Savage Spirits - Chapter Three
The team get together and the investigation begins.
"Ms Banks-Craven?"
"Yes. Yes, you must be Mr Deacon. Oh please do come in. I'm so glad you could make it."
Just to see the beaming smile on the old ladies face, and the sheer delight, evident in her excited voice could have been said to be reason enough to make the journey.
"Thank you so much for coming so promptly. You can have no idea of just how pleased I am to have you both here. Come in my dear, do come in." She raised a shaky harm towards Stephanie with surprising speed and eagerness to almost physically pull her in over the threshold.
Immediately noticeable was the tiny, dark space into which they all seemed to be crammed. It was cold, damp and clearly infused with a heavy pungent smell of mouldiness, tinged with a nauseating catty smell.
Spotting her visitors initial reactions, the proud old lady, immediately began blurting her embarrassed excuses;
Please excuse the neglected state in which you find us. I'm afraid the years have not been so kind to me off late and I find myself sadly lacking in the ability to give this old house the meticulous attention it deserves.
"Do you live her alone, Ms Banks-Craven?" Stephanie asked sympathetically.
"There is myself and Captain Blye, although I confess, Captain Blye has never been of much help in matters concerning domestic management." She paused for the briefest of moments and allowed a wry smile to crease her wrinkled lips. I must really insist that you call me Amelia. I fear my full name had never been one to roll easily from one's lips."
Stephanie joined her gracious host in laughter. Already, she had taken a liking to the old dear who had obviously lived a privileged and well-educated life and had now been forced to exist the reclusive life of a poor forgotten soul, with only fond memories for companionship.
"Is Captain Blye an ex-military man?" Max interrupted, only to be rebuffed with Amelia's child-like laughter;
"Good heavens. No, Mr Deacon." Again she laughed ... "Captain Byle is my trusty old moggy, sadly however, I fear he is now as tired and infirm as I am. Though he is still as loyal as ever and keeps me company.
The three of them move from the small porch area into a long reception hall, that is again dimly lit, so dim in fact, Max notices that the extremely long area is lit by six inefficient gas mantles fitted to the left and right walls. The enormous shadows cast by these six small globes of inadequate light give an added sense of gruesome eeriness to the surrounding ancient fittings and furnishings.
"I'll show you through to the drawing-room, it's much more comfortable in there than anywhere in the house." Amelia invites, politely.
Max and Stephanie follow in slow regimented steps behind their aged hostess as they begin the long journey towards a door at the far end of the hall. Both pass a glance of astonished admiration to each other at old Amelia's obvious resilience to survive in such a harsh environment, considering her advanced age.
When they emerge through the door into the room, Max stops dead, compelled to stand and languish in the over powering sense of ore;
"Wow, this place is like a time trap," he gasped, shifting his eager gaze from left to right in a frantic effort to take in the old-fashioned charms of the furnishings and decor. Every item in the place was clearly antique, yet perfectly preserved and blended with its neighbor to present an overwhelming contemporary feel.
"Please make yourselves at home," Amelia announced, indicating that they would be best advised seating themselves on the lush suite arranged conveniently around the roaring open fire blazing away in the beautifully overstated fireplace. "I'll make us all a nice hot cup of tea, and then I expect you have many questions to ask me."
With the speed and familiarity of such an ancient tradition as the making of hot beverages in such an antiquated setting, Amelia had set out a tray of best china, and a pleasing array of biscuits and fine accompanying confectionaries.
"Right, Amelia. Would you like to tell us what your problem is!" Max began.
"Well, dear." The little color that had managed to survive on the old lady's face immediately vanished and the temporary glow of relief in her eyes, dimmed to the dullness of a troubled woman carrying the weight of the world on her tired shoulders. "It's not something I find easy to explain, and I fear you will think me a crazy old eccentric, finally losing her grip on life."
"We won't think that all, Amelia." Stephanie intervened, her voice sympathetic and ringing with resounding compassion for their hostess's desperate plight. "You just take your time. There's no rush. We're here all weekend."
Amelia shifted awkwardly in her chair, and took a delicate sip from her tea-cup before uttering her first shaky words;
"I have already said that live here with only dear old Captain Blye for company. That is not strictly true. The truth of the matter is," she stopped for a moment to control the nervous shake that had suddenly manifested in her tin withered hands, and placed her cup and saucer down on the conveniently placed occasional table, lest it drop from her frail grip. "There are more inhabitants residing in this old house than I am capable of naming."
Max passed a discreet look towards Stephanie. A silent gesture, though clearly one to urge Amelia on. Despite her initial reluctance, it was obvious that Stephanie had developed an affinity with Amelia's unfortunate situation and he recognized the bizarre bond of trust that the two women were beginning to form.
"Who are these people, Amelia?" Stephanie asked.
Amelia smiled, just for a second, before her old eyes seem to instantly glaze over and her aged weathered face drained of any discernible color.
"Their not people, dear," whispered. "If only they were!" She waited for her visitor's response to her profound proclamation. None came. Stephanie and Max were used to such bizarre statements.
"They are the spirits of those who wandered around this old house before me." She paused to take in much-needed air. The ordeal she had endured alone and in silence was now taking its toll. The once bubbly Amelia Bank-Craven was now visibly and quite understandably reduced to sad, lonely and extremely troubled old lady.
"I didn't mind them at first," she began. "They seemed happy souls and provided me with much welcomed company. Their mischievous pranks were all part of the appeal that this dull and tiresome pile provided. But, then ...."
"Take your time," Stephanie said, leaning forward and resting her hand in a comforting gesture on top of Amelia's.
"About a year ago something changed." Tears began to well in the old lady's eyes as she struggled to continue.
"No one believes me. They all think I'm going mad,"
"We believe you, otherwise we wouldn't be here," Max said, his voice suddenly took on a rare to him, compassionate tone. "I can assure you, Amelia, no one here thinks you're going mad."
The sad old lady raised her head and looked tearfully at Max; "I know you're trying to offer me comfort with your words dear, and I bless you for your kindness."
Stephanie sat back, somewhat puzzled by the scene she was witnessing. She could quite easily count the times Max had displayed even the slightest compassion towards anyone on one hand. And the times he had been blessed for his kindness, could be calculated by employing one digit. Whatever else the weekend produced she felt sure that this very moment would rank near the top of the strangest experiences.
Despite the lack of tact and diplomacy for which he had become renowned, Max could see how distraught their poor old hostess was getting. He rose slowly from his chair and began to inspect the room. His first observation was the high number of photographs dotted around on every suitable surface. Ancient sepia portraits, he guessed, of long past relatives stared down on them from all four walls, each one housed in its own elaborate gilt frames of various overstated sizes.
Amelia watched him closely, though said nothing. Occasionally her gaze would fall and linger on one of the fading images and her mouth would curl into a strained smile.
One photo in particular seemed to capture Max's attention. He crossed the room to inspect it more closely. His eyes locked in on those of the subject, an aged, serious looking figure dressed in the formal attire of an affluent gentleman.
"That's the Reverend Henry Bullock," Amelia said, her voice clearly suggestive of the fact that the mere mention of his name caused her distress.
Max starred on, he felt strangely compelled to hold his ground, though clearly fixed by the glare of the old man's unseeing eyes.
The longer he stood, the more he felt drawn in, as if being willed by an overpowering force.
"You feel it too, don't you dear?" Amelia exclaimed.
Max made no reply.
"He put his heart and soul into designing his beloved rectory," the old lady's voice began to tremble. "His heart may have stopped all those long years ago, but, his soul is still captured within these empty rooms."
Max said nothing, though his instinct told him that she was right. Whatever madness reigned within Midhope Rectory, the Reverend Henry Bullock was the cause of a large part of it.
"Yes. Yes, you must be Mr Deacon. Oh please do come in. I'm so glad you could make it."
Just to see the beaming smile on the old ladies face, and the sheer delight, evident in her excited voice could have been said to be reason enough to make the journey.
"Thank you so much for coming so promptly. You can have no idea of just how pleased I am to have you both here. Come in my dear, do come in." She raised a shaky harm towards Stephanie with surprising speed and eagerness to almost physically pull her in over the threshold.
Immediately noticeable was the tiny, dark space into which they all seemed to be crammed. It was cold, damp and clearly infused with a heavy pungent smell of mouldiness, tinged with a nauseating catty smell.
Spotting her visitors initial reactions, the proud old lady, immediately began blurting her embarrassed excuses;
Please excuse the neglected state in which you find us. I'm afraid the years have not been so kind to me off late and I find myself sadly lacking in the ability to give this old house the meticulous attention it deserves.
"Do you live her alone, Ms Banks-Craven?" Stephanie asked sympathetically.
"There is myself and Captain Blye, although I confess, Captain Blye has never been of much help in matters concerning domestic management." She paused for the briefest of moments and allowed a wry smile to crease her wrinkled lips. I must really insist that you call me Amelia. I fear my full name had never been one to roll easily from one's lips."
Stephanie joined her gracious host in laughter. Already, she had taken a liking to the old dear who had obviously lived a privileged and well-educated life and had now been forced to exist the reclusive life of a poor forgotten soul, with only fond memories for companionship.
"Is Captain Blye an ex-military man?" Max interrupted, only to be rebuffed with Amelia's child-like laughter;
"Good heavens. No, Mr Deacon." Again she laughed ... "Captain Byle is my trusty old moggy, sadly however, I fear he is now as tired and infirm as I am. Though he is still as loyal as ever and keeps me company.
The three of them move from the small porch area into a long reception hall, that is again dimly lit, so dim in fact, Max notices that the extremely long area is lit by six inefficient gas mantles fitted to the left and right walls. The enormous shadows cast by these six small globes of inadequate light give an added sense of gruesome eeriness to the surrounding ancient fittings and furnishings.
"I'll show you through to the drawing-room, it's much more comfortable in there than anywhere in the house." Amelia invites, politely.
Max and Stephanie follow in slow regimented steps behind their aged hostess as they begin the long journey towards a door at the far end of the hall. Both pass a glance of astonished admiration to each other at old Amelia's obvious resilience to survive in such a harsh environment, considering her advanced age.
When they emerge through the door into the room, Max stops dead, compelled to stand and languish in the over powering sense of ore;
"Wow, this place is like a time trap," he gasped, shifting his eager gaze from left to right in a frantic effort to take in the old-fashioned charms of the furnishings and decor. Every item in the place was clearly antique, yet perfectly preserved and blended with its neighbor to present an overwhelming contemporary feel.
"Please make yourselves at home," Amelia announced, indicating that they would be best advised seating themselves on the lush suite arranged conveniently around the roaring open fire blazing away in the beautifully overstated fireplace. "I'll make us all a nice hot cup of tea, and then I expect you have many questions to ask me."
With the speed and familiarity of such an ancient tradition as the making of hot beverages in such an antiquated setting, Amelia had set out a tray of best china, and a pleasing array of biscuits and fine accompanying confectionaries.
"Right, Amelia. Would you like to tell us what your problem is!" Max began.
"Well, dear." The little color that had managed to survive on the old lady's face immediately vanished and the temporary glow of relief in her eyes, dimmed to the dullness of a troubled woman carrying the weight of the world on her tired shoulders. "It's not something I find easy to explain, and I fear you will think me a crazy old eccentric, finally losing her grip on life."
"We won't think that all, Amelia." Stephanie intervened, her voice sympathetic and ringing with resounding compassion for their hostess's desperate plight. "You just take your time. There's no rush. We're here all weekend."
Amelia shifted awkwardly in her chair, and took a delicate sip from her tea-cup before uttering her first shaky words;
"I have already said that live here with only dear old Captain Blye for company. That is not strictly true. The truth of the matter is," she stopped for a moment to control the nervous shake that had suddenly manifested in her tin withered hands, and placed her cup and saucer down on the conveniently placed occasional table, lest it drop from her frail grip. "There are more inhabitants residing in this old house than I am capable of naming."
Max passed a discreet look towards Stephanie. A silent gesture, though clearly one to urge Amelia on. Despite her initial reluctance, it was obvious that Stephanie had developed an affinity with Amelia's unfortunate situation and he recognized the bizarre bond of trust that the two women were beginning to form.
"Who are these people, Amelia?" Stephanie asked.
Amelia smiled, just for a second, before her old eyes seem to instantly glaze over and her aged weathered face drained of any discernible color.
"Their not people, dear," whispered. "If only they were!" She waited for her visitor's response to her profound proclamation. None came. Stephanie and Max were used to such bizarre statements.
"They are the spirits of those who wandered around this old house before me." She paused to take in much-needed air. The ordeal she had endured alone and in silence was now taking its toll. The once bubbly Amelia Bank-Craven was now visibly and quite understandably reduced to sad, lonely and extremely troubled old lady.
"I didn't mind them at first," she began. "They seemed happy souls and provided me with much welcomed company. Their mischievous pranks were all part of the appeal that this dull and tiresome pile provided. But, then ...."
"Take your time," Stephanie said, leaning forward and resting her hand in a comforting gesture on top of Amelia's.
"About a year ago something changed." Tears began to well in the old lady's eyes as she struggled to continue.
"No one believes me. They all think I'm going mad,"
"We believe you, otherwise we wouldn't be here," Max said, his voice suddenly took on a rare to him, compassionate tone. "I can assure you, Amelia, no one here thinks you're going mad."
The sad old lady raised her head and looked tearfully at Max; "I know you're trying to offer me comfort with your words dear, and I bless you for your kindness."
Stephanie sat back, somewhat puzzled by the scene she was witnessing. She could quite easily count the times Max had displayed even the slightest compassion towards anyone on one hand. And the times he had been blessed for his kindness, could be calculated by employing one digit. Whatever else the weekend produced she felt sure that this very moment would rank near the top of the strangest experiences.
Despite the lack of tact and diplomacy for which he had become renowned, Max could see how distraught their poor old hostess was getting. He rose slowly from his chair and began to inspect the room. His first observation was the high number of photographs dotted around on every suitable surface. Ancient sepia portraits, he guessed, of long past relatives stared down on them from all four walls, each one housed in its own elaborate gilt frames of various overstated sizes.
Amelia watched him closely, though said nothing. Occasionally her gaze would fall and linger on one of the fading images and her mouth would curl into a strained smile.
One photo in particular seemed to capture Max's attention. He crossed the room to inspect it more closely. His eyes locked in on those of the subject, an aged, serious looking figure dressed in the formal attire of an affluent gentleman.
"That's the Reverend Henry Bullock," Amelia said, her voice clearly suggestive of the fact that the mere mention of his name caused her distress.
Max starred on, he felt strangely compelled to hold his ground, though clearly fixed by the glare of the old man's unseeing eyes.
The longer he stood, the more he felt drawn in, as if being willed by an overpowering force.
"You feel it too, don't you dear?" Amelia exclaimed.
Max made no reply.
"He put his heart and soul into designing his beloved rectory," the old lady's voice began to tremble. "His heart may have stopped all those long years ago, but, his soul is still captured within these empty rooms."
Max said nothing, though his instinct told him that she was right. Whatever madness reigned within Midhope Rectory, the Reverend Henry Bullock was the cause of a large part of it.
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