Possession

  ‘We’ve got a problem, with damp,’ said Alex, falteringly.

  ‘It gave me such a fright!’

  Alex went to the lavatory and opened the door. There was a crack as she did so and the last remaining sheet of paper curled away from the wall and fell down on to the seat. She slammed the door shut and turned to face the others who were standing, silently, watching. ‘Damp,’ she said, trying to smile, and pointed a finger up the stairs.

  Ford had arranged the chairs in a tight circle. He placed Alex on his right and asked the others to sit down as they liked. He closed the door firmly, with finality, and stood in front of it. ‘I think I’m right that there are some of you here who have never sat in a circle before?’ He looked at David, then at Alex. They both nodded.

  ‘We never know if anything will happen, so we have to be patient. It’s a good night tonight, clear, there should not be too much interference. Does anyone have any objections to my leading tonight’s circle?’ He looked around. ‘Good.’ He spoke gently, but authoritatively. ‘You must all do exactly what I say; if I feel things are getting out of hand in any way, I will stop it.’ He looked around and everyone nodded.

  Alex felt slightly absurd, sitting in the bedroom, surrounded by these strange, earnest people. She was glad David was with her and she wished she had more friends around; she felt vulnerable and very scared. She looked up at Fabian’s portrait. ‘Don’t harm me, darling,’ she said, silently.

  ‘We conduct our circles in three stages. We begin with prayers, to protect the circle against evil spirits and simply mischievous spirits. Then we go into meditation. After that we will try to communicate directly with the spirits. We would like to communicate with Fabian, and we believe he would like to communicate with us; we will try to give him energy.’ He looked at Alex and then at David. ‘You see, spirits have no energy of their own – but it is possible for them to use the energy we create in our circles to speak, and sometimes even to appear.’ He smiled and clasped his hands gently together, like a master giving a lesson to school children, thought Alex. ‘If you want to speak, or ask questions at any stage, please do so.’

  ‘What do you mean, evil?’ said David.

  ‘What we are doing is trying to open up channels for the spirits to come through. We want to communicate with good spirits, but in opening channels, in giving our energy for spirit use, we are exposing ourselves to misuse. There are evil spirits around, evil forces that try to come in through these channels, make use of the energy. That is why we protect our circle by prayer, and why I must stop it instantly if I sense the forces of evil.’

  ‘What happens if evil comes through?’ said David.

  Ford smiled. ‘Usually it is mischievous spirits more than evil ones, they play pranks, try to confuse, try to get their own messages through – strangers to us who would like to communicate with the earth plane – get messages through to other carnates. But we will be protected; the power of prayer is strong. This is why it is so dangerous for amateurs to tamper with the spirit world, for people to play dangerous games with Ouija boards.’ He smiled again. ‘Are we ready?’ He looked pointedly at Alex and she nodded.

  Ford switched off the light and the room was plunged into darkness. Alex felt calm. Suddenly the room seemed warm and friendly; it was going to be all right. She cupped her hands together and leaned forward.

  ‘Dear God,’ said Ford’s gentle assured Welsh lilt. ‘We pray to you that you will look after our circle and that we shall come to no harm.’

  She closed her eyes out of respect and felt faintly silly.

  ‘Guide us safely throughout this evening.’

  The prayers continued for an eternity, it seemed. Ford asked for healing for people whose names she had never heard of, for peace in the world, for someone called Mrs Ebron’s leg to get better quickly.

  Finally they stopped and the room was very still. She heard a siren a long way off in the distance, and then it was gone; even the traffic seemed still. She thought again of the terror in Sandy’s scream. What was going on in that lavatory, she wondered, opening her eyes and looking nervously around. She could see shadows, silhouettes. She looked towards the window and saw a faint streak of light down one side. She hoped the room was dark enough. The silence continued; she wondered if Fabian was watching them and tried to imagine him, but could feel nothing.

  There was a click, and she suddenly heard Spring from Vivaldi’s Four Seasons, light, sad, airy. ‘We’ll begin our meditation now,’ said Ford gently. ‘I want you to close your eyes and imagine you are walking on soft grass, in a field. It’s a warm spring day, a clear sky, you feel the sun warming the air, feel the grass soft and springy beneath your feet. It’s good to walk on, you’re enjoying walking, breathing in the air, cool and fresh, the start of a fine day. The field is gently sloping up a hillside; you walk across it, imagine the grass beneath your feet, the sky above you. Now you see a path in front of you.’

  Alex thought of a field at David’s vineyard, tried to imagine it, as the medium said, tried to feel the grass beneath her feet, tried to stop feeling self-conscious and go with his words, relax with his soothing voice.

  ‘Go along the path, it’s nice to be walking along a firm path again, enjoy it. You can see a white gate ahead of you now; open the gate and go through and you can see a river, a wide gently flowing river, with trees and rushes and lilies. It is peaceful, so peaceful. There’s a bridge across the river, you can see it clearly.’

  Alex thought of a river she had once known, with an old stone bridge, arched across it, crumbling.

  ‘You can see people on the far side, standing there. Your friends, waiting to greet you. Cross over the bridge now, go to them, greet them, hug them, spend time with them. Don’t be afraid, go, enjoy, be happy with them.’

  Alex saw white ghosts on the far bank, swaying and opening their arms; she saw the slits which were their eyes, like the painting of the three phantoms she had seen on Ford’s wall, and she hesitated. She saw Philip Main standing amongst them in a shabby corduroy suit, shrugging, then she saw Ford standing there. What friends does he mean, she wondered? Living or dead? She stepped on to the bridge and the ghosts swayed towards her, stretched out their arms, like faceless monks with cowls over their heads. Main and Ford disappeared. Then she saw Fabian standing among them, looking away from her, his head bowed, as if he were ashamed.

  She felt herself hurrying anxiously; she stumbled on a loose brick, and when she looked up, the ghosts had closed ranks and he had disappeared. She stood among them, staring into their cowled hoods, into voids. ‘Fabian?’ she said, trembling. She pushed her way among them and saw one, taller than the rest, Fabian’s height, facing away from her. ‘Fabian?’ She tapped him on the shoulder. ‘Darling?’

  Slowly he turned around. Inside the cowled hood was a charred skull that stared at her helplessly, with an almost apologetic look.

  She felt herself about to scream and sat upright with a start, opened her eyes and looked around. Where was she? Where the hell was she? She heard her own breathing; it was the middle of the night, surely? Had she imagined it all? Weren’t they having a séance? Where was everyone? She felt sweat pouring down her, looked around, trying to see in the dark. She saw a faint streak of light; was that the curtain? The streak of light she had seen before? She wanted to call out, say something, but she was afraid of speaking to an empty room. Weren’t there people here? Surely they hadn’t left her alone? But why couldn’t she hear them?

  There was a tinkle of music and the strains of Vivaldi’s Summer filled the room; the speakers were slightly tinny and she could hear the hiss of the tape. She breathed out slowly, relief flooding through her. Baloney. It was a con; hypnotism; a cheap trick dressed up in an elaborate production. She closed her eyes, thought again of the charred skull and shuddered. She opened her eyes and looked around, restless, her backside was stiff in the chair and she wanted to move, but was afraid to break the silence. She could sense David now, restless too; what m
ust he be thinking?

  She heard the shuffle of a foot on the carpet, the creak of a spring, the rustle of fabric and smelled Sandy’s pungent perfume. What was she meant to do now? Would Fabian suddenly appear? She looked around again at the dark shapes; what were they all doing? Were they in hypnotic trances? Asleep? Or sitting there in the dark, thinking, like her?

  She closed her eyes again, and tried to concentrate on the river. But it had gone and, instead, she saw David’s lake, the medieval pond, the expanse of flat black water with its fringe of reeds like dead men’s fingers, and the crumbling octagonal island in the middle.

  She tried to imagine a bridge across to it, but no bridge would come, only the tunnel underneath. She thought of the entrance, like the steps down to an air raid shelter, overgrown with grass and weeds. She saw the rotting oak door, turned the key, stiff in the rusting lock, and pushed the door open. She felt it scrape across the concrete, warped and sagging on its hinges, heard it clacking like the laughter of crows as it vibrated. She could smell the must and the damp and could hear, a long way off, the echo of dripping water. It was cold in here, so cold. Gingerly she walked forward, listening to the echo of her own footsteps, and the splashes of dripping water like pistol shots.

  She came to the inner door, unlocked that, and walked into the dark passageway, her feet squelching on the unseen floor, wondering whether she was treading on frogs or toads or just water and slime. Deep under the lake now, she came to the next door, which led into the domed ballroom, a heavy steel watertight door, the door David said she must never open. If there was a leak in the ballroom, and it had flooded, then opening this door … She unwound the huge handle, like a steering wheel, four, five, six turns, and the door swung open, outwards, as if she had been expected.

  She stood back blinking in surprise, and stared around the huge domed room. It was snug, warm, cosy. Up in the ceiling, through the glass roof, carp and trout swam round, lazing, playing in warm pools of light. There was soft carpeting on the floor and a fireplace burning cheerfully. A woman stood there in a nursemaid’s outfit; she stooped down, lifted a thin charred branch out of the fire with her bare hands, and held it high above her, a tiny gnarled object with burned twigs coming from it. The twigs began to move, at first as if in a breeze, but then they took on a life of their own and became little pink arms; tiny fingers curled and opened and she heard a baby cry.

  ‘Don’t cry; you’re going to see Mummy now.’ The nursemaid carried the baby across towards her with a smile, and Alex shuddered as she realized how like Iris Tremayne the woman looked.

  Then she felt the weight of the baby in her arms, saw the pinkness of his hands and his legs, and looked down at his face.

  A charred skull stared back.

  A dim red light came on, and she blinked, startled. The music had stopped, she realized. She saw Ford standing by the door, and she looked at Steven Orme, Milsom, then at Sandy, who smiled reassuringly. She avoided David.

  ‘How did everyone get on?’ asked Ford. ‘That was a long meditation – I felt it was going well, so I didn’t interrupt.’

  Alex looked at her watch. Ten to eight; it had been over half an hour. Impossible. She steeled up the courage and looked at David; his head was bent over, his ear pressed to his jacket and he had a strange preoccupied expression on his face.

  ‘Sandy,’ said Ford in his gentle voice. ‘How did it go for you?’

  ‘Incredible, Morgan. I saw Jesus.’

  Ford inclined his head slightly and smiled.

  ‘He was standing in front of me with a basket; he told me I must try to develop my healing and he showed me how to do several things that have been confusing me.’

  Ford looked at Sandy, puzzled.

  ‘I sensed Jesus was in here too,’ said Steven Orme, in an enthusiastic, nasally voice. ‘I felt him come in.’

  They’re all bloody bonkers, thought Alex.

  ‘I think,’ said Orme, ‘that he may come in to protect the circle. What do you think, Morgan?’

  ‘Sandy’s healing is very important; he may have felt it was necessary to come and see her.’ He looked at Milsom. ‘Arthur?’

  ‘My wife,’ said Milsom, his gruff voice tinged with a boyish excitement. ‘Always pop over and see her when I can.’

  ‘How was she?’

  ‘Fine; she was showing me what she’s doing. She’s working on a project with some others, building this huge column of light, you see.’

  ‘Ah, yes,’ said Ford, nodding. Alex watched him, wondering what she should say.

  ‘And Mr Hightower?’ asked Ford.

  ‘Think I fell asleep,’ said David.

  ‘Very easy,’ said Ford, dismissively. Alex felt Ford’s eyes on her. ‘Would you like to tell us what you saw, Mrs High-tower?’

  Alex looked at David and regretted it. Don’t be conned, he was saying; don’t be a clot.

  ‘I saw Fabian,’ she said, and was reassured by the approving look in Ford’s eyes.

  ‘Yes, I thought you would; I thought he would be there. I could sense him very strongly; he’s around now; I think we’re going to be in touch tonight, it’s very strong.’

  ‘His face was all burned and charred, like a skull.’

  Ford nodded. ‘It is natural in meditation for the subliminal to play a part. You are projecting to him from the earth plane. The image you have is his carnate one, and it is inevitable that is how you will see him. Later, when he comes through to you, he will project his incarnate body, and that will be as you would like to remember him.’

  ‘He was running away from me,’ she felt herself blush, feeling ridiculous; she glanced at David, saw him trying to say something with his eyes, some warning, but she looked away before the message could get through.

  ‘Probably your subliminal again, your fear of losing him forever. This will pass after your first communication; after that, you will be able to join him in your meditation whenever you like, and I think you’ll find he’ll be very helpful to you.’ Ford smiled again and walked over to the tape recorder. He knelt down, ejected the tape and turned it over.

  Alex looked around the room and felt herself trembling again. Fabian’s portrait looked sterner than ever in the red lighting and Orme’s cruel cold face unsettled her. She looked at Milsom, and he smiled cheerfully back.

  ‘You may hear a strange voice, Mrs Hightower,’ said Ford. ‘I have a guide, called Herbert Lengeur – he was a doctor in Vienna in the 1880s; a nice chap; he moved to Paris in the ’90s. He looked after Oscar Wilde for a time.’

  She stared at him; he said it casually, as if it were normal. She was too nervous to ask him what he meant.

  ‘Is everyone ready to go on? I sense strong influences tonight; you must all remember to do what I say, it’s very important. All right?’ He stared at Alex, and Alex stared back.

  She shivered and felt a deep sense of dread. She did not want to go any further, did not want him to turn out the light.

  There was a loud click and a weird drumbeat came out of the player, at a quick tempo that seemed to be increasing all the time.

  Then the light went out.

  She sensed him almost immediately, as clearly as if he had opened the door and slammed it shut behind him. He was in the room, standing behind her, watching.

  She felt the shivers racing down her arms. She saw a shadow cross the room, she was certain, something darker than the dark, and she wanted the light on, wanted to touch someone. But she dared not move, dared not give way to her son, to his strange penetrating gaze, that she could feel, that she was frightened. This is what you want, darling, isn’t it? That was the reason for all the signs you gave me; we’re here now, for you. Be kind, please be kind.

  God, she thought suddenly, it all seemed so long ago now. So long ago that he had been alive and everything had been normal.

  There was a mournful hideous wail, like the cry of a vixen in the night, separate from the beat of the drums and way above it; it came from someone in the circle arou
nd her. She heard it again. Lower, slower, it dissolved into a ghastly choking sound, as if someone was trying to breathe through a broken throat. Who had made it, she wondered? Ford? Milsom? Orme? Sandy? It was impossible to tell.

  ‘Mother.’

  Fabian’s voice, weak and frightened. There was a click and the music stopped.

  ‘Mother.’ Not one shadow of a doubt; it was her son speaking. She felt cold, the room was turning to ice, felt herself shaking so much she could hardly bear to sit still.

  ‘Darling?’ she said, nervously, out loud. ‘Hallo, darling.’

  She heard the hideous choking sound again, then suddenly a single dreadful piercing scream, a young woman’s scream, the most pitiful frightened scream she had ever heard; she thought it would echo around the room for ever.

  Oh, Christ, please stop this, she thought, please stop it now.

  ‘Who is there?’ she heard Ford’s voice, calm, assured.

  A voice replied with a heavy Germanic accent; the voice was cultured and had completely different intonations from anyone in the room. ‘This is Herbert. There is a young man here who would like to speak with his mother.’

  ‘Please tell him we are waiting for him. He has already started to come through.’

  Alex stared at Ford through the dark. He had heard Fabian too. It wasn’t a trick of her imagination. There was no way that his voice had been faked. She tried to feel excited, to put away the fear, but the dread and the cold encircled her; it was impossible, surely, she thought, for anyone to feel so alone in a room full of people? And yet, she knew, as she felt the force of the cold and the fear, like hands on her shoulders, that she might have been the only person left in the world.

  ‘He is needing some energy,’ the Germanic accent was almost chiding.

  ‘I want everyone to hold hands,’ said Ford. ‘We will allow our energy to surge through us, to give power to the spirit.’