found only salt and oil. No sage, though I’d never expected him to have it, anyway. Not burning it would make me weaker; the smoke gave me protection against spirits. I hoped that my energy as a medium would be enough, and that maybe this spirit wasn’t quite as strong as Alice Pickering or Katy Johnson.
There was a tall candle sitting on the fireplace, which I nicked. It was a deep red, a fancy candle, but it didn’t matter. A candle was a candle. As long as it burned, it was fine.
I embalmed it in the kitchen, the candle greasy in my left hand. Clutching the back-door handle, salt and lighter in my pocket, I glanced behind me. Dad and Bella had been gone for no more than half-an-hour. Zara still hadn’t stirred. If she was as much of a sloth as she seemed, then hopefully she wouldn’t rouse for another hour or two.
Which gave me plenty of time. Plenty of time to work out if my hunch was true.
Clicking down the door handle, the cold, wet air hit my face. Somewhere in my mind, a tiny voice said that I could still turn back. Close the door, enjoy my last day here, and return to Grantford. Still time to put who I was behind me, once again. Last time, I’d nearly died. For that matter, my best friend had died. I’d lost my girlfriend, and not a day had passed since that I hadn’t wanted her, that her face, her voice, hadn’t been etched into my thoughts. All because of my ability to speak to the dead. It had ruined me; ruined everything.
But Bella was basically my step-mum, and she seemed kind. If I was the only person who could help, then I had to. I had no choice.
Walking across the grass, I closed the lid on my mind. The shed door creaked as I pulled it back. Rain pattered against the earth. Brushed my hair.
The clouds above allowed little light through, so it was hard to see the interior of the shed, cast into a murky gloom. I could make out some tools hanging from a shelf in the corner, including the saw. In another corner were some old bed sheets, and in the middle of the shed, a lawnmower. The rest was a jumble of paint tins and plant pots and garden furniture. There was barely enough room to move. The only clear space I could see was to the right of the lawnmower, where there was just enough floor to stand.
Settling for my target, I closed the shed door. As it rattled into place, the world of light disappeared behind me, and I was plunged into darkness. The only light that remained was the stuff that crawled underneath the door, only to vanish again between the cracks in the floorboards.
I swallowed. Struggled to manoeuvre my legs to the one bit of empty land. My shin whacking against a chair leg, I cried out. Then stepped forwards. Something long and stringy brushing my right cheek.
I could think of better places to hold a summoning, but it would have to do. I only hoped that this rotting, mouldy shed wouldn’t be my last sight.
Slowly, I pulled the lighter from my pocket. I held my breath as I lit the single, ruby candle. As soon as the wick took, Dad’s jumble of things glowed with a sombre light, which barely reached the shed’s corners. Next, I sprinkled the salt in a protective circle around me.
There was nothing left to do. Feeling bare without sage or a crystal, and stupid summoning a spirit amongst garden tools, I allowed the words to escape my mouth. “We call the spirits among us who wish to communicate.” My voice sounded full in the busy shed: there was no echo.
As I repeated the phrase again, I felt a scratching in my throat. “We call the spirits among us who wish to communicate.”
I looked to each corner of the shed, expecting perhaps a tool to move, or the darkness to shift.
Nothing.
“We call the spirits among us who wish to communicate.”
I must have said this ten, fifteen times. Still nothing. Still, the shed was lifeless; apart from me, looking like an idiot, chanting with my decorative candle.
Yes?
I jumped. Stumbled. Nearly sprawled backwards onto the lawnmower. But, at the last moment, I managed to regain my balance. Thank God, because if I’d have fallen over then, had lost control of the situation, it might have been the end of me.
“He-hello?” I said. Now, my voice seemed to bounce off the shed. As if it were hollow, empty. As if it had quadrupled in size.
I looked to the corner. The saw swung a little on its hook, barely perceptible, but just enough of a teeter to be seen. Then, starting gradually before becoming more noticeable, the darkness began to curl like smoke, wisp like smog. Wisping towards me. Pushing. Choking.
I spluttered.
Who are you?
As always, the spirit’s words reverberated off the inside of my mind. I never heard a spirit’s voice with my ears, for they couldn’t speak.
I cleared my throat. Looked at the wispy darkness, trying to sound as confident as possible. “My name is Jonny. I don’t know if you’re the spirit that I’m looking for, but—”
SPIRIT!?
Reflexively, I put my hands over my ears as the spirit screeched this word. Of course, this made no difference.
Is that what I am? Am I a spirit? This whole time, I’ve been a spirit? But, wait ‒ you’ve found me! You’ve found me! Please, save me! Please, save me!
I tried to relax a little, despite the voice burning a hole in my mind. After all, the spirit didn’t sound intimidating, or like it might kill me at any moment. In fact, the spirit sounded desperate for help.
“What’s your name? What happened to you? You see, I’m a medium. It means I can help spirits to cross over to the after-life. And maybe I can help you, too.”
The spirit stopped shouting.
Help me? Yes. Please. That’s what I need. I just need help. I just need to know . . .
“Need to know what?”
About him.
I shook my head. The spirit was speaking in riddles.
“I need to know more. Who is him? And for that matter, who are you?”
Who am I?
She paused for a few moments, which allowed me to realise that this wasn’t a rhetorical question. The spirit genuinely seemed to be struggling to recall her name.
I am . . . old. Very old. Or at least, I think I am. My name . . . my name . . .
The spirit wailed.
I can’t remember my name! And I definitely can’t remember his name!
“Okay! Okay! Please, calm down. Who is this ‘he’ that you keep talking about?” If I knew this, then maybe I could get to the bottom of what the spirit was trying to tell me.
He? Who is he?
“Yes. Who is he?”
He’s the person I can’t remember. I can see him, but I can’t picture his name.
“Okay. And why is he so important? What did he do?”
I think it was him that killed m
e. I think it was him that burned me alive.
“He burned you – alive?”
My final word caught in my throat, as all the images of what had happened to this spirit flickered through my mind. The fire burning. The woman’s skin spitting, turning to ashes. And then her screams, piercing the air.
Yes. I think he might have. But you see, I don’t know. I just don’t know.
“And you can’t remember your name? You can’t remember his name?”
No. Not at all.
“But who was he? To you, I mean?”
He was my . . . he was in love with me. I think. Or something like that.
“In love with you? And he burned you alive? But you only think? And where did this happen? How long ago was it?” I thought that if I kept asking the spirit questions, then maybe I could jog her memory about who she was, let alone find out what she might be doing to Bella, if anything at all.
It was – a very long time ago. You see, they thought that I was a witch.
The hairs on my ears rose. I pictured Devil’s Lake. Was there a connection?
“They thought you were a witch? How long ago was this?”
Like I said, a very long time ago. I couldn’t tell you how long, though. It could have been a year. It could have been hundreds. I don’t know what time is any more. Not in this place . . .
I knew how dark and terrifying Limbo was, the realm in which the spirit was living. It was a dark mirror of our world, where only sadness and anger lingered. It was meant to be a steppingstone for spirits crossing to the after-life; but sometimes, they got stuck there, perhaps because they wanted a family member that was still alive, or maybe because they didn’t understand how they’d died. This spirit definitely seemed to fit into the second category. The problem was, because Limbo was dark and angry, it only made spirits worse. It only made it harder for them to cross over.
“I know how tough it can be in Limbo, which is where you are now. Look, if you help me a little here, then maybe I can help you. I need to know something though. Do you know a woman called Bella?”
Bella?
“Yes, Bella. She’s still alive. And she lives in the house behind me. She’s been having some . . . strange nightmares, where she sleepwalks and, well, sometimes she tries to kill herself.” I was hoping that by being this specific, I might jog the spirit’s mind.
Oh, gosh. How awful. But no, I don’t know Bella.
I bit my lip. The spirit could be lying, of course; but, from her tone, I considered this to be unlikely. Maybe I could have completely the wrong spirit. Or, I could be completely wrong about the whole possession thing altogether.
I tried a different line of questioning.
“How did you find me? Apart from my candle, that is. Were you near to me?”
Yes, very near. In fact, I think I used to live here.
“Live here? In this house?”
No, perhaps not in this house. But near here. Very close to here. I can’t really remember much about anything. I just remember the fire. And the burning. And—
She stopped speaking, as if it had become too much for her to bear.
“Look: I can try to help you, but I don’t have much to go on without your name. You say you were burned alive.” The horrific images returned to me. Skin splitting. Sizzling. “But where were you burned? Near here? Perhaps if I know, then I can find out who you are.”
Oh, thank you. Thank you so much. You really don’t know how grateful I am. But again, I don’t know.
I was beginning to realise that the spirit didn’t know much about anything.
It’s so confusing, being here. Everything inside of me hurts. And I so want to know. So want to know what happened to me.
My heart softened. “I know. Look, I’ll do everything I can to find out what happened to you, but I’ll need some time. Is that okay?”
Yes. Thank you so much for helping me. It's felt like ages have passed here, just dwindling in my own sadness. But now, maybe, I can finally get some answers.
“It’s okay. I’ll return to you when I have more.”
Okay. See you soon.
The darkness thinned. The motion of the air stopped, and became still.
I blew out the candle flame, the lawnmower and tools cast into total blackness once again. Then, I rubbed my face with my free palm. I was no closer to knowing what was happening to Bella. If anything, I was even further away.
And, to top it all off, I now had to deal with this mess. A spirit that thought she’d been burned alive by someone that loved her, which made no sense. A spirit that had been accused of being a witch, which made the whole thing even more complex, considering the witch hunts had been over 400 years ago. How was I going to prove what had happened to the spirit? Would there still be records of all the women that had died at Devil’s Lake?
It was an impossible jigsaw, alright. However, while there was still a chance that the spirit was in some way connected to Bella, I had no choice but to try to help her. Only thing was, this spirit and Bella’s episodes didn’t connect. Bella’s episodes were violent, seemed to be done with purpose. Whereas this spirit seemed kind, innocent.
My stomach rolled. I could call Aaron, and ask for his advice. He would probably know what was happening to Bella. I remembered his text, telling me that he was always there to chat. Always waiting with a cup of tea. I felt for my phone in my pocket. Pulled my hand away again. Not yet. Too soon. Besides, I could do this on my own, at least for the moment. Do a little research, and find out a little more about the witches of Peene.
I stumbled over the garden equipment to get back to the shed door, back to some form of natural daylight, even if it was dulled by the thick grey clouds that had swarmed the sky for days now.
Pushing the door open, I thought about my next steps. My research. The spirit.
And that was when I looked up to see Zara, a few metres away from me, her arms crossed. Her face slanted in a frown.
8
“What on Earth are you doing in our shed?”
My arms quivered. I tried to reply, but could only stare at Zara. Stood there. Stood watching me, after I’d—
“Well? You going to give me some sort of answer?”
“I was . . . just looking for something.”
She scoffed. “Just looking for something? What, did you fancy mowing the lawn? Besides, I heard you talking in there. Were you on the phone or something?” She looked down. “And what’s that in your hand? Is that one of Mum’s candles?”
Her voice rose a little, like I’d vandalised her house, rather than burnt a candle.
“Look, it’s not what it seems—”
“Right. You need to tell me what you were doing now, before I call Mum.”
“No. Don’t do that. Look, it’s really complicated—”
“Does it have anything to do with what happened last night? Were you telling your mum about it, and didn’t want me to hear? Is this your own back, hey? Your revenge? Telling your mum about how crazy my family is? Making my mum sound like a nutter? Well she’s not, okay! She’s a lovely woman! And my dad was horrible to her, and we never asked for any of this!”
I couldn’t stop my mouth from falling open, as Zara turned and stormed back to the house. I followed her.
“Look, Zara, don’t—”
“I have to. I can’t have you making my mum sound like a—”
“Look, it’s not like that! I was trying to help your mum, okay!”
We were in the kitchen, Zara by the hallway, heading towards her room to retrieve her phone. But now, she stopped, and turned back to face me.
“You expect me to believe that?”
“Look, I’m not expecting you to believe anything. All I’m asking is that you hear me out.”
“Okay. What do you have to say, then?”
I thought for a moment. My palms had suddenly become very sweaty. My jaw stiff. I’d only ever told this secret to two people. Not even Mum knew this about me. But if I didn’t want Zar
a calling her mum, and telling her what I was doing in there, and then Dad and Bella asking me questions about it, and maybe finding out what I’d really been doing . . .
No, it was better this way. Besides, maybe Zara could help me. If she believed what I was about to tell her, that would be the perfect scenario.
“I have a hunch,” I said.
“A hunch about what?”
“Your mum.”
She laughed. “What, are you a doctor or something?”
“No.” I braced myself, as the words left the tip of my tongue. “But I can speak to ghosts.”
I expected her to stand there in shock, stare at me. Maybe even get angry with me, start shouting that I shouldn’t make jokes like that. But instead, she merely laughed. “What? What are you talking about?”
I tried to read into her reaction. Decided that she was listening to me, at the very least. I sighed. Prepared my story. “It all started about a year ago. My friends forced me to go into this crypt thing, and inside, I heard the voice of a spirit.”
Zara shook her head. “That’s ridiculous.”
“I wish it was. I really wish it was. Ever since, I’ve heard the voices of many spirits. Some have been kind, others not so much. Some I’ve been able to help, others I haven’t. Just now, when I was in your shed, I summoned a spirit. One that was particularly upset, and in need of desperate help. I don’t know how, but I think this spirit might be causing your mother’s . . . episodes. When I touched Bella last night, when we helped her down from the ceiling, I felt these bolts of energy travelling through me. Like I always feel when I’m near a spirit. And then it got me to thinking ‒ maybe she’s being possessed.”
Unfortunately, Zara’s reaction wasn’t what I’d hoped for. Her face tightened. “Are you taking the piss?”
The Witch Hunt (Jonny Roberts Series Book 3) Page 6