Jilly-Bean (Jilly-Bean Series # 1) Read online

  Out of the darkness came a sound of rushing footsteps that grew ever louder, followed by a faint knocking on the barn door and then a scratching like the sound of nails on a chalkboard. Someone or something was trying to get in! Jillian's heart was pounding; she grew numb with fear. Her mouth dropped open as if she were about to scream, but no sound came out. She couldn't have uttered a solitary word to save her soul, her throat had become so constricted. Mr. Sparks and her father cocked their heads with inquisitive looks on their faces and listened hard to the eerie sounds. Mrs. Sparks jolted up in her seat, her voice cracking: “My graciousness, is that screaming? Is that a child screaming, or an animal?”

  “Quiet!' retorted Mr. Mueller, turning his head sharply and tilting it forward as he tried to listen, but then shook his head in disgust. “The damn thing is gone! But I heard it. It was an animal.”

  The candle at the centre began to flicker ever more excitedly, although Jillian noticed there was no draft. Mist began seeping through the window, even though it was shut tight. A low murmur went around the table, as all eyes were fixed expectantly on the mist.

  “There it is!” blurted Geordie Crossland, pointing to the window with bulging eyes. “Do you see it? Do you see the mist? Is it a ghost?”

  Jillian saw it too. Adam broke the silence: “It's just the flicker of the candle reflecting off the walls.'

  'Impossible! Shadows are black, not white.'

  Aunt Jean murmured under her breath, 'It's a ghost!'

  The candle flame rose ever higher and wavered ever more excitedly. Madame Zelda appeared to be in a deep trance and began to chant a primitive mantra, her voice rising to a blood-curdling pitch, and her face became a terror to behold. The heavy table began to rise off the ground, swaying to and fro in slow rhythmic movements. For what seemed a long spell, everyone sat speechless and frozen with fear. Then came a gust of wind and an ear-piercing scream, and the brown paper cover on the table began slowly to tear. Remembering Madame Zelda's warning, everyone desperately tried to keep their hands within the inner safety of the circle, but the paper was slowly inching away from their reach. The ghost, speaking through Madame Zelda, refused to identify itself but said it had a message— a warning. They all looked dumbfounded at each other and then quickly back at Madame Zelda, who was now screeching, her thin lips peeled back, revealing her teeth and gums: “Death!” she cried.

  Jillian felt sickened. She wanted to look away but could not draw her eyes from Madame Zelda. The barn interior swirled, her eyelids began to flutter and she knew she was about to faint. Abruptly she drew her hands out of the circle. But her mother, sitting next to her, gripped them both and pressed them back, shouting over the noise, “Darling, whatever you do, don't remove your hands from the safety of the circle!”

  Mrs. Sparks was half weeping, tears and black mascara streaming down her cheeks, singing what sounded like a hymn. Then with a loud crack the barn doors flew open as if they were about to burst from their hinges. A vicious gust of wind ripped through the barn, snuffing out the candle and leaving them in complete darkness.

  Through the darkness and the confusion came Madame Zelda's voice: “Dissolve! Dissolve!” At once the wind and the screeching noise stopped, and the table sank back down to the ground, landing with a low thud. Then— the eeriest thing yet, as Jillian thought— a sweet scent of roses filled the air.

  *****

  Someone got up to switch on the light, and the sudden brightness revealed a group of pale, fear-stricken faces. There was only silence and the faint smell of roses and a sulphury smell from the candle, which had gone out. A hush had fallen over the little group. Nobody knew quite what to say. Jillian was scarcely aware of her surroundings, still dazed and sitting entranced in her spot. She found the smell of roses even more nauseating than the barn smells of muck and dirt. What a nightmare! she thought. Could anything have been more terrifying? And how had Madame Zelda gotten the table to lift off the ground, and summoned the mist and the eerie sounds? It was some kind of trick, for sure. This kind of thing only happened in movies, and wasn't this just like a movie? But wait— it wasn't a movie. This was real!

  Olivia tapped her on the shoulder: “Jillian, are you okay?”

  Jillian nodded, though she still felt stunned, and her face wore a look of complete exhaustion.

  “You poor dear. You look white as a sheet. It's all over, thank God.”

  “Is it?” replied Jillian uneasily. She wasn't so sure. She looked round and caught a glimpse of her terrified mother, crying silently and clutching her father's hand as if her very life depended on it. Mrs. Mueller was artfully adjusting a few straggling wisps of hair that had come undone during the commotion with one hand. Mr. Mueller was sitting next to her, and Jillian was shocked by his appearance; sweat was pouring down his face in rivulets. She leaned forward in appeal, with both her hands outstretched: “Mr. Mueller, are you all right?” He looked disoriented and did not appear to have heard. Her father's voice was forceful and tremulous: “What kind of prank is this? Ridiculous! All of this!” He stood up, looked around at everyone and then yanked the brown paper cover off the table, ripping it in two. He then walked over to the open barn doors and stood there in silence, looking out into the darkness. Jillian was struck by her father's hunched back. He looked so small against the dark night. From a distance came the howls of coyotes and the din of cars far off on the highway.

  “Well, of course, this is all just a prank! Smoke and mirrors! All child's play,” stated Adam forcefully. “If there was even the slightest hint of truth in any of this,” he continued, “it would be accepted scientific fact, and not the black art it is. Now, everyone repeat after me: it's all in the mind, nothing but smoke and mirrors!”

  Mr. Sparks and Mr. Paradis chanted in unison like obedient schoolboys, “smoke and mirrors, smoke and mirrors.” But for the others these words fell on deaf ears and lacked conviction.

  Aunt Jean coughed and cleared her throat to get everyone's attention, a smile etched on her face like bright rays of sunshine breaking through dark ominous clouds, and said that in no way did she wish or hope that the night's proceedings had upset anyone, but of course there are phenomena in this world that cannot be easily explained away and which defy logic. She clasped her hands together as if in prayer. “I hope that my dear friends and family have not been too distressed by the events.”

  “Right! Purely meant for fun and enjoyment,” retorted Mr. Sparks angrily.

  “It sure is a funny way to entertain friends and loved ones,” added Mr. Paradis angrily. “I almost peed my pants.”

  Mr. Mueller staggered to his feet, almost falling over. “John, are you all right?” cried his wife in horror. She leapt forward to catch him, but he managed to avoid her grasp. He was careering sideways towards Madame Zelda. He looked disoriented and was staring blinkingly at her in confused silence. He raised his forefinger and pointed it at her accusingly, then shut his eyes for a moment, as if he were trying to remember something— an important point he wanted to make. Then his trembling fingers were wiping at his face, which had gone ashen. His mouth formed words but no sound came; he seemed to have something caught in his throat. All eyes were glued on him, waiting. “I think he's going to faint,” someone yelled. He struggled to catch his breath and began teetering as if on the edge of a cliff, then collapsed to the ground with a loud thud. His wife screeched out and ran to his side, touched him and then drew back her curling fingers. She had a bewildered, startled look in her eyes as she whispered, “I think he's dead.”

  For a moment everyone fell silent.

  “John can't be dead” Uncle Phil cried, passing a hand over his brow. “Did you take his pulse? Here, let me through.” He pushed through the group and examined Mr. Mueller. “He's still alive! There's a pulse.”

  Mr. Crossland sniffed suspiciously: “Is this some kind of joke?” then looked over at Madame Zelda and demanded, “What is the meaning of this?”

  *****

  Could it hav
e been a curse? They spoke in hushed voices, all still in a state of shock. The ambulance and police had come and gone. Having made their way back to the main house, they all stayed close together; no one wanted to be left alone. Mr. Mueller was resting in a guest bedroom on the second floor. Mrs. Paradis, who had not seen what happened in the barn, tried to console Mrs. Mueller: “Oh, honey, he'll be all right. The heat and the smell in that barn would knock anyone off their feet. No wonder he collapsed.” Mrs. Mueller looked numbly about, tears welling in her eyes. The well appointed room, which hours before had been the centre of warmth and good feeling with its large gilded mirror over the arched stone fireplace and even the big Impressionist paintings in muted hues of blues, yellows and greens hanging on the walls now wore a ghostly air. The rising flames, crackling in the fireplace threw uncanny moving shapes and shadows across the wooden beams and onto the ceiling. Jillian, with her vivid imagination, was sure she could see grotesque heads of vampires and other sinister creatures with fangs flashing before her.

  Aunt Jean tried to reassure her guests: “It could be anything— high blood pressure. It's obvious that John is grossly overweight. The séance had nothing to do with it.”

  Uncle Phil shuddered, passing a trembling hand over his forehead. “What a nightmare!”

  Mr. Crossland was staring grimly at Madame Zelda and thereby drew all eyes in her direction.

  “Oh, this is getting ridiculous! Leave Madame Zelda out of this. She is merely a vessel in our attempts to communicate with 'the other side',” cried Aunt Jean. She rapped on her wine glass for silence, nearly breaking it, then announced, “May I please have your attention— everyone? I would like to thank Madame Zelda for coming, and we pray that our dear friend, John makes a full recovery. I'm sure he will. As we all know, he was already in bad shape, and I guess— well, the events of the evening may have pushed him over the edge, shall we say.”

  Madame Zelda, who had remained eerily quiet as if wrapped in her own thoughts and somehow oblivious of Mr. Mueller's collapse, avoided everyone's gaze as she headed towards the front door. But suddenly she stopped, raised both her hands as if in prayer, looked back over her shoulder and hissed in a throaty voice, “A curse has been unleashed!”

  Uncle Phil's smile vanished, and his look became vague and uneasy. He and Aunt Jean quickly approached Madame Zelda, thanked her for coming and escorted her out to her car.

  “Unbelievable!” cried Mr. Paradis with disgust, looking out the window to make sure his words were out of earshot of Aunt Jean and Uncle Phil. “John is upstairs half unconscious, his wife is heavily sedated and Jean is blaming all this on his obesity, when we all know for a fact it was the witch. I nearly shit my pants in there. And what's this about a curse?”

  “There is no curse!” replied Adam with finality.

  Jillian looked at her father, who was standing rigid in the centre of the room, staring forward— at no one in particular, as if in a trance or deep in thought. His eyes were wide and the pupils had shrunk to pinprick size. He was holding a wine goblet and rocking the clear red liquid inside it back and forth, while his right forefinger lightly tapped against the glass; the clink kept beat with the metronome ticking of the grandfather clock in the vestibule, whose sound drifted into the living-room like the mist into the barn. Jillian had no idea what time it was— around midnight? she asked herself. The night outside was dark and seemed so still.

  *****

  She dreamt of water— crystal-clear water, the colour of indigo. It could have been in Greece, but she had never been there. More likely it was simply a recollection of bits and scraps of photographs in magazines or scenes in movies of azure blue skies and whitewashed villas that shaped her thoughts. She alone was the heroine, standing on high steep rocks, looking out towards the horizon as the waves lapped gently against the rocks on the shoreline, her long flowing white skirt blowing and the warm breezes enveloping her legs. She could hear the cries of seagulls and taste the salty air. There came a voice that mingled with the sound of the waves and called out her name: Jilly, Jilly-Bean, can you hear me? All she could see were shadows through half-shut eyelids. She could see no face or discernible features; however hard she tried, she simply could not. She stretched out her hands in the direction she thought the voice was coming from, but they disappeared into a heavy mist, as if they had been cut off. She lost her footing and was suddenly falling slowly, slowly into a dark bottomless tunnel ....

  She started from her sleep, awakened by the jerky, unnerving sensation of falling. She turned over on her pillow and stared straight at the digital clock on the side table, not registering the numbers at first and trying to adjust her eyes. The flashing minutes were blinking red; it was nearly 2 a.m. She had only slept for one hour. She heard the trickle of rain dripping from the eavestrough outside her window, a pinging sound like metal. The events of the evening suddenly came back to her, and she remembered she was not in her own bed but in one of her Aunt Jean's guestrooms. She pulled the covers over her head and tried to get back to sleep.

  The floors creaked; was that a stealthy footstep or just the rain? The sound was so faint. She could have sworn she heard the sound of footsteps on creaky hardwood floors. Was someone else in the room with her? Hadn't she locked the door? She lifted herself up on one elbow and stared into the darkness. The sheer curtains were moving intermittently, perhaps catching a gust of wind from the cracks in the caulking of the window. This was an old house, she remembered, built in the 1800's. The previous owners had been a bit reclusive and had had no children. In their old age, tragedy had struck when the couple were found shot dead in their beds. All at once her senses grew heightened, and she became aware of the sound of her own laboured breathing and heard her timid frightened voice calling out “Is anyone in the room?” With shaking fingers she switched on the lamp beside the bed; its dim rosy light spread long grotesque shadows on the walls behind her. Nothing, nothing but nerves; only the rain and the clank of the single radiator in the room. I mustn't imagine things, she told herself; it's just the wind or a branch hitting the side of the house. She sat upright in bed, waiting patiently for the voice and at the same time trying to reassure herself that there was nothing out of the ordinary. After a while she turned off the lamp and reluctantly tried once again to get back to sleep.

  That was all she needed— just some sleep. It was all nerves. She was on the point of drifting off when she heard the man's voice again; it sounded closer this time: “Jilly Beeeen.” Her eyes flew open, but her body lay rigid and refused to budge from beneath the covers. She had definitely heard a wailing man's voice but wasn't sure whether it had been real or she had dreamt it. She kept very still and listened intently, straining to pick up sounds. “Ahhhhhhh Jillian!” This time she was certain someone was calling her name. It was a man, and he was in pain; he had been injured. He was in the room with her! She switched on the lamp again and sat straight up in bed, her senses now wide awake and alert. She glanced towards the door, and what she saw made her heart pound in her chest as if it were trying to break free. Her eyes grew wide with terror; she could have sworn she saw a man entering her room! Yet the door remained closed; he had come right through it! She flung herself back on the pillow and covered herself with the blankets, leaving just the top of her head and eyes peering out. “I'll scream!” she cried. “I have a gun!” The figure walked towards her, and then she realized that it was Mr. Mueller! He looked troubled. “Mr. Mueller, are you all right?” But wait, she could see right through him! The phantom approached noiselessly, then stopped abruptly as if he were unsteady and about to collapse onto the floor in front of him; but the next instant, he vanished into thin air. “Jesus bless me, was that a ghost?”

  Jillian threw back the blankets and got up. Her first thought was that Mr. Mueller was in trouble. She almost stumbled out of bed; her legs felt weak, and her teeth were slightly chattering; a sweat was trickling down her face and neck. She tried to convince herself this was some kind of mistake or th
at maybe just a dream. She threw her dressing-gown around her shoulders and stepped out into the corridor, looking about; the whole house was eerily quiet and seemed wrapped in sleep. With a heightened sense of apprehension, she swallowed hard and slowly made her way past the closed doors, down the dark narrow hallway, like a sleepwalker. At last she reached the top of the stairs and stood there, squinting out into the darkness.

  She was looking down into the entrance hall, which lay in complete darkness except for a dim shaft from the porch light coming through the front-door window. She could make out the shadows of furniture and the big grandfather clock in bold relief, its tick, tick reverberating in rhythmic continuity, and for a moment she wasn't sure it wasn't the sound of her own heartbeat thumping against her chest. As if awoken from a bad dream, she grew suddenly aware of being very much alone in a strange house, standing at the top of the stairs in nothing more than her nightgown. She felt a terror creep into the very core of her being; the hairs on the nape of her neck immediately stood on end when she heard a frantic scratching coming from the front door. She wanted to scream, but her throat had tightened up. Her heart was beating wildly. She wanted to turn back; she wanted to flee the scene, but her legs refused to move. It was too late to turn back! She felt giddy and feared she was about to fall down the stairs; so she steadied herself with one hand, leaning against the wall and felt at once a familiar object— a light switch. She drew a deep breath and flicked it on. Her eyes took a moment to adjust to the sudden brightness; she scanned the scene before her, and there at the bottom of the stairs was a large human figure lying on the floor. She stared in disbelief, then exclaimed “Oh, Mr. Mueller!” She could barely hear his wheezing laboured breathing as he lay sprawled on the floor like a clump of clothes. His arms and legs looked unnaturally contorted.