Threshold of deliverance

It completely slipped my mind to wish one and all a happy Michaelmass, I even referenced the moon of that date yet I not wish you all well, forgive my ill-manners. I should say in my defence that I was unconsciously pre-empting and turning inward in preparation for my battle with the un-dead in North Yorkshire.

Anyway, in my previous posts I have proved beyond any doubt that the house I investigated over the summer was haunted. I left you last time as night fell and a gale had blown in. I was sitting again in the stairwell, where I uttered a soft note which echoed from the woodwork, creating a reservoir of sound into which my awareness dipped and then passed completely. I felt immediately a number of violent gasps or exhalations around me, as if I were close to one who was struggling for breath, whilst I was also aware of various banging sounds thundering through the house along with rough scraping sounds from the building’s grave-side wall.

It was the cries of the young men which dispelled the trance for the moment. Mr Crass was loudest of course, although initially we deemed an unfortunate football result had sparked his outburst. However when a subdued and sober Crass appeared from the living room, the young men hurried o record anything of note. It transpired that as he watched the football, he became aware of a pale shape outside the window. Taking it for a seagull he rose, intending to close the curtains over the patio door. As he drew level with the glass however, the shape returned and it seemed to be a sheet billowing against the glass; Mr Crass perceived it suddenly press against the pane, a face crumpling through its fabric until the whole thing collapsed and ‘washed away’.
Cameras were duly checked and repositioned after this phenomenon, the curtains having been partly pulled down in shock, much to the annoyance of Mr Aquinas.

When I returned to meditation, it seemed that with the advancing hour, the atmosphere in the house deepened, it was not so intense as to be oppressive, but some thing seeped out from the corners, up through the floorboards, from the crevices; it were as if coming night found its way into the house and pressed upon us. I am conscious of the effects of tiredness or ill-health, I am impervious to alcohol and all other stimulants – one cannot be enslaved by what one does not crave – and I knew that this impression was something external to each of our physical and spiritual selves; something from the outside, from the land, leaked into the house. Some trace of the sandstone bluff, of the salt-rich winds, of the low-lying, sea-choked marsh, passed into the building and it regarded us.

Once all had settled down to their vigil in a mood of nervous anticipation, the only sounds were that of the clock on the landing, the crack of a beer can, the murmur of the television and Mr Crass’ subdued commentary on the football, the occasional bleep of a mobile phone and the creak and crack of the house under the scurrying winds and occasional flashes of rain. Despite seemingly every effort on the part of the young men, the house did deliver its secrets to us.