The Collector Book One: Mana Leak (16 page)

The narrow space appeared darker still, no light gaining access between shed and fence. The space seemed empty.

I’d see Katie in her white gown if she was hiding in here…

The insanity of the situation hit her like a sledgehammer. A woman just past thirty, running around chasing ghosts in her back garden while her children needed her.

Tasting salt on her lips, she wiped her face, smearing her tears across her skin. Katie was gone; she couldn’t come back. Whatever she had seen and heard, she needed to forget about it. Put it to the back of her mind, for the kids’ sake. Her business with Frank was paramount, and any hallucinations would have to wait.

“…Mum…”

She froze at the word, feeling goose bumps rise on her arms and back.

“…Mum…I need you…” said the meek voice, quiet as a distant wind.

Was that footsteps she could hear, naked feet moving across the lawn towards her? Betsy had stopped barking, and silence had descended on the night. Anne held her breath, eyes squeezed shut.

She yelped as a small hand grabbed the leg of her jeans and tugged.

“Mum!”

She opened her eyes and looked down, gasping with fright.

Bronwyn looked up at her.

“Mummy, I had a bad dream.”

The Collector

Anne Harper lay in bed, reading the cracks in the ceiling. Sleep lingered a lifetime away, her mind a bubbling mass of tension. On reflection, she put her hallucination down to stress. What with Bronwyn’s imaginary friend, and the turmoil of the day, she wasn’t surprised her mind played tricks. But how could Bronwyn describe her dead sister, a sister she had never met? If it was a hallucination in the garden, why did Betsy seem so spooked? And so the cycle of questions and worry would start again, round and round like a carousel.

In the McGuire house, Joe had retired to bed early, still thinking about those damn Dean twins. Eleanor sat amid piles of books in the study, reading by lamplight. Her subject: ways to contact the dead, explaining in detail how to use Ouija boards and the dynamics of holding a séance.

Jenny Dean slumped at her kitchen table, sorting through her collection of bills again. She had checked the doors and windows were locked, paranoid the intruder would return. The twins hid in the garage, stereo on full volume. Jenny planned to check the locks again after they crawled in at some forsaken hour. What with the constant worry of the bills and the new security worries, she had barely thought about why her ring had again returned to her finger.

No one noticed the crack widen in the middle of the road, nor the long white finger poking from it. The finger twitched, as if testing the night air. Its companions emerged, now four digits protruding from the road. The crack opened further, allowing another four fingers to rise out of the darkness.

The fingers bent and explored the area around the crack; neat, trimmed nails dragging across the cold tarmac. They pushed.

The road folded back with ease, as if formed of soft, black treacle. The hands grabbed the edges of the crack and pushed further, opening a hole a metre across.

With a quiet grunt, The Collector pulled himself over the lip and stood. He looked down in disgust at the patches of dirt and dust on his jet-black suit.

“Such a primitive means of transportation,” he muttered and brushed his jacket clean with his hands. He sampled a deep breath of chilly night air and scanned the surrounding street.

The moon glowed through a cloudless sky, illuminating Penny Crescent better than the feeble streetlights ever could.

“Ah, England,” The Collector sighed. “I find myself on your pleasant green shores once again.”

He gazed down the fissure that gaped in the middle of the road like a manhole.

“Montgomery,” he hissed into the darkness.

A low growl replied.

“Come along, Montgomery! Stop playing such infantile games.”

The Collector crouched and reached into the hole, pulling out a thick, silver chain. He gave it a firm tug.

The creature obediently climbed out and stayed close to his master’s side. The tarmac rolled back over, restoring the gaping hole to an unnoticeable crack.

“Jolly good,” said The Collector, watching the road return to its normal and solid state. He struck it with his heel and satisfied, returned his attention to the creature by his leg.

“If I’m to take this off,” he said, jangling the chain, “one must promise to behave.”

The creature nodded.

“Very well.”

The Collector reached down and removed the chain from around Montgomery’s neck.

“Now that we have arrived,” he continued, “we must find shelter for the night.” He swept his head from side to side, studying the houses. “Our work begins with the morning sun. Come along, Montgomery…”

With a flick to the brim of his bowler hat, he started down the street.

House Calls

1.

Early the following day, Eleanor attempted to clean the house. Joe had gone for a run, so she tackled the task alone. She had no problem with this, used to it after years of living on her own. But the cleaning took longer than expected, due to bouts of headaches that faded in and out all morning. She guessed the late night reading had taken its toll.

She placed the last of the newly dusted ornaments back in its place.

It’ll do
.

The room still appeared untidy and cluttered. The addition of yet more books from upstairs increased the busy feel of the room. Eleanor planned to resume her reading on the comfort of the sofa, so had asked Joe to carry the stack of volumes down. The books sat waiting on the coffee table.

Her desire to continue her studies had been rekindled by the second morning of the phantom smell. She had opened her bedroom door to the unmistakable odour of frying eggs and bacon. Although this morning, it seemed weaker and a little distant. The windows had stayed closed too.

She decided she’d attempt to make contact that night in case Arthur’s spirit was fading.

If only my head would stop aching, I might be able to do more reading.

About to head into the kitchen to wash the breakfast things, a dainty knock at the front door echoed through the house, and Eleanor paused. Assuming Joe had forgotten his house keys, she walked into the hall and opened the door.

The man standing on the porch dipped his hat, a black bowler, in greeting.

“Good morning to you, madam,” he said. His voice sounded smooth as hot syrup, with the elocution of a high-class upbringing. “Might I say that your garden is looking splendid, especially on such a magnificent day.”

Eleanor stared at the man, unsure whether this was a joke. Despite the bowler hat and pressed black suit, the visitor looked odd. His hair, a shocking bright scarlet, hung beneath the hat to his shoulders. Eleanor noticed his eyebrows, and even his stubble, were the same shade of loud red. The man had done a really thorough job of dying his hair.

“I’m sorry,” he said, offering his hand. “James Elliot Hearnsworth. So rude of one not to introduce oneself immediately.”

His eyes seemed to flash a cold blue, like balls of frozen Arctic ice in his head.

Still taken aback by her sudden visitor, Eleanor humbly shook his hand. She released it and shooed away a fly that tickled her forehead.

“And you are Eleanor McGuire, I presume?”

“Yes,” she mumbled. “That’s me.”

“Indeed.” He beamed. “I believe we can come to a mutually beneficial arrangement, Mrs McGuire, in light of…recent events?”

Recent events? He must mean the Deans breaking in. And a mutually beneficial arrangement? He must mean money. He’s probably one of those claim people, no win, no fee and all that.

“I’m sorry, Mr…Mr…?”

“Hearnsworth.”

“Yes, Mr Hearnsworth. I’m sorry, but I’m not interested in whatever it is you’re selling.”

“Selling? My dear lady, I’m not selling anything. I’m a…a…”

Eleanor rubbed her forehead. It tickled again.

“A paranormal investigator,” he exclaimed.

“Really?”

“Yes, I believe something remarkable has happened here and I was hoping to ask you some questions, if one might be so bold.”

“But how do you know what’s been going on? I haven’t mentioned it to anyone, and Joseph doesn’t know anyone around here—”

“There have been other occurrences, other reports, Mrs McGuire.”

“Oh,” said Eleanor, disappointed it was no longer a private event. “I see. Well, would you like to come in and have some tea?”

“Tea? Oh my dear, I would love a cup!”

Eleanor stood to one side, allowing James Elliot Hearnsworth to enter. He courteously removed his bowler hat as he crossed the threshold, and more bright red locks of hair fell to his shoulders. She followed and closed the door behind him, shutting out the bright sunshine.

After showing him into the lounge, Eleanor hurried into the kitchen and brewed a pot of tea from her own special blend. With the teapot steaming and the cups, saucers and plate of biscuits laid out on a tray, she carried the whole thing into the lounge. She discovered Hearnsworth sitting on the sofa and flicking through one of her books, a big smile on his slender face. He instantly put the book down upon spying the tea tray, patting his knees in anticipation like an excited child.

“Oh, I do adore tea,” he said. “It’s just so…English.”

Unsure how to deal with this strange statement, Eleanor offered him a biscuit. He chose a custard cream and placed it on his saucer. The moment he received the cup from her rickety grip he raised it to his lips and drank the scalding hot tea in one gulp. Eleanor tried to hide her shock as she stirred her own beverage.

“May I?” he asked, gesturing towards the teapot.

“Yes, go ahead,” said Eleanor, carefully lowering herself onto the other end of the sofa.

Hearnsworth poured himself a second cup and immediately drank it. This time, he returned the cup to the saucer while half the tea still remained.

“Were you enjoying the book, Mr Hearnsworth?”

“I’m sorry?”

“The book,” she patted the copy of the
Encyclopaedia of the Unexplained
that lay on the sofa between them. “You were reading it when I came in.”

“The book. Oh yes! My apologies. Yes, the book is quite amusing.”

Amusing?

“But I’m sure you didn’t invite me into your house to chat about books,” he said. “May we get down to the core of the matter?”

Eleanor took a tentative sip of tea and nodded.

“Tell me everything, Mrs McGuire. From the first moment you felt something wasn’t right.”

“Well, I suppose it was the night of the storm. Kept me up all night, that did.”

“What was special about this storm?”

Eleanor scratched her forehead. The tickle had developed into an itch.

“It was ferocious. It just came out of nowhere and battered down on the street. Then it just vanished.”

“I see,” he said, frowning in concentration. “What happened next?”

She scratched her head again.

“Eggs and bacon.”

“Excuse me?”

“The smell of eggs and bacon. It just comes up without a source and then fades away. Windows have opened on their own too.”

Eleanor rested a hand on her forehead. Needles seemed to poke through her skull and into her brain.

“It’s my deceased husband trying to contact me, I’m sure.” She winced as another sharp wave of pain swept over her skin. “I’m sorry, Mr Hearnsworth. I seem to be feeling a little funny right now. Too much late night reading I suppose.”

Hearnsworth leaned over and took her free hand gently in his own.

“Eleanor, listen to me,” he purred. “We have to trust each other. Together we can make things go back to normal. All you have to do is tell me one thing…”

Eleanor gripped his hand hard due to the pain erupting through her cranium.

“W-what?”

“Tell me, Eleanor,” he whispered, sliding up the sofa, closer. “Where is the
mana
?”

“The mana? I don’t know what you mean…”

“Yes, you do. Where is it? Tell me and all this haunting will be over.”

Even through the pain, she managed a small smile.

“Be over? Mr Hearnsworth, I’ve waited years for this to happen. Why would I want it to be over?”

He frowned and titled his face to the side, looking like a curious feline. “I see.”

He released her hand and moved back to the far side of the sofa.

Eleanor sat further back with both hands clamped to her temples. The headache had reached its peak and wasn’t budging. Hearnsworth ignored her obvious discomfort and drank the rest of his tea, emptying the china cup in three quick slurps.

“With regret, Mrs McGuire, I must bid you farewell. If we cannot work together, no resolution will be reached.” He returned his cup to the coffee table.

Eleanor tried to focus, but her vision blurred.

“I-I’m sorry, Mr Hearnsworth. We can discuss the matter another time, when my head isn’t hurting so much.”

He gazed at her, a slight sneer on his face. His eyes narrowed and glinted with malice.

“Certainly, Mrs McGuire. We shall be…meeting again over this incident. I have no doubt.”

Lifting his bowler from the arm of the sofa, he stood.

“Let me see you out,” said Eleanor, also rising. Her balance proved less trustworthy than she thought, and she teetered on the brink of falling back onto the sofa. With a hand on the wall, she shuffled towards the door.

Hearnsworth, who had been staring longingly at the teapot, followed.

Eleanor managed her way through the hall and to the front door. Hearnsworth stayed silent and watched her struggle. With some effort, she opened the front door and slumped to the side.

Hearnsworth stepped out onto the bright porch, the light through his hair a coppery gleam. He placed the bowler back on his head and turned back to Eleanor, all smiles once again.

“It’s been a pleasure, it truly has,” he said, lifting her hand and shaking it. The motion nearly toppled her. “Excellent tea, Mrs McGuire, excellent! I look forward to our next meeting. Good day to you.”