The Ghosts of Tullybrae House (18 page)

“That’s good. Hey, listen. I was wondering if maybe I could convince you to come out for a drink sometime. You know, just to hang out, away from this place.”

“Um, sure. What are the others thinking? They up for it?”

“Oh. I, er, meant just the two of us.”

Just the two of us. She’d known that’s what he wanted, and hoped she was wrong. The nervous smile on his face was, as always, boyishly charming. He was a good-looking guy. She wished she was attracted to him. She did like him, too—just not like that.

The Highlander’s dislike grew stronger. It pulled her away from whatever true feelings she might have for Dean. Or could learn to have. She wasn’t sure.

“Oh. Dean, I’m flattered, really. And I think you’re great. It’s just… well… I’m not really in the right headspace to be going out on a date.”

His face fell a fraction, but he remained undeterred. “That’s okay, no worries. What about just as friends, then?” When she wavered, he hastily added, “C’mon, it’d be fun. I think you’re a lot of fun to talk to, and, heck, I need a night off. Away from these guys.” He jerked a thumb over his shoulders.

Emmie eyed him skeptically. A part of her wanted to say yes, knew she would have said yes if she’d met him under different circumstances. If the Highlander wasn’t doing everything he could to dissuade her.

My goodness, he
really
didn’t trust Dean.

Was Dean dangerous in some way that she didn’t know in her limited mortal capacity of understanding? He didn’t drown kittens, or stick pins in voodoo dolls, did he?

“C’mon,” Dean cajoled again, giving her his full Texan charm.

“Okay,” Emmie relented, deciding that the Highlander must be wrong—whatever it was that he thought. “But just as friends, right?”

“Yes, ma’am,” he said, giving a two-fingered salute. “What about Friday? You’ll probably be busy tomorrow and Thursday, with the guys from Haunted Britain coming and all.”

“Oh, my God. I forgot all about that,” she exclaimed.

Dean gave a startled laugh. “You forgot? How can you forget something like
that
? You sure you’re okay?”

“No, not at all sure.” She passed a hand over her makeup-free face. “Oh, I am
so
not looking forward to that.”

He shrugged. “Chin up. Think of it this way—at least you’ll know for sure if the place is haunted or not.”

Later that night,
as Emmie lay in bed trying to read, Dean’s words kept circling in her head.

He didn’t have it right, didn’t understand. She already knew Tullybrae was haunted. The constant presence of the Highlander proved it—a presence which was currently at the foot of the bed, watching protectively. The reason she wasn’t looking forward to Haunted Britain coming was because she didn’t want to find out just how haunted the house was.

Or perhaps, more alarmingly, that it
wasn’t
haunted. That the Highlander wasn’t real. After all, no one else seemed to know of his existence.

What if her worst fears were being realized: that she was losing her mind? That she was weak? That she truly was losing her iron-clad grip on herself? It didn’t matter how hard she’d tried before now to keep herself together. She was destined to fail, just like her mother.

She gazed across the room to the face on the dresser. Today, that smile told her nothing. It wasn’t even a smile. It was just photo ink on paper. A glossy finish. That was not her mother in that frame. It was no one.

“I hate you,” she told the photo. And she meant it.

HAUNTED BRITAIN
WAS
scheduled to film the Tullybrae House episode in two parts over two days. On the first day, the show would interview Lady Rotherham, and host Elena Seaton-Downs would talk about the history of the house and the hauntings. The first day would also be when one of the show’s three regularly featured psychic mediums would be brought on location to give her supernatural impression of who or what was haunting it, and why.

The second part would be filmed at night, when the “ghost hunting” crew would try to catch evidence of the hauntings. For this they would use a combination of hand-held cameras and stationary ones that had been rigged around the house in strategic locations. They would also use electromagnetic frequency detectors, infrared equipment, audio recorders, and a generous dose of exaggeration at every bump and creak.

Emmie spied the show’s host, Elena Seaton-Downs, from the drawing room window when the crew arrived, and watched her covertly for a minute or two. She reminded Emmie very much of Lady Rotherham. Both were high-energy and more than a touch flaky. But Ms. Seaton-Downs had none of Camille’s genuine warmth. Deciding she wasn’t Elena’s biggest fan, she retreated to her nursery.

Lady Rotherham soon ferreted her out.

“Sweetheart! What are you doing in here?” she demanded, breezing into Emmie’s sanctuary.

For a brief moment, Emmie resented having her privacy invaded.

Get a grip, Em,
she quickly chastised.
It’s her house, she can go where she wants.

“I’m working,
boss
,” she answered laughingly instead.

“Oh, pshaw. Don’t worry about all that now. Come and meet the medium. It’s so exciting—a psychic medium here, at Tullybrae. She’s a nice lady. Carol is her name. Carol Bowman. You wouldn’t think she’s anything other than ordinary to look at her.”

“I promise, I’ll come in a bit. You look great, by the way, Camille.”

“You think?” Lady Rotherham plumped her stiff coif. Blood red nails gleamed in the morning light from the nursery’s oriel windows. “I’ve had my makeup done by the show for my interview. I’ve been ‘in Makeup’—Oh, I’ve always wanted to say that.” She clapped her hands gleefully. “Oliver can’t take his eyes off me. And between you and me, my dear, neither can some of the young chaps from the camera crew.”

Waggling her fingers in a farewell gesture, she glided from the nursery. Emmie shook her head. Well, at least the lady was optimistic.

“In a bit” turned into an hour. Contrary to what she had been hoping, Lady Rotherham did not forget about her. “Emmie, come out here,” she’d called from the other end of the second floor hallway, rather more commanding than Emmie was used to.

Reluctantly, Emmie rose from her desk, pausing at the door. The Highlander was with her still. She was glad of it. As long as he was with her, she wasn’t alone.

As if reading her thoughts, his presence strengthened. She imagined he had embraced her, offering her encouragement and assurance that it would all be okay. There was no reason to fear the medium.

That’s what it was, she realized—fear. Emmie was
afraid
of the psychic. She was afraid the woman would see the Highlander. Emmie didn’t want anyone to know about the Highlander. He was
her
secret.

But it wasn’t just that. Emmie was deeply afraid that the woman would see more than just the spirits in the house. That she would be able to see her, Emmie. She was afraid that the medium would cut right through her fragile exterior into her soul.

Would she see that Emmie was losing her marbles?

With the Highlander trailing her down the hallway, Emmie caught up to the camera crew. They were in one of the bedrooms-turned-storage rooms. She hung back, observing from the hallway, though she couldn’t see much of what was going on inside, since the (notably rotund) sound guy was blocking the door. Nevertheless, she caught a glimpse of the medium. Carol Bowman, Lady Rotherham had called her.

She was heavy-set, but tall. Her short, fluffy hair was dyed a uniform apricot colour, and her face was round and soft and unassuming. It was obvious that she’d been to Makeup for her on-camera appearance, yet the makeup artists had not done much other than to smooth her already smooth complexion with foundation. Looking at her, Emmie had the feeling that this had been her choice, not Makeup’s. Other than a pair of beaded earrings that looked hand-crafted, the woman was unremarkable. No wild costume jewellery, no flamboyant scarves or loose skirts. In essence, not the caricature fortune teller Emmie had in her head.

“This was her bedroom,” the woman was saying. Her hands were in front of her, palms down and fingers splayed.

“
Hers
—you mean the woman spirit?”

This was Elena Seaton-Downs, and the question was said with something akin to sheer amazement. The same amazement she showed for every show. In every bedroom and every hallway and with every statement of psychic “fact.”

Having watched the show before, Emmie knew what the host of Haunted Britain looked like. Elena Seaton-Downs was a slim woman in her mid-forties. She had dark hair and a heavy fringe bang which accented large blue doe eyes. Those eyes looked good in the night vision cameras when they were wide with fright. Emmie suspected the host knew this of herself, and knew how to play it up to elevate the drama.

If anything could be said of her, Elena certainly knew her job.

“She was very proud of the window in particular,” the medium continued. “Used to stand here each morning and look out over her land. I feel like she’s a motherly figure. A nurturing figure.”

“Can you imagine?” Elena Seaton-Downs exclaimed.

“I always felt like she was watching over me,” Lady Rotherham piped up, and the cameraman panned to the left. “When I was a girl I would often feel at night that someone was tucking me in and stroking my hair.”

The statement gave Emmie pause. She recalled her own similar experience, and wondered if the medium could actually see the countess. If she was here, in the room with them.

Could she see the Highlander?

Chillingly, at the exact same time as the though popped into her head, the medium, Carol Bowman, stopped suddenly, and turned to look at her. An odd expression crossed her plain, pleasant face.

For a fraction of a second that felt like an eternity, the woman and Emmie stared at each other.

No
, thought Emmie.
Don’t tell my secret. Please. It’s mine. They can’t know.

“What is it? Are you sensing something?” Elena touched the medium’s arm, her voice expertly hushed.

The medium opened her mouth to speak. But then, she shook her head, and looked away. “This energy, this motherly woman, she was also partial to the gardens. Can we go see?”

“Yes, of course,” Elena stated, as if the house were hers.

“And cut,” announced the director in a very lackluster way. The camera crew lowered their gear, and suddenly all the pretense was dropped. Where the television personalities had moments ago been absorbed in the house and its ghostly inhabitants, now stood nothing more than a group of people, crowded together in a bedroom packed with centuries’ old stuff.

“I feel like my hair’s doing something funny,” Elena complained in a much less flimsy voice than the one she used on camera. “Can I go see Cindy before we go down?”

“I need the loo,” put in the sound technician.

“All right, everybody, take ten,” the director relented. “We’ll meet in the back garden.”

Emmie flattened herself against the wall to let the crew pass. Lady Rotherham shot her an excited smile, pencilled eyebrows raised, and squeezed her arm as she went by. No one else seemed to notice her. Carol Bowman was dictating a list of orders to a woman whom Emmie guessed was her assistant. “Then call Roger and tell him I can do five. But don’t let him know I’ve got Puff for the weekend, or he’ll lose his junk. Do they have any more of those shortbread bikkies?”

Emmie let out a breath as they retreated. She’d been afraid the medium would stop, and would say whatever it was she’d been about to reveal.

I shouldn’t have come
, she thought
. I should have stayed in the nursery. In my room. Anywhere but here.

She fled the corridor for the safety of her nursery, despite a peculiar tug from the Highlander to follow the crew.

“You don’t control me,” she hissed. She regretted it when the Highlander let go, let her flee. She had the notion that her slight had hurt him. It hurt her to know she’d hurt him.

Ten minutes later, Emmie was finishing off a response to an email from Paul Rotenfeld. He was wondering when she might want to come back down to Glasgow to go over the archives. As she clicked the send button, there was a knock on the open door.

It was the medium. She hovered on the threshold, a tentative smile fixed on her lips.

“Hi there,” she hedged. “It’s Emmeline, right?”

Emmie’s stomach plummeted even as the Highlander’s spirits picked up.

“Emmie, yes.” She smiled pleasantly back. “What can I do for you Carol?”

“I see I don’t need to introduce myself,” the medium quipped lightly. “I hope you don’t mind the intrusion.”

“Not at all.” Emmie gestured to the empty chair across from her desk. She cursed herself for not being able to tell the truth:
No, I want you to go away and leave me alone.

Carol entered the nursery, but instead of taking the chair, she settled herself on the window seat. “I love these windows,” she declared, gazing out the glass at the view. “I can see why you chose this space to work in. Light from three different directions. All-day natural light.”

“When there’s not much sunshine, you take as much as you can of whatever you can get.”

Carol settled her gaze on Emmie, studying her curiously. The Highlander was practically bouncing—in a spiritual sense, at least.

“I’m sure you know that I want to talk to you.”

Emmie nodded, resigned. “But do you have time? Didn’t the director say you only had ten minutes? That was five minutes ago.”

“Oh, don’t listen to Greg. No one else does. When he says to take ten, it means we actually have thirty. Rule of thumb with him is to triple whatever he tells you. You looked a little startled earlier when I saw you in the hallway. You didn’t want me to start talking.”

“Maybe,” Emmie admitted.

“Sometimes, when I’m listening—sensing, reading, whatever you want to call it—I tend to blurt out whatever I’m picking up without thinking about how it might come out, or who might not want to hear it.”

“Oh…kayyyy,” Emmie drawled when Carol paused, looking quizzically at her.

“Do you know about the woman? The one who follows you around? She’s attached to this house.”

“The countess?”

“No, not her. Although she does like to hand around you, too. No, this is a little old lady. Wiry thin, black dress, grey hair worn in a finger wave style.”

Emmie raised an eyebrow.

“I wouldn’t quite say the nineteen twenties. Maybe thirties or forties was her era. No? You don’t know who that could be?”

For a moment, Emmie wondered if the woman might be her grandmother. But it didn’t seem likely. From what she could remember, her grandmother had been quite tall and heavy. And her hair had had the thin, white, wispy look of a cirrus cloud. Far from anything one could call a finger wave.

“Sorry, can’t think.” Teasingly, she added, “Aren’t you supposed to be able to tell me that kind of stuff? You’re the psychic.”

Carol gazed fondly at Emmie. “If they want me to know, then yes. But this one, she’s blocking me. Telling me, in her way, that she’s not important to the house’s story. I get the impression that she doesn’t consider herself an active haunting—although, I think there’s one person in this house that would disagree.” She laughed and shook her head when, again, Emmie lifted a brow. “Never mind. What I can tell of her is that she belongs to the house, and she follows you around. Kind of like a mother figure, or a guardian. Back in the bedroom, when I went to speak, she was there, standing in front of you in my mind’s eye. And she told me to leave you alone, to not talk about you while the cameras were rolling. She’s very protective of you.”