A Cry From Beyond (28 page)

But it
was the young couple in the foreground, walking along the high
street with the little girl between them that captured my attention
and my imagination: Melinda and Kayla. The man accompanying them, I
assumed, must be the ill fated Martin Willis. Here was evidence
enough that all I’d experienced at High Bank was real, albeit in an
unreal sense, in that the Melinda who existed in the present was in
every physical sense the exact same Melinda who’d lived in the area
a quarter of a century before, which of course was wholly
impossible. The same went for Kayla, who, given the time lapse,
should be of middle age by now.

I made
ready to leave, but was stopped by a sudden loud bang.

I called
out instinctively: “Who’s there?!”

My voice
sounded alien, not my own. I listened. The house was silent. Well,
not quite. There was creaking, which seemed to emanate from
somewhere out in the main hall.

“Who’s
there?” I said again, slightly louder.

No
answer. But did I really expect one? The house was empty. Or was
it? Who or what had caused the bang and what was it with the damn
creaking?

I left
the kitchen, returning to the expansive wood panelled area that was
the hall, where I paused in the darkness, struggling to see. I
retrieved the lighter from my coat pocket, flicked the wheel, but
this time it failed to ignite. I tried again, to no avail. The
thing was out of fuel. I let it drop to the floor. Standing
perfectly still, I listened intently.

The
creaking continued, off to my right, in the direction of the
staircase. I turned to look and let out a sudden gasp of surprise.
Someone was observing me from the shadows it seemed: an infant by
the look of it. But how could that be: here in this godforsaken
building? My imagination started to run riot. I suddenly recalled
the horror contained within the blanket Kayla carried around with
her; which I’d later confronted in the attic room: a dead and
decayed thing unable to accept its own passing. Was that what I was
now seeing: the spectre of an infant whose death had cruelly
preceded its birth? I had to know one way or the other, despite my
misgivings. With my heart hammering, I somehow managed to summon up
the courage to move forward and take a closer look...and
immediately cursed myself for being so easily unnerved.

A bust
for Christ’s sake: it was just a stupid marble bust standing on a
pedestal.

But the
interminable creaking continued.

Upstairs:
it came from somewhere upstairs.

I walked
over to the staircase and tentatively climbed. Halfway up I paused
and looked up.

And to my
horror saw legs dangling in mid air: swaying in time to the ominous
creaking.

Keep calm
I urged myself. No need to panic. This was nothing to be afraid of:
it was just another spiritual manifestation, borne of some parallel
dimension.

I fled
nevertheless, and in doing so, left behind the suicide victim that
was Melinda’s tragic father, who, even in death sought justice and
an end to his daughter’s eternal suffering.

I ran for
my life, consumed by a terrible feeling that events were about to
hurtle towards an unspeakable conclusion.

At High
Bank, I was to discover yet another surprise waiting for me. It was
as I entered the hallway and flicked on the light that I felt it. A
presence...someone or something lay in wait.

I first
checked the kitchen for any sign of an intruder, but there was only
Lennon, who uncharacteristically refused to offer a welcome,
preferring instead to remain lying in one corner, with his head
resting between his paws.

I went
over to him. “What’s the matter boy? Cat got your
tongue?”

He looked
at me forlornly, as if he’d been reprimanded. I turned away and
left the kitchen, the wooden panelled door suddenly closing behind
me as if eased shut by an invisible hand. With mounting curiosity I
arrived back in the hallway, where I paused to listen, before
crossing to the stairs, where I was brought to a sudden halt by the
sight of discarded clothing. A blue denim skirt, white blouse and a
fleece lined denim top, which I recognised almost immediately, and
lying nearby, flat heeled shoes, stockings and fine lace
underwear.

“What
the….”

I
hesitated but for a moment, before quietly climbing the stairs, my
curiosity further aroused by the erotic preview. I climbed feeling
deeply afraid of the consequences of my actions, yet powerless to
stop. I reached the bedroom door and gently eased it open, allowing
light to spill softly into the dark interior of the room. The bed
was revealed, its sheets thrown back in an untidy heap. And upon it
lay the naked form of Melinda, her beautiful blonde hair fanned
spectacularly across the pillow. She smiled up at me with sinister
promise and patted the mattress, inviting me to join
her.

I tried
to resist, terrified of the consequences of what I contemplated,
yet compelled to commit to the act. No words passed between us, any
communication being unspoken. I closed the door and heard Melinda’s
beckoning voice inside rather than outside of my mind. “Come,” it
said ever so softly. “Lie with me.”

The room
was affected by deep shadow. The darkness created felt alive with
the presence of others, though I was too mesmerized to care.
Instinct told me this was a huge mistake, that it would ruin things
and only serve to increase the disharmony pervading the cottage,
but I was helpless to heed the warning. I removed my clothing and
climbed onto the bed to join the beautiful young woman lying
there.

Only
there was no beautiful young woman. In reality Melinda had stopped
being that year’s ago. Her beauty died when she did. And so, that
night I found myself confronted by what she had become following
her death and what she had become was indescribable. Even now,
after all this time, I try not to think about it. I try to remember
her as she was in life, how she had presented herself to me before
physical contact shattered the fragile spell. And I especially try
not to think about Melinda’s tortured voice rising from her time
ravaged corpse, pleading with me to help, not just she and her
daughter, but countless others trapped within the cottage, who
begged for release from an everlasting purgatorial
existence.

I know
what you’re saying, I really should’ve fled the place at that
point, but you see, I knew Madam Lee was right when she told me I
would be drawn back. It’d happened before, it would surely happen
again. I knew with unwavering certainty that I had to see this
thing through. I was as trapped as Melinda and her off spring and
countless others of her kind. I was forced to accept that in order
to free myself from High Bank’s gruesome hold, I must first of all
provide the key to their salvation.

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

I spent
the next morning nursing my injuries, which consisted of a black
eye, swollen nose and a skull that felt like it was laden with
concrete. Willis had meant business, as had Melinda. Between them
they’d succeeded in turning me into a physical and emotional wreck.
On the positive side, no bones appeared to be broken and to all
intents and purposes, my sanity remained intact. But if the beating
was scary, Melinda, in her true form was terrifying. And something
told me it wasn’t over yet.

Following
breakfast, which consisted of two cups of strong black coffee and a
cigarette, I took Lennon for a walk, hoping a spot of outdoor
activity would invigorate me. The route we chose took us across the
expansive field that lay between the cottage and the disused
chapel. Over time it’d become our private playground, where I would
throw sticks and Lennon would give enthusiastic chase. It was also
where Melinda had once appeared to me, as if by magic, correction,
it was indeed magic, albeit a dark sinister kind. I guess I had
known who, or rather what she was, for a while, but simply refused
to believe it. And who could blame me? To believe was to believe
the unthinkable, for it meant that the spiritual world was in fact
a reality, or else my mind was shot and I was not the well adjusted
individual I thought I was.

Of
course, I’d grown convinced the former must be true. How could it
possibly be otherwise? Whilst there was no firm evidence Melinda
was a spirit crossed over into the living world, there was a great
deal of evidence to suggest that quite unnatural things happened in
and around High Bank. The disappearances had happened, no question
about that. There were eyewitnesses. So I must be of sound mind, or
at least, as sound as most other mere mortals.

Here was
my dilemma. How did I deal with the situation without actually
losing my sanity? The facts were, Melinda, ghost that she was,
needed help, as did her young child, or children if you counted the
poor creature that might’ve developed into Melinda’s youngest
offspring, had Melinda’s pregnancy reached full term. The cottage,
or something in or connected with the cottage, seemed determined to
cause harm to anyone who dared cross its threshold. All except me,
that is. And Lennon, but he didn’t really count.

Madam Lee
had referred to me as the “catalyst” and it followed that I was the
catalyst because I possessed the “gift”. As much as I disliked the
notion, it appeared to be my responsibility to sort out the mess.
But how, what on earth could I do? One thing was certain, I
couldn’t ignore the situation, nor could I turn my back on it and
run away. Madam Lee’s words rang loudly in my ears. If I left High
Bank, I would be drawn back. Both she and the reporter, Norris,
let’s not forget him, odious little prig that he was, had been of
the conviction that such an event had occurred previously, a theory
confirmed by my own mother. Conversely, I had not the slightest
memory of having visited High Bank ever before. What I had had to
deal with since coming to the cottage this time round, were a
series of rather uncomfortable déjà vu experiences: or was it
something more than déjà vu, I now wondered.

Lennon
stood in the middle of the field positioned roughly half way
between High Bank and the old chapel and in roughly the same spot
where he had scratched around in the earth previously. He stood
attentively, staring down at the ground with his ears cocked
forward, growling from the back of his throat. He appeared to be
studying that seemingly insignificant patch of land, as if it held
a great secret. I called to him to come, but uncharacteristically
he refused to obey. In the end, I was forced to relent and trudged
grudgingly across the large expanse of wet grass to where he
stood.

“What is
it boy?” I asked. He replied with an excited whimper, glanced up at
me and then down at the ground again and pawed at the grass and at
the earth beneath.

“What is
it, what have you find?”

He grew
agitated, pawing more insistently, as if trying to tell me
something. Here was a retriever who obviously wanted to retrieve,
but what on earth did he think the ground hid? I glanced over at
the cottage, which stood some way off in the distance almost
shielded from view by a small copse, then at the chapel on the
other side of the field, where Melinda once appeared to me. Had
Melinda been trying to tell me something that day?

Again I
tried to unscramble feelings of déjà vu, which demanded I
acknowledge a past I failed to remember, but it was no good. I felt
a deep kinship with this place, but the reason why eluded
me.

I looked
down at the ground where Lennon had been pawing and suddenly
imagined I saw the faces of tormented souls doomed to an existence
of eternal imprisonment. Some I recognised, belonging to the
missing ones, Mary-Louise, Terry, Des and Coogan. And then, to my
horror, I saw buried within the earth my father’s face; the
features dark and grainy and distorted by those of another. I
blinked and the images vanished. I looked across at Lennon, who
returned my gaze, ears cocked, tongue hanging from the side of his
mouth. Had he seen them too?

I headed
over to the chapel, with the retriever following. Grey clouds had
gathered overhead. I sensed we were in for snow. The wind picked up
and bit at my exposed face and hands, forcing me to bow my head and
stuff my hands into my coat pockets.

Lennon
overtook me and ran for the chapel, as if he shared knowledge of
our destination. The building looked grey and bleak, mirroring the
depressing overcast sky. Even the grass, rippling in the wind,
seemed to have lost its colour and vitality. The episode was fast
developing a strange dreamlike quality. As I walked, voices rode
the wind, telling of their anguish and unending suffering,
attempting to reveal the terrible secret contained within High
Bank, but then, all too soon, they faded away, taking with them the
promise of enlightenment.

As I
reached the chapel, spots of icy cold rain fell from the slate grey
sky. Something made me glance back over my shoulder and there to my
great surprise was Melinda standing in the distance, her past
beauty regained, observing me from behind the trees that shielded
the cottage. My heart went out to her. I blinked against the wind
and when I looked again, she was gone, like a mirage. I suddenly
longed to be with her, to be a part of her world. It was always
possible of course, if I was willing to commit the ultimate
sacrifice, but then I thought of Michelle, Melinda’s equal in every
way, and the destructive thought was vanquished.