a healer in Petra, who had from a small child wanted to become a vet. It was from Mark that Anna inherited her love of music which led her to want to make it her career. They had settled easily into their new bedrooms, loving the creaky floorboards and the beautiful little cast iron fireplaces and the views, one to the front and one to the back of the house. Both were at university now, Petra studying to be a vet in Edinburgh, Anna in her first year at the Royal Academy of Music in London.
The household had become suddenly very quiet.
Bea gave up her full-time job when they moved. She became a supply teacher instead. The spasmodic routine suited her second job perfectly. As promised, she pursued it with discretion.
Their lives settled down until that day when, a year ago, in an old house deep in the remote countryside of the Welsh Marches, she had encountered her first poltergeist and she and Mark had had their first major row.
The drive had been long and winding, the house at the end of it ancient, hung with creepers, and almost at once Bea felt a twinge of doubt. On the phone the problem had seemed textbook. Ghostly noises. Knocking. Items being moved about in the night.
As she parked her car and climbed out, she had realised at once that she shouldn’t have come alone. One of the rules was, if it looks in any way complicated, take someone with you; make sure there is someone there to cover your back There was something here and it was something bad. But it was too late to turn back. The front door had opened and the couple who had contacted her emerged. Mr and Mrs Hutton were elderly – perhaps late middle age – and they were clinging to one another, their fear and anxiety obvious.
‘Are you the ghost hunter?’ Ken Hutton had wrenched his arm out of the clutches of the woman at his side and ran down the steps. ‘Thank the lord you’re here! Go in. Quickly. It’s happening now!’
Bea had a routine. Protect herself; surround herself with light. Stay very calm. A quick prayer. Do not show fear. Never show fear. Project unthreatening love and reassurance.
‘It’s started throwing things.’ Daisy Hutton had been visibly shaking. ‘I wish we’d never come to this wretched place!’
‘We should have known there was a reason the rent was so low,’ Ken had muttered. ‘We’re leaving, I’ll tell you that much. We’re leaving as soon as we can, and we’ll want our deposit back!’
‘I’m not going back in.’ Daisy was genuinely traumatised.
‘Nor me.’ Ken had shaken his head violently. ‘You go in. First door on your left down the hall. In the library. God help you! We’ll be in the garden when you’ve finished.’
For a moment Bea stared after them before turning back towards the house. She had never felt more alone.
‘Christ be with me, Christ within me.’ She had repeated the age-old words of the breastplate of St Patrick as she headed towards the front door. The safety net, the all-encompassing, wraparound armour of the prayer, would keep her safe; surround her with light.
The hall was shadowy, with oak floors and panelled walls. Old blistered paintings hung on the walls, and there was a worn Persian rug on the floor. The house had smelt damp, she remembered vividly, and cold, and yes, there was an atmosphere of evil so intense it seemed to drip from the beams. Grasping her pocket-sized Bible and her small carved wooden cross, picturing herself as safe and strong in her protective shield, she took a deep breath and opened the door of the library.
Something huge and black flew at her head. It landed at her feet with a crash and she saw it was a book, its pages torn and splayed. Within seconds several other books were hurtling round the room, a chair toppled over in front of her, a candlestick rolled across the table, the room was filled with a sound like the roaring of the wind and she felt a powerful thrust between her shoulder blades. It sent her reeling.
She had no time to think. Her reactions were automatic. She held out the cross in front of her and addressed the entity as though it were a naughty child. ‘Stop it! Now! You can’t frighten me.’
The response was a hiss and a demonic shriek from somewhere on the far side of the room. Clutching the cross more tightly, she had ploughed on resolutely. ‘I can help you. I can give you a road out of here and guide you towards peace and light.’ She dodged again as another book fell at her feet. The room’s temperature had fallen several degrees and in the corner she had seen the sudden flicker of flames. It had been a battle of wills. Her opponent was a man, an elderly man, deeply unhappy and beleaguered; at his wits’ end. Almost as soon as she sensed his identity, he was there, in the shadows. ‘Let me help you.’ She didn’t plead. She was in control and reassuring. She paused, waiting for the next book to fly at her. Silence. The atmosphere had changed. The flames in the corner died down, leaving the smell of charred wood. He listened to her.
Bea had been able to see him more clearly at the end, stooped with pain, agonising physical pain, lonely, wrapped in a shabby woollen garment like a dressing gown, trimmed with fur. The room had smelt musty, airless. It was so cold that Bea’s breath was condensing in front of her as she moved towards him. ‘I’m here to help you. I want you to look upwards, towards the light. She was visualising a large double door, opening onto a beautiful landscape. ‘It’s open, can you see? It leads to somewhere warm and full of sunshine. It’s safe there. Step towards it. That’s right.’ She saw him hesitate, glance round. There was a heavy leather-bound book in his hand and after a moment he leaned forward and put it on the table. She heard him groan as if the slightest movement was painful. ‘That’s right,’ she encouraged. ‘Only a few steps more. There is no more pain in the next life. It is bright and full of sunlight. There are friends there. Leave this dark place behind.’
He took a step towards the corner of the room where she pictured the door. Then another. He was almost through when it all went wrong.
‘Has it gone?’ The voice in the doorway had made her jump. Ken Hutton was staring in, his knuckles white on the doorframe.
Irritated, Bea had tried to ignore the interruption. ‘It’s beautiful through there. And safe. Angels are waiting for you; can you see them? You are not alone now. Go with God, my friend. Be at peace.’
In her mind’s eye, she had reached out to close the door behind him and as she did so a flash had cut across the room. ‘Got it!’ Ken had been triumphant.
Bea had turned to see the camera in his hand. It was pointing straight at her. ‘Don’t!’ she shouted. ‘I do not want photographs. I explained to you, this visit must remain totally private and confidential. You agreed.’
He had lowered the camera reluctantly and she remembered his words clearly. ‘It was so incredible. Impressive. I wonder if I got the ghost. Did you see him? I could hear you talking as if he was an ordinary bloke. It was a bloke? He won’t come back, will he? Oh bloody hell! Look at the mess. All these old books. I’ll clear it up if it’s safe now. Chuck them all on the fire.’
The visit to that house had shaken her more than she liked to admit. Still in shock, she hadn’t mentioned it to Mark. Then, four days later, there was a headline on the front page of the local paper:
LOCAL GHOSTHUNTER EXORCISES POLTERGEIST, photos on pp 3, 6 and 7
Mark had been beside himself. ‘Have you any idea of the harm this will do? I asked you, I begged you, to be discreet. You’re on the front page for heaven’s sake!’ He had shaken the paper at her.
‘Let me see!’ She had finally managed to snatch it off him. ‘Look. It’s
