Episode 10 – Thou art in hell

I’m not one for God, but I suppose if ghosts exist then there’s a possibility He might. Regardless of my opinion, the relationship between science and religion has always been tense, so when Strother decided that one of our investigations would be on a young woman claiming to be possessed by a demon, I think we were all shocked. I get why he’d chosen it. How could a scientist as arrogant as him refuse the opportunity to disprove the existence of demons, and by extension God?

As you’ve probably realised, my sight only extends to humans. I’ve never seen a demon, or an angel. At least, I don’t think I have. So, in this particular case I was going in as blind as everyone else. It made me really uncomfortable. I know ghosts, and even though my knowledge back then was limited, I knew enough to get by. Demons, if they existed, were completely foreign to me. I hadn’t even seen The Exorcist.

I’d never understood the obsession with demon possessions. How could people believe in it so much that they would call in priests and other holy leaders rather than doctors to try and help? When did superstition win over medicine? This case was one of the only times I was ever on Strother’s side of an argument. These incidents must have some kind of psychological or neurological explanation? Right?

That’s the frightening thing. The double-edged sword. If ghosts exist, if there is life after death, then what else is there? What other folklore and mythical tales are actually true? I grew up in Scotland, I’ve heard the stories about fairies and kelpies, but I’ve never seen anything. But where I can see ghosts and no one else can, can there also be people who see other things that I can’t?

Anxiety stems from ignorance, from the unknown, from the potential to be true. I couldn’t say demons weren’t real. Surely if there were ghosts, then there was also room for there to be demons? I was filled with trepidation going into this case, and I didn’t like it.

Surprisingly, Strother was a well-connected guy, and somehow he knew a catholic priest. I’m not catholic, and either was anyone else on the team, but we had all been brought up Christians and in the wake of many demonic possession films that hit the box office in quick succession. Going into this neutral was impossible.

Strother told us that the priest had got in touch with him after two failed exorcisms on a young woman in his parish called Heather MacQueenie. She’d had an average upbringing, attended church on Sundays, and by all accounts was pretty normal. She’d left for university and after she’d returned for the summer at the end of her penultimate year she’d begun to act strangely. She went from bright and happy to serious and angry. The slightest thing pushed her into a rage. At first her parents thought it was the stress of her honours degree getting on top of her, but when she started to speak in different voices, saying horrible things, they began to think differently.

Being religious their first thought was to call the priests. After talking to Heather a few times, or rather the demon inside of Heather, they announced they’d do an exorcism. After the second time one of the priests called Strother.

What was unusual about this case was that Strother never offered up any possible explanation beforehand. Usually he was always quick to dismiss the ghost stories, the mediums and psychics, by giving alternative diagnoses, but this time he was quiet. If I hadn’t known better, I would’ve said they were the only things he believed might be real.

As for my younger self I couldn’t understand it. Things like this didn’t happen in real life, not in modern times with the internet and mobile phones, or at least if they did it was in America. It frightened me that it was happening on my own doorstep. I know Scottish people can be superstitious, even I’m guilty of it, but superstition and demonic possession were very different to each other.

I wasn’t the only one affected by this case, even before it started. The drive to the small parish where Heather MacQueenie lived was the most silent of the entire study. It was like nobody wanted to discuss it because they didn’t have a quick explanation. It was different to psychics and mediums who defrauded people for their own gain, Heather wasn’t gaining anything, save from the attention of catholic priests, which I can’t imagine you can use as the deposit on a seven-bedroom house.

Their silence unnerved me more, and reading the emails the priest had sent Strother only compounded my worries. Along with possible multiple personalities, objects were reported being thrown about, even at people. Her parents and the priests also claimed she now spoke fluent Latin.

It all sounds very familiar, doesn’t it? Guttural voices, flying objects, mastery of defunct languages. I felt like we were walking onto the set of a film rather than real life. I was almost disappointed when we arrived and didn’t see the crew.

As part of the church’s bid to protect Heather’s privacy, we weren’t allowed to film, only record audio and take notes. Strother didn’t seem to mind this even though we would’ve been the first researchers to film a genuine possession, if it was genuine.

The more I read about the phenomena the more reluctant I became to participating. Hundreds of people around the world have died because others thought they were possessed by demons. The most recent, as you probably know, is Anneliese Michel, a young woman who was mentally ill but thought to be possessed by a demon. After numerous failed attempts to exorcize whatever she was possessed by, she died. Most of the people involved were charged with negligent homicide. I really wish I hadn’t read the story before seeing Heather.

Rather than staying with the MacQueenie’s we had rooms in the local hotel and drove to the parish where her family stayed. Instead of going straight to the house, the priest who had contacted Strother asked if he could speak to us first.

Father Alan McClintock was a very typical priest, which might not be saying much. He was in his fifties, perhaps older, with shocking white hair and a kind smile that begged anyone who spoke to him to trust him with all their secrets. He was very welcoming and invited us into the church. In his rooms he began to explain the events surrounding Heather.

By the time we visited, Heather’s symptoms had been going on for almost 9 months. It’d been small things at first. Snapping at her family for trivial things, skipping meals, random things breaking in the house, and over time it’d worsened to physical and verbal attacks, different voices, different languages, and belongings flying across rooms without being touched. We all sat in silence listening to Father Alan’s experiences.

The man looked haggard to me, exhausted from trying to solve a problem he wasn’t equipped to. According to him the first thing Heather’s parents had done was take her to the doctors, who’d referred her to a specialist and given her a prescription. One that didn’t work. Then the church had become involved, and the Bishop of the diocese had sent in a trained exorcist. That hadn’t worked either. With all solutions producing no results they were all at a loss on what to do.

It was then that I became curious as to the reason he’d contacted Strother. Was it so he could use it in the study as the first piece of evidence demonic possession was real, or was it to diagnose and treat Heather once and for all? Was that why Strother had been uncharacteristically quiet about possible explanations?

It never became easier to know what Strother was thinking, and I admit this was another time I wanted him to be his vocal, opinionated self. It would’ve made me feel a lot better. When a priest, of any religion, tells you about a young woman who may be possessed by a demon, it’s really hard not to take everything at face value. I’m not saying he was lying, but because he thought demons were real in the first place means he wasn’t an unbiased source of information. It was very likely he was moulding the facts to his beliefs, which we all do.

The picture of Heather MacQueenie that you have now is probably the exact same as the one I did at the time. On the journey from the church to their home I had images of a girl strapped to a bed to prevent harm to herself and others. Of a woman speaking in a voice that wasn’t her own, or things being hurled across rooms of their own volition. Of Heather herself I saw an emaciated shadow of a person with dark circles under their eyes and a gaunt, haunted look cast across her face.

That’s why I was so surprised when Heather opened the door. What Father Alan had failed to mention during his horror stories was that Heather MacQueenie looked completely normal. By that I mean how any young woman in her early twenties might look. Medium height, thin, long hair tied in a bun, light makeup with jeans and a t-shirt. She looked like any university student. I think all of us were taken aback as even Strother became tongue-tied.

There was a moment when I thought we might’ve been tricked, or rather Strother might’ve been tricked. If you’ve gleaned anything about him from these stories of mine it’s that his attitude and way of speaking gained him a lot of critics. It’s not surprising one might want revenge. But there was no reveal, no laughing and pointing at hidden cameras. Unfortunately, it wasn’t a prank.

It was all a bit surreal after that. We were all shown in and introduced to Heather and her family. Her mum and dad were polite, average looking people, and her sister, who was just about to start university, was friendly and helpful. The atmosphere wasn’t what I, or probably any of us, had imagined when we were back at the church.

But, once the niceties and chitchat stopped, there was something in that house, something that hung in the air like carbon monoxide, and almost as deadly. If you looked close enough you could see the strain lines on Mr MacQueenie’s face, or the frantic glances Mrs MacQueenie kept giving her eldest daughter, as if expecting her to flip out at any time.

We all sat down and had tea whilst listening to the MacQueenie’s experiences. It was much the same as Father Alan’s account. Everything had been fine, and then slowly the descent into possession had begun. We all listened intently as we heard the stories again, with Strother, Steph, and Ken scribbling down occasional notes.

There was definitely an expectation from the family that we were there to help, rather than to test and observe. They never signed a consent form for the study. Instead, Strother explained to them the tests he could carry out on Heather to find out what was going on.

Mr and Mrs MacQueenie nodded their heads eagerly, even before Strother had finished speaking. However, Heather was an adult, and her consent was the only one that mattered. During tea and our talk Heather was very matter-of-fact, almost as if she was speaking about someone else. She’d kept a log of her experiences, when they happened, how long, what she’d done. It was very logical, almost too neat for someone claiming to be possessed by a demon. But, my own views on what demon possession was is shaped by what I’d read and seen during my research. There are case studies in other parts of the world where Christianity isn’t dominant, that report demon possessions by something as little as low mood and a string of bad luck. Demon possession in itself isn’t precisely defined.

Heather consented to have the tests done and Strother asked if there was a room where he could set everything up. The McQueenie’s said we could use their room as it was the largest. Father Alan stayed as moral support, whilst the rest of us set up the room with the EEG and other neurological testing equipment. Strother wanted the session recorded, and he asked if I could sit in.

Heather and I were almost the same age, and in case anything happened, he wanted a witness in the room with him. Steph and Ken remained downstairs with Mr and Mrs MacQueenie and Father Alan. I sat and spoke with Heather whilst Strother did his final preparations. Before we began he went to get a jug of water.

He’d probably been gone a few seconds when the door slammed violently shut. I jumped up in fright and as soon as I did I began to feel dizzy, like a bad case of headrush. My entire head felt heavy, my vision distorted, like looking through glasses with the wrong prescription. I turned around to Heather and her face wasn’t in focus. She had a cold look to her features, but she was smiling, a crooked, bent smile that made me feel ill at ease.

“Sarah” (*long drawn out*)

She began, as if calling my name across a playground. There was nothing playful about her tone. One moment it looked like Heather, and the next it looked like someone else, a man. They were just flashes, an overlay of a stranger, but the malignancy I felt in that room was something else.

“I know what you are. I know you can see me. I know that you’re a witch.”

The voice was not Heather’s, yet it was. She turned to look at me then, directly into my eyes, and I don’t think I’ve ever been more afraid of another human being as I was of her. I was so scared I couldn’t process what she saying to me.

“Witches should burn, witches are the devil’s consorts. You think you can stop me, you think you can help me. You’re wrong.”

Strother opened the door in that moment. I whirled around to look at him for a brief second, not even enough time to blink, but when I turned back around to Heather, she was herself again. Strother asked me why I’d shut the door, and I couldn’t answer him.


I managed to get into the laptop. I won’t tell you the details, but let’s just say my current social circles are a lot wider than they were back when I was an isolated PhD student.

I’ve spent the last day scouring through every file, email thread, and picture that was on it. And I finally think I may have found answers, or at least the beginning of them. In Strother’s meticulously organised email inbox there was a folder named Inverlewis. When I began to read the emails, I noticed they were from a finance manager at Inverlewis limited. For those outside of Scotland, Inverlewis is one of the largest trading companies in the country. According to recent statistics something like 1 out of every 5 things on the shelves of supermarkets is there because of Inverlewis.

In the emails Strother attached brief interim reports of the study’s progress, like you would do for a funding body. I think Inverlewis funded our study, and I have no idea why. Why would a trading company be interested in the paranormal? What do ghosts and psychics have to do with buying and selling products to the masses?

So, I asked. I emailed the person who’d been in contact with Strother for the entirety of the study, but an automatic reply came stating the address has been defunct for a number of years. But you can find anyone these days if you know how and where to look, and I wasn’t about to give up now when I’m just starting to find answers.

The search is still ongoing as I’m recording this, I just thought I should keep you updated. I won’t disclose their name for the same reason I won’t disclose Katherine Philips’. I don’t know what kind of rabbit hole I’m about to fall down, but I don’t have a right to drag others into it with me.

Episode 9 – Family

Now, where were we with the Anderson case? I think Strother and I had just been interrupted from fighting by Mr Anderson. I began to feel more unwell by the second, until I decided I needed to be sick. There’s always something humiliating about being sick, even more so in front of strangers, but it’s not like you can help it. The sink was in front of the window, and as I began to regain my senses I glanced up at the reflection in the glass. Right behind my head, in the doorway, I saw the black mass writhing and jumping like a lava lamp. My throat burned and a shiver swept over my entire body as I locked eyes with its reflection. Then as soon as I blinked, it was gone, leaving only an empty space.

Mr Anderson was at my side, frantically asking if I was alright. He blamed the time of year and that there were a lot of viruses going around. I didn’t know what it was but it certainly wasn’t something like the flu. I was tired, having kept a semi-vigil over Anna’s bedroom all night. But it was like a sickness, suddenly come over me. My entire body felt heavy, every muscle aching for no reason. Although my stomach had settled, the rest of me was acting up. It took a considerable amount of strength just to keep myself upright. Mr Anderson said I could sleep in one of the guest bedrooms. Gladly I took his offer, but noticing how unsteady I’d become Strother had to help me up the stairs. He chided me for not admitting I was unwell, but I had no strength to respond.

I slept until lunchtime and when I awoke, completely fine, I became convinced that my sudden illness wasn’t bacterial in nature. It was news to me that ghosts could affect the living like that. I mean I wasn’t a complete beginner when it came to these things, and it made me afraid. Why had it made me ill and no one else, including Anna who could see it? Had it taken a dislike to our midnight staring contest?

I awoke to the smells of Sunday roast, and thankfully for me I was starving. I’d missed the actual mealtime by a few hours, but warmed up is better than none at all. Anna had gone on a walk with her father, leaving Lorraine Anderson alone with the rest of us. Whilst I was eating in the kitchen Strother took the opportunity to bulldoze Mrs Anderson with what he thought was reason. He began to suggest other psychological problems that Anna could have to explain what she was seeing. The tests which I’d become afraid of were suggested in the next sentence. Strother offered them an appointment to use the university equipment, or he had the numbers of child phycologists he could recommend. Lorraine looked overwhelmed, as if she hadn’t thought the problem was that serious.

It reminded me of my own parents. I was younger than Anna when I was tested. About six years old. Schizophrenia, tumours, eye problems, even cancer at one point. Thinking back my Mum and Dad must have been worried in case there was something serious wrong with me. I don’t know who gave up first, my parents or me. I either began to realise that the more I mentioned ghosts the more hospitals I ended up at, or they realised that there was no diagnosis for me. I can’t say that time has made me understand their persistence, but I do understand where they were coming from. For all they knew I could’ve had a tumour that made me hallucinate.

It still affected me, and my relationship with them, growing up. And even now I’m an adult, I rarely see or speak to them. I don’t suppose I’ve ever forgiven them for not believing me. I knew I didn’t want that happening to the Andersons.

Lorraine told us she’d have to discuss it with her husband before any decisions were made, and that seemed to satisfy Strother. Thankfully, I managed to have some time alone in the kitchen with Lorraine as I was finishing my lunch. I told her she didn’t look as though she were entirely convinced by Strother’s opinion. She paled visibly and I could see she was immediately uncomfortable talking about it, refusing to meet my gaze as she busied with the pots and pans. When she did catch my eye, I recognised the look immediately, because I’d seen it many times before. It’s the look adults get when their belief system is about to breakdown. Doubts begin to surround things they’ve known their entire life. It’s the look I’d one day see on Strother’s face.

I asked her if she’d seen what Anna could. She nodded and said that sometimes, when she was alone in the house, she would catch it in the corner of her eye. I could tell by her tone she didn’t want to believe it, desperately wished her mind was impressionable and she was imagining things. She’d never got a look at it, unlike her daughter, but she described it as a shadow, cold and fleeting. One, even though she couldn’t see it properly, she knew was there. Her husband was a firm sceptic and had never seen anything. She asked me what it was, desperate for answers that she thought I could give. I don’t think I’d be able to give them now let alone back then, but I felt bad.

So, I told her that it probably didn’t mean any harm. I explained all I knew. That it was human, that it was old, that it had forgotten who it was. I also pleaded with her not to tell my team. She asked me what she could do. We were due to leave the Anderson home later that day, and her husband would want Anna to go through the tests.

Suddenly a scream ripped through the house. Not from a child but from an adult woman. I jumped in fright, and Lorraine dropped a serving plate so it smashed on their tiled floor with an equally piercing crash. Ken and Strother were at the door instantly, assuming it was one of us. When they realised it wasn’t, Ken ran up the stairs to where I presume Steph had let out the scream.

Whilst we waited, I began to help Lorraine clean up the mess, but Strother snapped that I wasn’t a maid. When I opened my mouth to protest, he cut me down viciously, more so than usual. I was stunned into silence. Stepping in to defend me was Lorraine Anderson, and the two began a vicious argument, not dissimilar to him and I the previous day, in the same room. The worst thing about it was that they were fighting over me.

I stared at Strother, hoping he’d take the hint and stop, but I began to notice something strange. I was looking at Strother, the sharp jawline, the even sharper eyes, but there was a different essence to him, not dissimilar to uncanny valley. His confrontational behaviour, the strength of his rage, they were all far from the Strother I’d come to know. I said before that he was never one to start an argument he couldn’t win, but here he was fighting with anyone. I’d felt the same the day before, but I blamed my fatigue.

Knowing he wasn’t himself, I pushed him forcefully from the room and into another one, away from Lorraine. He was so angry I thought he might hit the wall, or even me. Mrs Anderson was so angry I thought she’d follow us just to continue their fight, so I shut the door behind us. Before I could turn around I heard a thump and watched as Strother crumpled to the floor like puppet with its strings cut. At his back was the shadowy mass I’d seen at Anna’s bed the night before.

I ran to see if the fall had done any damage to Strother, keeping my eye on the ghost. Perhaps my reassurances to Lorraine of it not meaning any harm were wrong. It didn’t linger, and I was glad it didn’t show me anything like the other ghosts in these statements have. I had a feeling I wouldn’t come back the same.

Strother woke up confused and I fed him some lie that I can’t remember. The scream we’d heard had come from Steph up the stairs, who refused to admit she’d seen anything, but wouldn’t stop shaking for at least an hour afterwards. She had the same look that Lorraine Anderson had when she’d spoken about the shadow.

Due to the strange occurrences during our time in the house, Strother suggested we keep the equipment running for longer. Rather than concentrate them around Anna’s room, he decided to spread them out until every room was being recorded. He never shared his thoughts or reasons, and if Steph told him what I think she saw then I never found out.

Craig Anderson came back with Anna an hour or two later after we’d finished setting up and dinner went by without a hiccup. Craig and Anna went into the living room after dinner to watch a show together, leaving the rest of us to help tidy up and write some quick notes about the case. Strother was watching the cameras in the room where we’d set up whilst I was in the kitchen with Steph and Lorraine. It must have been an hour or two later when he shuffled into the kitchen, a look on his face that I hate to admit gave me joy. It was disappointment, the look someone wears when they realise they’re wrong. I immediately thought he must’ve seen the ghost and had come to tell us, tail between his legs.

To this day I’m embarrassed of how I acted in those few seconds between him appearing and telling us what happened. I was practically giddy. He’d finally have to admit that Anna wasn’t hallucinating, there was nothing wrong with her, and the house was genuinely haunted. It took a lot not to break into a triumphant smile. Then he opened his mouth.

Rather than telling us what he’d seen he invited Lorraine into the room with the screens, and Steph and I followed. I think Ken was on the phone to his wife, or daughter, so he was upstairs. Strother began to rewind one the recordings of the living room. We’d only just set them up that afternoon, and I’d never seen the ghost in there, so I was surprised. He began to play it.

Already something was off. Craig and Anna were sat on the sofa, but she was squeezed to one arm, sitting pertly, stiff almost. Not like bairns usually relax in their own home. Craig sat on the other end of the sofa, both were watching the TV. Anna kept fiddling with her hands, pulling her fingers, tying them in impossible knots, I worried she’d dislocate one the way she was going. Craig began to say something to her, I think he asked her if she could see the ghost, but the recording was quite quiet. Anna, to my surprise, shook her head. He demanded to know why she hadn’t told the rest of us that, and why she’d made such a scene the night before. His tone became angrier until he was standing up, towering over where Anna cowered, shouting at her. How we hadn’t heard him was beyond me, but it was a big house, and the door was closed. Then he raised his hand and began to hit her, across the face, on her back, her legs. I couldn’t stomach more than that and looked away from the screen. Lorraine Anderson was already halfway to the living room where she flung open the door and began screaming at her husband. Steph went and closed the door to the room we were in but we could still hear the muffled curses.

That has to be one of the most awkward hours of my life to date. None of us knew what to do. Lord knows what Ken did during that time. We all stayed out of the way. Their fight culminated in the police being called and Craig being taken to the station. He ended up being charged with child abuse and sentenced to 5 years in prison.

Steph filled us in as we driving back to the city. Anna was Lorraine’s daughter by an ex-partner, and she had taken Craig’s name when they were married. Not that a lack of blood relation is an excuse for beating a bairn. Some people are just arseholes, and Craig Anderson was one of them.

We were all a bit shaken, none more so than Lorraine who I’m sure went onto blame herself for what happened. For my part I’d never seen any wounds, or anything that would’ve indicated Anna was being beaten, but apparently she’d had a few trips to the hospital after her afternoons out with Craig, and he’d just said she was being clumsy and had fallen. The only unfortunate thing was that because Anna was being abused, Strother assumed it was the reason why she’d claimed to see the ghost. Rather than a plea for attention it was a cry for help. The shadow was a manifestation of her fear of Craig and what he’d do to her.

Obviously, that wasn’t true and there were a few hours when I assumed I’d never get answers to this case. We were clearing the equipment from the rooms, unplugging cameras and deactivating motion sensors when I glimpsed the shadow again. Rather than at the foot of Anna’s bed, it lingered at a door I’d never been through. I caught it twice, and deciding I’d nothing to lose I discreetly went to the door and opened it. There were stairs that led down to what I assumed would be a basement, not unusual for old buildings.

I know what you’re thinking. It’s only the idiot in scary films who goes down to the basement. It’s just as well my life isn’t a horror. There was a light switch, and it worked, so I descended the stairs. Apart from the dust, spiders’ webs, and ghostly shadows, it wasn’t a particularly eerie room. There were only empty boxes and discarded children’s toys down there. The ghost remained in one spot, like it was stuck there, and I felt like it was staring at me, despite having no visible eyes. We were locked in a staring match that I had no hope of winning, but after a few minutes it faded until there was nothing left.

Hoping more than knowing there might be some significance, I crossed the basement to where the ghost had stood, and stepped on a loose slab where it had been. The concrete around it had flaked away over the years until the slab acted like a see-saw. I managed to find a metal file which I used more like a chisel to break away the remaining vein of concrete that kept the slab in its place. I then used the file to pry it off the floor. It was heavy but I managed to flip it over and expose the soil underneath.

It wasn’t just worms and woodlice under there, but slithers of textured, white bone. They were the tops of two skulls, one smaller than the other, both lying close to one another, not dissimilar to the Lovers of Valdaro. You know, the skeletons they found in Italy who were thought to be buried embracing each other. As you’ve heard those poor souls weren’t my first skeletons, but the sight still struck me. I actually prefer ghosts to their bones, there’s a certain distance you can keep, but when you’re faced with the remnants of someone’s body, it’s a lot harder to digest.

I was faced with a problem. What was I supposed to do now? The only reason I’d found the skeletons was because the ghost had showed me. What excuse was I supposed to make for being down here, for vandalising their house, prying up floor slabs, that didn’t sound as though I was looking for the remains? But I knew if I put everything back to where it was before I’d interfered, then the ghost, whichever skeleton it was, would continue to bother Anna because she was the only who could see it. I’d told Strother I was helping Anna by listening to her, yet when the time came when I could actually help, I was contemplating looking out for myself first.

I wish I could tell these stories of mine and paint myself to be a hero, one who always does the right thing and never doubts, or questions, or hesitates. I’m afraid if you’re looking for someone like that then you’re in the wrong place. I’m only human, despite the extra sense. There have been many times when I haven’t done the right thing, some I regret. In Anna’s case, I went up the stairs and told everyone what I’d found. My excuse for being down there seemed to be generally accepted. I told everyone I thought I’d put a camera down there and when I’d went to get it had dropped something that had got stuck in the slab, forcing me to remove it. It sounded incredulous to me, but perhaps everyone was just reeling from the fact there was human remains in the basement.

The police were called again. It’s probably just as well Lorraine and Anna moved away soon after, because I’m sure they’d have got a reputation after that night. I wish I could tell you who the skeletons were, and why they were under there. All I can tell you is that the larger skeleton was a woman in her late twenties, and the smaller one was her daughter. They’d both died of various physical trauma, most likely beaten to death by someone. Unfortunately, the records of the house only go back a few decades or so, when it was converted from a barn. Whatever happened in there before is lost to time.

My hypothesis, for what it’s worth, is that the ghost I saw, the writhing shadow, was the mother keeping vigil over Anna’s bed. In its own way trying to protect her where it had failed with its own child. I could be wrong of course, but we’ll never know.

The rest of the team took everything at face value, something I never had the luxury of. There are many events in history we don’t know. You can probably dig underneath anyone’s house and eventually come across a skeleton, or some other sign of life. There was no way anyone in the present was going to solve the murder of the mother and child in the basement. After various tests were ran on the remains, they were both interred in the same plot in the local parish graveyard. You can visit if you like, the community, along with a few other donations, paid for a headstone. I was one of those donations, and I later found out Strother was as well.

Present day

It turns out I’m willing to go pretty far to get answers. I’m not proud of what I’m about to tell you and there’s no excuse for how I acted, but desperation makes monsters of us all.

I ended up ambushing Katherine Phillips in her office 2 days ago. I found her office hours and just went there. She didn’t recognise me, and to be honest I didn’t recognise her either. She thought I was a student and when I told her my name she looked as though I’d told her the world was about to end. She ordered me to get out and I refused, blurting everything I already knew, or could surmise, about her relationship with Strother.

There was a brief moment when I thought she was going to call the police, or campus security. I swear I saw her eyes flick to the phone, but she ended up asking me to close the door and take a seat.

Then it was my turn to be taken aback. Katherine Phillips told me everything. She’d been seeing Strother for a year before the study began and then all the way through until the scandal. The reason none of us had ever been introduced, or he’d never mentioned her, is because she was married, and still is. I was shocked at the news, not because I thought Strother was a saint, but because it made me doubt whether I’d known him at all. Even if it was an affair, it was also an important relationship, yet he’d never mentioned her, never introduced us, I mean we’d hardly have known she was married, would we? I think the thing that shocked me most was that Strother could be considerate.

I’m not judging their relationship, at least I’m trying not to. I’ll admit that I don’t understand why she’s still married, especially considering how long the relationship between her and Strother lasted. But what do I know?

I asked her if he’d ever mentioned the study, spoken to her about it. In my mind she was the most likely person he’d have unburdened to. Unfortunately, she told me he rarely spoke about it, except some comments in passing that were general, or that she’d forgotten, but nothing important. She told me she’d kept his laptop. This puzzled me since I’d already looked through his laptop at his family home. Turns out he had another one, and that he used it solely for study related things. I’ll admit, it got my hopes up. A secret laptop that could hold all the answers I want. What’s not to get excited about?

Graciously she told me she’d give it to me because she recognised my name. According to Katherine, Strother had mentioned me a few times over the years, enough for her to remember anyway. The last time my name had come up had been when he was trying to find the results of the tests I’d taken for the study as one of the first control subjects. I’ll get to that later.

I returned to her office yesterday to collect the laptop. When we opened it we found it was password protected. Neither of us had any idea what it would be. This left me with the job of finding someone who could crack the password on a 15-year-old laptop.

Before I left Katherine’s office I asked her where she’d been during the scandal. She told me that a week before the news had hit the headlines and Strother’s career had gone up in flames he’d asked to meet up with her. During that meeting he’d ended their relationship and told her to stay far away, to pretend like she didn’t know him. When she asked why he’d said that he didn’t want to take her down with him. A week later she saw the reports and articles. He’d known what was going to happen, but he’d done nothing to stop it, or if he had tried something then he failed. But how did he know? What had he done or said to someone to make them ruin his career, and why hadn’t he done anything to stop it or clear his name afterwards? I hope whatever’s on his laptop will finally answer those questions.

Episode 8 – Child’s Play

I’ve had a song stuck in my head for the last few days. They were doing a throwback segment on the radio and it came on. It’s quite special to me because I used to listen to it whilst doing my work. It was the heavy rock of my teenage years still lingering into my twenties. I don’t suppose I ever really listened to it so much as tuned it out when I was working.

The Anderson case started on a day where my colleagues caught me listening to it. Steph had asked us all to gather around the office table because she had something she wanted to discuss. Someone had emailed her with a case that may be relevant to the study. She gave a copy of the email thread to Strother and he dismissed it within seconds. A wee girl, the daughter of the person who’d written to Steph, claimed to see ghosts. Immediately Strother thought something else may be wrong with her and that she was hallucinating, especially considering her parents had never witnessed what she was claiming.

Steph pleaded with Strother to reconsider, stating that she owed the father, Craig Anderson, a favour. Strother was unsympathetic. When I began to read the emails, I noticed a few more details. I asked Steph why Mrs Anderson hadn’t been sleeping well, a point that Mr Anderson had commented on in passing. Apparently, she found it too cold, even when the heating was on. Strother wasn’t happy about my line of inquiry and asked me what I was “trying to get at”.

I answered that their daughter said she saw ghosts in the house, but nowhere else. If they were hallucinations wouldn’t she see them everywhere? I pointed out that cold spots were a commonly reported phenomena in the cases of hauntings. I should’ve stopped there. I wish I’d stopped there. I added that the research wasn’t a dictatorship, and that if we ignored the report and it turned out to be true then the only ones losing anything was ourselves. What can I say? I was young and confrontational.

Thankfully Steph agreed with my points, lending me some credibility instead of just mindless rebellion. When Ken jumped on the bandwagon Strother had no choice but to give in. But he was never one for letting things go and what I’m sure was out of spite he announced that we’d visit the Anderson home at the weekend.

So, early on a Saturday morning we all piled into the van and set off into the countryside where their house was. I think it was one of the nicest journeys I’ve ever been on, road quality and company aside. The further we travelled outside of the city the narrower the roads became until it was single track. There were many times I saw Strother’s knuckles turn white he was holding the steering wheel so tight, fearful something may come from the opposite direction and force us into a ditch. Since I’m being as honest as possible, I liked watching him fret. It sounds sadistic, but I hadn’t warmed to him much by this point.

The Andersons owned an old farmhouse in the middle of the countryside, with enviable views and a private driveway that led straight from the road. It sat halfway up the hill, looking down upon the valley, which wasn’t very visible due to a light mist because it was Scotland. I’ll admit there was a brief moment where I doubted they had electricity, it was just that secluded.

On the journey I’d been reading up on the Andersons and their home. The family had moved into the old farmhouse two years before and it hadn’t been long until their daughter, Anna, had reported seeing a shadow in the house. Not the normal kind, if there is such a thing, but one that moved as though it were breathing. She felt like it stared at her, and constantly followed her around the house. I was no stranger to this, and that’s probably why I’d opposed Strother’s dismissal of the case so forcefully. The girl was reluctant to go to bed on her own, frightened to death of her shadowy companion, which she claimed was always somewhere in her bedroom.

This case was a wee bit close to the bone for me, so impartiality in retelling it’s probably impossible. I’d been seeing ghosts, of every shape and form you can imagine, since I was a wee bairn. I’d also visited every kind of doctor you can imagine, and no matter what they say those tests take a toll, just not a physical one. I wanted to believe that Anna Anderson really saw something, and if that were the case to protect her from my own experiences. In case you’re curious none of the tests they did found anything wrong with me…at least that’s what they told my parents.

It was cold when we arrived, colder than I remembered it being in the city. Where it was overcast and threatening to rain, there in the country it was frosty, everything turning a beautiful white. Steph went into the house first to greet the Andersons whilst the rest of us began to sort out the equipment.

Inside the house was just as nice as outside, although it seemed a wee bit big for a family of just three. Perhaps that’s why there was a chill in the air when we went in to set up. It was also quite dark inside due to the outdated wooden panels that consumed most of the natural light. The Andersons were slowly modernising it but with such a large house it’d no doubt take some time. When we arrived, it was only Mrs Anderson inside, Anna was over at a friend’s house and Craig, her husband, was still at work.

We concentrated our efforts in every room Anna had reported seeing her shadowy friend, mostly in her bedroom. Cameras, thermometers, audio recorders and more laser grids were placed strategically, and I ensured I knew where they were. It gave me a chance to find the ghost myself, but there was nothing unusual about the home. There were no cold spots, no pieces of fractured air like there had been at St Mary’s, and no sudden waves of unease. It felt very…normal. I began to feel a twinge of disappointment. Usually there’s always something that spirits emanate, like a certain smell that you can just taste on the air before it disappears. All I could smell was Febreeze. What I disliked about the house was how clean it was. Not in the ordinary way, the quick run round when you have guests coming over, but the extremely clean, like a showroom. It gave me the sense that I shouldn’t really be there.

When we were finished, Lorraine Anderson sat us all down to make some tea and have a quick chat about her daughter and the house itself. Strother asked if Anna also saw the apparition when she was at someone else’s home, to which her mother replied she didn’t. Lorraine Anderson was a sharply dressed woman who looked as though she never had a hair out of place even during her down time. Her hair was smooth, her makeup perfect and professional, there wasn’t a chipped nail on her hand. Steph had said she had quite a high-powered job but I forget what it was.

Strother made the mistake of telling Mrs Anderson that the most common reason for children pretending to see things like ghosts was attention seeking, especially when their parents were busy or away most of the time. She was considerably taken aback and adamantly protested that she didn’t neglect her daughter. In all the years we met family members and friends Strother always displayed the finesse of a fish. Even that might be too kind a comparison.

Mr Anderson picked Anna up on his way back from work. Saying that she looked normal isn’t really telling you anything. I don’t think I look particularly strange and yet here I am talking about ghosts. Anna was about 7 or 8 years old and during dinner and before bed she was a model bairn. If she was seeking attention, like Strother implied, then surely she’d play up more with an audience? That was my logic at the time anyway, but I was desperate for Anna to be telling the truth, even though I hadn’t seen anything myself.

It was an hour or two after she’d gone to bed when we heard her scream. Immediately, we all ran to the screens where the camera feeds were. Anna was sitting up, clutching her covers so tightly I thought she’d put her fingers through them, staring intently at the foot of her bed. I saw it there, black and grey, moving like it was lava fresh from a volcano. There were no eyes, no discernible limbs, it was just a shape, and it never took a recognisable form. All it did was linger there at the bottom of her bed but I could tell why Anna thought it was staring at her. Those things, which I’ve never found a name for, still frighten me even to this day, I can only imagine the fear a seven-year-old would have.

Lorraine Anderson was about to go up and see her daughter when I stepped in and offered instead. Seeing it through the screen wasn’t as helpful as seeing it in person, and I wasn’t that familiar with them back then. I also presumed that my colleagues would need a few moments to process what they were seeing. Instead, Strother pointed at the screen and stated there was nothing there. I was just about to point it out when both Ken and Steph began to shake their heads, also unable to see it. To this day I still don’t know how it was possible. I saw it as clear as day on that screen, and yet no one else could. It wouldn’t be the last of such occurrences.

Regardless Mrs Anderson agreed to let me go up and see Anna. Strother wasn’t too happy about it as he thought I’d just be enabling the girl, but I went up anyway. I swung the door to Anna’s bedroom open a little too forcefully and only succeeded in frightening her more. The ghost, if it could be called that, remained at the foot of her bed. The door was a blind spot for the camera but as soon as I stepped towards the bed I’d be in full view. I was paranoid that the ghost would start to be picked up by the cameras the longer it remained there, and if I was caught looking at it then the game would be up. Anna, for her part, couldn’t take her eyes away, as if staring at it would keep it away from her. I called out to her and she looked at me pleadingly.

“It’s there”, she uttered so quietly I almost didn’t hear.

She was terrified and I wished I could explain everything I knew, which to be fair wasn’t much then. Aware that the recorders were still running I mouthed that I knew. When she checked if I could see it, I simply nodded, before crossing the room to sit on the side of her bed, facing the shadowy mass.

It was grotesque to look at, always shifting and moving, but because it was dark sometimes it felt like there were screaming faces on the surface. Rather than smoke or mist it felt as though it was made of viscous liquid, like black treacle. If you reached out and touched it your hand would get stuck. But it never shifted from its position at the foot of the bed, like a dog almost, wanting to stay close to its owner.

Anna confessed to me that it wouldn’t leave her alone. I pointed out that not everything meant harm, hoping more than knowing it to be true. She said it looked evil, like a monster under the bed come out to play at night. I had to be mindful of my words since I was sure Strother and the rest would be listening intently. Any reference to its appearance, or even confirming its presence, would get me in trouble. I told her that since she could see it then perhaps it wanted her to do something, which I thought was the most likely reason. Anna admitted she was scared but before I could reassure her Strother barged in and summoned me through gritted teeth.

Anna refused to let me go and clung onto my arm to stop me. Strother, at the end of his very little patience, told her that nothing was there and that ghosts didn’t exist. I don’t know what he thought it’d accomplish. I told him he wasn’t helping, to which he accused me of encouraging her. I replied that I saw it as helping a frightened young girl. He grumbled that it was a waste of time before storming off. I’d won, I just hoped I wouldn’t come to regret it.

I remained with Anna all night, and she soon went to sleep with me as protection or comfort, it was hard to tell. I wondered what her mother did during such episodes. For its part, the shadow remained, but I couldn’t risk looking at it for too long. Any ounce of humanity it’d once possessed was gone, it took no face, no shape, no anything that would discern it as human. These ghosts, because they are ghosts, have been gone for so long that they’ve forgotten who they were. It was my first time seeing one so decayed, but it wasn’t my last. I still don’t like them, they’re the worst kind, and the most difficult. They’re called different things depending on who you talk to, but I’ve never given them a name because it seems more appropriate not to. All I knew at the time was that I needed to find out who it was, or who it had been.

It disappeared at about 3 in the morning, but by that point I was drifting in and out of sleep myself. At least I’d confirmed that Anna wasn’t hallucinating, that she was genuinely seeing a ghost, and I could only hope that she’d grow out of it. Otherwise her life would always partially belong to the dead.

I woke up just after 6 in the morning feeling like I was hungover. Somehow, as soon as I left Anna’s room, Strother was there to ambush me, looking as bad as I felt. I followed him solemnly down to the kitchen where he demanded to know what I’d been thinking. He proceeded to point out, in no uncertain terms, that I’d made things worse because if Anna thought someone believed her then she’d keep claiming she could see things. A vicious fight then ensued. It was of character for me. I mean I threw Strother subtle digs here and there, but I’d never had a flat-out argument with him. Granted, we’d not been working together long, but he was still one of my supervisors. It’s like having a screaming match with your line manager. Unfortunately, I put it down to fatigue making me lose my patience. That was, of course, until the room began to spin, like I had drunk too much the night before.

I felt weird, simultaneously hot and cold, my heartbeat noticeably elevated, and the walls around me moved like a theatre set. Mr Anderson came in bleary eyed and interrupted our bickering before we could start shouting at each other. He said something to me but it was distorted, as though I were listening with ear plugs in. The room was beginning to look stranger by the minute, spinning like a carousel. I’m unsure if I began to have a panic attack, or it was something else, but I began to have trouble breathing and ended up on the floor somehow. Then the nausea came and I panicked more. I got to the sink just in time.

Episode 7 – The Best Intentions

I’m sure by now you’ve researched Joe MacDonald, but you won’t find any information on how this story ends.

He’d managed to impress both Steph and I by telling her where to find a ring she’d apparently lost. I noticed during a meeting in the department, and for the next hour kept expecting her to bring it up. None of the cameras or recorders had been on during Joe’s display, so there was no chance of Strother finding it himself.

But let’s skip back to just after the strange man attacked Joe. After he was escorted to his car, and before I realised what he’d said to Steph was true. I went to visit Strother’s office to tell him the psychic had gone. You’ll remember Strother had disappeared not long after the assailant, and we all just assumed he’d retreated to the safety of his office. Upon opening the door, I found him at his desk, and in the chair opposite was the assailant. Unbeknownst to them, the ghostly woman was keeping them company, standing over the stranger’s shoulder like an earthly guardian angel.

I don’t know if you’ve ever tried to ignore something that’s staring you straight in the face. It’s hard to concentrate on what you’re saying when that’s all you can think about. You’re too busy willing yourself not to mention the ghost in the room. Strother told me to shut the door and take a seat.

He introduced the man as Matthew Beattie, a disgruntled victim of Joe McDonald’s so-called gifts. For the next hour Matthew told me the ghosts’ story.

His girlfriend, Fiona McKay, disappeared about 6 months ago on her way back from a local reading group. It was summer, so the days were long and the nights short. Fiona never gave a second thought to walking home the short distance. The Police found CCTV footage of that same journey, but she never returned home. After Matthew reported her missing, the search began, and Joe McDonald was called.

He was a valuable resource, according to the officer liaising with Fiona’s family, and he’d helped solved many of the toughest cases. Of course, none of this was ever put on record, or splashed across headlines when the statements he gave turned out to be nothing. Only his successes were recorded in the media, which is why you can’t find this story anywhere.

The police brought Joe in, gave him some of Fiona’s belongings, a jumper, jewellery, even a hairband according to Matthew. He reeled off the same vague statements I’d seen him give during his sessions. Many words strung together by pointlessness. But the police took him at his word. Poured all their efforts into gleaning meaning from those words. And it sent them every which way but the right one.

Fiona’s body was found by a dog walker in a ditch beside the canal. She hadn’t been killed instantly, according to the report, and if the police had done their job instead of listening to the words of Joe McDonald they may have saved her life. Fiona’s family were understandably devastated, and in the throes of grief, Matthew had become drowned by the desire for revenge against the psychic, whom he viewed as much of a killer as Fiona’s murderer.

All throughout his story, she was by his side, desperate to go to him, to comfort him, to reassure him. He couldn’t see her, and I always wonder if loved ones can perhaps feel them instead. Over the years I’ve heard many a tale about feeling a presence at their shoulder. Most attribute it to a guardian angel, or their imaginations, or a draught, but what if it’s really some innate sense, a deep connection with a loved one? Matthew never acknowledged Fiona, and I was overcome with the desire to tell him she was there, she was listening but powerless.

Strother tried his best to calm Matthew down when he began raving about Joe, but the rage had engulfed him so completely that he was beyond reason and logic. He wanted the psychic’s head, and soon he wouldn’t let anything get in the way of taking it.

It’s not like I couldn’t understand his anger. People trusted Joe’s ability, or rather believed that he had one, that he was able to discern information that no one else could. That belief, that faith, had possibly cost a woman her life. I couldn’t fool myself into believing this case was the only one where Joe had been wrong.

It refers back to people assigning meaning to predictions and prophecies only after the fact. That’s why you’ll only ever find tales of Joe’s successes, and none about his failures. Perhaps I’m being too harsh on Joe. He’s not the only psychic in the world, but it’s always baffled me how these people appear to have no conscience. They know how much value is placed on their words, especially if they’re working with the police on an active case, and yet they continue to speak. Perhaps Joe did truly believe the dead communicated with him, that they truly knew everything, or perhaps he was just a very convincing conman.

I was told all of this before I knew his prediction about Steph’s ring was true, and I admit, my minor irritation for the man grew into full blown distaste after Matthew’s story. The most frustrating thing to me was that I couldn’t do anything to help. Fiona’s remains weren’t hidden, and without her telling me, I couldn’t help the police find her killer. I also could do nothing for Matthew. I knew grief, but not his, the kind that stems from dissatisfaction, from injustice, from having no answers or explanation. In their place was a deep hatred for Joe McDonald because it was easier to blame him than to accept there might never be answers.

Strother had no choice but to let Matthew go. There was nothing else he could’ve done. The ghost of Fiona went with him, but before she followed him out of the door she glanced briefly back at me with a desperate expression, the kind someone has when they have a secret they can’t tell.

I asked Strother what we could do about Joe McDonald. The answer, predictably, was nothing. Even if his test results turned out to be no different than by chance, all subjects had to be anonymous when reporting them. Legally and scientifically, we couldn’t expose Joe. I left his office with dampened spirits. It looked like Fiona McKay was doomed to become just another statistic.

That brings us to the next day in the meeting where the sparkling ring on Steph’s finger caught my eye. That ring eclipsed everything I’d learned the day before from Matthew. How was his version of Joe the same as the one who had told Steph where to find her missing ring?

All through the meeting Steph refused to bring it up, or to catch my gaze as I stared desperately at her. When the meeting ended I caught up with her and she confirmed that the ring was in the dishwasher, and that she’d heard it rattling around the night before. Her excuse for not bringing it up was that it had nothing to do with the study. He hadn’t been recorded, it wasn’t under controlled conditions, and his consent form didn’t cover anything outside of the agreed upon sittings. I think her real fear was that it showed the possibility that psychic phenomena was real, which isn’t a possibility that many normal people are readily able to accept. She was frightened, and what made her more afraid was that she could find no plausible explanation for the whole thing.

Neither could I, but I also knew about Fiona McKay and the way Joe had led the police a merry dance. This caused me to do something I wouldn’t often do during my time on the study. I went to see Strother.

Steph had never sworn me to silence, which was her mistake. In hindsight this may be the reason she was always quite short with me. He called us both in and listened intently to the story. By his facial expression I couldn’t tell if he was impressed, intrigued, or disappointed. This was also one of the only times I wished he would dispel the myth, disprove the psychic. I didn’t want Joe McDonald to be real. I didn’t want to be even slightly associated with someone who had been so painfully wrong about his own abilities that he had distracted the police from saving an innocent victim.

Strother was silent for a few minutes after Steph had told her story. If you know academics, you’ll know the silence I’m talking about. It seems to last forever as they carefully place their thoughts in order, and all you can do is wait.

Strother asked if Steph had recently had a delivery; flowers, a large package, something she had to sign for. Warily, she nodded. He then asked if they’d used the bathroom. Steph froze, every muscle in her body going tense. I was still oblivious, what did that have to do with the ring being in the dishwasher?

Steph explained that it had been a flower delivery from a friend, or distant relative, a week or two ago. She had signed for it but then the delivery man had asked if he could use the bathroom. After putting his things on a counter in the kitchen he’d gone upstairs. Steph had begun to load the dishwasher, and when he came back down to collect his belongings, she’d left it open. She admitted there had been a few seconds when she’d walked towards the front door to open it for him that he had been left in the kitchen alone.

Strother concluded he hadn’t used the toilet but had instead gone into her bedroom and picked something that looked to be of sentimental value. When he was collecting his things, he had thrown it in the dishwasher. This deliveryman, Strother continued, was actually one of Joe McDonald’s associates, and the flowers weren’t from anyone she knew. Steph confirmed they hadn’t come with a card or message, and she had just assumed, like anyone would, it was a nice spontaneous gift from a loved one, a belated congratulations on her engagement.

This strategy, it turns out, is very common amongst psychics. It’s on a similar vein to the cold reading I explained in another statement. You make an appointment with a psychic some time in advance. With your name, perhaps your face, they set this all up so that when you come in they illustrate their abilities, and you keep coming back, lining their pockets further.

It’s all a bit creepy if you ask me, more criminal than mystical. With the curtain drawn back Joe was firmly in the conman’s camp. He was as fake as they came, and the cunning with which he’d arranged his wee demonstration for Steph indicated to me he was more unscrupulous than a genuine believer in his own abilities. He knew he wasn’t real, and yet pretended to help the police, wasting their time, and misdirecting their resources, at the cost of Fiona McKay’s life.

If I disliked the psychic this much with so little contact or reason, I couldn’t begin to imagine the depth of hatred Matthew Beattie had for him. It was all compounded by the knowledge that I couldn’t do anything to help.

I would’ve left it, let the dust settle and time smooth its ragged edges. But Joe McDonald couldn’t help himself. He offered to do an extra reading for the study, claiming it was important for the future of his line of work. I thought I was treading a fine line by working on the study, but he played with that line, almost daring it to trip him up.

Due to Matthew’s attack during his previous visit, security had to escort him everywhere he went inside the building. I lurked like the ghost of Fiona McKay, lingering wherever Joe was, hoping for a chance to get him alone. I was lucky that day.

It was during a break between sessions that I found him in break room having some tea. Fiona remained, and I was fearful that she would turn out to be beyond my help. Joe greeted me warmly in return for stony silence.

“You should be ashamed of yourself,” I said, disappointment saturating my words.

He claimed not to know what I meant.

“Lying about being psychic to paying customers is bad, but pretending to be psychic to the police and grieving family members is on its own level,” I replied.

Joe’s face never cracked, he never showed an ounce of shock at my accusation, or outrage that I’d confronted him. I can’t have been the first, nor will I have been the last.

He was adamant that he had the ability to communicate with the dead, that they told him things he couldn’t possibly know. If that were true and they knew information that could help police, wasn’t he morally obliged to tell them? He continued that he understood my scepticism since I was an academic surrounded by science, and I had probably seen my fair share of fakes during the study, but he assured me he was the real deal.

I’m surprised I didn’t lose my temper when he painted himself as a saint. I felt like asking him which window he wanted to be thrown out of. But just as I was about to reply I started seeing flashes like I had done at St Mary’s. Someone swiping through a photo album, snapshots of instances, of events in someone else’s life. Yet I could glean a lot more than just snippets.

I told him, in no uncertain terms, that he was as fake as they came. That his parents never believed him, that his ex-wife never believed him, and that the daughter he wasn’t allowed to see would also never believe him. That was why it was so important the rest of the world did. But if he ever offered his services to the police again, I would make sure no one would believe him until the day he died.

I know, all very threatening. Why Fiona chose to show me these things I still can’t quite understand. And don’t get me wrong, I didn’t suddenly become psychic, or a mind-reader. The only things I know are what I learn myself, or what ghosts show me. I suppose that suggests psychic phenomena could be real but notice how nothing I said was a prediction. I was guessing about his daughter, it just felt like the right wound to rub salt into. It’s always one ghost, never the ambiguously named “spirit world” like Joe and his ilk claim. I suppose psychics might be real, but Joe McDonald wasn’t one of them.

Finally, I saw his face warp into genuine fear. Remember that psychopath part of myself, well it was certainly satisfied at the sight. He could’ve gone straight to Strother, to any member of the team and told them what I’d just done. But he and I both knew that everyone saw him as a liar, as someone so desperate to prove their abilities were real that he’d arranged for Steph’s ring to get lost. He had become the boy who cried wolf.

Having nothing more to say, and wanting to hear no more lies, I stood up and left Joe McDonald. Fiona followed me and I silently thanked her before she disappeared. Not all ghosts have personal grudges to settle. I hadn’t revealed her killer, I hadn’t really helped her in any way. All I’d done was threaten a man who had distracted the police. Whether he listened to me was beyond my control, yet my interference had seemingly been all she wanted.

Joe refused to do his final reading and he withdrew his consent from the study, meaning we couldn’t use any of the data he’d contributed. Despite low recruitment, none of us shed tears over the loss.

Present day

I spent days waiting for a reply to the handful of emails I sent to Katherine Phillips. Either she doesn’t check her work emails, or she was ignoring me. I ended up phoning her office. Thankfully I caught her in, but she refused to speak to me about anything related to Strother or their relationship. She didn’t want to be involved.

I can only speculate at their relationship, but considering what happened to him, she was suspiciously absent from any of the articles or news reports. In fact, she was just weirdly absent from his entire life. We didn’t make a habit of discussing personal issues in the office, but even I’d met Ken’s wife, and Steph’s fiancé. Hell, I’d even met Ken’s daughter. The point I’m trying to make is that if Strother had been in a serious relationship, why had none of us ever heard about it? Whenever Ken or Steph would suggest setting him up, he’d always say he never had time, not that he was already seeing someone. Why the effort to hide her? I’m missing something about this, but without Katherine to fill me in I’ve hit a dead end, both with their relationship and with the funders.

It was when I jumped in my car after work and drove down to the university to confront her in person that I realised how bad it’d be. Was I this person who ambushed someone who’d made it evident they didn’t want to talk? Was maintaining her privacy more important than clearing our names? Just because I’ve put myself forward doesn’t give me a right to drag anyone else with me.

I need to have a think about how far I’m going with this and what I’m willing to do to find answers.

Episode 6 – Future Blind

Let’s take a break from haunted buildings and ghosts with axes to grind. I’ve spoken about Sandra Oakes, one of the first mediums we recruited to the study, so let me tell you about the first psychic I met.

He was also one of the most famous names involved in the study. I’m sure his name has faded with time, but back in the day he claimed to be behind solving many of the country’s missing person’s cases. That man’s name is Joseph Macdonald, or Joe as he insisted everyone call him.

My thoughts on psychics are, perhaps, counterintuitive. You’d think because I can communicate with the dead that I’d believe in other people who claim the same. I suppose communicate might be the wrong word. Not all ghosts are chatty. I have a hard time believing psychics – still do – and back then, when I was in isolation from others like me, I presumed psychics were fake. Ghosts had never told me useful things, about the future, about an unsolved crime, about where I’d put my keys. So why did some people claim that they did?

I suppose it’s connected with Sandra Oakes and the question meeting her brought up. Is there only one way to see the dead, or are there more? In my opinion, just because people are dead, doesn’t mean they know everything.

Strother was quite eager to meet Joe MacDonald. I think he was giddy about having the opportunity to disprove one of the most famous psychics in the country at the time. Joe was working with the police on a missing person’s case. A young boy had gone missing on his way home from school just outside of Edinburgh, and according to the psychic, the police wasted no time in calling him.

Obviously, as outsiders, we didn’t know details of the case, but Joe was visibly proud of his involvement. He’d done multiple interviews over the years on numerous television programmes and magazines. He’d even gone on tour with his psychic show. I had a bad impression of him, mostly because I didn’t believe he was genuine. The more involved with the study I became, the more knowledge I picked up about the science behind the paranormal, the more sceptic I became. Don’t worry, the irony isn’t lost on me.

Maybe I was just jealous there might be someone who ghosts actually spoke to. Whatever the truth, he was doing very well for himself. I also thought him quite cocky. He’d volunteered to do the study, which either meant he believed what he was selling, or that he was so confident in his abilities that he thought he could fool the tests. Obviously, the third option is that he was genuine, and like me, could commune with the dead.

There are a few categories of psychics, but all of them claim to be able to know things that they can’t possibly know. Be that the future, where a missing person is, or the ring you haven’t seen in weeks. Since the birth of science there have been a few experiments conducted to investigate the phenomena. The most common way to investigate a psychic detective, like Joe, is to give them crimes to solve.

Psychics are given objects that are connected with crimes that have been solved by the police. It could be the murder weapon, it could be a shoelace, a scarf belonging to the victim. It was an important point that all the crimes had been solved, so we could test the veracity of the psychic’s statements.

It was a double-blind study, which meant that the researchers who tested Joe didn’t know anything about the crimes connected to the items he was given. Ken had volunteered to be the facilitator, in that he knew the details of the crimes. Which meant he was deprived of the opportunity to meet a celebrity psychic -not that I think he was that bothered.

Joe Macdonald took time from his busy schedule to visit us. He was in his late thirties, perhaps early forties; bald, but with striking green eyes that seemed to look straight through you. He was amiable, friendly, and patient as Strother took him through all the procedures and rules we had to follow.

There were 3 items each for 3 different crimes and Joe was given each one in turn and his statements were recorded. The theory, like with mediums, is that if you say enough vague things then one of them is bound to be true. More importantly with psychics, people tend to give their statements validation only after the fact. I couldn’t get through this statement without mentioning Nostradamus, arguably one of the most famous psychics in history. If you don’t know, Michel de Nostradame was a 16th century astrologer who wrote down hundreds of statements which are now viewed as prophecies. A lot of people claim that he has predicted every disaster and war from when the was alive to the present.

I’ll give you an example. People claim Nostradamus predicted the development of fighter aircraft and the atomic bomb due to the following passage:

They think they will have seen the sun at night

When they will see the pig half-man;

Noise, song, battle, fighting in the sky perceived;

And one will hear brute beasts talking.

It has some details, such as fighting in the sky, obviously the fighter aircraft, and seeing the sun at night, an atomic bomb detonating. It’s quite convincing, but what happens when I give you one of his prophecies without telling you what people claim it predicts?

An Emperor will be born near Italy

One who will cost his empire a high price

They will say that from the sort of people who surround him

He is to be found less prince than butcher.

Any ideas? Did you think Hitler? It fits nicely, but according to popular theory this actually predicts the rise of Napoleon Bonaparte. But is so general that it could also apply to Hitler. His prophesies only make sense after the fact, when people assign meaning to general statements because they’re close enough to specific facts. This tends to be what happens when psychics start helping the police. The things they say, the vague words they string together, tend to be given more meaning after the crime is solved.

I’d only briefly caught glimpses of Joe when he’d arrived, and when he’d been in the testing room with Strother. I was never meant to be that involved with his session. The only reason I did was because Steph’s fiancé had called the office asking for her, so I’d gone into the observation room just as his final reading was about to start. Steph left, and Strother told me to stay.

Psychics claim to communicate with the ambiguous “spirit world”, whatever that is. They claim multiple spirits whisper in their ear, sometimes in conveniently vague statements, giving them information they couldn’t know otherwise. All I could see in that room with Joe MacDonald, was the ghost of a young woman.

She was so clear, almost opaque, that I, for a small moment, thought she was alive. There’s something about ghosts like that that frightens me more than the ones who’ve forgotten who they are. These ghosts look human, there’s no doubting that they were once alive. The distance that I liked to keep with the dead was made almost impossible.

I slowly eased myself into the chair beside Strother, keeping my eyes on the young woman. She looked to be a few years older than me at the time, mid-twenties at the latest, with auburn hair tied in a bun, and sharp brown eyes that were trained on Joe MacDonald. He began to talk about the objects that were in front of him and in his hands, pausing every so often as if he was talking to someone. Let me tell you, he wasn’t talking to her.

I could feel her anger through the two-way mirror. The way she glared murder at Joe as he was reeling off his vague statements, the way her fists were clenched so tightly they were shaking with the effort. If she could’ve harmed him, she would’ve. With her presence, it was hard to concentrate on what Joe was saying about the objects, but he talked a lot. It was kind of like watching an actor rehearse lines on their own. He would speak, pause as if rehearsing the other actor’s line in his head, then carry on.

I wondered if it looked as strange to everyone else as it did to me. To believers he was speaking with a world they couldn’t see, and to sceptics he was talking to himself. I know which one I was. No one claiming to have the ability to commune with the dead could be oblivious to the presence at his side. I stared, practically without blinking, trying to find some evidence he knew she was there. A twitch, a nod of the head, a glance at the reflection in the mirror, but he did nothing. He was enraptured by the objects on the table and the sound of his own voice.

When he was finished, Strother went in to see him whilst I waited in the corridor outside. I think my curiosity got the better of me. I wanted to look this man in the eye, to try to find any sign he was genuine. And also to see the woman at his side. When the door opened and they both came out of the room, I was surprised to find he was ghost-less. When you see things others can’t, your grasp of what’s real and what’s not becomes shaky. Had I imagined the woman? Was her anger at Joe just an amplified reflection of my own? I’d never imagined a ghost before, but in my world very few things were beyond the realms of possibility.

Strother introduced us and when Joe took my hand to shake, he paused in that really irritating way people do when they’re about to say something strange. He had the same look on his face as he had done when communicating with the spirit world. I almost thought he was going to start talking to himself. After the longest silence you can imagine, he looked straight into my eyes with a very serious expression and said:

“You have a great burden on your shoulders, Sarah.”

I presumed he didn’t mean having to put up with Strother. That left the question of what he was referring to. Had I misjudged him? Was he referring to my ability to see ghosts, or to something else? How many great burdens did I really have in my life? You see what I mean by assigning meaning to vague statements. It could be argued that everyone has something on their mind that they think is a burden. He could’ve said that to anyone and it would’ve been true. Perhaps my encounter with Sandra Oakes had taught me something after all. I also had the awful feeling that Strother’s view of the world was slowing creeping in and altering my own. I wasn’t as taken in by Joe’s show as I had been with Sandra’s.

To diffuse the situation Strother interjected that he wouldn’t call my PhD thesis a great burden. I laughed politely, but Joe smiled, as if he was unsure whether to pretend it was that, or to fish for something else. Thankfully, or not so much, someone interrupted him.

At the end of the corridor, where the door to our offices were, a man shouted Joe’s name at the top of his voice. Everything after that happened so quickly it was hard to see what anyone could’ve done to stop it. One moment the stranger was at the end of the corridor, and the next he was beside us punching Joe so hard in the face I thought some of his teeth had been knocked out. The psychic crumpled to the floor like a discarded ragdoll, whilst Strother tried to restrain the attacker.

Amidst the confusion and violence, I caught something in the corner of my eye. Looking down the corridor, from where the man had come from, I once again saw the ghost of the woman who’d been in Joe’s session. Her wrathful expression had vanished, and in its place was one of pure sorrow. Of regret, and pain, and yearning. It transformed her from vengeful spirit to innocent victim.

A lot of people suddenly started to appear, trying to separate the strange man from Joe, hauling him from the building. He screamed and spat curses all the way to the door. How he’d got in, how he knew Joe would be at the university, and why he’d attacked him, were all mysteries.

Steph sat with Joe, checking if his injuries were bad enough to go to the hospital, whilst Strother disappeared. Steph asked me to get him some water, which I did, knowing it wouldn’t help the swelling bruise on his lip. When I returned, Joe was in the midst of communicating with the spirit world. Both Steph and I froze, unsure whether to rush for the cameras or commit everything to memory instead.

“Have you lost something, Steph?” Joe asked.

Probably without realising Steph’s eyes glanced down to her hands. If I saw it, then so did Joe.

“A ring, perhaps?” he continued.

Steph realised what she’d done, and placed her hands, clasped, on the table. Everything about her was still, there wasn’t even a twitch of her eyebrow as she continued to listen to Joe. He paused again, as if listening to someone speak to him. He then told Steph that she would find the ring in the dishwasher, as it had fallen off when she’d been stacking it.

I’ll admit I’d never noticed Steph wear a ring, other than her engagement one, which was still there. Joe told her all of this with such confidence even I admitted I was tempted to believe him. Especially since what he was saying now was so specific, when he’d been so vague with me before.

Nothing more was said about the ring, or about my great burden, and Joe was escorted to his car by security in case the strange man returned. I didn’t see the ghost of the woman again.

The next day, during a meeting, I noticed something catching the light on the middle finger of Steph’s right hand.

It was a ring.

Our eyes met across the meeting room, and I noticed the small flicker of doubt in her gaze. She couldn’t explain it, and I certainly couldn’t. Was I wrong about Joe? Was I wrong about everything regarding mediums and psychics? Was my theory that there was different levels of communication with the dead right? It’s funny how all it took was one wee ring to make me start questioning everything I knew.

Episode 3 – The ring

It’s nearly November, I think – I hope. Work is still boring, to some extent. Not many things are sold in the shop, but that’s because nobody comes in. It’s no for a lack of people, I always see them walking past, having a wee nosy in the shop window, but the bell rarely rings. Life is busy though, with balancing lectures, coursework, and regular work. I’ve managed to find a routine of sorts, but I find myself spending a lot of time in the antique shop, doing nothing. Even to me, it sounds boring, but there’s just something about the mess that I enjoy.

There are people who come in, real people, and no all of them are nuts. The weirder thing is they always buy something, proving that there’s almost nothing you can’t find in a hoard. But those kind of customers are fewer than the special ones that come to see Madam Norna, and by now I’ve accumulated a nice wee pile of business cards on the counter, one which I expect Chronos to destroy any day now. How she hands them out them without leaving the shop is still a mystery. I’m always allowed to sit in on these meetings, no one ever objects, and the more I do the more I begin to question reality. In the beginning, the first few weeks, it was easy to laugh and scoff and diagnose them with being mental. But now, it’s harder to ignore the fact that there always seems to be more than one explanation to every tale.

The Madam, living up to her name, rarely comes down, so I have to settle for Chronos, the human-like cat who takes daily joy in irritating me. It reminds me of this story that one of my friends studying psychology told me last year down the pub. This psychologist, many moons ago, went to the arctic on his own to see what would happen to him without anyone to talk to. He slowly began to lose his grip on reality, starting questioning everything, and I can’t remember what happened to him in the end, but he proved that humans need other humans to stay sane. I don’t know about anyone else, but I can prove him right at least. The longer I spend alone in that shop, the more I find myself talking to that feline. Mostly threats, a few warnings. It was a joke at first, a way to vent my frustration, but the last few days I find things just slip out, conversational things, and even though I know he can’t understand me, sometimes, very occasionally, it seems like he can.

Anyway, about a week ago as I was trying to sort through the flimsy old books, I heard the bell ring, and whoever steps through the door becomes of immediate interest. I’ve even started betting with myself to see if I can guess what kind of customer they are. The ones who come into the shop to see Madam Norna always have the same deer in headlights look, lingering in the doorway, unsure if they’ve made a mistake and should turn around and walk back out. The minimalistic business card is usually crumpled or folded in their hands. The other kind of customer is the one who comes in and immediately choses a path to follow, their eyes roaming around wildly trying to make sense of the chaos. Those kind of customers always seem to find something, and it’s usually an item I’ve never seen before, even though I have a regular wee nosy.

This day it was a lassie of medium height, hair rippling down her shoulders in a waterfall of curls. We locked eyes for a brief second and exchanged the obligatory half-smile before she went on her own journey around the shop.

It could only have been a few minutes before I heard her call for me at the counter. As I approached, she was hovering over the glass, like a bee over a flower, enraptured by the sparkle. She was squinting longingly at something inside, and when she noticed me asked if she could see something out.

Now, have ye ever lost something, whether glasses or your keys, and frantically searched everywhere for them, convinced you’ve lost them on the bus. When you do eventually find them, it turned out you’d walked past them a few times, probably even stared at them during your search? It’s like that with the glass cabinet. I can’t tell how she managed to see this wee ring amongst all the grandeur. The ring she wanted was wee, unassuming, engulfed by the rubies and diamonds, fake or no, surrounding it. It wasn’t particularly pretty, not compared to some of the other items in there. Definitely not something I would’ve thought she’d choose. The band was a snake, with tiny scales engraved into the metal, which looked to be silver. This snake was eating its own tail. The one detail that made it stand out was that the snake had two rubies for eyes.

It shouldn’t have made me uneasy, but somehow it did. I handed it over, doubting it’d fit human hands, yet somehow the lassie slid it onto her finger with such ease you’d think it’d been made for her. She began the typical routine of holding her hand out, awing at the ring, moving her fingers this way and that so the ruby eyes glinted underneath the lights of the shop. She was like a pig in shite, exclaiming that the ring was made for her.

I didn’t say anything, though I could feel she was waiting for a compliment. Thankfully, someone else obliged. The Madam descended from her boudoir and told the lassie the ring suited her very well. When questioned on the price, the Madam gave five quid. I’m no jewellery expert, but that ring was worth well above a fiver. I couldn’t understand the low price, but who was I to question my boss about something in her shop? Maybe it wasn’t silver, and those weren’t rubies in the snake’s eyes, but as far as I’m aware they only hallmark precious metals.

The lassie whipped her purse out so quickly I nearly got whiplash, foisting her crumpled fiver in my face. Then came the madam’s condition, although to me it sounded more like a warning. The lassie couldn’t return the ring. A bit of a weird thing to say, isn’t it? I mean we both saw how well that ring fitted the lassie, so why would she return it? Was it faulty? Is that why it was so cheap?

The lassie didn’t seem to care, and without thought just nodded in agreement, and left with the bounce of someone who thinks they’ve grabbed a bargain. After she was gone, I couldn’t help but ask why the Madam had sold a hallmarked ring so cheaply. All she said was that some prices can’t be paid with money, and predicted we’d be seeing the lassie again.

I hate these predictions of hers. I’ve been in that shop weeks and not one of those predictions has ever fallen through, they all come to pass. It’s how they come about that worries me. She predicted the man who’d killed his missus would be back, and he was, screaming and cursing her. Don’t even get me started on that creepy scarecrow. I began to dread the lassie’s return, and until a few days later when the event inevitably happened, I was wracking my brains trying to figure it out.

This time her hair was dishevelled, and she wore no makeup. She was like a before and after photo, or a reality vs. Instagram comparison. I heard the bell go and this may be the solitude induced madness talking but it sounded different, a lower pitch than normal, and my brief joy at the thought of a customer turned sour when I laid my eyes on her. I even backed up a wee bit when she came charging over to the counter where I was like a bull who’s seen red.

She didn’t say a word and just thrust her hand at me. Reluctantly I inspected it and instantly regretted the bacon butty I’d had for breakfast. The finger, which still held the ring, was grim. There were scratch marks that wept with blood, as if the snake itself had been biting her. It wouldn’t come off she told me in a growl so feral you’d think it was my fault. She was in such a state that she even began to pull at the ring so viciously I thought she was going to pull the finger off entirely. I tried to explain that her finger was swollen, and if she left it a few hours then it’d probably come off.

She wasn’t convinced. Her nostrils flared and she protested that her fingers weren’t swollen, as if I were bloody blind, but she was adamant she wanted the ring off, and accused me and the Madam of playing a trick on her. It’s like the Madam is summoned if you say her name aloud because she appeared from upstairs, bringing a welcome air of calm, and – I can’t believe I’m saying this – sanity. It didn’t last long.

She informed the lassie there was no trick, and as she’d exclaimed delightfully a few days earlier, the ring was made for her. Still pulling on her finger, scratching at what little skin she had left, she said she didn’t want it and if we didn’t help her, she’d get her boyfriend to sue us.

 I glanced anxiously at the Madam, feeling the worry crease my eyebrows. I didn’t want to get sued, I hadn’t done anything wrong. I expected this threat might get some reaction, but it’s like the Madam wears a mask, a really good one, that never creases or shows any emotion. She didn’t blink at this threat. The only change to her facial expression was the slight upwards curve of her lips, like she was smiling. In reply, she asked:

“Which boyfriend would that be?”

The question took the wind of rage out the lassie’s sails and she recoiled. I’m getting used to these out the blue revelations from my boss. It’s better not to think of how she knows these things about strangers, otherwise I find it hard to sleep at night. Using the lassie’s surprise to her advantage, the Madam told her the ring wouldn’t come off until she righted what she’d done wrong. She looked to me and commented, as if we were in conversation, about fidelity and about how it was rarer these days when in the past it’d been expected. The entire situation was weird, so these comments never stood out to me.

The lassie found her voice eventually and denied the implication that she was a player, or cheater, or whatever you want to call it, claiming that she’d never do such a thing. Obviously, the Madam didn’t believe her and said her denial would place her in a precarious position If she didn’t change her attitude, or her lifestyle, and reminded her that there was no returns on the ring.

Having vented her frustration out on us, the lassie exited in a comically villainous way by vowing to make the wee shop pay. The bell clattered as she went, as happy as I was to see the back ae her.

The entire thing was…odd, so it took me a few seconds to shake it off and ask the Madam if she wasn’t going after her to convince her not to sue us. With her normal confidence, she stated we wouldn’t be getting sued by that lassie as she wouldn’t have the means to do it once the ring was done with her. She instructed me to put it back in the cabinet when it returned. Before I could point out that she’d said there were no returns, she already disappeared up the stairs like a ghost.

I tried not to think about it, and as the days went by I slowly forgot, until this morning on the way to the shop. Just as I was about to enter, I kicked something on the pavement and heard the metallic chink as it skittered from me. I paused to look at it, as you do in case it’s money, but all I saw were those rubies sparkling in the Scottish rain. My curiosity overcame me, and I bent down to pick it up, and can you believe there wasn’t a mark on it? After all that abuse it got from the lassie trying to get it off, it looked exactly the same as the day I’d first sold it to her. It’d also been on the pavement outside the shop with people kicking it, walking on it, prams rolling over it. Not a scratch, or dent, or chip was visible.

As instructed, I took it into the shop with me, and unusually the Madam was waiting. She exclaimed, with as much emotion as she could muster, that she’d been wondering when it’d show up, and took it from my hands. I told her it’d just been lying on the street outside, and why hadn’t the lassie just come back in with it herself rather than throw it away?

The answer was that she probably hadn’t even noticed it was gone. The madam turned to me then, a serious expression on her face that made the hairs on the back of my neck stand up.

“Let me tell you about the things in this shop,” she said, “Everything in here is meant for someone, somewhere out there, and it’s here waiting for them to find it.”

The only sound I could hear was the slow thud of metal on glass as she put the ring down on the counter. I asked her why the ring hadn’t come off before when she’d been so desperate to remove it. Even though I’d thought it must be because her finger was swollen, I couldn’t understand why the madam had said the ring wasn’t done with her, as if it were alive with an agenda.

The Madam paused, never taking that serious stare from me. She said she’d leave the explanation up to me, and that I was to choose which I was more comfortable with. As if there’s more than one explanation of why a ring can’t come off someone’s finger. It had to be swollen, it had to be, that’s the only logical thing here, in a situation where logic seems to have deserted.

In that shop, reality is lost. Logic, reason, the laws of the world, become unfocused, almost as if they don’t apply. Why is it that nothing is as it should be? Why can the Madam never answer a bloody question? She’s not helping, not with this enigmatic shite she has going on. I’m honestly surprised I’ve never seen her hover over a crystal ball. Well, she can believe whatever she wants, the ring didn’t come off because the lassie’s fingers were obviously swollen. She’d left it outside because she didn’t want to see us, or her pride was hurt, or she only wanted to see us in court. I don’t know, but that ring is just a ring, like any you can buy.

So, why am I dreading someone wanting to see it again?

Episode 2 – The Scarecrow

The shop doesn’t have many customers, I can count on one hand how many things we’ve sold since I started, and I don’t even need all my fingers. Business is deathly slow. Thankfully, there’re plenty of other things to get up to, mischief to find in the mounds and drawers and buckets manoeuvred into every possible space. There’s so much stuff the floor is different colours depending on where you are. There’s not a day that goes by without those winding paths through the valley shrinking somehow, even though nothing’s been added. At least, I don’t think anything has.

I hate Chronos, the cat. And I know you’re not meant to say that about animals, but really, who’s bloody idea was it to domesticate cats? He’s a wee shite and if he’s not careful will be getting a spraying any day now. As for Madam Norna.


Well, she’s still an enigma, wrapped in the throes of a mystery. She doesn’t seem to take interest in anything, and is always unflappable, even when faced with the outlandish and unbelievable requests of customers who come into the shop with her wee business card. I was beginning to think she was a…a what d’you call them, Wiccan? You know, prescribing various herbs and candles and incantations to make the problem disappear. Not that I know much about these things. But that theory doesn’t fit right, doesn’t explain all the weird.

Anyway, one day I was cleaning the glass counter for the third or fourth time when I heard the bell ringing above the door. Since any customer is now a source of interest my head snapped up and I saw a woman and a wee lassie come in, gazing around them as if they’d just entered Wonderland. They both made their way to where I was standing at the counter, and I could’t help but notice the strained look on the woman’s features. She reminded me of some of the students in the year above me at uni when they were trying to do their thesis, or every student I know during exam time.

The lassie was no older than eight or nine, and as is typical with young bairns, or adults with the mentality of one, was preoccupied with the shiny things beneath the counter. The woman handed me a familiar wee white card and told me she was here to see Madam Norna.

By now I’m all caught up on the procedure for this kind of customer and we all headed up the stairs to where the Madam is always waiting for us. The delicate hand motioned the two customers into the front room. I now have a ritual that I must go through before I get to listen to this week’s dose of strange, so I beelined for the kitchen to make the tea. I’ve got making tea quickly down to a fine art, and you can bet it’s going on my CV. I make the tea and take it in, having managed to find some juice for the wee lassie. As I hand it to her, I notice she has all these trinkets hanging from her bag. Some were what you’d expect, miniature dolls, fluorescent love hearts, cartoon characters, that kind of thing. But there was one in particular she was holding in her hands, completely besotted. This keyring was one of the most hideous and disturbing things I’ve ever seen in my life. It was a small straw scarecrow, complete with tattie black hat and roughshod clothes that’d been made out of scraps of mismatched fabric. Prisoners are dressed better. It’s hands were thin sprigs of straw and were splayed out unnaturally. The face was the most disturbing, probably because it didn’t have one. All that was there were indents made to look like eye sockets and a mouth. You’d think it didn’t have any facial expression, but the more I stared the angrier it appeared.

The wee lassie was infatuated with it, but the haunting look of its wrathful face was enough to set my hairs standing. Even just remembering it gives me the willies. I tried to distract myself by pouring the tea, but you know when the eyes of a painting seem to follow you round the room, it was like that but worse. Thankfully, the woman, a Mrs Morgan, began to tell her story and offered me a proper distraction.

According to her, in the last month bad things kept happening to people she knew and she was beginning to feel like she was cursed. All the while she clutched this silver cross hanging from a chain around her neck, twirling it this way and that, fidgeting almost. The Madam inquired when this had all started. Little did we both know there was a list. Her neighbour was ran over the morning she’d been talking to him; one of the teachers at her daughter’s school, the wee lassie, fell down a flight of stairs on her way to speak to her; one ae her pals had been mugged on her way out shopping; and the closest was her husband, who was now in hospital with quite serious injuries after he’d fallen off a ladder doing some work on the roof. Mrs Morgan wasn’t taking all these things as unfortunate coincidences, she was acting like they were all her doing, as if the world revolved around her.

I would’ve laughed if the atmosphere in the room hadn’t been so dour. Madam Norna, ever the professional, started asking questions about what had changed in the last month to precipitate these events, if she’d bought something new, like furniture or jewellery. Mrs Morgan shook her head.

In the moment of silence that followed this answer I noticed the Madam’s eyes wander over to the wee lassie’s bag, where the creepy scarecrow hung. She then inquired where it’d come from. The woman glanced over, oblivious to whatever the rest of us were getting from it. She casually shrugged her shoulders and said they’d found it at a car boot sale, her daughter Emily had liked it and so there it was.

After complimenting the “craftmanship” the Madam asked if she could keep it a while. Why the hell she’d want to do that was beyond me. No one in their right mind would buy it, and obviously this woman wasn’t in her right mind.

She turned to her daughter, somewhat reluctantly as if she knew what the outcome of this request would be, and quietly urged Emily to give up the scarecrow. It was like someone flipped a switch in that wee lassie. She’d been so good and placid ever since entering the shop, she’d never fidgeted, or touched something she shouldn’t have, she’d just sat there drinking her juice and playing with that bloody straw man. But as soon as the suggestion was put to her that she had to let someone borrow it she turned rabid.

Her wee fist closed tightly around the scarecrow, openly glowering at the Madam, stubbornly refusing to hand it over. Her mother tried to coax and persuade her, but she wasn’t budging and eventually Madam Norna gave up. She told Mrs Morgan to return in a few days and then she’d receive the solution to her troubles. There wasn’t any more detail than that, and I’m beginning to realise there never is.

Before they both left the shop, Mrs Morgan asked to use the bathroom, and I’ve never felt such a dread in my life at the thought of being alone with that bairn. The Madam attempted to make some conversation, but the lassie was having none of it. She stood there, stone still and silent, with her wee hand firmly wrapped around that scarecrow. She could keep the damn thing for all I cared, I couldn’t understand why the Madam wanted it anyway.

Mrs Morgan returned, not quickly enough fae me, and they began to make their way down the stairs back into the shop. Before I could follow, Madam Norna grabbed my arm gently and pulled me back, placing something scratchy in my hand. She ordered me to put it somewhere in the shop. You can probably guess what it was, and how much I enjoyed having it anywhere near me. From of a pointless sense of hope that I was wrong, I glanced down at what she’d put in my hand and the angry straw face glowered back. He was grotesque, his arms and legs stretched and positioned in an unnatural way. I stared blankly at my boss, wondering what I’d done or said to piss her off. Perhaps she’d heard my constant string of curses to Chronos, the cat. She just smiled in her nonchalant way and shimmied off.

She never gave me any further instructions on where to put in the shop, and I treated it like a grenade with the pin taken out. Throw it anywhere, the first place ye find. Mrs Morgan and her daughter, Emily, were still in the shop when I got down, and instinctively I kept my hand hidden from the wee lassie, who didn’t seem to have noticed her favourite trinket was missing, but I wasn’t about to tempt fate or her wrath.

Mrs Morgan’s superstitious theories started getting to me. What if it was cursed? Holding it couldn’t be good. Then again, she wasn’t hurt, just those around her, so maybe after work I’d visit the shitty landlord we have. It was like it was burning a hole through my hand as well as my sanity. I was glad to see them both leave, and almost instantly I tossed that tattie old scarecrow in the nearest basket with all the other random items that don’t have a home.

After reliving myself of it I felt a lot better, and I got on with my day, always giving that basket a wider berth than was sanely necessary. The hours ticked by until it was home time, but as I was leaving I walked by the basket and gave it a cursory glance. What I saw, or rather didn’t see, caused me to back up and scrutinise the contents. The scarecrow, which I’d tossed carelessly on top of the pile, wasn’t there. With a growing twinge of panic I began to search the other baskets near, in case I’d just mistaken which one it’d landed in. The longer I couldn’t find it, the more anxious I became.

“Is the scarecrow gone?” I heard the Madam’s velvet voice ask from the door up the stairs.

I told her the story of where I thought I’d chucked it. Chronos padded over to help me look, sniffing all the contents, but he had as much luck as I did. In typical fashion the Madam wasn’t phased, it’s like she didn’t care it’d vanished. She just ominously reassured me that we’d see it again.

Tae me, the scarecrow was like a spider. You’re too afraid to kill it, but at the same ye want to know where it is, you keep your eyes on it, and you get more afraid when it disappears. As much as I didn’t like it, I wanted to know where it was. Emily couldn’t have taken it because I’d only put it in the basket after she’d left. What did it do, sprout legs and run away?

The thing is, Madam Norna wasn’t wrong. As instructed, a few days later Mrs Morgan and her daughter Emily reappeared. Except this time her arm was in a brace, and when I asked what’d happened she told me she’d fallen out of bed during the night. Seemed innocuous, perfectly plausible, so why the hell did it sound the opposite?

The answer was swinging from Emily’s bag as she walked up the stairs to meet Madam Norna. Beside the heart and cartoon character was the scarecrow, as if it’d never been removed. My legs almost stopped taking me up, and I was in half a mind to fake an excuse and retreat to the land of sanity outside the shop. I hesitated at the top of the stairs, and I’m positive the Madam noticed. She told me I didn’t need to make any tea, I could just come straight in.

If I ran then, outside, or even down the shop, I’d never have answers. The crazy thoughts going through my head would win. There had to be some explanation for this, a debunking. And I was going to need that if I ever wanted to sleep again. I followed her inside and just as she was about to sit down, Chronos flashed past me and made a beeline for Emily’s bag. Somehow, he managed to remove the scarecrow and obediently deliver it to Madam Norna.

Once the lassie noticed it was gone the feral gaze returned and it was directed solely at my boss. Undaunted, the Madam handed a candle to Mrs Morgan, labelled only with a `P`, and told her to burn it for two hours or more in her house, and with that her bad luck would disappear. Before Mrs Morgan could even reach for the candle her daughter demanded the Madam return the scarecrow. My Boss shrugged gracefully, pretending she didn’t know what the lassie was talking about.

Mrs Morgan warned her daughter not to be so rude, but Emily was insistent that Madam Norna had stolen her scarecrow. Mrs Morgan looked across the table questioningly, unsure what to believe, and I couldn’t blame her. I was more stunned than she was when my boss held up both hands to show they were empty. No scarecrow in sight.

Inhaling deeply, Mrs Morgan tried to placate her daughter, but her words fell on deaf ears and the glaring continued. They took the candle and left, but the backwards scowl Emily threw at the Madam was enough to turn someone to stone. When I glanced at my boss again I saw she had the scarecrow in her hand. I mean, what the hell? How? Can I add magician onto the list of possibilities? In her other hand was a box of matches. Delicately she drew one out, dragged it along the edge to light it, and set the wee man on fire, before tossing him carelessly into her fireplace.

I’ve never been so happy to see something burn. I would be an ijit for not asking why she was burning a small straw man. All she said was that it was necessary for all the bad things that were happening to Mrs Morgan and those around her to cease. Was she implying that scarecrow was actually cursed? That it had caused all those people, including Mrs Morgan herself, to get hurt? Why? How?

I don’t have a good poker face and giving me one of her sideways glances she inquired if I believed they were all coincidences. I answered it was either that or a spectacularly shite stroke of bad luck. She didn’t say anything in reply, but by the upwards curve of her painted lips I could tell she was sceptical about my answer. I told her I was more curious as to how the wee lassie had managed to get it back. Madam Norna informed me that she hadn’t. When I scoffed that it must’ve used its straw legs to run out of the shop all she did was smile, with a sinister edge, and told me I had a lot to learn.

I mean, what do ye even say to that? A lot to learn about what, demon bairns and handmade miniature scarecrows someone should’ve though twice about? I suppose in short, I didn’t get an explanation or any answers. Things just get weirder in that shop. The only normal things in there is the clutter. How do people even find out about her? I’ve never seen any business cards in the shop, or on the counter, yet there’s always someone that turns up with one. And it doesn’t seem like my boss leaves the shop much to hand them out.

Every time I go to work it’s like I leave reality at the door. There’s the outside world, and then there’s the one in the shop where up is down, and black is white. I don’t even know why I keep going back. The money? ‘Cause it’s good money. Or is it the hours I spend rummaging through all of it, the memories, the trinkets, the coins, the stories. As far as jobs go, I’d rather work there than MacDonalds.

Episode 1 – The Meeting

It’s October, can’t remember the date, probably the 14th or 15th. I’ve remembered to press record this time, unlike the last time when I was just talking to myself for half an hour. It’s not like that with a normal diary, is it? You just pick up a pen, or since it’s 2020 open a Word document, and type or write without much thought. But to me, that’s hard. Thoughts and feelings aren’t easily translated to articulate sentences with the proper grammar and all that shite. You don’t have to worry about that when you’re speaking. So here I am, again.

As I mentioned in my last successfully recorded entry, the semester started a few weeks ago and as expected I’ve just pissed away the majority of ma bank account. Then I had the thought that every student dreads.

Part time job.

My loan isn’t enough to cover food, entertainment, and the…occasional night out. So, it’s time I got a job. I visited the career’s service at the uni, and only received one reply from the 6 or 10 or 200 applications I sent out, and then they rejected me anyway because I didn’t pass their tests. As if I don’t have enough tests.

In a desperate attempt to get someone to employ me I started walking around the high street handing in my CV to people who were less than pleased to take it from me. I was walking in a quieter part of town, the place where there’s nothing but cafes and restaurants and independent shops, when one ae them caught ma eye. It was like I’d never seen it before, which is impossible because I only walked up there last week after a night out.

It looked old, the sign above almost falling down, and the paint was begging for a few fresh coats. The rusty and simplistic sign read “Madam’s Antique Shop”. I know, why the hell would you call a shop that? I pictured all kinds of nonsense, from a rich trophy wife to a performing medium who reads tarot cards. I was ready to walk straight by, scoffing under my breath, when I saw an advert in the window for a part-time worker. I practically tripped over my own feet getting through the door, ironing a crumpled CV between my hands.

There was a bell above the door that sent a gentle chime through the shop, but that was the only quaint thing about it. I’m not kidding, you should’ve seen the state of this shop, it was like something you’d see on Britain’s biggest hoarders. I’ve never seen so much stuff crammed into such a wee space.

I stared in disbelief at the everything that lay everywhere, on tables, hanging from the ceiling, on precarious piles on the floor. There was everything from vintage magazines and records to battered guitars, faded typewriters and a few boxes filled with tarnished and dull coins from times gone by. There were only small paths winding amongst the antiques, room for only one person at a time, and even that was a stretch. These wee passages were lined with China dolls and ornate cabinets, small Victorian bairn’s toys and long forgotten photo albums. It was like the shop was filled with every gift, trinket, and ornament ever given to many people over many lifetimes, and it all lay gathering dust. There was a glass counter further in the cave of antiques, hugging one of the walls. I slowly and precariously made my way over to it using the laid-out track, being careful not to touch, kick or brush against anything. I managed to get across the floor without any major breakages or incidents, thank God, because despite their jumbled appearance I had a feeling that most of the items were so old that they must be expensive; definitely no objects I could afford to break.

When I reached the counter, I noticed there was one of those old-fashioned bells on the surface, the ones people in old films use to get the shopkeeper’s attention. It was made of brass, dull and faded, but worked well enough when I drove the palm of my hand onto it. The sound was swallowed by the sheer quantity of items crammed into every nook and cranny. I doubted the owner could even hear it. As I was waiting my eyes were captured by the sparkling gems and jewels beneath the glass.

Some were huge and garish, like they whoever bought it was trying to prove something, whilst others were simple and unassuming. Like a magpie, I was so mesmerised with the shiny things that I nearly had kittens when I felt something furry brush against my leg. I glanced down, hoping it wasn’t a mouse, to find a black cat staring up at me, and if I didn’t know any better I swear to you it was smirking. It’s glistening emerald eyes contrasted strongly with its coal black fur that shimmered as it moved. We continued our staring match, entering into a silent battle of wills that for some reason I was determined to win.

Suddenly, I heard a voice from the other side of the glass counter. It was smooth, gentle, not unlike wind chimes on a spring day, and it said:

“I see you’ve met Chronos.”

Reluctantly, I gave up on my competition with the feline and trained my eyes on the woman behind the counter. I’ve never seen anyone quite like her before. Her hair was the colour of smoked paprika, and her eyes were of such a light blue I thought they were contacts at first. Her skin was enviably perfect with not a blemish or acne scar in sight. I was jealous, how did she manage to get out of puberty unscathed? Perhaps it was her stare, perhaps it was the perfume that reminded me of a warm apple pie at my Grans, but there was something different about her. I was so astounded all I could think to say was:

“Is this your cat?”

She answered that he was her companion, and then asked what I was in the shop for, as though it was strange to have anyone besides herself in there. It took me more than a few seconds to gather my wits enough to uselessly iron my CV once more before handing it over. She took it lethargically, as if doing so was an effort. It didn’t fill me with hope. The cat began to rub its face on the crumpled corners of the paper, maintaining an inappropriate amount of eye contact with me. It felt like hours she stared at it, perfectly painted crimson nails reflecting the lights illuminating the jewels beneath the counter.

In reality it could only have been a few seconds, not long enough to read the entire 2 pages. She placed it precisely on the counter, as if afraid it’d disappear if it wasn’t placed there, and then told me I was hired. I hope my mouth didn’t drop open, but I can’t be sure. Stupidly, I pointed out she hadn’t interviewed me or even knew my name. After a few moments of contemplative silence, her reason was that she needed a worker to start right away, and I was the first to apply. Filling me with yet more confidence this was going to be a decent job.

After telling her my name she welcomed me and told me that I was starting that day. Good thing I didn’t have anything better to do. I nodded like I was in a trance, so taken aback at the informality of the situation. I managed to ask what her name was. Ye can probably guess. It was Madam Norna. Not Norna, not Madam, but both together. Was Norna her surname or first name? Who knows, and I didn’t feel like falling down that rabbit hole so I didn’t pry.

Trying to make small talk in the wake of awkward silence I glanced around the cavernous shop, suspiciously devoid of customers, and queried if it was usually this quiet. She answered:

“Sometimes. People only come in when they need something.”

*Scoffs* What would someone need in an antique shop? A coin that’s been out of circulation for a millennia? An ornate cabinet for their grand house in the 20s?

Before I could receive any further enigmatic answers, she announced if anyone came in to see her she’d be upstairs, and that I was to play nicely with Chronos, the cat. She disappeared through a dark door near the back of the shop, marked private. I didn’t bother to stifle my groan. What was I supposed to do? More importantly what was I getting paid to stand around doing nothing, and when could I leave?

I’m not a complete ijit, it’s not like I could ask on ma first day, oh when can I go home? So, I resigned myself to a few hours of boredom and had a right good nosy at as much of the shop as I could.

It was easy to get lost. Ye know that feeling when you’re doing a clear out, trying to get rid of things that are taking up room that you don’t have. Something catches your attention, a photo of you and your pal when you’re 8 at a birthday party, a necklace your parents bought you when you turned 18, a keyring with a stuffed toy that your Dad spent hours trying to win at the local faire. It was like that in the shop, except I didn’t have the background to all these items, and that made them more mysterious, more interesting. Why was that shoe horn an antique? Who’d used it before? Where had all these pieces of lace come fae? Why was there a burn mark on that vanity?

A few days might have passed and I’d be none the wiser, until the bell above the door gave a curt chime. It cut through the silence like a knife through butter. I jumped so high I hit my head on the table I was crawling under. After reversing with a shocking amount of skill, I noticed a scrawny wee man had come in and was glancing around him nervously, as if he were expecting some bad news. I approached him slowly, afraid he’d bolt like a wild rabbit, and asked if I could help.

The closer I got the worse his appearance became. His eyes were bloodshot, there wasn’t a patch of white in them, and the bags underneath were so dark I thought he’d been a bit heavy handed with the contouring. Scrawny was a compliment, he was practically emaciated, like he’d not eaten in days.

He told me he was there to see Madam Norna thinking she could help him. He then handed me a wee business card with the shop’s name on it, nothing else, no contact details, no address, no social media handles, just Madam’s Antique Shop. I wasn’t sure if it was genius or just plain stupid.

He was as curious about the things in the shop as I was, but since he was here to see the boss I told him to follow me to the private door, just as she’d told me. When I opened the door there were stairs immediately behind it, and gingerly we both ascended. At the top, Madam Norna was already waiting’ for us. I think she can probably hear everything that goes on in the shop so I’ll have to be careful of what I say in the future.

She invited the man into the parlour, aye she called it parlour, and then asked me to make some tea. I couldn’t well tell her where to go, so I retreated into the kitchen to do as I was bid. I found myself hurrying, for some strange reason, like I desperately wanted to know why that man was there, and why he wanted to see her.

After a while, I took the tea in on a tray. The parlour, or as normal people call it the living room, had the same essence as the shop, but a bit more organised. Two green velvet sofas were placed in the middle of the room, facing each other over a dark wooden coffee table with glass top. The fireplace looked real, there was even a basket of wood at the side of it. In each corner there was a set of drawers, or a cabinet that I wouldn’t like to be near if it ever fell over. It was the smell that caught me; of incense, and musk, and memories, all stagnant in the air, but no in an overpowering way. It was quite dark inside, even though the few hours of daylight we get at this time of year hadn’t been chased away just yet. The furniture seemed to swallow it, but rather than make the room feel small, it made it more comfortable, cosier. I had no idea what was in those drawers and cabinets, and after that day I’m not sure I want to.

I set the tray down on the coffee table between the two, and took up residence there, crossed-legged on the floor like a barin waiting for a story. Madam Norna asked the man, a Mr Sutherland, what he wanted her help for. After a sip of the tea I’d handed him, he informed us, in all seriousness, that his missus had been keeping him up at night. He hadn’t slept in nearly a week and she wouldn’t leave him alone no matter how many times he asked her to. He thought he was going to go mad if she didn’t stop.


I didn’t think I was capable of that level of self-control. I’ve never wanted to laugh so badly in my life.

But at the same time there was something…sinister about the way he spoke, and the manic look in his eyes was enough to frighten away my amusement.

Madam Norna asked how long his missus had been dead. I felt my body tighten as I sat still on the floor, the faint tingling in my numbing feet frightened away as a fragile atmosphere descended around me.

Mr Sutherland answered it’d been a year, but in the last fortnight whenever he did get to sleep she was in his dreams, and when he woke up she was there as well, moving things, hiding things, being a general pain in the arse, although he didn’t use those words.

I tried no to stare, I really did, but what the fuck was he on? Why go to an antique shop about these things, and not a doctor? I briefly thought he meant he was being haunted, you know, by a ghost, but surely this was just some kind of severe grief? An undiagnosed mental condition?

Madam Norna, throughout this strange tale had been a statue of calm, completely unphased, as if she didn’t have a potential nutter in her living room. She then told him she had the perfect remedy. When she instructed me to go into the massive cabinet in the corner and get out a brown cylinder with an R on the side, it took me a minute to unclench.

Things didn’t get better when I opened the doors to that cabinet. There were all kinds of strange and weird things hidden away in the dark corners, crammed together on the shelves. There were many different colours of cylinders, red, yellow, purple, and all wi’ different letters on them, some not even in English. Small colourful glass vials that were dangerously lacking labels or any kind of identifying sign were lined up neatly, like bottles on a shelf at a supermarket. Clear plastic bags with dried leaves and herbs in them, and about a dozen measuring jugs and bowls and spoons. Eventually I found what she’d tasked me with. It looked a bit like a fancy smelly candle you get at Christmas, but it’s been handmade and suspiciously void of any other information. It had a lid, so was actually a tin, and was quite heavy, about the same weight as a candle.

I walked back and handed it to her, but the curiosity was killing me. What kind of cure for crazy was in that tin? She informed her customer that it was a candle, and that if burned through the night, when he’d gone to sleep, his missus should disappear. If it didn’t work then he should get rid of his wife’s belongings. Mr Sutherland lunged from his chair and snatched the candle right out of her hand, inspecting it, like I had, for any words or instructions that would tell him what it was. He answered that he didn’t have any of his missus’s belongings, her family had taken it all after she’d died.

Am I the only one who thinks that’s weird? Not the weirdest thing I heard that day, no by a long shot. Why wouldn’t he keep at least something of hers? Why let her family take all of it? I just had the feeling that there was something missing in his tale, some important detail that would fill in all the blanks. I was disappointed that day because he left without another word, not even a thank you for the tea.

I must’ve had one of my confused looks on my face as Madam Norna encouraged me to ask a question. Deciding it was a bit early to show ya true colours, I theorised that the shop didn’t just sell antiques. She repeated what she’d said to me earlier, about people only coming into the shop when they need something, and that her services were by referral only. I presume she meant that empty looking business card Mr Sutherland had shown me.

I asked why she hadn’t referred him to a doctor since he was obviously missing a few screws. There was another moment of silence, and I could see her forumalting answer, but she kept it to herself. Instead, she made the prediction that Mr Sutherland would return the next day, which was yesterday.

I arrived at work in the morning to find Mr Sutherland waiting inside by himself, sneaking glances at Chronos who sat on the glass cabinet, staring back with those eerie eyes of his. Madam Norna emerged from the private door almost as soon as I’d arrived. Before she could say anything he launched into his tirade, claiming the candle hadn’t worked and had only made things worse. He was very worked up, and I didn’t like the tone he was using either, so I slipped my phone from my pocket ready to call the police.

The Madam calmly asked him if he felt guilty. Waspishly, he denied he did, asking why he should feel like that when it was his missus that was haunting him. My boss narrowed her eyes at him, not in a glower, but in a knowing way, as if she could read the subtext of the conversation. I certainly couldn’t.

“Perhaps you feel guilt over your wife’s death?  You did commit murder, after all,” she accused.

I took a few steps towards the door after that, but Mr Sutherland was astounded and staggered back, clipping a pile of vintage magazines that went sprawling to the ground with a low slap. It was the only sound for a few seconds, and unlike anything else seemed to echo around the shop. He stuttered and stumbled over his words, nonsensical syllables tumbling from his mouth. The Madam asserted, in no uncertain terms, that he’d killed his missus and was now paying the price. If he wanted to be free of her then he’d have to rid his house of her body.

A charged silence settled over the shop, creeping up my spine until I didn’t think if this went went to shite I’d be able to get to the door in time. Without another word Mr Sutherland turned sharply on his heel and ran from the shop, practically bowling me out the way as he went. Shakily I turned to the Madam and asked her if she wwasn’t going to call the police? She claimed it had nothing to do with her. And that was the end of conversation.

The reason I’m telling all this is because I watched the news this morning. His face is plastered over every channel in Scotland. The man who murdered his missus and concealed her body in their house, getting away with murder for years. Now I don’t know what to do. How did Madam Norna know all these things? Was he actually being haunted by his missus, or just his guilt? There’s something weird about that shop, but I’m definitely going back.

Episode 5 – The Teacher’s Truth

So, where did we leave St Mary’s? Ah yes, all of the equipment on the ground floor had been deactivated. I was just thankful they hadn’t been destroyed. After looking around again, hoping no one would jump out at me, I reset the equipment and was just about to leave when I swore I saw a pair of eyes staring at me through the darkness from the bottom of the stairs. I could barely make out a silhouette, or any other features, but the eyes were clear, distinct across the distance. I dared not breathe or blink in case it was my imagination. I began to doubt it was a ghost, but when it faded back into the darkness my suspicions were confirmed. Because I’d reset the equipment I couldn’t walk back to investigate, but did note that none of the sensors had gone off at its appearance. I had no choice but to return to the van.

When I arrived I began to rewind the cameras that had been on, but nothing had ascended the stairs to the first or second floor. Without the recordings of the ground floor, it was impossible to tell who’d been there. And I was sure it was a who and not a what. Perhaps the explanation of teenagers breaking in was closer to the truth than I’d given credit for. But then again, why would teenagers take the time to switch the equipment off rather than just steal it? The scream had been so loud that it’d been picked up on the recorders on the second floor. Turning the volume up I listened to the minutes before in the hopes of hearing something that would offer an explanation. It was difficult to make out, but I thought I heard a door opening somewhere, the faint shuffling of footsteps, more like someone dragging their feet, and then the scream. Afterwards there was muttering, indistinct, but definitely human. A few minutes later I heard the door again.

It could’ve been teenagers, but there is someone who makes more sense. There was a back door which used to be a fire exit, but we’d been told it was bolted and practically welded shut. Can you guess who told us that? If Mr Huntingdon hadn’t given me enough reason to be suspicious of him before, then the recording certainly had. But I wasn’t about to storm over and interrogate him.

I sat and waited for our shift to finish, thinking about the scream. It sounded to me like a woman’s, but it was hard to tell. You’d be surprised at some men’s vocal range. I also didn’t know anything about the door whoever it was had used, only that it led to the back of the building, where the Huntingdon’s house was. It would certainly fit that the caretaker had something to do with it. It explained his reluctance to have us there. He also described his wife as highly strung, which to me at the time was just a polite way of saying crazy. Did Mrs Huntingdon have anything to do with the scream?

What was perhaps more important was that I hadn’t seen a ghost, not in the normal way. Yet, the feeling I’d experienced on the stairs lingered, as did the pair of eyes I’d seen staring at me through the gloom. Was it vertigo, or was I missing something? These thoughts kept me awake until Strother and Steph returned to relieve us. I was desperate to go to sleep so when Strother asked Ken if anything had happened, I didn’t pipe in. It was spiteful of me, but he treated me like an incompetent child, assuming I’d be the one to fall asleep, so I wasn’t going to make his life easier.

I got my comeuppance when I returned a few hours later to check-in. Strother had listened to the recordings and viewed the footage, and demanded to know why I hadn’t said anything. For my sins, I told him he hadn’t asked me. I still get a kick from remembering how irritated he was at my petulant answer. It led him to commanding me to tell him everything in future. Something I never did. I also told him that some of the equipment had been disconnected and hadn’t recorded whatever had gone on during the night. He wasn’t happy, but knew we had another night to record.

We spent the rest of the day filing through the documents that Steph had procured from the city council about St Mary’s, the ones which hadn’t been digitised. It was as I was looking through that I came across a small newspaper article about a teacher who’d gone missing in the 80s. She’d worked at the school for a few years, and one morning didn’t appear for work. The poignant detail about the article was the face that stared up at me, possessing the same set of eyes I’d peered through the darkness the night before. Armed with her name, a Lucy Rodgers, I did a quick Google search which came up with very little. I didn’t need to see an obituary to know she was dead. I was convinced that whatever I’d seen the night before was her. The big question now was what happened to her? How was she connected to the scream everyone heard from inside the building?

I had a feeling Mr Huntingdon may provide the answers I wanted, whether about the scream or Lucy Rodgers, I wasn’t sure, but he was hiding something. As if reading my mind, the man himself appeared outside the classroom we were in. His wife had sent him to ask if we wanted anything to eat. The tension between the caretaker and Strother was palpable and made the rest of us deeply uncomfortable. Strother threw some more insults and a firm dismissal. Before Mr Huntingdon could leave, I asked if I could use his bathroom. By the look I received from Strother you’d have thought I suggested we burn the building down. The caretaker begrudgingly gave me his permission and I walked with him to his house.

It was a nice place, if not a little unusual considering the surroundings. It was a bungalow, painted white, with lace curtains covering the windows. Small figurines of Victorian ladies and ballerinas graced the windowsills. Just as the school was, the cottage was stuck in a different time. There was a rough brown welcome mat in front of the door, company for the hedgehog shoe cleaner. As soon as Mr Huntingdon opened the door the smell of fresh baking assaulted me, scrambling up my nose and down my throat. It was pleasant, if not overpowering. The warm air that greeted me was a welcome change from the chill that lingered in St Mary’s.

I followed him past closed doors and into an open plan kitchen where a petite white-haired woman stood in a floral apron rolling out some pastry. I presumed she was his wife. Her husband muttered something about academics not having any manners, to which she replied neither did he making me stand there. He eventually grunted in the direction of the bathroom.

I’ve met a lot of highly-strung people in my life, and Mrs Huntingdon never struck me as one. There was something about the atmosphere that I couldn’t put my finger on. The sweet smell wasn’t inviting, but sickly, as though it were masking something else, something less pleasant. I could’ve been moulding my opinion around what Mr Huntingdon had said about his wife, it’s hard to remain impartial sometimes.

When I returned to the kitchen, I made polite chitchat with the couple, but soon dove straight into the reason I’d actually come to their house. I asked about Lucy Rodgers, more specifically if they’d known her. It happened again, the hesitation I’d observed when I asked Mr Huntingdon if he’d seen anything. Where he looked pained, it was his wife’s turn to stutter and stumble over her words. I swore she’d gone several shades paler, but began to shake her head and frown, as though she were confused. Her husband was visibly unhappy I’d asked. She answered that there had been a lot of teachers through the years, and because they’d been living there for more than twenty, they couldn’t remember every face. What was more interesting was that she added that she didn’t remember one ever going missing. I’d never mentioned anything about that, only her name. Mr Huntingdon caught onto his wife’s blunder and shooed me out of the house rather quickly.

Once we were outside, he confessed to me that his wife had Alzheimers and that her memory was erratic and strange at times. I didn’t know if it was true, or if he was lying to cover something up. I asked him if he’d known Lucy Rodgers, or remembered her, and he nodded solemnly. I felt pity when faced with the look in his eye, melancholic and brimming with regret. He took a deep breath and then admitted to me that he’d been having an affair with Lucy Rodgers before she’d left St Mary’s. His wife had found out and it’d nearly ended their marriage. Not wanting to lose her, he ended his relationship with the young teacher, and she’d disappeared soon after. He surmised she’d been upset by the way she’d been treated and simply vanished so she could start a new life.

Of course, he had no idea I knew she was dead, or that I’d seen her ghost the night before just after the screaming. I was beginning to think the caretaker and his wife were entangled in the fate of Lucy Rodgers in a more sinister way than I’d imagined. Had she killed herself after Mr Huntingdon had ended the relationship? Had his wife killed his mistress out of hatred for stealing her husband? If it was possible, my conversation with the caretaker had only given me more questions and no answers.

I didn’t have long to wait. Secretly, I’d moved one of the cameras so it was facing the Huntingdon’s house. During my watch with Ken, who again snoozed, I saw Mrs Huntingdon stumble from the front door and make her way to the back entrance of the school. I quietly slipped out and went inside after her, ensuring to hide in a classroom at the end of the corridor where she couldn’t see me. I had a clear view of the bottom of the stairs and just as she arrived, I saw the rippling in the air, and the ghostly eyes appear out of the darkness.

The form was blurry, not fully opaque, but as black as coal. The eyes were distinct, the part of her that was most in focus, as though it were in 4K. Mrs Huntingdon stumbled along the corridor and for a moment, I thought she’d stop at the bottom of the stairs and acknowledge the ghost. Instead she spent a few seconds staring up to the landing, before she ascended, out of sight. The ghost of Lucy Rodgers then turned to me, piercing me with a stare that was hollow. A chill ran up my back, and when the blackness where her body should be started to move towards where I hid, I could hear my heartbeat thrumming in my ears. It was the first time I’d been afraid of a ghost, the first time I’d seen one that wasn’t distinct, that was a shell of the person who it used to be. I’d never been harmed by a ghost before, but there’s a first time for everything.

Frozen in fear, I couldn’t move, even when the blackness enveloped me, blocking out my vision. After a few seconds, and a few blinks, my vision cleared, but the scene around me had changed. The classrooms were filled with desks, small lockers, pieces of paper and books in neat piles. Everything was discoloured, as though I were looking through a filter or lens. Glancing back to the bottom of the stairs I saw Lucy Rodgers as she had been in life. She stood with her arms crossed, biting her fingernails viciously, constantly staring at the back door. It was only when Mr Huntingdon, a younger version, opened the door that I realised she was waiting for him.

He approached her looking concerned. Their conversation was indistinct to me, like I was listening underwater. I used their facial expressions and hand gestures to glean the topic of discussion. Lucy kept shaking her head and looking away sadly, whilst the caretaker forced the young woman to look at him, as if he was begging her to do something. Many times, she wriggled from his arms and went to walk away up the stairs, but he caught her and pulled her back. I began to assume this was the break-up that Mr Huntingdon had mentioned earlier. I continued to think that until the caretaker’s actions began to become violent, until he was jerking her rather than pulling her back. The pleading gave way to anger, their voices were raised and I could hear snippets of their conversation.

He’s not good enough for you. How could you do this to me, I loved you. I was going to leave my wife for you.

Lucy Rodgers became more adamant, shaking her head profusely and eventually managed to break free of him and run up the stairs. He followed her, but the glint I saw in his eye before he did sent more chills across my arms. I heard their voices getting louder, words crashing into each other.

Let go of me, let go of me.

I heard the thuds as something bounced down the stairs, cracking as something hard hit the edge of the steps. It felt like it took longer than it no doubt did, but eventually the body of Lucy Rodgers arrived at the bottom. Her neck was twisted in impossible ways until her glassy eyes stared directly at me. I gasped and covered my mouth to stop the sound from escaping. I heard more steps, heavy, lazy, and deliberately slow. Mr Huntingdon stared down at the teacher’s corpse and made no move to help her, to see if she was alive, or to do anything. The man I stared at was a world away from the one I’d spoken to earlier who’d confessed with shallow regret about his affair.

He’d made it seem as though his wife had cause to do something to Lucy Rodgers. And I’d been stupid enough to believe him. He stood there for a long time, glaring down, as if she deserved it. After he’d gathered himself, he grabbed her roughly by the ankles and began to drag her towards the back entrance. Before he reached it, his wife appeared and began to scream.

 I stumbled backwards, taking a camera with me. I was further jolted from the past when the scream stabbed straight through me and I realised it originated in the present. Mrs Huntingdon stood at the top of the stairs, screaming so loudly I thought I’d go deaf. Barely audible over the sound was the clunk of the back door opening and her husband rushing in to silence her. I had an awful thought he’d do the same to her as he had done to Lucy Rodgers. Instead he rushed up to her and began to coax her back down, shuffling slowly until they were out of the building.

I’d begun to shake and couldn’t bring myself to get up off the ground. Thankfully he hadn’t seen me, but I’m sure the cameras had seen him and his wife. I only wished they’d been able to record what I’d witnessed. I don’t know how long I sat there, but I remember feeling the chill settle on my skin like oil. When I gathered my senses, I noticed the shadow that was Lucy Rodgers, the eyes trained on me warily. She didn’t approach me but began to drift in the direction of the door.

Reluctantly, still shivering, either with cold or fear, I followed. She took the same path as the Huntingdons and waited at the end for me to catch up. The door opened with ease and I emerged outside. The caretaker’s house wasn’t far up the path, facing the school. I couldn’t see the couple and assumed they’d already gone back inside. When I glanced to my side, I noticed that Lucy wasn’t there. Her shadowy figure moved around the side of the school. In front of her I began to catch glimpses of the past, as if someone was swiping through photos on their phone. One of her body being dragged along the cobbled path, head bouncing from every stone, of being let go as Mr Huntingdon went to find something and returned with a shovel. At the side of the school, underneath a window to a classroom, he dug a shallow grave and rolled her inside.

In the present there was a rose bush flourishing in the same spot, gorged on the remains of Lucy Rodgers.

I know I’ve made it seem like I’m some sort of saviour of souls, releasing ghosts from their existence by finding their body. But that time I hesitated. It had been easy to call the police in the case of Abigail Greyson because no one had ever seen me go to the field where she was buried. But here, at St Mary’s, if I phoned in a similar anonymous tip then the research team would become suspicious. Lucy Rodger’s life was over, but I still had to live mine. So, I did nothing that night. I returned to the van and rewound the cameras to find that they’d manage to capture Mrs Huntingdon and her husband. Through the grainy image you could see the moment she began to scream. It turned out that the screaming did have a normal explanation, which would please Strother.

It took me a few weeks to return to St Mary’s in the middle of the night, shovel in hand. It was dangerous, I know, if someone had seen me I’d have spent a lot of time at the police station myself. I dug just enough of the soil away to expose the bones. After taking a few pictures I went to an internet café and sent them with all of the information I knew to the police. I hoped rather than believed they’d find anything connecting Lucy to her killer.

I wish I could tell you that every ghost story ends with justice. There wasn’t enough evidence after nearly thirty years to arrest someone for her death, and despite popular supernatural TV dramas, my witness statement wouldn’t be accepted in court. Mr Huntingdon got away with his crime and yet has been forced to watch his wife relive his worst moments. Perhaps it is a justice of sorts, but it still leaves a bitter taste in my mouth.

Episode 4 – Night School

My time with IPP wasn’t all mediums and ghostly children, although if you’re expecting a lot of diversity, you’ll only be disappointed.

Late nights weren’t unusual, either were early mornings, or even weekends in some cases. Due to the nature of the research there were times when regular work hours weren’t observed, like in the case of St Mary’s primary school.

Ghosts rarely work to the timetables of the living, and the incidents at St Mary’s were no exception. I found myself waiting outside of the old school building early on a Saturday morning a month or two into my PhD. A bitterly cold wind blew threw me like a bad virus, worming between the strands of my gloves until my fingers were frozen to the bone. The coffee in my hand did little to keep the chill at bay. The school building itself was made of red brick, but as I stood in its shadow there was something ominous about it. Three stories high, with long thin windows covered in dirt and grime, it should’ve been welcoming, friendly, but perhaps because I knew the reason I was waiting outside everything looked worse than it was. The school itself had been closed for a year or two by the time we visited. Enrolment had been low, so the council had decided to relocate the pupils elsewhere and sell off the land.

Beside the school was an explosion of construction work. Where the children’s playground used to be was now a car park for the workers and developers. The church that was across the playground from the school was undergoing renovation to turn it into flats, whilst the remaining land would be underground parking for future residents. From where I stood in front I caught a glimpse of a small house, almost attached to the back of the school itself, but I just assumed it was vacant. It was a weekend and the construction site was empty, which only added to the eerie atmosphere of the place.

Of the requests and reports we’d received about paranormal events Strother had chosen this one, deciding that it would be our first on-site investigation. I was the first to arrive, but Ken appeared soon after. Whilst making polite chitchat and having an informal check-in Strother and Steph appeared in the van that was to be used for outside investigations. It’s just as you imagine it, complete with sliding side door, decked out inside with small TV screens, microphones and headphones. Think of every police drama you’ve ever seen where they sit in a van for hours on end monitoring TVs.

If the rest of the team found St Mary’s as creepy as I did then they didn’t admit it aloud. It was just a building, and not all abandoned ones are haunted. The reason we were there was due to screaming that people had reported coming from inside. On the opposite side of the road, facing the school, were more new flats. The reports to the police of screaming had been going on for years, so long the community newspaper had written a small article about it. But, as was the way, it had been dismissed as teenagers up to no good during the wee hours of the night. Whatever it was, teenagers or something less mundane, I distinctly remember feeling a tingling at the back of my neck when I looked up at the old school building.

Since I was the first one there Strother threw me the keys to unlock the front door. The red wooden door showed its age by the gouges and dents in the grain of the wood, painted numerous times over the years until its current incarnation of post box red. I fumbled with the keys through my gloves before eventually managing to wiggle the right one into the stiff lock.

“What do you think you’re doing?” A voice demanded from my side.

I was already a wee bit on edge by this point so I jumped out of my skin when I heard it. The voice wasn’t one I recognised, and it was laden with hostility. It belonged to a small elderly man with ash grey hair and brown eyes that were narrowed in my direction. I explained that I was there with the team from the university to investigate the screaming and then asked who he was. He answered that he was the caretaker of the school, and that we weren’t welcome.

I reminded him that the building’s owner had given us permission and that we’d informed him of the day and time of our arrival well in advance. He said I was being disrespectful and wished for a word with my employer. He couldn’t have known he’d receive even less respect from Strother. What ensued was what I can only describe as a vicious attack on the old man, later identified as Mr Huntingdon, who lived in the house I’d seen at the back of the school with his wife. It turned out that he’d refused all offers to buy his house, an accusation Strother threw at him during their bickering. Insulted, and red in the face with anger, Mr Huntingdon stormed off.

For some reason I ran after him, and I can’t seem to remember why. I remember apologising for the way I’d spoken, and for what Strother had said, the first of many apologies I’d make over the years on his behalf. The caretaker wasn’t interested in my request for forgiveness and moved to get past me, but stubbornly I blocked his way.

I told him I had some questions he could perhaps answer. Immediately he derided the so-called screaming ghost people had reported. Mr Huntingdon claimed there was no such thing as ghosts, and that if we were allowed to investigate St Mary’s we’d attract phony mediums and psychics from all over the country and he and his wife wouldn’t get a moment’s peace. I pointed out that since ghosts weren’t real our team wouldn’t find anything and nothing like that would happen. He wasn’t convinced but agreed, begrudgingly, to answer my questions.

I asked him where he thought the screaming came from, to which he claimed it was people’s imaginations running away from them, and that he’d never heard anything like it. I inquired if his wife had perhaps heard something. Mrs Huntingdon, according to her husband, was a highly-strung woman whom he wouldn’t trouble with something so silly and superstitious. Noticing that he was evading my questions I decided to change tactics and asked him if he’d ever seen anything. He hesitated. It was just for a moment, between one breath and the next, but I’d seen it, along with the worry that had swept across his face at the question. Of course, the answer was a firm refusal, after which he dismissed me harshly and stalked off back to his house, which I could see from where I stood.

After my encounter with the caretaker I re-joined the rest of the team who were beginning to set up the equipment inside. I don’t know what it was but there was something disturbing about being in an empty school. There were desks littering the hallways and classrooms, pieces of crinkled, discoloured paper masked the yellowing linoleum floor. Bits of children’s work and various announcements still hung from walls and noticeboards as reminders of the past.

We hadn’t come equipped light to St Mary’s. In the back of the van were boxes of cameras, audio recorders, thermometers, laser grids, motion detectors, amongst other things I couldn’t identify. It took hours to set everything up to Strother’s precise specifications. We put cameras, normal and night vision, in every room, along with an audio recorder and thermometer. One laser grid was placed on each floor on the main corridor.

Let me go into the history of St Mary’s, which is an important piece of any ghostly investigation.

St Mary’s was commissioned by the city council in the late 19th century. It was given to a group of nuns who taught at a successful catholic school a few towns over with the hopes that they’d repeat their success. It soon cultivated a good reputation and became a teaching college as well, securing enough money to buy the church that sat across the playground, the one that was being made into flats. Their success lasted until the 60s and 70s when it began to decline, until the year before our visit it had closed. The only articles and pieces of information we could find in our preliminary searches were nothing but announcements that the teachers and pupils had won various awards or been accepted into prestigious universities. There was nothing gruesome, but it was difficult to search for information in the first place as a lot of it hadn’t been digitised, and none of us were volunteering to visit the cities’ archives.

Inside the school wasn’t very modern, as is the case with a lot of educational establishments. It looked very similar to the school I attended with wide corridors, green everywhere, and blackboards on the walls, although some had been replaced with projectors and whiteboards. A single staircase joined all of the floors. Each floor forked in two directions, one went straight ahead, and the other led to an extension that had been built in the 50s. The classrooms were cavernous, with tall windows and even higher ceilings, it would’ve been difficult to get warm. Despite the general feel of abandonment, I didn’t notice anything out of the ordinary. It may be because I was focused on setting up the mountain of equipment we’d brought with us, or perhaps if a ghost was there it was frightened by Strother barking commands at us when we didn’t do something his way.

It was only when we moved up the stairs to the first floor that the tingling at the back of my neck began again. The entire building had a chill, but the staircase was colder than the classrooms had been. It was like I’d gone outside rather than up the stairs. My vision began to blur with every step, the world tilting on its axis, as though I were looking through someone else’s glasses, everything became disjointed and fractured. Then it all stopped as soon as I reached the first floor.

The strange episode had me unsettled, but when I turned around to look back down the stairs there was nothing there, not even a shadow. My sight had returned to normal, but I was blind to whatever had caused it. Ken noticed my puzzled stare and asked if anything was wrong. I lied and said I thought I’d forgotten something. Lying would become second nature to me during my time on the study.

We spent the rest of the day setting up the equipment until almost every square inch of St Mary’s was being recorded in some way. I was on my own in one of the third-floor classrooms when my attention was snatched by someone getting into their car across the road. What pulled me was the clear sound of the car door slam as the driver got in. It got me thinking. If I could hear that sound clearly from the third floor and across a road, how did Mr Huntingdon claim not to be able to hear screaming from inside the school when he lived right beside it? I knew he’d kept something from me when we’d spoken before, it was the reason why that made me uneasy.

Strother and Steph took the first watch. By watch I mean stayed up half the night in the van outside the school. When ken had asked why we needed to be there at all when most of the equipment was remotely controlled, Strother had stated us being there was more thorough, and also in case of malfunction. That was the reason I appeared outside the van at 1am with no coffee. Ken and I switched with Strother and Steph, and his parting gift to us was a warning not to fall asleep. I’m pretty sure he aimed it more at me than Ken.

Despite the heaters in the van, the cold still lingered in the air, and not long into our shift my fingers and toes began to lose all feeling. The screens were empty, not even a particle of dust floated past for the first hour. Ken began to snore beside me from 2am onwards. I dared not give Strother an excuse to treat me like an idiot so I was determined to remain awake.

It was during one of the moments when my mind was drifting between consciousness and sleep that I heard it. A single, piercing scream. I’ve only ever heard a sound like that twice in my life. The first was from my mum just after my Dad’s funeral, when she thought no one was around to hear. The second was from St Mary’s. It was a shriek of despair, curdling and loud so it was the only thing I could hear. Frantically I searched the screens in front of us, jumping from one camera to the next, but I couldn’t see anything. None of the laser grids or motion sensor cameras had been activated.

So, I left the van and ran into the school. I’d made sure to memorise where we’d put everything so I wouldn’t set everything off, but being caught on the cameras was something I couldn’t avoid. I’d come up with an excuse later. There was nothing on the ground floor, in any of the classrooms, or on any of the upper floors. I was the only one in that school, in the dark, but the scream lingered like an echo. I could still hear it ringing in my ears. There was no ghost, no anything. Disappointed, I started to leave but accidently crossed one of the laser grids. Holding my breath, expecting it to cast an offensively bright green light everywhere, I was surprised to find it didn’t activate. Bending down I inspected it and found the battery had been disconnected. Following a hunch, I checked all of the equipment we’d set out and found that the ones on the ground floor had either had their batteries disconnected, or had been set to not record. I wasn’t a ghost expert, but even I knew this wasn’t a ghost’s doing.

Present day

I went to the café yesterday, the one Strother had a standing appointment at. I asked the staff and they pointed out the owner. Luck was on my side that day. He’d managed the café back then, and now owned it. I asked him about Strother, even showed him a picture, and he remembered him.

It turns out Strother used to meet a woman there, every week without fail. They reserved the same table, and had the same meal. The owner admitted to me that seeing them made him want to treat his own wife better. I don’t think I need to tell you that Strother wasn’t married. But to be honest the owner’s impression of Strother was a lot different from the one I had. He used words such as friendly, polite, amicable, words which I’d never heard in the same sentence as his name.

Thankfully for me the owner appeared to almost be friends with them, unsurprising since they visited so often. He told me the woman’s name was Katherine Phillips and she worked at the university. He couldn’t remember what department, or even what she did, but all I needed was a name.

It didn’t take me long to find her on the staff pages. She still works there. I won’t divulge what department she’s in, or what she does, as I believe in people’s right to privacy. Katherine Philips isn’t her real name, in case you haven’t guessed.

I’ve already emailed her asking if she’ll meet up to talk with me, but haven’t heard a reply. I’ll need to decide how far I’m going with this, how many people I’m going to drag in. But I need to find out if she knows anything. Considering I spent 3 years not knowing who she was, I’m pretty sure she’ll know more about Strother than I or his family do.

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