Possession

  Alex felt her hand seized; Ford’s tiny hand was so warm it felt as if it was burning her. The rhinestone cut into her skin, but she did not dare change the position. She pushed out her right hand and felt a limp, bony hand; who was that on her right, she tried to remember. Milsom. The hand responded, tentatively.

  ‘Feel the power,’ said Ford, ‘let it surge, let it surge!’

  She sensed Ford and Milsom rocking backwards and forwards, and rocked with them. Then suddenly they stopped; Ford’s hand closed tight over hers, a clamp, and he had become immovable, like stone.

  ‘Mother!’

  Fabian’s voice hung in the air.

  She heard the strange choking again and realized it was coming from Milsom. She looked at him, tried to see something of him, then suddenly she heard Carrie’s voice from directly opposite her, where Orme was sitting.

  ‘Don’t let him, Mrs Hightower.’

  Pitiful, frightened, the words unmistakably Carrie’s, pierced the air like a knife scraped against marble.

  ‘There seems to be a young woman coming through our channel,’ said Ford, patiently.

  ‘There is no young woman,’ said the German voice.

  ‘Who is there?’ said Ford, calmly. ‘Please tell us your name?’

  There was a ferocious snarl, which made Ford and Milsom both jump, almost jerking Alex’s arms out of their sockets.

  She felt a cold draught of air blowing down the back of her neck, spreading out over her shoulders and down her body.

  ‘Please help me, Mother.’ Fabian’s voice came through again.

  He sounded so close, she felt she could reach out and touch him. She stared around the darkness. ‘Where are you, darling?’

  A strange deep nasal voice suddenly snarled back. ‘Don’t listen to the little bastard.’

  She jumped again, shaking, staring wildly around at the dark.

  ‘Who are you, please?’ she heard Ford say, still calm. ‘Kindly tell us your name, or else leave the medium at once, in the name of God.’

  ‘Mother!’ shouted Fabian, desperately.

  The deep voice snarled again in the dark: ‘I’m his father.’

  Alex’s head was swimming; she swayed, felt the grips of Ford and Milsom’s hands.

  ‘No,’ said Ford. ‘His father is here in the room with us.’

  ‘Mother,’ Fabian’s voice whimpered again.

  ‘Please stop this,’ said Alex. ‘I want to stop.’

  ‘The spirit’s father is here with us; please leave us, whoever you are,’ said Ford, his voice growing sterner.

  ‘My name is John Bosley. I am the boy’s father,’ snarled the voice again.

  Alex tried to free her hands from Milsom and Ford, but could not. ‘Oh God, please stop this.’ She was shaking uncontrollably and felt as if she was going to vomit at any moment. ‘Morgan, please stop this!’ she shouted.

  ‘Darling?’ She heard David’s voice, anxious, soft. ‘Are you all right, darling.’

  ‘I want to stop. Please ask them to stop.’

  ‘Mother!’ Fabian screamed again. ‘Carrie!’

  She curled up in the chair, tried to free her arms, tried to tuck her head under her arms. ‘Help me,’ she said. ‘Help me.’

  Then she heard Carrie’s voice again, quietly imploring. ‘Please don’t let him, Mrs Hightower.’

  ‘Don’t let him what?’ she said, weakly. ‘Tell me. Don’t let him what?’

  ‘May 4th, Mother.’ She heard Fabian’s voice, different now, gently, confiding, just like he had always sounded. ‘They’re going to let me out on May 4th.’

  ‘Out of where, darling?’ she said, weakly. ‘Out of where?’

  There was a long silence and she found herself becoming conscious of the room again, of the creaking of chairs, of breathing and the rustle of clothes. Ford’s grip relaxed on her hand, then let go completely.

  She sensed that Fabian had gone, as definitely as he had arrived. There was nothing in the room any more, except the darkness and the silence. She freed her right hand from Milsom and gingerly touched her face with her fingers; it was soaking wet.

  ‘Mr Ford,’ she heard David say. ‘I think you should stop; my wife is frightened.’

  There was no response; she looked round, tried to see the silhouettes, but could see nothing; she felt her heart thumping so hard it was making her chest ache. ‘David?’ she whispered.

  ‘Are you all right, darling?’

  ‘I’m –’ she paused. ‘I’m O.K.’

  There was a long pause, then she heard Ford’s voice, gentle again. ‘The spirits have gone.’

  She heard the creak of a chair, the sound of feet on the carpet, and then the light came on and she closed her eyes against the brightness. When she opened them again Ford was standing by the door, his head bowed slightly, deep in thought.

  She looked around the room; nothing had changed, nothing had moved. Still trembling, she wondered what she had expected to see, then sank back in her chair, totally drained. Opposite her, Orme was slumped at a hideously contorted angle across the arm of his chair. His mouth was open and his chin pushed forward like a beached fish; his eyes, wide open, stared up at the ceiling. For a moment she thought he was dead. Then he moaned softly and rolled back into the chair.

  Milsom was leaning forward with his hands clasped and resting on his knees. Sandy was lying back in her chair, dabbing her forehead with a handkerchief.

  Alex glanced nervously at David, who had his hand inside his jacket and was looking suspiciously at everyone.

  She stared at Ford. ‘What happened?’ she said.

  Ford looked strangely back at her and said nothing.

  ‘Please tell me,’ she said, trembling. ‘Please tell me what happened?’ She looked across at Orme again, then at Milsom, then Sandy. Everyone was strange, so strange. She stared at Fabian’s portrait on the wall and at the cold brass telescope underneath the window. She thought how stark the room felt without the bed, how cold and flat the lighting seemed, how normal the room suddenly seemed again. Had she been in a trance, she wondered. Yes, perhaps that was it, all a weird dream. She relaxed very slightly, and looked at the people again. Why won’t anyone look at me? She stared at Milsom, at Sandy, at David. Look at me someone, please. Smile at me, tell me it was all a bad dream; tell me that you’ve all been sitting here and no one saw anything. Please, please tell me.

  The fear slowly subsided and was replaced with a flatness. Was that it, she thought. Just voices? Where was the ectoplasm? The spectres? Green slime hurtling from people’s mouths? Levitations?

  David was fiddling around inside his jacket again. Am I still alive, she wondered, suddenly. Is that why they’re not looking at me? Panic gripped her. Can’t they see me? I’ve died, that’s what’s happened, I’ve died. Look at me, please David. What are you doing? Suddenly her hands touched something in her lap, something hard and prickly which made a crackling sound like parchment, and she recoiled in shock. It felt like a huge dead insect. She tried to move her hands away, but they were entangled in it, and she felt the skin on her fingers tearing. She stared around wide-eyed, shaking wildly, too afraid to look down. What was it, what the hell was it?

  She looked again at David for help, but he was still concentrating on his jacket. She felt a sharp pain in her finger, like a bite, that made her cry out in pain, and she had to look down. For a moment she stared in disbelief. Then she let out a scream which filled the room.

  It was not an insect but a small shrivelled rose, black and charred.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  Alex opened her eyes and focused hazily on the portrait of the horse on the wall. Somewhere in the distance she heard the murmur of voices. She looked around, puzzled, trying to get her bearings. Surely she had been in Fabian’s room? Now she was downstairs in the drawing room. There had been people all around, now she could see only two, David and Morgan Ford, and they seemed a long way away, so far they might have been in another room, or even in another house.
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  ‘I never said goodbye to anyone.’

  They didn’t notice her.

  ‘Your conjuring tricks might be fine for little old ladies,’ she heard David say.

  ‘Apports are common occurrences, Mr Hightower.’

  What time was it, she wondered. How long had she been here on the sofa? What had happened to everyone else?

  ‘You really mean that roses can dematerialize, travel across time and space and rematerialize?’ said David.

  ‘Many things happen in the spirit world that cannot be explained in ordinary terms. Apports are messages from the departed to their loved ones; their only way of offering tangible proof.’

  ‘What sort of proof is a burnt rose?’

  ‘I never said goodbye to anyone,’ she said again. Still they did not notice her.

  ‘We know only very little about the spirit world; we are learning all the time.’

  ‘By experimenting on people when they are at their weakest?’

  ‘I would never allow anyone into a circle who I felt was not strong enough.’

  ‘My wife wasn’t. Look what happened to her.’

  ‘She’ll be fine; she’s just very tired. Giving power is very draining. It’s very soon, you see, very soon after the bereavement. It’s best normally to leave these things for a few months, at least.’

  ‘So why didn’t you?’ said David.

  ‘It was important.’

  There was a long silence. ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘There is a mischievous spirit around.’

  ‘No,’ said Alex, suddenly, loudly. ‘No there isn’t.’

  She saw them turn and look down in her direction, as if they were trying to confirm a distant landmark.

  ‘How are you feeling, darling?’ said David, tenderly.

  She saw him lean over her, saw the tangle of his beard and his eyes peering down at her in turn, first one then the other.

  ‘Would you like me to call the doctor?’

  ‘She’s calming down now,’ said Ford. ‘In another half an hour she’ll be fine. Apports do cause great emotional stress.’

  ‘Apports,’ said David. Alex heard the crackle, like parchment, and saw David turn a blackened object around in his hand. ‘Just a rose, an old dead rose plucked off someone’s bonfire, that you or one of your accomplices dropped in her lap whilst we were holding hands in the dark. Someone with a very sick sense of humour.’

  ‘David,’ said Alex. ‘Please, darling, don’t be angry.’

  ‘I’m not angry, darling. I’m sure Mr Ford meant well. Perhaps people are comforted by these things; you obviously weren’t. Try and sleep some more.’

  ‘I’d like a cigarette,’ she said, sitting up on the sofa. The room seemed to slip sideways, and for a moment she was looking down at the wall; then it righted itself with a heave that churned her stomach.

  ‘Don’t sit up just yet, darling. Wait a few minutes.’

  ‘It wasn’t how I thought it would be,’ she said, and looked up at Ford.

  ‘It never is,’ said Ford, smiling, gently.

  ‘Fabian was so clear.’

  ‘What do you mean?’ said David.

  ‘Fabian.’

  ‘Fabian?’ he echoed, blankly.

  ‘Fabian, darling; surely you heard him?’

  She watched the puzzlement on David’s face, saw him turn to Ford, and then look back at her again. ‘Heard him?’

  ‘Yes. And Carrie. And –’ she paused and went red.

  ‘Nothing happened, darling, you must have imagined it.’ Again he looked at Ford, and she saw Ford turn dismissively away from him to look back at her.

  ‘Fabian spoke to me,’ she said.

  ‘Well he didn’t speak to me. The only person who spoke was Mr Ford. And those two odd chaps; one sounded as if he was being sick, and the other as if he was being strangled.’

  Alex felt frightened again, suddenly, frightened and isolated. ‘You mean you heard nothing?’

  ‘He wouldn’t, Mrs Hightower,’ said Ford reassuringly. ‘He is not a sensitive.’ Ford coughed, and turned to David. ‘But your role was essential, there was mischief around tonight; you kept us earthed; without you we would have achieved far less.’

  ‘Achieved?’ said David, incredulously. ‘What on earth did you achieve?’

  ‘I think you should ask your wife that,’ said Ford.

  Alex saw David staring at her.

  ‘Darling,’ she said, feeling herself blushing, ‘would you mind terribly if I had a word in private with Mr Ford?’

  David looked at her, then at Ford.

  ‘Perhaps you could make us a cup of tea?’

  He stood up awkwardly and rubbed his beard. ‘Yes – I’ll –’ he looked around, put his hand in his jacket pocket and took it out again. ‘I’ll go and put the kettle on.’ He walked out of the room and Alex heard the click of the door closing. She stood up and the floor tilted away from her. She swayed, then felt steadier, and walked across to the drinks cabinet.

  ‘Are you feeling better now, Alex?’

  She took a cigarette out of the box, noticing that it was the first time Ford had called her by her Christian name.

  ‘Thank you. I think so. There’s been rather a lot to take in.’ Her eye caught the rose David had left on a side table; she wandered over and touched it gently. ‘Did Fabian really send this?’

  ‘Something happened to it. Someone burned it on the way.’

  ‘A spirit?’

  ‘Yes,’ he said, quietly.

  ‘He often brought me roses; perhaps he was bringing me one back from France and it got burned in the accident. Could that be it?’

  Ford nodded. ‘It’s a possibility.’ He frowned.

  ‘But you don’t think so.’

  ‘There were other spirits around tonight, making mischief. Herbert, my guide, warned us.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘When we hold circles, we are opening channels for communications from the spirit world. I can never know who is going to come through. We hoped tonight it was going to be Fabian, but often others come through; sometimes total strangers. And sometimes evil spirits will try to influence the circle, and try to manifest.’

  ‘Evil spirits?’

  Ford nodded. ‘Evil spirits can be very cunning. Good mimics. Take on a departed person’s characteristics: voice; mannerisms; appearance. They try to use the energy we create in the circles.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘For their own purposes.’

  ‘Do you believe in evil?’

  Ford was silent for a moment. ‘Of course. The positive and the negative, Mrs Hightower. All existence, both here and in the spirit world, is a balance between the two.’

  ‘And one of these – evil – spirits might have burned the rose?’

  ‘It’s possible. There was much that happened tonight that I do not understand.’

  ‘So it wasn’t successful?’

  ‘I don’t know. Our intention was to rescue Fabian, free him from the earth plane. But there was too much interference, too much confusion. I cannot be sure that he has gone over.’ She saw him shake his head.

  ‘Interference from the girl, you mean?’

  Ford nodded. ‘Partly.’

  Alex lit her cigarette and sat down again on the sofa. ‘She came through before, in the sitting room in your house. A girl called Carrie whom Fabian used to go out with.’

  Ford nodded. ‘But this man claiming to be Fabian’s father?’ He stared at Alex. ‘John Bosley, or something like that? I don’t understand why he came through; but sometimes these mischief-makers do.’

  Alex felt her face burning again. ‘Have you ever had any experiences,’ she said, ‘of spirits who want to come back?’

  ‘To human form?’

  She nodded.

  ‘You mean possession?’

  ‘I’m not sure what it’s called. Someone who wants to come back because they have unfinished business.’

  Ford glanced at his watch.
‘Many spirits are confused after death – the earthbound ones; often they do not realize they are dead; it is only when they try to talk to their loved ones and their friends and they discover no one can see them, no one can hear them, that they start to realize what has happened. Until that point many of them try to carry on as before, turning up to work, imagining they are doing everything they used to do before they departed.’

  ‘Has anyone ever succeeded?’ she said.

  ‘In carrying on with their work?’

  She nodded.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘How do they do it?’

  ‘They use the physical mind and body of someone living. They take them over – so that person becomes a host body That’s what we know as the state of possession.’ He smiled. ‘There are well-documented instances of spirits continuing their work through influencing living persons. There have been cases of surgeons, painters – and composers. Mozart was composing at four years old; it is very likely that he was under the influence of a spirit.’

  ‘What about evil?’

  ‘Hitler,’ said Ford. ‘There is no proof, but much evidence that Hitler – and several other members of the Third Reich – were possessed by evil spirits, which would account for their actions.’

  ‘When I came to see you and we had our sitting, you told me at the end that Fabian wanted to come back. Is that what you meant? That he had unfinished business?’

  Ford looked nervous, suddenly. He wasn’t comfortable with this subject. She wondered if it was out of his depth. ‘Unfinished business?’

  ‘Yes.’

  Ford smiled. ‘What sort of business do you think?’

  Alex looked down at the carpet. ‘It seems so strange, talking about him as if he’s –’ She paused then stood up abruptly, walked across the room, and tapped the ash from her cigarette into the wastepaper basket.

  ‘As if he’s still alive?’

  She nodded.

  Ford smiled mysteriously. ‘You’re a very sensible lady; perhaps too sensible.’

  ‘What on earth do you mean?’

  Ford shook his head and smiled again.

  ‘I don’t understand.’

  ‘I think one day you will.’

  His face darkened and she felt uncomfortable again.