‘Now don’t be mistaken in thinking that entities without morals are naturally in a weaker position,’ Fred warned. ‘Pure evil takes a vast amount of imagination and willpower.’
‘A good point,’ Peter allowed.
‘I do know some paranormal investigators if you wish to wait for backup before you attempt a confrontation,’ Fred proffered, appearing a might concerned.
‘Thank you, but no.’ Peter didn’t want anyone getting wind of this story before he had a chance to finish writing it.
‘Protect the story first, personal safety second, I like that.’ Spooky held up his glass to his host before he had a quick swig. ‘But . . . that being the case, it might be best if at least one of us slept here the night, to keep an ear out for you.’
‘I have guest rooms,’ Peter was happy to advise. ‘You’d be welcome.’
‘Is breakfast as good as dinner?’ Fred queried. ‘Just kidding. I’m in.’
‘I love me a real live ghost story, so of course, I’m also at your service.’ Spooky got more comfortable in his chair.
‘So how do I stay lucid in my dreams?’ Peter picked at his vegetables; having rather lost his appetite he pushed the plate away. If abstaining would prove helpful, he’d rather starve.
‘Well, it’s not difficult really.’ Fred put his utensils down and took up his glass of wine. ‘Many of the practices that induce lucid dreams are routines that most writers already do as part of their normal work process. We focus all day on what we wish to dream about, i.e. our story. Which is perhaps why so many writers report dreaming about the book they are writing. Most likely our tale is what we are incubating in our thoughts when we fall asleep, and when we wake up we either consciously or unconsciously record what we remember. All these practices are recommended, and there are masses of information on the subject and an array of various techniques.’ Fred paused for a few sips of wine, then placed the glass aside. ‘But if you want the crash course, it might be simplest if I just tell you my favourite technique.’
‘That would be greatly appreciated.’ Peter sat back in his chair to listen.
‘Now some of this you probably do already as a matter of course.’ Fred snuck in a potato and another sip of wine. ‘Once in bed, I lay on my back, very still. I relax and allow my mind to drift into that half-sleep state and explore the geometric patterns and emerging dream scenes unfolding in the darkness behind my eyes.’
‘I do that,’ Peter concurred, excited.
‘But rather than completely submerging into the hypnotic hallucinations, I hold onto a thin strand of conscious awareness in my mind, while allowing my body to fall asleep. Now, if you do realise you are floating off, don’t panic as that’s when you get that “falling off a cliff and hitting the ground” sensation.’
‘I hate that!’ Spooky related. ‘Only I usually step in a pothole rather than do the fall off a cliff thing, but it pisses me off no end.’
‘But once you’re heading into a dream state, how do you navigate it?’ That was the part Peter didn’t understand.
‘By holding a picture of the scenario and characters I wish to explore in my thoughts, I walk my mind into the lucid dream, while at the same time reminding myself that I am dreaming.’
‘And if you lose hold of your strand of consciousness?’ Peter felt he might.
‘I have this rather neat little trick I do every time something is happening in a dream that I don’t like. I look around me and attempt to pick something up, or open a door. If I have no control, then I’m dreaming; once I realise that, my lucid dreaming facilities re-engage.’
After dinner and dessert, a tour of the house finished in Penelope’s garage of classic cars — fortunately his guests were too content where they were to want to take any of the treasures for a spin. The writers wound up back in the lounge in front of the fire, drinking whisky and coffee, until the wee hours of the morning, whereupon Peter showed his guests to their rooms. In all honesty, he didn’t think either of the men were going to hear anything once they hit the pillows, and so he was not counting on them to save him, should anything go awry with his lucid dreaming experiment.
FIELDWORK
It was late by the time Peter made it to bed, and although he had not eaten very much or consumed any alcohol, he wasn’t exactly on the qui vive either.
With his amulet of protection on his bedside table, Peter lay himself down on his back to focus on finding a calm, meditative state of mind. His thoughts were all over the place after an evening of stimulating conversation and company, and he was anything but focused on his story. When at last he did find his place in the tale, he focused on joining Emanuel in his studio. He was aware of other snippets from the day interrupting his inner vision, and every time they did, he pulled himself up on it and returned his attention to trying to seek his muse. Geometric patterns began to bleed through his attempts to focus. What were these colourful, intricate, animated mandalas that presented themselves before sleep every night? Was their purpose just to mesmerise one to sleep, and form a barrier between the conscious and unconscious? Or was it some kind of universal encyclopedia of knowledge that humans were supposed to be studying, and not casting aside as irrelevant metal static, in their rush to escape into a dream state? Whatever the case, tonight Peter made a mental effort to push past the kaleidoscope, which only brought the phenomenon closer in his mind’s eye and its colours grew more vivid.
I am dreaming, Peter told himself.
And so he was.
It was not Emanuel’s studio where Peter found his muse, but in the car, where Gabrielle’s grandmother had confronted Emanuel, only now she and her snake were seated beside his subject and there appeared to be no malice between them.
Again Emanuel was talking at Peter, and as before he couldn’t hear a word being said.
I can’t hear you, thought Peter, and yet he could hear the voodoo woman, reciting a prayer.
‘Muerte Protectora Y Bendita: Por la virtud que Dios te dio: quera que me libres de todos los maleficios y peligros y enferme-Que me des amigos y me libres de mis enemigos. Muerte Santisima, Muerte Santa, mi gran tesoro …’
Santa Muerte. Peter became aware of being in a dream state at the same time as Gabrielle’s grandmother became aware of his presence.
‘You can’t be here unprotected,’ she told him, most displeased. ‘He will get into your head.’
Who will? Peter wondered, as he felt the black ooze creeping over his shoulders from the driver’s seat behind him. He’d never checked who was driving the cab and turning to do so he found only a dark window, from the edges of which the ooze was emerging.
‘Que me des amigos y me libres de mis enemigos. Muerte Santisima, Muerte Santa!’ The woman chanted at him, as if trying to force the oppressive substance back. ‘You must escape now, while you can. Wake!’
But Peter was here and aware; he wasn’t going to be chased out so easily. I should have the amulet on me. Peter knew he’d left the statue to the right of him, and reaching out his arm he felt the velvet bag bump against his forearm and completely elude his grasp.
The ooze poured over him, blanketing his consciousness in its cold, weighty advance, blocking his sight, sound, smell, breath! Was this how Gabrielle had near been suffocated in her sleep? Was this still a dream or was he actually suffocating?
The panic woke Peter, and with a gasp, he sat up. It was a relief to be breathing. He looked down, and was shocked to find that he was dressed in his nurse’s uniform and seated in a chair in a hospital room. Had he fallen asleep on a shift? He looked to the bed to find his patient awake and smiling at him.
‘Have a big night, did we?’ the old woman asked, with an empathetic grin on her face.
‘Ms Whitman?’ Peter couldn’t believe how well she appeared.
‘How kind of you to remember,’ she said. ‘Well, get to it then.’
‘Are we writing today?’ He couldn’t recall where they were up to in the tale, it was so odd.
‘Wh
at do you mean, writing?’ She was so annoyed with him. ‘You’re a nurse, you fetch my dinner, take my temperature, that sort of thing. Stick to what you’re trained for!’
‘But our story?’ Peter was panicked again.
‘What story?’ Penelope’s frustration was mounting. ‘I haven’t written in years and don’t intend to again, EVER! Do you want to be jobless? Because you’re heading the right way about it. What makes you think I would consult with you on a book? I have hundreds of writer friends I could work with, if that were my desire.’
Peter could feel his heart pumping in his throat as he realised none of his dreams had unfolded. ‘I’ve learned nothing, written nothing! Gabrielle isn’t my girl. I don’t live in a grand house full of mystery. I don’t have an agent, or any writing friends . . .’
‘Just listen to yourself,’ said Penelope. ‘You’re dreaming lad.’
Peter woke with a gasp, sweating and shaking.
‘Peter?’
He felt someone grip his arm, and as he moved to retaliate, Peter recognised Spooky and refrained.
‘Whoa . . . it’s just me.’ Spooky crossed an arm in front of himself to block any further retaliation. ‘You’re dreaming, lad.’
‘Am I?’ Peter wondered, as he’d thought he was awake last time.
‘Well, no, you’re awake now,’ Spooky clarified. ‘How’d the lucid dreaming go?’
‘Great! I remember with blinding clarity that I got my arse kicked!’ Peter relaxed onto the bed then, with a second thought, looked over the side to see the green velvet pouch on the floor. ‘Shit!’
‘Do you want this?’ Spooky picked it up and handed it to Peter, who held it to his chest.
‘I had a nightmare that I was still nursing and none of this had happened.’ Peter rubbed his hand over his heart in an attempt to calm himself. ‘My worst fear for sure; my nemesis knows me well.’
‘And this goes on every night?’ Spooky turned a lamp on and blinded them both for a moment.
‘Pretty much.’ Peter sat upright and rubbed his hands over his face in an attempt to get fully conscious. ‘At first it was fine, I just had conversations with my muse, followed where it led. But the last few nights it’s getting more violent, both Gabrielle and myself have nearly been suffocated in our sleep.’
‘You never mentioned that,’ Spooky lectured. ‘Or I think we would have been considering this little exercise far more seriously.’
Peter shrugged. ‘Well, I’ve got to sleep.’
‘This far exceeds the normal author–muse relationship,’ Spooky stated for the record. ‘I’ve never had one of my nightmares attempt to kill me.’
‘Kill you?’ Fred entered, alarmed by what he’d heard. ‘What’s happened? Is Peter all right?’
‘I’m fine.’ Peter waved to assure his guest he was still alive. ‘Bruised pride is about all.’
‘I think you should definitely consult Fabrizia on this one. She has all kinds of connections,’ Spooky advised. ‘If there is danger involved she may be able to help you minimise the risk.’
Peter shook his head. ‘Not before I have the whole story, and I’m so close now, I must be.’
‘I believe our dear agent would tell you that no story is worth risking your life for,’ Fred stressed.
‘I can’t stop it now, even if I wanted to,’ Peter reasoned honestly. ‘The best I can do is hope to gain some control over it. You must promise not to tell anyone about this.’
‘I wouldn’t dream of it,’ Fred concurred, but Spooky was not so quick to agree.
‘How much more of this story have you got to write?’
‘I’m speeding towards a climax.’ Peter shrugged. ‘Maybe a couple of chapters?’
‘Well, a climax usually means all hell is about to break loose, so I think we need to get a buddy system going until we’re sure you’re out of the woods.’
Peter was overwhelmed that Spooky would offer to keep an eye out for him. ‘That’s very generous of you.’
‘Not at all,’ he waved off the favour. ‘Besides, it’s all very interesting, and if anything happens to you, then I inherit a great story, so it’s a mutually beneficial arrangement.’ He grinned in conclusion.
‘Do you want me to stay with you? I could go grab my computer and research —’
‘No, I wouldn’t dream of putting you out like that. I have housekeeping here through the day, and my girl is here most nights,’ Peter insisted to set them at ease. ‘But I must say, you are both handling the fact of my ghost very well.’
‘Well, I’m Scottish.’ Spooky shrugged as if that explained everything; and Peter frowned, as it didn’t really. ‘There’s a ghost and a ghost story on every square inch of my homeland.’
‘But they probably never tried to kill you,’ Books imagined. ‘I’d feel terrible if something untoward happened and we had done nothing —’
‘I have protection.’ Peter held up the pouch in his hand. ‘Which I shall keep on me from now on.’
‘Well, I’m supposed to be leaving the country tomorrow for a book tour, so I don’t really have any choice but to hope you are right, Peter,’ said Books.
‘Don’t worry, I’ll keep in touch with our newbie,’ Spooky assured both Peter and Fred. ‘This book has caused enough fatalities. I advise you to proceed with the utmost caution.’
My dear Emeline,
Today is the darkest of days. Lord Pettigrew has Chester cornered in his hotel and is attempting to frame him for the murder of a housemaid, who went missing the day we were born. I have read our good man’s account of this day in his journal and I believe he is blameless of any crime, bar that of protecting our interests as he vowed to our father to do. Pettigrew seeks to trap me into disclosing you, we are sure of it. But that is not the all of it.
Alice Roy is dead, by her own hand they say. She told me she would prove her devotion to you, but I never imagined she would cut out her own tongue to avoid divulging information. It disturbs me deeply to know I could have prevented her death, which I suspect is precisely how her sacrifice was designed to make me feel. But her devotion to you has been proven, no doubt, although I understand you never asked for anything more than her honesty.
The exhibition is today, and I must flee. Chester won’t risk making any moves before I am safely away. If he doesn’t know my whereabouts then he cannot divulge that information to the police or to Pettigrew. I am to take his diary and keep it with me. If he is not arrested or blackmailed, he has designated a place to meet in a month’s time. Pettigrew has been sent the invitation to the opening that he’s been chasing, and so I must make my getaway while he is detained there. All my holdings are in Chester’s name and if he is arrested I’ll lose the studio and the one piece of land we have left. You’d think I would despise Pettigrew, but I can still only pity him — just as I could only pity Alice — seeking to be made happy through another’s art or beauty. To me this seems freakish behaviour, and yet I am considered mentally inept for not needing such drama to feel fulfilled?
I do not travel well, sister, as you know, and without Chester it shall be even more precarious for me. Why should I run, when we have done nothing wrong? A few more days and we would have been gone from here and back to the country to begin work on a new exhibition. If, by some miracle, Pettigrew is bluffing, or the police are slow to act, Chester may still manage to collect our share of the takings from the exhibition, and our escape shall be realised. I feel this is a naive wish, but I cling to it knowing Chester has always known best. Yet I would rather risk losing everything than have any harm befall our guardian, but I cannot get word to him. The next twenty-four hours shall be the longest and most telling of our lives.
Yours with all affection,
Emanuel
That was it, the last piece of written documentation that he had.
Peter had thought about translating the letter into a scene for the book, but quite honestly he couldn’t think of a more eloquent way to get the situation across than simply
including Emanuel’s last correspondence. He liked that he’d included a couple of the twins’ original letters in the tale, even though he still couldn’t say whether or not there was any truth in them. Perhaps Henry and his charges had cooked up this entire story about Pettigrew to try to get the one-time butler off a murder charge? Maybe Penelope Whitman had cooked up this whole story and left little clues for Peter to find — just to see how creative he’d get with it? Whether this tale was true or false, fact or fiction, was still very much open to debate.
So what now? Did Peter continue writing in a speculative fashion, or wait and see if his visit to the apartment tomorrow, or his dreams tonight, unearthed any new clues?
If he ran with the assumption that the story was true, and Emanuel had planned to take Henry’s journal with him when he fled, then either the young Lord decided to hide the evidence and his correspondence in the storeroom at the studio before he left, or Emanuel never left the apartment, as these items were still there for Penelope to find a decade later.
But a more interesting question was how did Emanuel’s and Emeline’s letters end up in the same place? Did Emeline return and find her brother? Or was Margret correct in thinking that the twins were in fact the same person? Was that the great secret Sister Cole was paid to help Henry conceal? It was so indicative of Henry’s devotion to his duty that he would confess to being an accessory to murder, yet if his charges had been one and the same person, a hermaphrodite, he’d never hinted at the fact in his journal. What a master of deception Henry would have to have been to pull off such a scenario through the child’s formative years; yet he had surely saved his charge a lifetime of torment.
The death certificates of his characters would certainly shed a little more light on what had truly taken place the day of the exhibition. Peter could hardly wait to see what Gabrielle’s investigations turned up. But he wouldn’t be at all surprised if her search only turned up one death certificate for one of the twins.