WritersShowcase

Stella Barron.

Chapter One:

The room was dark, save for a lone candle that stood flickering on a table. Grotesque shadows danced on the walls. Somewhere in the house the loud ticking of a clock echoed, beating its hypnotising timing as its pendulum swung back and forth. Nothing else stirred in this macabre scene save for the low moaning that issued from a contorted mouth of a woman who writhed in her chair like a femme fatale seducing her lover. Invitingly she groaned, her breasts round and full heaved. Breathlessly, the words she uttered fell from her red rose lips like soft kisses. "My channels are open. Enter me!" Eight staring eyes watched on while holding hands around a table, their attention was held upon the woman who was their host. A gasp arose from the witnesses as the woman started, rigidly she sat upright; her eyes gazed vacantly out across the table. "A man is present. He has this very moment entered the atmosphere and asks those present would they care to speak with him?"

"Who is he?" whispered one of the sitters, she was a young woman of about 20, but was made up to look 30! Her make up looked like it had been put on her face with a trowel; the foundation was so thick that if she had smiled it would have cracked like drying clay.

"Yes, ask the gentleman his name?" added a man this time, young and fresh from tasting student life. His face showed all the hallmarks of terrible acne in his younger teens and he wore thick-rimmed spectacles that framed his piercing blue eyes. The light from the candle flame danced upon the lens of his glasses and gave the impression that his eyes were fractured, splintered like a stain glass window or a painting by Pablo Picasso. Mosaic shapes like those made by a kaleidoscope glistened from the man’s eyes and would have been a fascinating focal point rendering anyone’s fascination if it wasn’t for the fact that everyone’s attention was on their host whose own eyes had glazed over to look almost albino.

"What is your name good spirit? We are your friends and mean you no harm. Come forward and use me as your vessel." The woman shuddered as if struggling with some unseen force. Her grasp tightened on those she held hands with and her knuckles turned white like bone. Her head lolled forward and a deathly quiet fell over the congregation. A cry of surprise tumbled from the open mouth of one of the overseers of the performance as a deep drone of a voice; masculine in origin came from the feminine lips of the woman who sat slumped in her chair.

"My name is... My name is..." the woman said in the male tone, "is Wilson…Wilson Everet."

"Which one of those in the circle today would you like to contact?" asked a grey haired man, mature in years. The possessed woman peered over the table; her eyes studied all the faces of those present, each holding a look of either terror or curiosity. A freak gust of wind blew around the room as if someone had opened a window where a gale had been howling past. The tempest was unleashed as the candle flame was extinguished, succumbing those sat stricken at the table to complete darkness. The male spirit gazed through the eyes of the woman who still held on to the hands of the men at either side of her. She yelled angrily adding to the fear that now laced the atmosphere. "I don’t know any of you!" The woman shook violently as the male spirit flew in a rage inside her female body. "Where’s my Emily? Where is she?"

The man sitting close to the woman who asked the questions shook his grey head and tried to release his grasp, he felt the blood drain from his fingers as the woman squeezed them harder and harder. "Where’s my Emily I ask? She promised me. Promised me she’d follow. It’s been 15 years. I’ve been waiting 15 years for her and she hasn’t come."

"Is she dead Wilson? Did Emily die?" asked another woman present, who had a long thin face.

"No. No she isn’t or she’d be with me. She promised after I’d taken the potion that she would too. She lied. She lied!" The looking glass that hung above the fireplace, shrouded in darkness suddenly jumped off its nail, fell crashing to the floor, and boded seven years bad luck. The breaking of glass signified the snapping of tense nerves stretched to breaking point. As the spirit raged at his lover’s faithlessness, the women were the first to break the circle and make a dash to the exit. In the darkness one grasped for the door knob but clutched hold of the other woman’s hand instead, which was stone cold like that of a skeleton. Her shrieks were echoed by the other woman who released her hand and bumped into a wall in her flight to flee the room.

More madness followed as the woman taken by the spirit began to hit out at the two men who were braver than their partners and had sat their ground. But under the assault of heavy battery both men stood up, one ran to where the screams of the women were coming from, the other to the opposite side of the room where he grabbed at a wall hanging and tugged violently at the velvet softness. He pulled so hard upon the fabric that he wrenched it from its hold. As it cascaded to the floor the room was suddenly drenched in bright sunlight, the man had found the window that brought resolve to the chaos that had ensued.

The height of the afternoon sun revealed the scene in all its horror. The broken mirror lay in tiny shards that sparkled like diamonds. One of the women had crouched to the floor and sat hugging her knees. The other woman lay prostrate on her back with the bespectacled man lolling on top of her uttering his apologies profusely. He’d tripped over her fallen body in the mayhem that had been created by the extinguishing of the candle and the ranting of the vengeful spirit, who now, since the light of day had touched the vessel he had used, seemed to have dissipated and vanished into the ether, leaving the woman once again slumped in her chair, her head rested upon the table.

While the young man offered his guiding arm to the woman who had bumped into the wall and had been rendered unconscious, the older man lifted up the latch of the window and let in a draft of air that was tinged with the hot sooty smell of summer. The sound of blaring horns and the relentless hum of car engines flowed into the room.

"Is she dead?" the woman with the thin long face and equally thin body asked. The grey haired man approached the woman who was sprawled over the table and lent his ear to her mouth. A collision later sent the man seeing stars. He swooned as the woman jerked awake startled at the close proximity of the man.

"Wh…what do you think your doing?"

"We thought you were dead," said the man with glasses.

"Dead? Me?" their host laughed, her face was eclipsed with many wrinkles. "Not likely." She looked around at the white faces of those standing before her. "You all look as if you’ve seen a ghost!" She noticed the curtains that had been wrenched from their track and she said knotting her forehead crossly, "what have you been doing?"

"You don’t remember what went on here?"

"I don’t remember anything, but I am awfully tired."

"A draft blew out the candle," said the elderly man.

"And the mirror broke."

"What again!" the host sighed folding her arms across her chest with a stern look of annoyance. "That always happens when a spirit is angry. I’ve had to replace five mirrors in this past month alone!" She looked at her clients, "was the spirit angry?"

"This one was particularly vengeful," said the woman made up like a clown.

"I take it the spirit that manifested itself was not your father?"

"No," replied the thin woman with bleached hair, her black roots stood out startlingly.

"Well then, shall I make another appointment for you. Same time next week?"

"Yes you better had. I need to find the missing sum from the accounts and only my dad knew anything about it."

"You know I don’t command the spirits, they choose when to come," their host said, reaching for her leather bound diary. She wrote in the block for Tuesday: ‘Mr. and Mrs. Simpson, 2 pm.’ She closed her diary. "I think our meeting has drawn to a close. That’ll be £100 please. Thank you very much." The man with grey hair handed the woman five twenty-pound notes, which the receiver rolled up and placed between her cleavage. She arose from her chair and shook hands cordially with her paying customers. "Thank you for coming, until next week." She followed them to the door and bade her final farewell to the two retreating couples who had had enough scares that afternoon to last them a lifetime. The host, tired out and pale from her solicitation with the dead, watched her clients disappear down the stairs of the multi-storey apartment, and turning to the brass plaque on the door set in with four tiny screws, she proudly brushed the gathering dust from the shiny surface which spelt her name and profession. ‘Stella Barron. Medium.’ The door closed.

Chapter Two:

A metal kettle that sat on a ring of orange flames spat and spluttered energetically as the waters inside began to bubble. Steam arose from the spout and a shrill whistle pierced the gloaming that had crept in through the large windows of an apartment that was situated on the third floor of a renovated Victorian house in London. Its outside walls had been white washed and its double-breasted windows on either side of the front door stared out vacantly into the wide opening street, where from across it spanned a green and luscious urban park. As the evening drew in, the size and number of the shadows doubled in population.

Green heavy velvet curtains were drawn across the windows of the third floor abode of a divorced middle-aged woman. A match was struck, its phosphorus flare soon multiplied, and black wisps of smoke rose from wax towers held in silver stands. The room was filled with the soft tones of flickering light.

In the adjacent kitchen an eager spirit set to work on preparing a bowl of porridge which was quickly shunted into the microwave, topped off with a splashing of semi skimmed milk. Hot boiling water was poured into a large oversized mug of chocolate powder, a metal spoon chinked at the side of the porcelain and a voice flowed between both rooms. "I don’t know what you’re looking so happy about, that’s now the sixth mirror this month! I’m beginning to get strange looks from the gentleman who runs the household store. He’s becoming suspicious of me for some reason, I haven’t a clue why?" The woman looked towards the fireplace of the living room where two chairs were pushed up close to the hearth. "I have reason to believe that he thinks of me as some Greek that goes into smashing mirrors instead of plates. It’s the little hints and unfinished sentences he leaves when he sees me arrive at the counter with yet another mirror tucked under my arm. It’s getting ridiculous!" The woman placed her hands upon her plump waist and sighed. "You’ll have to do a lot more to stop the angry spirits getting past my defences. You’re obviously giving them the wrong signals!"

She sat down in one of the chairs close to the fire. With a bowl of steaming hot oats in one hand and a cup of smooth, rich chocolate in the other, she slouched into the comfortable cushions and looked at the chair opposite her. Before her sat, the image of a young, pre-pubescent child with dark hair that looked unkempt and wearing a faded blue ribbon tied around her head, ‘Alice in Wonderland’ style. Her face was worn, aged, and showed the many trials of her short young life. Her complexion was caked in soot like dirt and her pinafore that reached the ankle of her black boots, was torn and had signs of much mending. Yet, out of this wretched impression of degradation a glorious bright smile sat upon the lips of the young girl.

"And last week was a nightmare!" the woman said scooping up a spoon of oats, her eyes remained fixed on the little girl that sat smiling at her as if she was a projection from another era. "That man came round again for his appointment and was obviously disappointed that I didn’t picked up anything from his past. He all but called me a con artist!" She took a sip of her hot chocolate and left a tiny residue of coco on the fine hairs of her upper lip. With the woman’s moustache in place, the girl spoke her piece.

"You know I am always happy to hear of your troubles, Stella, but there is nothing I can do. You live in a world that becomes more and more sceptical every day. Your scientists saw fit to put an end to the general belief in spirits, but I reside in a world that is growing stronger as yours is growing weaker, and it is mankind’s disbelief in the after world that is causing this imbalance. I am not the strongest of guides, Stella but you must believe me that I never try anything that may cause you harm. The spirits that have broken our protection were very strong in presence. How can a little girl fight against a determined man?" the girl ended with a look of exasperation.

"There are certain gemstones that can help ward off dangerous spirits. I’ll obtain some, see if they can enhance our powers." Stella scraped the remains of her supper from her bowl with the edge of her spoon and smiled up at the young girl. "There are many Mediums that have Native American tribal leaders as their guides, but I go and get hitched to a Victorian urchin who died of a weak heart."

"I was robbed! I had my whole life before me and it was cruelly snatched away! Anyhow," the girl sulked, "you weren’t this judgemental of me when you were seven! Why start now?"

"Oh when I was younger, "Stella dreamily mused gazing up at the candle light shimmering on the ceiling, "they were good times weren’t they." The girl nodded and they both sat wrapped in a cloak of silence as a clock continually ticked somewhere in the house and the candles burned down. Stella closed her eyes and her mind was awash with memories.

Chapter Three:

The first time Stella began to see the little Victorian child was when she was but a child herself. She had just turned seven and was one of the prettiest of seven year olds, with her short black hair, curling at the edges and her round black eyes that were the largest eyes seen by anyone Stella met. Her naturally tanned skin grew darker during the summer and was the envy of all her friends back at school. It was the holidays, seven long weeks of excitement, boredom and indifference. In the first week of the holidays, Stella was like all other school children, eagerly anticipating the long days all to herself. She could do with them what she pleased, laze about reading books and comics in the morning, run wild in the park in the afternoon and come the evening feeling so tired that she’d fall asleep with her head on her father’s shoulder to be carried to bed. But once the cycle of days continued to turn never endingly, everyday seemed more like the one that came before and soon Stella grew bored. Come the last two weeks of the holidays Stella was eager to return to school and lapsed into a semi tired indifference to all things regarding her long empty days. Even when her father suggested he’d take Stella to the country to see her grandmother she didn’t even bat an eyelid, no semblance of excitement rippled through her childish body. She agreed with a nod of her head and watched her mother pack her suitcase for the weeks away from home.

In the car, driving along narrow meandering country lanes that were edged with hedgerows, Stella succumbed to the gentle rocking of the car’s motion and the warm heat of the summer sun. Holding her favourite doll on her lap, she slipped into slumber. Her mother had dressed her in a blue and white sailor suit with matching sandals and her straw boater lay on the car’s dashboard.

To Stella it didn’t seem long before her father was stopping the car in front of a thatched roof cottage with white stone walls and a garden filled with every flower imaginable. A statue of a cupid stood in the middle of the lawn, aiming his arrow at some far off point on the horizon and standing at the doorway latticed with yellow roses was Stella’s grandmother, a tall, slim elegant looking woman with grey hair tied neatly into a bun and wearing an apron. Stella always associated her grandmother with baking for she was always seen to have her hands in the mixing bowl covered in flour or with her head in the oven, lifting out the delicious cooked to perfection cakes. Her grandmother always said that ‘practice made her cakes perfect’ but Stella had a strange inkling that her grandmother was an angel and could cook almost anything without once making a mistake.

Stella had slept for most of the journey from the city to the countryside and she staggered out of the car feeling warm and groggy on foot. She carried her doll under one arm and held her hat by the other hand. She ran smiling up the gravel path towards the open arms of her grandmother who gave her a squeeze and a peck on her flushed cheek. She was ushered inside and was the first to inspect her room.

The door opened to reveal a light spacious room; the walls were painted a fresh lemon and were furnished simply with a small bed, chest of draws and a wardrobe. The window was open and a light-stirring breeze bellowed the white lace curtains that covered the glass panes. Stella’s brown suitcase sat on the bed and her grandmother advised her to pack away her clothes and become acquainted with the room that was to be hers for the next fortnight.

Stella tentatively lifted out of the suitcase each article of clothing folded meticulously by her mother. Pairs of white socks she put in the top draw of the chest and hung on metal hangers, her dresses, amongst them was her favourite, a lilac dress that had lace on the cuffs and around the collar. She would wear that for church that weekend. Not only was her grandmother a practicing chef she was also strictly religious too.

Having put her clothes away and stored the suitcase under the bed, Stella sat on the edge of the mattress and breathed in the sweet scent of flowers. There were no flowers displayed in the room, so she thought the smell floated in on the breeze from the open window. The deep drone of her father’s voice could be heard from the kitchen below mingled with the sharp, high-pitched tone of her grandmother, whose name was Georgina.

Before going downstairs after hearing the call of her grandmother for dinner, Stella noticed on the wall opposite the bed an old photograph in a wooden frame. It was a group photograph, where all the men stood looking stern and the women sat looking intensely into the camera lens. In the picture, there were two men and two women with a young girl sitting cross-legged before her parents and grandparents. The girl however was dressed differently than the crisp starched collars of the adults. She wore a ragged dress and did not epitomise the essence of middle class normality that the older folk in the picture did.

It was this oddness that drew Stella’s closer gaze. She perused the strict lines of the adults and shuddered when she studied the pale face of the girl who held a cunning glint in her eye and a smile that made the corners of her mouth curl upwards ever so slightly.

"Stella! Dinner!" her grandmother’s voice shrieked up the stairs.

"Coming!" Stella called, tearing away from the picture.

At the meal table while tucking into the lovely almond cakes her grandmother had made that afternoon, Stella asked about the photograph in her room. "That old thing?" Georgina replied, Stella’s dark eyes lifted and stared over her glass of freshly squeezed orange juice. "Why that’s a photograph of my parents and my grandparents."

"Are you the little girl sitting on the floor?" Stella asked.

"Little girl?" Georgina said, a puzzled look flickered over the features of her face. "There’s no little girl in the photo."

"Yes, there is. She’s sitting in the front, smiling."

"You must be mistaken. I wasn’t born until 1915, that photograph was taken ten years earlier."

"So, Stella there couldn’t have been a little girl in the picture," her father, Patrick smiled. However, Stella was adamant that she’d seen a little girl in the photograph. Intent on proving her grandmother and father wrong, she retired to bed earlier than expected, just to look at the photograph again.

By lamplight, Stella stood before the framed picture and felt the wind leave her sails. Her grandmother was correct, there was no little girl in the photograph. All that faced Stella, staring out of the glass was the parents and grandparents of Georgina. A shiver rippled down her spine as the realisation dawned on her immature mind. Her grandmother came, tucked her into bed, and left the night lamp on for her to read her comics by.

Snuggling into her plump pillow as tiredness touched her eyelids, Stella felt the odd sensation that she was being watched. The faint hairs on her arms stood to attention and her skin turned gooselike. In the shaded corner of the room, where the wardrobe stood, Stella sensed that someone was standing there. Telling her imagination off for being silly, "there’s no one else in the room but me!" Stella, with the covers pulled over her head lay in waiting for slumber to succumb her, but that did not stop her from turning cold at the sound of the floorboards creaking as if someone was walking across them, nor did she lift off the covers and come face to face with whoever was watching her.

The summer days slipped idly by for Stella, her grandmother and father took her upon a boating excursion on the nearby river and she actually managed to catch a fish whilst dipping her makeshift rod into the shallows. There were many days where she and her father went hiking around the country lanes and across rich, baize coloured fields. Their discourse was relaxed but Stella found that she could not bring herself to tell her father about her fear come bedtime, of being alone in that room with the covers pulled over her head and the creaking of wooden boards as something encircled her bed. For many nights, Stella had fallen asleep as the break of day touched the horizon, which was a time when her unidentified visitor would stop traversing her room. At dawn, Stella always felt at ease and able to sleep, but come the time when her grandmother awoke her, she always staggered out of bed just as tired as when she had gone, due to her night’s vigil.

The first week ended, Stella’s summer in the country was becoming as monotonous as it had been in the city, save for her restless nights when fear replaced sleep. The Sunday came and so time, for the Barron family to visit the weekly sermon; Stella’s father had to drive them to the nearest village, almost an hour away from the lonely cottage that was surrounded by endless green hills. Stella was wearing her favourite lilac dress and sat in the back seat of the car with her doll in hand, listening to the sound of the engine cough and splutter over the incoherent sound of her grandmother and father chatting,

The village church loomed up out of the distance; its great towering steeple almost penetrated the heavens with its golden cross. The village folk had all turned out for the service to be lead by the vicar and were all dressed in their best Sunday suits. Stella, holding her father’s hand followed her grandmother and the rest of the parishioners along the gravel path through the small churchyard towards the church building itself.

The graveyard was littered with many erect stones; all carved with engravings of loved one’s names to be forgotten by future generations. Stella weary of so many statues of angels with outstretched arms and cherubim walked a little closer to her father. Behind one simple stone stood a tall, slim man dressed in black. He had striking blonde hair with a fringe that fell lazily over his forehead, shielding his eyes. Stella watched him from the safety of her father’s side but when the man in black smiled at her with the look of acknowledgement, her fears subsided and she was filled with a glowing sensation of love.

"Who is that man?" Stella asked her father, pointing to the stone where the man stood.

"What man?" her father answered, perplexed, "there’s no one over there."

"But he’s smiling at us."

"It’s a man this time that’s smiling is it?" said Stella’s grandmother who hadn’t forgotten the little girl in the family photograph incident. "You, my dear have a too vivid imagination." Stella was briskly introduced to the curator of the church and ushered into her pew, but all the while, she looked backwards to see if the man was still standing by the gravestone.

The church she found herself whispering to her father in was a small affair but which boasted beautiful stain glass windows of all the disciples of Jesus and marble columns that held the roof aloft. The summer sun shone through the coloured glass and the light refracted upon the congregation who sat before a pulpit where an eagle stretched out its wings and to which an elderly man wearing a white robe stood overlooking his congregation as if they were his children.

Stella obviously not a regular churchgoer was fascinated with the kneeling cushion and small hymnbooks that sat on a shelf before her. Her father kept lifting her onto her pew but was fighting a loosing battle as Stella was restless and would not remain seated for long, before she’d taken the position of a supplicant and was on her knees once more. She fingered through the many hymns of the book and found the first one that was billed on the hymn board to be sung in that service.

The preacher in his crisp vestment opened his arms out to welcome his flock and dressed as a shepherd he began the rite. Whilst prayers were conducted Stella’s curiosity wandered around the stone walls of the church; of the plaques that held the names of those that had passed on into the afterlife through natural causes or through war, they were all there up in gold letters to be remembered. Thus gaping, Stella’s gaze rested upon a face she recognised, her spine suddenly became rigidly straight and a cold shiver rippled down it. The face she knew smiled at her from the christening font; it was the little girl from Stella’s grandmother’s picture. However, Stella’s fear soon subsided, as standing close to the girl was the man in black whom she’d seen earlier in the graveyard.

"Who is that man in black?" Stella pointed. Her father shook his head; he could not see anyone by the christening font.

"You’ve caught too much sun," he whispered.

"I feel I ought to know him but I don’t." Stella said of the man in black.

The Communion was passed around and Stella felt the calm, guiding force of the vicar’s palm upon her head. As she returned to her pew she looked over at the font but the little girl and the man in black had gone, vanished for they were not to be seen anywhere else seated amongst the congregated crowd.

Bored with the long duration of the religious service, once it had ended Stella was relieved to be out in the fresh air away from the stuffiness of the church. Her father and grandmother shook hands with the vicar and his wife whilst Stella skipped merrily along the gravel stone pathways of the cemetery. She stopped for breath under a cherry tree and her glistening eyes caught the man in black once again standing by a gravestone. His back was to her but she noticed strange holes in his coat where what seemed like sunlight flowed from them. Stella walked up bravely to his side and looked up at his gloriously radiant face. He smiled down at her with pearly white teeth and she was once again filled with much love.

"Do I know you Sir?" she asked the man but he returned his silent gaze back upon the face of the gravestone he stood beside, which read, ‘Harold Barron, died 1945 aged 29 years. Will be much missed by his wife Georgina and son Patrick.’ Stella gasped in amazement; they were the same names of her grandmother and father, who were at that moment approaching her from the opposite side of the churchyard. Stella looked up to where the figure of the man in black stood but he had disappeared again.

"What are you looking at?" Patrick asked. He read the inscription and looked startled, he had only once before visited his father’s grave and had never showed its location to Stella. "How did you come across this?"

"How did grandpa die?" Stella looked up at her grandmother who took a handkerchief from her bag and started dabbing the corners of her eyes.

"He died during the war."

"Was he shot?" Stella realised what the holes in his jacket meant.

"Yes, how do you know that?" Stella’s grandmother suddenly turned pale at the words her granddaughter uttered.

"I’ve just seen him. He seems very happy."

"I’m glad he is." Georgina said turning away and walking way in floods of tears.

"I didn’t mean to upset grandma." Stella apologised to her father by clasping her hand in his.

"I know you didn’t but grandma misses grandpa an awful lot," he shook his head. "I don’t like this phase you’re in Stella, seeing people that are not there. You’ve made grandma unhappy and your making me unhappy."

"But I did see him daddy!"

"Enough Stella!" Patrick shouted, a flock of blackbirds flew startled out of a tree. "I will hear no more of this. When people die they don’t come back."

"Not even as ghosts?" Stella interrupted.

"Not even as ghosts. Don’t you believe in all that hokum! You are only doing this for attention and there’s no need, you’re an only child."

Stella sat sullenly all the way back to her grandmother’s house. Over the chug of the car engine Stella could hear the soft sobs of her grandmother as she cried into her handkerchief. Her father sat at the wheel and scolded at her through the rear mirror. Severely reprimanded, Stella peered out of the car window as they drove past the cemetery. Much to Stella’s disillusionment standing beside the gravestone of her grandfather she once again saw the man in black but this time he lifted up his right arm and waved farewell at her. With the harsh words spoken to her by her father still smarting, she didn’t reciprocate the affectionate wave and she slouched deeper into the back seat, a representation of how small she felt in the unbelieving adult world.