Burial by Graham Masterton Page A

It’s possible that she moved the furniture herself, isn’t it?’
    â€˜Amelia, I’ve seen it for myself. It’s up against the wall and every time anybody tries to move it away from the wall it just slides back again. On its own.’
    Amelia frowned at me. ‘I don’t understand. The furniture’s
still
up against the wall?’
    â€˜That’s right. And nobody can shift it Naomi Greenberg’s sitting on this one chair, keeping it anchored by her own weight in the centre of the room, and she’s not going to let it go for anything. She’s been sitting on it for nearly three weeks, God damn it. Eats on it, sleeps on it, won’t let it go.’
    â€˜Can’t they move her?’
    â€˜Michael’s arranged for regular visits from two different psychiatrists. They’re both worried that she’ll have some kind of catatonic fit if they try to move her.’
    â€˜So what on earth can I do? I’m a sensitive, not an exorcist.’
    â€˜Naomi says she saw shadows on the wall … some kind of creature.’
    â€˜And?’
    â€˜I think I may have seen it, too.’
    Amelia rearranged the sachets of sugar again. ‘I have to tell you, Harry, this doesn’t sound at all like poltergeist. Poltergeist don’t pull things across the room like that; and they certainly don’t keep them there. They’re very erratic and temperamental. They’re the spiritual expression of somebody’s anger. Nobody stays angry for three weeks, do they? Not unless they’re a very disturbed character indeed.’
    I didn’t want to tell Amelia about the way in which Naomi had covered her face with her hands. It was too strongly reminiscent of the events that had taken place at the Sisters of Jerusalem Hospital; especially since Naomi had insisted over and over that I knew what she was trying to describe. It gave metoo deep a feeling of dread to think that there might be any connection. I didn’t really believe that there
could
be any connection. But all the same, I didn’t want to frighten Amelia and I didn’t particularly want to frighten myself, either.
    What I had seen at the Greenbergs’ apartment had already been frightening enough.
    â€˜Any suggestions?’ I asked Amelia.
    â€˜I’m not sure,’ she said. ‘I’ve never heard about anything like it before.’
    â€˜Maybe it’s nothing to do with spirits,’ I said. ‘Maybe it’s just some kind of electrical fault.’
    â€˜Electrical fault?’ she asked me, in the tone of voice that she probably used when one of her less bright remediais asked her the difference between cartoon characters and real life. I remember we had a kid at school who insisted that Mr Magoo lived at home with him, but I guess that’s another story.
    â€˜I just wanted to make sure that it
wasn’t
spirits,’ I said. ‘That’s why I threw caution and good manners and human decency to the winds and came round to ask you a favour.’
    Amelia unfolded a paper napkin and took out a pen. ‘Listen,’ she said, ‘there’s a man I know who lives on Central Park West. His name’s Martin Vaizey. He’s very sensitive, and particularly good at contacting wayward spirits. I think he may be able to help you even better than I could.’
    I tucked the napkin in my pocket without reading it. ‘Well,’ I said, ‘I knew I could count on you.’
    â€˜Don’t make the mistake of underestimating Martin. He’s very, very good. He’s talked to John Lennon a few times. Of course they were practically neighbours.’
    â€˜He’s talked to John Lennon? You mean
after
he was shot?’
    Amelia nodded.
    â€˜Did he get his autograph?’ I asked her.
    â€˜Harry — don’t underestimate Martin, please. He’s kindof eccentric, but he’s a brilliant man. He’s a better sensitive than