The Dream Weavers. Barbara Erskine

she took a deep breath and opened the door of the library.

      Something huge and black flew at her head. It landed at her feet with a crash and she saw it was a book, its pages torn and splayed. Within seconds several other books were hurtling round the room, a chair toppled over in front of her, a candlestick rolled across the table, the room was filled with a sound like the roaring of the wind and she felt a powerful thrust between her shoulder blades. It sent her reeling.

      She had no time to think. Her reactions were automatic. She held out the cross in front of her and addressed the entity as though it were a naughty child. ‘Stop it! Now! You can’t frighten me.’

      The response was a hiss and a demonic shriek from somewhere on the far side of the room. Clutching the cross more tightly, she had ploughed on resolutely. ‘I can help you. I can give you a road out of here and guide you towards peace and light.’ She dodged again as another book fell at her feet. The room’s temperature had fallen several degrees and in the corner she had seen the sudden flicker of flames. It had been a battle of wills. Her opponent was a man, an elderly man, deeply unhappy and beleaguered; at his wits’ end. Almost as soon as she sensed his identity, he was there, in the shadows. ‘Let me help you.’ She didn’t plead. She was in control and reassuring. She paused, waiting for the next book to fly at her. Silence. The atmosphere had changed. The flames in the corner died down, leaving the smell of charred wood. He listened to her.

      Bea had been able to see him more clearly at the end, stooped with pain, agonising physical pain, lonely, wrapped in a shabby woollen garment like a dressing gown, trimmed with fur. The room had smelt musty, airless. It was so cold that Bea’s breath was condensing in front of her as she moved towards him. ‘I’m here to help you. I want you to look upwards, towards the light. She was visualising a large double door, opening onto a beautiful landscape. ‘It’s open, can you see? It leads to somewhere warm and full of sunshine. It’s safe there. Step towards it. That’s right.’ She saw him hesitate, glance round. There was a heavy leather-bound book in his hand and after a moment he leaned forward and put it on the table. She heard him groan as if the slightest movement was painful. ‘That’s right,’ she encouraged. ‘Only a few steps more. There is no more pain in the next life. It is bright and full of sunlight. There are friends there. Leave this dark place behind.’

      He took a step towards the corner of the room where she pictured the door. Then another. He was almost through when it all went wrong.

      ‘Has it gone?’ The voice in the doorway had made her jump. Ken Hutton was staring in, his knuckles white on the doorframe.

      Irritated, Bea had tried to ignore the interruption. ‘It’s beautiful through there. And safe. Angels are waiting for you; can you see them? You are not alone now. Go with God, my friend. Be at peace.’

      In her mind’s eye, she had reached out to close the door behind him and as she did so a flash had cut across the room. ‘Got it!’ Ken had been triumphant.

      Bea had turned to see the camera in his hand. It was pointing straight at her. ‘Don’t!’ she shouted. ‘I do not want photographs. I explained to you, this visit must remain totally private and confidential. You agreed.’

      He had lowered the camera reluctantly and she remembered his words clearly. ‘It was so incredible. Impressive. I wonder if I got the ghost. Did you see him? I could hear you talking as if he was an ordinary bloke. It was a bloke? He won’t come back, will he? Oh bloody hell! Look at the mess. All these old books. I’ll clear it up if it’s safe now. Chuck them all on the fire.’

      The visit to that house had shaken her more than she liked to admit. Still in shock, she hadn’t mentioned it to Mark. Then, four days later, there was a headline on the front page of the local paper:

      LOCAL GHOSTHUNTER EXORCISES POLTERGEIST, photos on pp 3, 6 and 7

      Mark had been beside himself. ‘Have you any idea of the harm this will do? I asked you, I begged you, to be discreet. You’re on the front page for heaven’s sake!’ He had shaken the paper at her.

      ‘Let me see!’ She had finally managed to snatch it off him. ‘Look. It’s all blurry, Mark. No one would recognise me.’ The large leather volume, balanced on the edge of the table, was in centre focus. It was actually rather a good picture. She could see herself there in the background, a white face, an arm raised with the cross in her hand. Oh God, that was dramatic, like the poster for a film, but her face was in shadow. Dodging away from Mark, she scrabbled in the paper, looking for the inside pages. There were half a dozen more photos, none of them recognisable, she was pretty sure, and none of the ghostly figure. There was a long article with the pictures. She scanned it quickly, praying her name was not mentioned. It wasn’t. The journalist had made a big thing of the absolute anonymity demanded by the exorcist, describing her, rather flatteringly, as an attractive woman with phenomenal powers. Bea dropped the paper, relieved. ‘The chances are no one will see it, Mark. It’s gutter journalism. And if they do read it, they won’t know it’s me.’

      He had looked at her, his face white. ‘It says there that the creature, the ghost, tried to kill you, Bea. It says you wrestled with it, that there was furniture flying round the room and you exorcised it with bell book and candle and flashing lights.’

      ‘That’s complete nonsense,’ she had retorted, flustered. ‘The flashing lights were from Ken Hutton’s own camera. And the poor soul wasn’t a creature, Mark. You of all people should know that. He was the shadow of an old man. He was more frightened of me than I was of him. An earthbound spirit who was sick and frightened and lonely. He threw the books at me because there was nothing else there to defend himself with. I prayed with him, Mark. I did not perform any kind of exorcism – how I hate that word – and he left.’

      ‘It says there in the paper that he tried to kill you!’

      ‘That is somebody’s imagination.’ She had reached out for Mark’s hand. ‘I knew what to do, darling. I was safe. And I did tell Mr Hutton before I went there that everything I did had to be confidential. He agreed.’ She sighed. ‘He broke his word. It won’t happen again.’

      Had she promised not to do it again, something that was as much a part of herself as breathing? No, not as such, but perhaps she had let Mark believe that was what she meant.

      But a visit to a holiday cottage on Offa’s Ridge was hardly comparable; a ghostly voice, at best a woman hunting for a lost pet, at worst a restless spirit, perhaps, nothing more. She would be able to sense at once what if anything was wrong, deal with it and be home before Mark had returned from evensong.

      As though reading her mind, Mark paused from his cooking to take a sip from his glass. ‘This problem,’ he said casually as he reached for the last onion and picked up the knife again. ‘Does it involve ghosts?’

      She sighed. A straight question deserved a straight answer. ‘I don’t know. I think it’s unlikely. This chap, Simon, is an author. He’s been disturbed by some noises. A voice, he said. He complained to Chris and she gave him my name. She didn’t realise I haven’t done any house clearances lately.’ She dropped her gaze, aware she was being disingenuous. ‘Obviously she’s anxious. She doesn’t want to lose him as a tenant. She wants me to set his mind at rest, nothing more. I won’t spend long up there. I need to get a feel of the place, that’s all. I suspect I shall find a tapping creeper on the wall or, as he suspects, a lady looking for her lost dog.’ She glanced at him and caught the anxiety that showed on his face. ‘Don’t worry, Mark. If I think it’s dangerous, I will leave at once.’

      He sighed. ‘If he’s an author, perhaps his characters are haunting him.’ His expression was carefully neutral now. He turned to scrape his chopped vegetables into the sizzling pan on the stove.

      Bea laughed uncomfortably. ‘We thought of that.’ She reached for her wine. ‘It’s probably more that he’s not used to living on his own in the country where owls hoot and foxes scream. Do you remember how spooky that sounded when we were in our first rectory? I promise I won’t get involved in anything dangerous. I’ll just go and see. I know you’ll hold me in your prayers, darling. It