Five Parts Dead (7 page)

‘It's winter and the Open-For-Inspections are held when it's already pretty dark. People are queued up at the gate when someone screams and collapses. When she comes to, she says she saw a nun sweeping through the gardens. The inspection is called off.

‘The next night there's a crowd hanging around. The estate agent is just unlocking the gate when the nun appears, gliding down the driveway as if her feet don't touch the ground. People go nuts and the inspection is cancelled again. Someone films the nun on their phone and posts it on YouTube but it's way too blurry to be sure what it is.

‘At the next Open-For-Inspection, a TV crew turns up. When the nun shows, the cameraman flicks on his spotlight and pins her in the beam. She goes to glide back up to the convent but, as she does, her robes snag on a branch and she falls over. The TV crew run at her and it's actually a man wearing robes over one of those Segway Personal Transporters. Turns out he was a property developer who wanted to get the lowest possible price for the convent by scaring everyone away. How funny is that?'

‘Did you tell us that story because you don't believe ghosts exist?' Pip asks.

‘No. I don't know whether they do or not. I just like the story…kind of a reminder that, you know, stuff you read and see isn't always what it seems. I've got another one if you like, absolutely one hundred per cent fair dinkum, from when Barney and I…'

Mel scoffs. ‘Are there any stories about you and Barney that don't involve someone getting ripped off or maimed? Being friends with him is like an extreme sport.'

It's my turn to chuckle. ‘At last, acknowledgment of my courage and athleticism. Thanks.' A fistful of popcorn rains over me.

At midnight, Mel finds candles and a clean glass, then scrawls the letters of the alphabet onto the back of a sketchpad we're using as a ouija board. Outside, the wind grizzles.

We're huddling around the board when Mel shrieks, pointing across the room. Batwings jag at the opposite wall, swooping towards us. From the size of the shadow, the bat must be massive. Pip ducks and Hiroshi sways, one arm around the cringing Mel, the other swatting and shooing the creature away. I look around the room until I spot a moth fluttering above the lamp in the corner.

‘Easy, Mel. It's just a moth…or its shadow, actually. Keep your hair on.' I stand, swaying, then teeter across the room. After a few misses I cup my hands around the moth and wobble to the hallway. Its wings feather my palms as Pip opens the front door. She grins at me when I release it into the starry night.

Back on the rug in front of the fire, we put our hands on the glass and, just like that, it spells C-H-O-C-O-L-A-T-E, which sends Mel giggling from the room. She returns with a plate of Tim Tams from her personal stash and passes it around.

I edge closer to Pip, sensing she's still reluctant about mucking round with a séance.

When we try the glass again, Mel speaks for all of us.

‘We are gathered to communicate with the spirits in this room. This is a lonely place. A hard place. Spirits, come. Share your stories with us.'

There's a long pause and a silence so deep I wonder if the others aren't breathing. Then the glass moves. Hairs spike at the back of my neck. I try to see who is driving the glass. Pip has her eyes closed tight, so I figure it can't be her.

B-E-W-A-R-E. ‘Beware,' Mel squeaks. ‘Beware what?'

The glass drags our hands, sliding between letters with urgent twitches. D-E-A-D…P-E-N-G-U-I-N-S.

Mel speaks first. ‘Beware dead penguins? What does that mean?'

‘Maybe they're a band,' I offer, hoping to lighten things up. ‘And the Dead Penguins' music is bloody awful…Or maybe it's an environmental message about oil spills.'

‘Maybe they smell bad on surf beach.' Rosh looks totally confused.

‘Too weird,' Mel says. ‘Let's ditch the ouija board. Let's hold hands, close our eyes and see what we can see.'

We link up. Pip looks really uncomfortable now. I give her hand a squeeze. She manages a weak smile.

Mel appeals again. ‘We are gathered here after midnight to speak to the spirits of the past. Spirits of this lonely place, speak to us.'

A breeze whispers across my neck. Goosebumps electrify my skin. Pip's grip on my hand tightens. I keep my eyes closed and listen. Mel's whispering now: ‘Speak to us. Visit us now.'

Suddenly my mind is outside the cottage. Rain is thumping down. I follow a girl carrying a basket as she staggers through sludge up the hill to the lighthouse. The beacon points out to sea, struggling to pierce the downpour. The wind wails like a banshee.

Several shrubs have blown over, blocking the path. She trudges around them, wet branches groping at her legs. I'm a step behind her as she reaches the path again. And the ground shifts beneath us.

The girl's feet skate from under her. She lands face-first in the slush, then struggles to her knees, only to have the wind buffet her off balance again. I see her reaching, frantic, grasping for anything solid enough to help her stand. Her outstretched hand finds a piece of timber and she leans against it, kneeling as she scrapes muck from her face.

The storm eases. The girl takes the chance to get her bearings, pointing at the lighthouse as if it's her true north. As she reaches for her fallen basket, the moon shrugs off the clouds. The girl screams. She's leaning across an open coffin, a corpse sneering up at her with a mottled, melted face. A bony hand clutches at her leg.

She shrieks but her terror is swallowed by the hissing wind. She scrambles towards the lighthouse, clawing through the mud, away from the body, away from its withered hands.

As she crests the hill, two dark silhouettes appear, one on either side of her. The larger of the pair pounces, snaring the girl. She thrashes, trapped.

He slaps her, once, twice. She goes limp, stops struggling. The moon punctures the clouds again and uncloaks two hairy, wild-eyed men.

Each has a pair of dead penguins strung around his neck.

Beside me, Pip slumps to the floor.

When Pip comes to, she won't talk and wants to sleep. Mel escorts her to their room, then returns to the lounge.

‘I think I should stay with her, Hiroshi. She's really freaked.'

A glum-faced Hiroshi unfurls his sleeping bag on the spare bed in my room. He's snoring in no time.

I'm not. The wind pounds the cottage. The windows prattle like gossips. The chimney on the rear verandah gasps and moans. I'm kind of glad I've got a room-mate tonight. The darkness oozes sadness, as if the cottage grieves for someone.

I wonder what the girl has to do with it? I'm sure they're the same person: the girl from my room and the one from the storm. Could the others have seen her? Mel and Hiroshi certainly didn't mention anything.

Hours pass before sleep shunts me into a mass of thrashing limbs. I dream of a jostling, peak-hour crowd pushing ahead into a subway rush of stale air. Bodies sweep past, beckoning me to step forward and join them.

V: REQUIRE ASSISTANCE

I'm ripped from sleep. Someone's in my room. The girl again? No, thank God. Hiroshi must have bailed, because it's Pip, sitting cross-legged on the spare bed. The morning sun gives her a halo.

I yawn and she looks my way. ‘Hello you. The bus came for Hiroshi. Mel's gone with him for the day so it's just you and me. Want some breakfast?'

I plunge into a windcheater and boardies and stagger across to the kitchen. Pip is at the table, plopping fresh fruit, yoghurt and honey on top of muesli. I wait until the kettle begins to sing and I splash boiling water over tea-bags, before sitting next to her.

‘This is sen-sational,' I splutter, mid-mouthful. ‘Best. Muesli. Ever.' She angles her head, gives a flicker of a smile.

And then I remember. Gripping my mug of tea, I look into her eyes. ‘Pip…during the séance, did you see them too? You know…The girl? The body? And the dead penguin men?' Daylight makes it all sound ridiculous.

She gazes across to the lighthouse. ‘I didn't see any girl or anything else—but I…felt something…felt this incredible loneliness. It was awful…so sad I could hardly breathe.' She sighs. ‘I think something must have happened here. There's a presence—or at least a memory of things. We called and it came…'

I interrupt, programmed to play the sceptic. ‘I dunno. Maybe our imaginations went crazy, what with the champagne and the after-midnight stuff. Maybe we just spooked ourselves.'

‘You can believe that if you want, Dan. I didn't imagine what I felt. It was horrific. What about you? What did you see?'

So I tell her and, as I do, I see the fine hair on her arms rise and her skin ripples with goosebumps. I place a hand on hers. ‘You sure you're okay? You're not, ummm, not going to faint or anything?'

Pip doesn't answer but doesn't take her hand away, either. She closes her eyes and it's a while before she speaks. ‘I think I felt what you saw, Dan. How could our imaginations do that? There must be…there's got to be something about this place.'

She's right. I've sensed it ever since we arrived at the Cape.

I swallow, bite the inside of my cheek and decide to tell her everything.

‘Pip, I…I've been having dreams ever since we arrived here. Dark, ugly dreams. And the girl…I think I've seen her before. One time when I woke I was sure she was standing at the end of my bed. Freaked me out, big time.' I massage my jaw with one hand, flexing muscles tender from grinding my way through each night.

Then I sit upright and shove my mug of tea away. ‘I've never believed in this…paranormal stuff. When it started, I thought it must have been the pills—or maybe something to do with the accident. Now I don't know what to think…

‘I reckon one of the dreams was, I dunno, my mind processing something I'd read in the lighthouse logbook. But that stuff last night…I haven't read anything like that. Nothing about a coffin or strange men…'

Pip is staring at me, open-mouthed. I've said too much. I'm creeping her out. I run a hand through my hair, push my chair back from the table. She touches my arm. ‘Dan…there must be a reason why this is happening to you. I…I don't know how we find out. But if you reckon you've dreamed about the logbook, maybe that's the place to start. Do you mind…if I come and read it with you?'

‘No.' That's a relief. Maybe she doesn't think I'm loopy. ‘That'd be good. I, umm, was worried I might be going nuts. I'm glad…it's good to be able to talk to someone about it. I wanted to, but…'

‘You wanted Mel out of the way?'

I shrug. ‘That's part of it. It's hard enough processing this stuff without her bouncing around like a bug in a bottle.'

Pip tilts her head and raises an eyebrow. ‘It's complicated, this twin thing, isn't it? Like you shared a womb and now you don't want to share anything else.'

‘Nah, sharing things is sort of inevitable. I mean, we've been connected…together since, well, always. And she's good value and everything but it's like everything she does is brilliant while I ricochet from one disaster to the next. I'm sick of being the screw-up, sick of being the black cloud to her sunshine.'

‘Isn't there an up-side to being a twin?' Pip is tentative, as if she's afraid I'll chew her head off. Man, I must have been a total tool this trip. Way more Mr Hyde than Dr Jekyll.

‘What do you mean?' I ask.

‘Well, isn't it a bit like having a minder? Someone who understands you better than anyone else…and will always be there for you?'

‘Ummm, I…I never really thought about it like that,' I mumble. ‘Maybe I do take her, us, for granted a bit. But, I dunno, it's always felt like a contest, like we're frenemies more than twins. It's one of the reasons we hang with different crowds, don't do the same sports and so on. I just can't…compete…with Mel's charmed life.'

‘Do you think Mel sees things that way? Or your parents? Could the rivalry just be in your head? Maybe you reckon she got the warmer side of the womb?'

I glance up, relaxing when I see the glint in Pip's eyes.

‘What are you, her manager or something? I'll…try and ease up, okay? I will. I admit one of the reasons I haven't really hung out with you before is because of the “twin thing” as you put it. Seriously, I'm, err, glad we're doing it…hanging out now.'

As we walk to the lighthouse, I give Pip the low-down on Captain Wilton's death and his daughter being left an orphan. Inside, we carry the logbook to the stairs and sit together, resting it on our knees. We flip the heavy pages, searching for any reference to a body or two strangers. We're halfway through the February records for 1859 when last night's horror looms large before our eyes.

F
EBRUARY 13
Commenced with strong gales at WSW and heavy squalls. V. dark and gloomy. Following consecutive days of rain the path to the light station is exceedingly slippery and washed away in places. Lantern extinguished at 7h 45m. Pray there are no vessels at sea in these conditions.