All weekend, Eleanor thought about Mrs Ashworth and Emily. She thought about what Richard had said: they were just an ordinary family, damaged by what had happened to them. But Mrs Ashworth’s words played in her mind: when the baby – went, me being poorly. When she dressed Isobel’s burns, she remembered the accident, the burning. So bad it had forced them to leave. Rosie bit her hand and she wondered if she could see something of Emily’s expression in her face. She saw things a child shouldn’t see. She thought about how hunched and diminished Mrs Ashworth was, Emily’s wildness, and she wondered if they would ever recover. Her wallet went missing until she found it underneath a cushion on the sofa. It’s the house. She tried to stay rational, but something stronger and more instinctive took over: she had to stop the same thing happening to them.
On Monday, she did another internet search and the familiar link came up; her computer reminded her: ‘you’ve visited this page many times.’ Rebecca lived in Surrey and her photograph was professional: she emerged from the plain white background, face forward, her shoulders angled away from the camera. She looked attractive and confident. Eleanor guessed she was in her fifties; she had thick shoulder-length brown hair, traced with grey. Her website was simple, elegant and convincing. She was reliable and discreet; she was fully insured and had references available. Eleanor ignored the tabs about readings or healings and went straight to house clearances. Rebecca said that she would discern whether spirit activity in the house was causing problems for its inhabitants. She would clear the house of negative energy and speak to the spirit visitors to try to understand why they were returning. She would help them cross over peacefully to the other side. Eleanor liked that idea, in spite of herself.
Sarah’s ghost portal held no resonance for her. But neither did any of the other possibilities: ley lines, spores, mites, viruses or post-natal depression. She had no words for what was happening to her. But it was real. Her sickness was real; the burns on Isobel’s arm; Rosie’s writing on the wall. Mrs Ashworth’s broken expression. There was no explanation, but still, it was happening.
She emailed Rebecca and arranged for her to come and visit the house the next day. Rebecca was polite and formal, and the blandness of the exchange – arranging the fee, plus travel expenses, and explaining transport links – soothed Eleanor. It felt like any other transaction. The next morning, she took the children to nursery and called in sick.
In person, Rebecca was every bit as impressive as her website. Her clothes were smart and sober, and she exuded pleasant capability. After she’d been invited in, she stopped in the hall, looking intent and serious. Then she smiled and said brightly, ‘Well, I can certainly see why you’ve been having problems!’ as if she were talking about the drains. Eleanor started to cry.
Rebecca stayed calm and followed Eleanor into the kitchen. They sat at the table together and Eleanor talked, in a jagged, unformed way, about her illness and how things had been moving, and everything Mrs Ashworth had said. Rebecca put her hand on Eleanor’s and listened carefully. Eleanor suddenly couldn’t stop talking. Still crying, she took Rebecca to see the upstairs room.
Rebecca walked confidently into the centre of the room and stood very still. Eleanor watched her take in the drawings and writing on the wall. She took a sharp breath and said, ‘There’s something here.’ Eleanor felt fear and relief.
‘The minute I walked in the front door, I knew it,’ Rebecca said, patrolling the room. ‘I felt it pulling at me here.’ She put a hand to her chest. ‘Pulling me upstairs. There’s very, very bad energy up here. The air’s different – can you feel it? It’s denser, viscous.’ She smiled at Eleanor. ‘It makes me want to be sick.’
She walked around the room. ‘A very strong, bad energy – a spirit that won’t rest. It’s moving your things and causing you illness.’
‘Why?’
‘It doesn’t want you in the house. But don’t be alarmed – it’s quite common for spirits who are troubled in some way to have difficulty crossing over. They deserve our sympathy. Some mediums just banish spirits, but that isn’t my way – I try to be gentle with them. If they can cross over calmly, so much the better. Is it affecting anyone else who lives here, apart from you and Rosie?’
Eleanor shook her head. ‘Not my husband. We have a lodger and we don’t know her very well, but she seems fine.’
‘I’m not too surprised that they’re not sensing it; some people simply aren’t attuned to it. Rosie’s behaviour, on the other hand . . . children that age are highly sensitive; they can pick up on spirit activity where we can’t. Rosie doesn’t have an imaginary friend, does she?’
Eleanor nodded, her heart sinking.
‘Children can’t tell the difference between spirits and people. What they call imaginary friends are usually spirits communicating with them. And this was Emily’s bedroom? No wonder she’s troubled, poor child.’
‘And do you think . . .’ Eleanor said. ‘Do you think the spirits caused the bad things that happened to them, this family?’
Rebecca smiled. ‘Negative energy comes from the living too. Most of the time, people prefer to think it’s the dead; no one wants to believe it’s coming from them. They’d obviously suffered great trauma as a family and that might be nothing to do with the house . . . But there are spirits here, that’s certain. Who knows how much worse they were making things? I don’t believe anyone sensitive can live in this house and be at peace.’
Eleanor started to cry again. ‘Do you think . . . I mean, if we do a clearance and it goes well, do you think we can be happy here? Do you think we’ll be OK?’
Rebecca put an arm around her. ‘Absolutely,’ she said. ‘You’ll feel completely different when you walk in here. It’ll be like a new house. You can start all over again.’
*
Eleanor decided to tell Richard about Rebecca that evening. She had no choice if she wanted to go ahead. After they’d eaten, instead of going upstairs to rest, she told him about her visit, bracing herself for scorn and disbelief.
‘No way, Eleanor. No way. This has gone too far now – you have to stop.’
Eleanor made an effort to stay calm. She didn’t think Zoe was at home, but she got up and shut the door to the living room anyway.
‘Please, Richard. I just want to try it.’
‘A séance? In our house?’
‘It’s not a séance. It’s called a house clearance.’
‘Whatever it’s called, we’re not doing it. She’s a con artist. She’s scamming you.’
‘So what if she is? We’ll try it and if it doesn’t work, at least then we’ll know.’
Richard sighed. ‘How much does it cost?’
‘Four hundred pounds.’
‘Four hundred pounds! Eleanor, four hundred pounds could be a new carpet or wallpaper. That’s going to mean so much more to us than a . . . house clearance.’
Eleanor’s head was raging. ‘Richard, she can feel something in the house. She said it’s full of bad energy.’
‘Oh, and you honestly thought you’d invite a medium into the house and she’d say, “Actually everything’s fine, you don’t have to do anything.”’
‘I just want to try and get rid of it! Whatever caused problems for the Ashworths, whatever it is that’s making me feel ill . . .’
‘The Ashworths caused problems for the Ashworths! And we’ll see a private doctor for your illness. We’ll book an appointment next week.’
She laughed. ‘A minute ago, we didn’t have four hundred pounds.’
‘But that’s something worth trying! You’ve seen, what, one doctor? A couple of other quacks? We’ll keep trying until we find out what it is. But it will be something physical.’
They were quiet for a moment. He sat back down at the kitchen table, took off his glasses and rubbed his eyes. He put them back on and looked directly at her. ‘Do you really believe this? That the house is haunted? You’re saying you believe in ghosts?’
‘I know it sounds ridiculous. I know. But there’s something wrong and I need to find out what it is.’
‘Please let’s just leave it, Eleanor. I don’t like it either, thinking about this other family, that there was so much unhappiness here. But can’t we just . . . let it go? What’s the point of digging things up? They lived in this house. We’re never going to change that. But we can . . . paper over it. Not think about it. If you obsess like this, you’re just going to make things worse.’
She floundered; she was running dry. Her head hurt and she felt sick. Richard stood up and put his arms around her.