Henry tutted and walked into the bedroom. The bed had been sloppily made. There were creases in the duvet cover and the pillows had been thrown on in a haphazard fashion. Henry shuddered. If there was one thing he couldn’t abide it was a creased unmade bed. The top pillowcases didn’t even match. A discarded pink cardigan lay across it. He excused Imogen because she was grieving. He supposed the bed was the last thing on her mind. The door of the wardrobe was ajar, and he peeked inside but this time all he saw were Imogen’s perfectly ironed clothes. He waited, but all his eyes met were a multitude of colours hanging limply from wooden shoulders.
‘Come on,’ Henry said impatiently.
Five minutes passed and still there was no space in the wardrobe for Henry to enter. Finally, he had no alternative but to go downstairs and join the others for the séance.
The wine glasses were now empty, and the only light was that from the flickering candle and a side lamp. Faye was sitting cross-legged on the floor with Imogen and Cynthia sitting opposite her. Faye closed her eyes, swayed slightly and then said. ‘He’s definitely here. Let’s start. His spirit is strong.’
Henry sighed in despair.
‘Let’s call Henry,’ said Faye.
‘Oh, my goodness,’ said Cynthia.
‘Oh dear,’ said Henry.
‘He’s here,’ said Faye. ‘Let’s begin.’
Chapter Thirty-Three
Henry sat on the floor, resting his back against the couch. Beside him Faye, the psychic was tilting her head back, her eyes closed in concentration, while Cynthia’s bright blue eye-shadowed eyelids blinked nervously, her body stiff with tension. She’s getting ready to flee just in case I should appear, thought Henry. He glanced curiously at the Ouija board. He’d never seen one before, except in the films. As he did so, Henry noticed that the rug needed a good vacuum. Imogen was normally very observant about things like that. There would never be bits on the rug, not normally. He looked at her pale face, gaunt in the shadows.
‘Everyone put their fingers on the planchette,’ instructed Faye.
Imogen shook her head.
‘I can’t,’ she trembled.
Henry stared at her in surprise. She didn’t believe in that nonsense so why was she suddenly so terrified?
‘We can’t do it without you, dear. Isn’t that right, Faye?’ cajoled Cynthia.
Faye leaned a hand across to Imogen who grasped it desperately.
‘I promise it will be alright,’ she said comfortingly.
‘I wouldn’t trust her,’ scoffed Henry.
‘Are you sure?’ asked Imogen fretfully, her eyes filling with tears.
‘I know what you’re going through,’ said Faye. ‘Trust me. I have done this many times.’
Henry thought that Faye didn’t have an inkling of what Imogen was going through. Imogen reluctantly placed her fingers onto the planchette.
‘We’re just going to move it around a bit to warm it up,’ said Faye.
‘Are we supposed to do that?’ asked Cynthia suspiciously.
She always thinks she knows better, thought Henry. He yawned and wondered what the time was.
‘Okay,’ said Faye eventually. ‘Let’s ask questions.’
Cynthia released a nervous giggle and Faye gave her a warning look.
‘Is there anyone here to communicate with us?’ asked Faye.
The candle sent quivering shadows onto the rectory red walls. Henry looked at the planchette with interest, but it didn’t move. At least, thought Henry good humouredly, there aren’t any other dead people in the house. He didn’t want it becoming an Airbnb for the deceased.
‘I’d like to communicate,’ said Henry with a yawn.
