movements, but now they burned steady and clear. From where I was sitting I could
see a line of light from the landing, where the door and the floorboards didn’t quite meet. I had tinkered with ouija and seances at school, as teenage girls did and probably still do; but
these sessions had invariably dissolved into giggles, or else a member of the party had succumbed to the temptation to make strange noises and had to be ticked off by the rest for not taking the
enterprise seriously. I had half expected Danny or Simon to adopt this line, but neither of them did. The silence became intense – eventually broken by Trudie’s voice, low, melodious,
inviting: ‘You can come to us. We are ready.’
There was another pause. I noticed Danny’s crucifix, twinkling mischievously in the candlelight.
‘I can see her.’ Trudie exhaled the words softly.
I raised my eyes to see where Trudie was looking – for a split second anticipating a vision of Murdered Agnes in the room with us: but Trudie’s eyes were closed. Whatever she was
seeing was safely confined in her head.
Danny squeezed my hand, whether in reassurance or to share the joke, I never knew. I didn’t look at him.
Trudie began to speak in a low, dreamy voice. In spite of our proximity, I could barely hear her. ‘She’s going into the wood. She isn’t afraid – in fact she’s
laughing and happy . . . It’s getting dark among the trees, so I can’t see her very well – wait, Agnes – don’t go so fast . . . There’s a man – a man with
dark hair and a beard . . .’
So much for that, I thought. It’s exactly what was printed in the magazine.
‘He’s her friend, so Agnes isn’t afraid. Wait . . .’ I felt the hairs rising on the back of my neck in direct parallel with the increasing tension in Trudie’s
voice. ‘He’s not with her – she’s on her own – looking around – lost in the dark – dark all around . . .’ Trudie’s voice rose. I calmed myself
with the thought that she was one hell of an actress.
‘No!’ She almost shouted the word. ‘Agnes – he’s come up behind her – Agnes – I see her now – clearly. She has long dark hair – she looks
like me—’ Trudie burst into noisy sobs. ‘It is me – she has my face.’
As I broke away, I realized that my nails must have been digging into the backs of Simon’s fingers. I scrambled round behind Danny to reach Trudie, putting my arms around her and holding
her, cradling her back and forth like a child while the candles, which had been disturbed by these sudden movements, sent our shadows gyrating wildly across the walls and ceiling. ‘It’s
all right,’ I said. ‘It’s all right.’
‘You shouldn’t have broken the circle,’ she whispered through tears.
Simon stood up and switched on the lights. Danny retrieved his crucifix and snuffed out the candles. As Trudie clambered to her feet, the first rumbles of thunder reverberated through the house.
Simon took over as comforter. I heard him offering to sleep in Trudie’s room with her, to which she mumbled her thanks.
The storm which had been so slow in coming intensified in the space of a moment, the thunder bouncing off the roof, chasing us on to the landing. While Simon escorted Trudie to her room, his arm
draped protectively around her shoulders, Danny and I almost ran into our own little sanctuary, shutting the door behind us as if barring the way against foes unseen, then laughing nervously at
each other while throwing our clothes off in an unspoken contest to be first into bed. Meantime the storm continued at full tilt – B movie thunder, with lightning illuminating the room at
regular intervals.
Our familiar bed was an island of normality, a safe haven from Trudie and all her nonsense. Once naked under the sheets I huddled against Danny, feeling the cool shape of his crucifix imprinting
itself in my cheek. He planted a couple of kisses on the top of my head, before asking: ‘Do you think
see a line of light from the landing, where the door and the floorboards didn’t quite meet. I had tinkered with ouija and seances at school, as teenage girls did and probably still do; but
these sessions had invariably dissolved into giggles, or else a member of the party had succumbed to the temptation to make strange noises and had to be ticked off by the rest for not taking the
enterprise seriously. I had half expected Danny or Simon to adopt this line, but neither of them did. The silence became intense – eventually broken by Trudie’s voice, low, melodious,
inviting: ‘You can come to us. We are ready.’
There was another pause. I noticed Danny’s crucifix, twinkling mischievously in the candlelight.
‘I can see her.’ Trudie exhaled the words softly.
I raised my eyes to see where Trudie was looking – for a split second anticipating a vision of Murdered Agnes in the room with us: but Trudie’s eyes were closed. Whatever she was
seeing was safely confined in her head.
Danny squeezed my hand, whether in reassurance or to share the joke, I never knew. I didn’t look at him.
Trudie began to speak in a low, dreamy voice. In spite of our proximity, I could barely hear her. ‘She’s going into the wood. She isn’t afraid – in fact she’s
laughing and happy . . . It’s getting dark among the trees, so I can’t see her very well – wait, Agnes – don’t go so fast . . . There’s a man – a man with
dark hair and a beard . . .’
So much for that, I thought. It’s exactly what was printed in the magazine.
‘He’s her friend, so Agnes isn’t afraid. Wait . . .’ I felt the hairs rising on the back of my neck in direct parallel with the increasing tension in Trudie’s
voice. ‘He’s not with her – she’s on her own – looking around – lost in the dark – dark all around . . .’ Trudie’s voice rose. I calmed myself
with the thought that she was one hell of an actress.
‘No!’ She almost shouted the word. ‘Agnes – he’s come up behind her – Agnes – I see her now – clearly. She has long dark hair – she looks
like me—’ Trudie burst into noisy sobs. ‘It is me – she has my face.’
As I broke away, I realized that my nails must have been digging into the backs of Simon’s fingers. I scrambled round behind Danny to reach Trudie, putting my arms around her and holding
her, cradling her back and forth like a child while the candles, which had been disturbed by these sudden movements, sent our shadows gyrating wildly across the walls and ceiling. ‘It’s
all right,’ I said. ‘It’s all right.’
‘You shouldn’t have broken the circle,’ she whispered through tears.
Simon stood up and switched on the lights. Danny retrieved his crucifix and snuffed out the candles. As Trudie clambered to her feet, the first rumbles of thunder reverberated through the house.
Simon took over as comforter. I heard him offering to sleep in Trudie’s room with her, to which she mumbled her thanks.
The storm which had been so slow in coming intensified in the space of a moment, the thunder bouncing off the roof, chasing us on to the landing. While Simon escorted Trudie to her room, his arm
draped protectively around her shoulders, Danny and I almost ran into our own little sanctuary, shutting the door behind us as if barring the way against foes unseen, then laughing nervously at
each other while throwing our clothes off in an unspoken contest to be first into bed. Meantime the storm continued at full tilt – B movie thunder, with lightning illuminating the room at
regular intervals.
Our familiar bed was an island of normality, a safe haven from Trudie and all her nonsense. Once naked under the sheets I huddled against Danny, feeling the cool shape of his crucifix imprinting
itself in my cheek. He planted a couple of kisses on the top of my head, before asking: ‘Do you think
Similar Books
