This chapter is from Mr. Prendregast’s perspective. He falls into a trance, immersed in a long-forgotten memory.
Chapter 1:
Chapter 62:
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Hauntings of Claverton Castle, Chapter 63
Margot stepped forward and leaned over Mr. Prendregast. She pressed her hands against each side of his forehead. His entire body stiffened, and he began to splutter. His jaw tightened, and he clenched his teeth. He fell into a trance.
Basil Prendregast knew not whether he was hallucinating, but he saw the ghost of his younger sister two feet away, in the drawing room. She stood beside his chair and watched him. She’d seemed translucent when he first glimpsed her minutes ago, but now she was opaque.
No, he finally admitted, this specter was no product of fancy or madness. She truly was the spirit of Gertrude. He hadn’t seen this ghost in years.
Clouds of distant memories began forming in his consciousness.
Twelve-year-old Basil slowly descended the tower staircase. He doubted he could ever climb those stairs again or enter the tower without envisioning his sister opening the uppermost tower window and plunging to her death. He crossed the threshold into the hallway and stopped in mid-step.
Gray and hovering a few feet ahead of Basil was his sister Gertrude. She faced him. Basil was accustomed to apparitions, but he never thought he’d encounter a ghost whom he’d known in life. He clutched his throat and stared at her.
Gertrude hovered a foot above the floor. “Why did you not protect me from Uncle Jonathan? Why did no one?”
“I had no idea it was happening!” Basil wrung his hands and stepped back. “You are haunting the wrong person.”
“You were the only Sensitive in the family. You must have noticed something wrong.”
“I sensed that you were unhappy.” He exhaled deeply. “But that was all. What was I to do? I suppose I should have asked you why you were unhappy. Would you have answered?”
“Yes.” Gertrude faded to a lighter, more transparent gray. She continued fading, until she vanished entirely.
Feeling a lump in his throat and pressure on his heart, Basil emitted a heavy sob. Alone in the hallway, he let tears course down his cheeks. His eyes darted around in semi-darkness; he hoped nobody heard his sobs. He felt relieved that the apparition was gone, but he winced with guilt for feeling such consolation.
Basil resolved, for survival’s sake, to repress his Sensitive powers. It was dreadful enough to encounter ghosts of dead ancestors scolding him for ignoring them and for not so much as knowing what they wished from him. His sister’s ghost was far worse. He stood trembling with frustration at his own uselessness.
He loved the house itself—he’d always been fond of medieval architecture—but he feared the ghosts and his own impotence in solving their inconsolable conundrums. He’d purge them from his awareness.
He made inquiries in Midsomer Norton and learned from a roaming fortuneteller that the kind of Sensitive he sought lived in Bath. After his lessons the following day, he rode his mare to Bath without telling his parents he was leaving.
Now Basil remembered arriving on the doorstep of one of the new terrace houses and inquiring after Myrtle Sweetwater. A maid let him inside. He sat in the parlor looking around at the shield-backed chairs, a corner cabinet displaying china figurines, and the white paneled walls decorated with homemade watercolor paintings. The ordinariness of the room struck him as inappropriate, considering his mission. He’d envisioned a half-timbered house with low ceilings, dark corners, and vials of bubbling fluids. He waited and sipped fresh green tea.
Myrtle entered the parlor and greeted him. She was an old Sensitive with frizzy hair sticking out from under her mobcap. “I am surprised you know of me, young master.” She looked Basil up and down. “I’ve become reclusive in my old age. I live with my daughter and her family, but I don’t go out much and haven’t received many requests for my Sensitive powers this past six twelvemonths.”
Basil wrung his hands. His palms were damp with perspiration. “I inquired in the village, and you have not been forgotten.”
“Splendid—It gladdens me that younger generations still appreciate an old sage like me. Come now, what do you need?”
Basil exhaled shakily and bowed his head. He spoke to the rug. “I must stop seeing ghosts. It is too painful.”
“Too painful, you say? Life is painful.”
“It… it is my sister. She fell out of a window and… and… became a ghost.” He gulped down the lump in his throat and squeezed his eyes shut.
“Ah, I see.” Myrtle sat back and, gazing at him, tapped her bottom lip with her index finger. “I can eliminate your ability to encounter otherworldly visitants. It won’t be only your sister, but all ghosts, demons, and even fairies. I can mesmerize you into repressing this ability. Are you certain you wish to do this?”
Basil blinked and nodded, looking around the room rather than making eye contact.
“Have you taken the time to think it out carefully?”
“Yes.” Basil clutched his teacup tightly. He began to doubt his decision and felt a flutter of panic.
“Very well, then.” Myrtle shifted in her seat. “Young master, I must ask for payment first. It is more than a precaution. When you wake you shouldn’t be able to remember why you called on me.”
Basil frowned, but after looking into her clear blue eyes, he nodded shortly and drew a small purse out of his waistcoat pocket. He passed several coins to her.
“Thank you. Now please put down the teacup and make yourself comfortable. Let your hands lie in your lap. Relax.”
Myrtle moved a small table directly in front of him, and she placed the mantel clock on it. “Please gaze at the clock face without blinking.” Basil did as she bid. He gazed in silence until he was staring, his eyesight blurry. “You are extremely drowsy.”
Seemingly a minute later, Basil opened his eyes and blinked rapidly. “Where am I?”
“You are in Bath, young master. You rode here on your horse. Best you ride back home, before your parents fret.”
Basil returned home… and all the apparitions, even Gertrude, departed from Claverton Castle, so far as his perceptions were concerned. Oblivious to the ghosts, Basil felt consoled and better able to focus on his studies.
After waking the next morning, Basil remembered nothing of the phantoms. He did retain the memory of his sister’s death, but not of why she committed suicide. He didn’t remember her ghost. He felt a nagging sensation, as though waking from a dream he no longer remembered yet knew was significant. Even that faded over time.
“Mr. Prendregast!” someone called. “Mr. Prendregast!” He felt a hand lightly slapping his face. A damp piece of linen lay on his forehead.
Basil shivered and opened his eyes. He slouched in a wing chair; several young faces peered down at him. He noted with some shock and annoyance that his children and Miss Ponsonby stared with wide eyes and their mouths hanging open. They were wringing or grasping their hands. He slowly began to sit up, with Reginald crouching beside his head and holding his shoulder and upper arm. Harriet took his other arm.
He slowly sat up with his children’s assistance. He whispered so quietly that everyone leaned toward him. “When I suppressed my Sensitive powers, I promised my family that the abuse—the-the-incest—would no longer be passed down in the family. To the best of my knowledge, it ended with Uncle Jonathan’s death.”