Is Anybody There?

The room was dark and gloomy – deliberately so. The curtains were black, heavy and lined, as if to forbid any sunshine. Sombre paper covered the walls, from which framed heads, sepia-toned with stern expressions, looked down disapprovingly. It seemed to Chris they were showing their disdain for visitors.

A circular table, covered with a damask cloth, dominated the room and an oil lamp stood at the centre. A period fireplace with a tiled hearth helped give the impression the room had been preserved since Edwardian times.

By contrast the entrance of the house, which was well lit, had a laminate floor with abstract prints on the walls.

Chris was nervous and cleared his throat before speaking.

“It’s Carol, isn’t it?”

Her smile was warm and welcoming.

“It is. But in here I prefer to be known by my spirit name, Zakanda.” Chris hoped his incredulity wouldn’t show on his face.

“Shall we sit down?’” she gestured to a chair for him to use.

“Before we start,” her voice was soft and soothing. “I would like you to know there will be no physical contact between us. There’ll be no Ouija board or anything like that. All I need from you is a personal item, such as a watch. Please switch off your mobile phone.”

“Why?”

‘It interferes with the spirits.’

Chris took off his watch and handed it over. He opened his wallet.

“It’s seventy-five pounds, isn’t it?”

She nodded. Chris counted out the banknotes and placed them by the lamp. Carol smiled her thanks.

She cradled the watch in her hands as if it were a delicate bird. As she bowed her head, her long dark hair rested on the table. Carol took deep breaths. They became more audible and quicker until she threw her head back and exhaled, her shoulders relaxing.

A smile formed. Her eyes were half open.

“There are many spirits in the room.”

Chris instinctively looked around.

“Yes . . . what . . . be clearer, my love.” Carol’s brows knitted in concentration. “I have someone here who wishes to speak. His name is . . . Bob . .  . no, George, Stanley . . . Jim? Chris, do any of these names mean anything to you?”

“Er, no.”

She took another deep breath.

“I’m sorry. So many spirits want to speak and they’re all talking at once, like excited schoolchildren.” She smiled at Chris, who bit his lip to prevent it from curling.

Carol tilted her head as though trying to overhear a conversation.

“Gary . . . Harry . . . Barry . . . Brian”

“Brian? I’ve got an Uncle Brian.”

“Is he on the other side?”

“On the other side of the world? Yes, he moved to Australia years ago.”

If Carol, or Zakanda, was even the slightest bit irritated by Chris’s naivety she didn’t show it.

“I meant, has he passed on?’

‘No, he’s fine. Wait . . . oh my God. You’re not saying Uncle Brian has just died, are you?”

Carol reached out and patted Chris’s arm. “No, my love. Don’t worry. It’s another Brian. There are many spirits here and they all want to be heard.”

She closed her eyes again and took slow, deep breaths.

“I have . . . someone . . . it’s David. No, not David. It’s Derek . . . or is it . . ?

“Eric? My cousin Eric? He’s on the other side. He took his own life a couple of years ago.”

Carol kept her eyes closed. “Yes, it’s Eric. Eric, do you have anything you want to say to Chris?”

She cocked her head to one side.

‘Eric said he misses you all and he is now at peace.’

‘That’s a bloody shame. We were hoping he would burn in hell for all eternity. He was a child molester and had thousands of pervy pictures on his laptop. He got jailed for five years and he hung himself in his cell. We certainly don’t miss him, the bastard.’

Sweat broke out on Carol’s brow.

“He’s . . . um, he says he’s truly sorry for his actions and the hurt that he’s caused. He hopes one day that you may find it in your hearts to forgive him.”

“No bloody chance.”

Carol kept her eyes closed. “Eric has gone. There’s a Trevor here . . . and Colin . . . Andrew . . .”

“Carol, can we stop now?”

She opened her eyes. “Yes, my love. But please call me Zakanda when I’m in spirit.”

“No, I won’t. This is a set-up. You’re no more talking to dead people than you’re tap dancing on the moon. I’ve recorded this . . . this séance, or whatever you call it.”

Carol’s face reddened. “Who the hell are you?”

“I’m a journalist. I run a podcast dedicated to exposing charlatans who take money from vulnerable people. Oh, and by the way,” he said as he reached over for the cash, “I’ll have my money back. And my watch.”

“I’m not a charlatan.”

“Yes ,you are. You just spewed out lots of names hoping one of them would hit the mark. You claimed to be talking to my cousin Eric. I made him up, for Christ’s sake.”

“You don’t understand. I give solace to people who are grieving, who have been devastated by bereavement. They come to me, and I bring them comfort.”

Chris sneered. “Yeah, right. Seventy-0five quid for fifteen minutes, that works out at three hundred quid an hour. You’re the one in comfort.”

Carol brought a clenched fist down on the table, making the lamp shake.

“Listen to me. I perform a valuable service for people who are in grief and often riddled with guilt. Okay, I’ll admit I don’t speak to the dead but what I do is bring closure. If their husband or wife or mum or dad has had a painful death, they need to know that their relative is at peace and no longer in pain. Or in the case of your fictitious cousin, when someone takes their own life their family and friends nearly always blame themselves in some way. Have you any idea who much stress they put themselves under?”

Chris remained silent.

“It goes on for years, and in some cases decades. Why should these people carry guilt around for so long, eating away at them like a parasite, affecting their health?”

Chris shifted uncomfortably in his seat.

“They could go to a bereavement counsellor.”

To his surprise Carol threw her head back and laughed.

“You should expose that lot!” She got to her feet, jabbing a finger. “Let me tell you something. I’ve had people in here who have spent hundreds, sometimes thousands of pounds on counselling, guilt therapy, transcendental meditation and other shades of bullshit. But they sit in that seat and hear from me that their dead relative forgives them. And you know what?”

Chris did not reply.

“They go away happy, relieved. And that’s just after fifteen minutes. They pick up the pieces of their lives. How do I know? Because they tell me, that’s how. Most of them keep in touch, because they’ve found solace again. And for that burden of guilt to be taken off them, I think seventy-five quid is quite cheap. So, do you think I’m wrong to do that?”

After a long pause, Chris said: “Okay, Carol. That was quite a spirited defence you made there. I have a proposition to put to you.”

She kept her gaze fixed on him.

“This is what I had in mind when I came here. Record this session, go back to my studio and expose you as a charlatan on my podcast. Next, I’d contact trading standards to shut you down and ask the police to investigate possible fraud.”

“But – “

Chris raised a hand to silence Carol.

“Hear me out, please. Because of what you’ve said, I want you to come to my studio and we’ll repeat the discussion we’ve just had. I will argue that what you do is wrong, and you say you’re better than counselling. I won’t mention your name on air.”

Carol looked at the floor for a few moments before replying.

“It looks like I don’t have much of a choice. It seems you will ruin me now or I risk being ruined later.”

“Do we have a deal?”

Carol nodded. They stood up and left the room. In the hallway, she picked up a jacket and put it on.

“We’ll go in my car,” said Chris. “And I’ll bring you back. It’ll only be a couple of hours.”

Carol picked up her keys, opened the front door, holding it for Chris to walk out. She followed, slamming it behind. The gravel crunched under their feet as they walked to Chris’s car. The doors were opened, then closed, the engine sprung into life. There was more crunching of gravel as the car drove away.

The house fell silent.

In the dark room the lamp on the table started to vibrate. Then it smashed against the fireplace as if thrown by a violent, unseen hand. The glass shade shattered, and the metal base rocked, bent and broken in the hearth.

The heavy curtains flapped as though caught in a storm and the chairs and table spun around the room before crashing to the floor.

John says: Joining a writing group in 2014 was a clever move. Since then I’ve had stories published in Britain, Australia and America. I live in Newcastle with my family and probably spend far too much time watching and thinking about football.