Chapter 14: Fourteen - A London Haunting: A Christmas Ghost Story

Lottie floated into work the next day, and the next, unfazed by the fact that Reggie had brought their reading to a halt. She was still concerned for him, of course, as attentive as ever, but Cam was on her mind too – very much on it.

That night at The Albion, it had been she who’d taken the lead and kissed him. But then…oh, then he’d kissed her back – again and again – until someone, a man as old as Reggie, nursing a pint in the corner, had called across the room.

“Oi, you two – get a room.”

As Lottie’s cheeks flushed red, and Cam coughed slightly, the man chuckled.

“Young love,” he’d sighed, raising his glass. “‘I love thee to the depth and breadth and height my soul can reach’.”

It was a quote – Lottie knew that much – but she had no idea who he was reciting. And so, when she and Cam pulled on their jackets and made to leave, not to get a room, but to go back to their respective homes, with a date set for Lottie to meet Aunt Dot, she’d paused by the old man’s table.

“Hi, I…well, sorry about that,” she said. “If we offended you.”

“Offended me?” his bushy eyebrows shot up. “Not at all! It’s a lovely thing to see, especially given the state the world’s in right now, eh?” He then gave her a bit of a wink. “A bit of blatant affection does the old ticker good.”

She smiled. It had certainly done her ticker good. “That quote – who’s it by?”

“A keen student of literature, are we?”

“Well…I like the classics. And it did sound kind of classic.”

“It’s Elizabeth Barrett Browning. Heard of her? Sonnets from the Portuguese.”

Lottie shook her head, while beside her Cam laced his fingers through hers.

“That quote’s pretty cool,” he said.

“Glad you liked it.” The old man’s eyes twinkled. “Look her up, have more of a read. You know what? You two look good together. You suit each other. Take care of what you’ve got, and don’t be afraid of it. Let it take you on the wildest of rides, because that’s what life should be – a ride. Something that’s lived to the full. And if you can do it together, with the person you love, ah, then you’re blessed.”

A speech. The man had delivered a veritable speech. Then he sighed again, given a sniff, and gone back to his pint, Lottie wondering what his story was, amazed by how much the world brimmed with stories, both real and imagined – her own included. A story that felt closer to a fairy tale in that moment.

If she needed proof Cam was thinking along the same lines as her, she got it when they left the pub. On the pavement outside, he’d swept her off her feet, spinning her around, just like they did in the movies.

‘I quite like you,’ he’d teased earlier, but outside he upped the stakes. “I really like you, Lottie Beck. That old guy in there, is he onto something, do you think?”

“He might be,” she’d replied. And maybe – just maybe – he’d like all of her. Her ability included. This man who loved his psychic aunt, who was so proud of her.

So yes, at Reggie’s, nothing could dent her mood. The usual heaviness in the air? She barely felt it. The way he so often ignored her? Like water off a duck’s back.

Had he been sleeping at all since the incident with the photo frame, though? The circles beneath his eyes looked darker than ever, his whole demeanour altered – not just diminished in spirit, as she’d thought when she first met him, but physically too.

As though he were…shrinking.

As for the frame, he’d placed it back on the mantelpiece, positioned so it faced him again, so there was no escaping it. The glass was fractured but still holding together. She was almost grateful for the damage, though. It somehow softened the darkness behind it, gave it a cobwebbed shimmer instead of the relentless, bottomless depth it usually held. Beside it sat the clock that no longer worked, frozen at four forty-five – however long ago, and for whatever reason.

An idea occurred.

Could she take the clock to Aunt Dot’s? Now that would be something worth reading – something that may give them the biggest clue yet to what had happened in Reggie’s past. After all, it was well known, at least in books and films, that when a clock stopped in a haunted house, it did so at a crucial moment.

It’d be trickier than smuggling out a piece of clothing. And no way would he fail to notice its absence. She’d tidied so much that only the basics remained in the room – what he needed. And the photo frame and clock seemed to count as that.

He’d notice, but maybe not straightaway. Not if she distracted him. And by the time he did, too late. She’d be well on her way to Aunt Dot’s, the clock tucked safely in her bag, and, with luck, bagging a few answers by the end of the evening too.

Aunt Dot had made dinner for them – minced beef pie, mash, and plenty of ‘liquor’ as she called it, a green parsley sauce Lottie had never tried before but found delicious.

“Food of the Gods, this,” Aunt Dot declared, motioning for them to tuck in, which Lottie and Cam did, Lottie making a mental note to ask for the recipe; her mum and Tony would love it. Reggie too, if only he’d accept a takeaway from the Becks instead of Chicken Cottage all the time.

She glanced at Cam, happily stuffing his face, and had to admit it, she was grateful for Reggie’s fast-food habit – it had at least brought her and Cam together. Would they have met otherwise? Been fated to? Who knew? They’d met now, though, and that’s what mattered. One road had led to another, and now it had led her here, to Aunt Dot. Another psychic, one whose gift differed from her own: reading the objects people handled rather than the people themselves.

“So, my boy told you all about me, has he?” Aunt Dot said, dabbing at her chin with a chequered napkin.

She was a tiny, birdlike woman, no more than five feet tall, her hair black, likely courtesy of the same boxed dyes Lottie used. Cam said she was in her seventies, but to Lottie she looked older, and nothing to do with any wrinkles she may have. It was more an air about her – as though she’d known both the highest highs and the hardest lows, had suffered, yet somehow retained, Mr Micawber-like, an optimism.

As she was waiting for an answer, Lottie cleared her throat.

“He has, um…” What could she call her? She knew her only as Aunt Dot.

“Dot’s just fine,” Dot said with a rasping chuckle, clearly cottoning on to her dilemma. “He’s told you I can read objects people have handled. The imprint they leave behind – their energy, basically. Psychometry, it’s called. Ever heard of it?”

Lottie shook her head. “No. Never.”

“Okay,” Dot said, polishing off the last of her meal, and not a modest portion either. She’d piled their plates high. “It’s not that uncommon. And nothing to be frightened of either, mind. It’s not witchcraft.”

“No, I––”

“Because there are still some who’d think that way, even now, in these so-called enlightened times. Who’d be happy enough to burn us at the stake.”

Lottie frowned. Us? Who was she referring to exactly? A generic ‘us’?

It had to be. Lottie hadn’t told Cam about her ability yet, not even when he’d spoken about Aunt Dot, but she would. She was choosing her moment, that was all.

“Anyhoo,” Dot continued. “It’s soul impressions I can read. The readings of the past through impressions in matter – that’s how one scientific chappie described it. I forget his name, someone prominent, though. What about the Society for Psychical Research? Do you know about them?”

Lottie shook her head.

“Look them up. Go there. They’re right here in London, and they hold some good talks. They’ve done a lot of research into psychic ability – mine among them, of course. It’s a thing, a real thing, but it isn’t always accurate. That’s important to understand. You have to interpret what you’re given, and sometimes you get it wrong. So…be open-minded, okay? Be aware. All we psychics can do is our best.”

“Oh, absolutely,” Lottie replied. “And no pressure. If you can tell us anything about Reggie, no matter how small, we’d be grateful, because you see, he’s––”

Dot held up a somewhat shrivelled hand. “Sorry, duck, but I’m gonna stop you right there. My boy’s told me you need a bit of help with a man you work for, an old man that he knows too, that he delivers food to, and that’s all I need to know.”

Lottie raised her palms. “Yeah, of course. If that’s how this works.”

Dot then eyed her plate. “You not eating all that?”

“Oh, it’s lovely. It’s just––”

“Aunt Dot,” Cam chided, “don’t be such a feeder! I think she’s had enough.”

“A feeder?” Dot burst into raucous laughter. “I s’pose I am. I just like looking after people, that’s all, as does my boy – as do you, Lottie, clearly. And we’ve all got our ways of doing that, haven’t we? Come on, help me clear this table, so we can get down to business.”

They did as she asked, Cam then joining his aunt at the sink on drying duty, giving Lottie a moment to look around, to really take in her surroundings.

Similar to Reggie’s house, and to a lot of houses she visited that belonged to older people, it was as though she’d strolled into another era entirely. But unlike Reggie’s, this place was far from bleak. It was bright and colourful, full of chintz, though nothing cheap or gaudy about it. Just a fondness for patterns, evident in the china on display, mostly floral, the wallpaper, the tablecloth, and the cushions scattered across the sofa they’d sat on earlier. Ornaments crowded every surface – knick-knacks, Dot might call them – horses mostly, the sturdy country breeds.

It was a place full of life, Lottie decided – determinedly so. Pictures of a baby around too, a young boy – cute as anything. But then, if it was Cam, he would be.

He had his own mum and dad, still lived at home with them and his two younger brothers, but this woman seemed like a second mum. Watching them now, laughing together as they put away dishes, Lottie could see just how close they were.

The kettle went on, and soon a pot of tea, covered with a blue knitted cosy, was set on the kitchen table, along with some floral teacups taken from the dresser.

Only after tea was poured did Dot ask what Lottie had brought with her that she could read, Lottie retrieving her bag and presenting the clock.

“Ah…a clock. The number of people who bring a clock! It’s broken, I take it?”

Lottie’s pride at having smuggled it out of Reggie’s without him noticing ebbed away. Perhaps she should have taken something more recent – his newspaper, for instance, or an item of clothing, as Cam had suggested. As far as she knew, Reggie hadn’t been near the mantelpiece to handle the clock lately, unlike the photo frame.

Dot must have noticed her despondency. “Don’t look like that,” she said, “as though it’s over before we’ve even begun. Like I said earlier, you get impressions of things, and sometimes they’re startlingly clear, but more often than not they’re murky, a bit like peering into a muddy lake, trying to glimpse what’s beneath. So yes, we’ll keep our expectations in check, but you never know, we might strike lucky.” She held out her hand. “Pass it over, duck, and I’ll see what I can glean. Cam, love, dim the lights, would you?” She winked at Lottie. “I’ve got them on one of those fancy switches. Odd as it sounds, the less light there is, the more you can see.”

Cam left Lottie’s side to do as his aunt had asked, then returned, offering Lottie a quick, reassuring smile before they both fixed eyes on Dot.

Magic. Lottie knew this wasn’t that – black, white, or in between – but that’s how it felt in that moment. Like some kind of superpower Dot possessed, one she herself shared, that perhaps everyone did to some degree – that so-called ‘sixth sense’.

Dot held the clock in both hands, hunched over it, eyes closed. At first there was only silence in the room, barely even the sound of breathing. Then she spoke.

“Closed off,” she murmured. “Shut down. Broken.”

Lottie risked a glance at Cam. His expression mirrored her own confusion. Was Dot speaking of Reggie, or merely the clock itself?

It had to be Reggie.

“A significant time, yes,” Dot went on. “When something…disconnected.” She shook her head sharply, almost violently. “Or something…connected. Is that more accurate to say?” Her brows furrowed. “Everything’s dark, like I said it can be, though…darker than usual. Layers of darkness built up over years. Many, many years. Practically a lifetime. Protection. From whom or what? Come on…come on…”

Dot was almost rattling the clock now, turning it over and over in her hands.

“Got anything more to give me than that?” she muttered. “Oh, okay, here we go. Closed off…yes, yes, we know. Closed off…closed off…closed…book.”

Her head snapped up. “You read to him, don’t you?”

Lottie’s mouth fell open. She swallowed before answering. “Yes. Yes, I do.”

“That’s what I’ve picked up here. The strongest impression I’m getting is of your voice – you reading to him. And then…” Her gaze dropped back to the clock. “This is an old-fashioned one. Needs winding. The key…where is it?”

“The key?” Lottie repeated. “Um…I don’t know. I’ve never seen a key for it.”

“I’m getting something to do with keys. Do you know what that might mean?”

“Locked doors.” It was Cam who answered. “Maybe you’re picking up something about that? Reggie’s got loads of locked doors in his house.”

“Has he now? What about the keys to them? Do you know where they are?”

Lottie shook her head. She’d never seen them.

Dot hunched over the clock again. “Keys…what is it about the keys? Ah, no – it’s not the doors, is it? It’s something to do with being read to.” She lifted her head once more and gazed back at Lottie, a mist in her eyes – a haze that hadn’t been there before. “All those words you’ve been reading, Lottie, the clock’s absorbed them.”

“The clock?” Lottie almost spluttered. If so, it was more than Reggie had. “Nice to know they’re being appreciated by something, at least.”

“Appreciated?” Dot questioned. “This Reggie…you think he isn’t listening?”

“He never seems to be. Though…he did quote some words back to me from our latest book, the opening paragraph, actually. Every last word. Something about the best of times and the worst of times. It’s a Dickens book, A Tale of Two Cities.”

“Ah, yes, the best of times, the worst of times. That’s important here too.”

“How?” Lottie asked.

Dot only shrugged. “That’s for you to piece together, I’m afraid. But, Lottie, what I’m getting here is that what you’re doing is the right thing. He may be a closed book, this Reggie, but you – you’re opening books, see? You’re reading to him, and words are going in. The sentiments too. And in all of that lies a key.”

“A key to what, though?”

“To what you want to know – more about him, his history. Just…keep reading.”

She placed the clock back on the table, then asked Cam for more tea.

“I think we’ve earned it, don’t you?”

As he set about making it, Dot ushered Lottie back into the living room, her expression so furtive that Lottie immediately recognised it for the ploy it was. On the sofa, Dot reached out and took Lottie’s hands in hers, and in that instant, Lottie realised something else. The ‘us’ Dot had mentioned earlier hadn’t been generic.

A download – that was the only way Lottie could later describe what happened the moment their fingers touched. A mutual exchange of memories in their lives, moments that held meaning. Dot received Lottie’s, and Lottie received Dot’s.

She caught glimpses of a woman who’d led a life both rich and empty. Who’d lived in the East End since young, though her family had been travellers before – the real thing. Didicoy was the term that surfaced, though Lottie hadn’t heard it before. Her people had almost all shared gifts like hers – gifts that had…merged, attuned to one another, widening the boundaries of what they could sense. They’d been close-knit, her ancestors, deeply rooted in tradition, even as that tradition slowly gave way to modernity, houses instead of caravans, streets instead of open fields.

Still, the East End – colourful in itself – had, in time, come to feel like home for Dot. She’d found her place, her rhythm, been happy enough. She’d met someone…

People – there were always people around Dot. She drew them to her with her warmth and colour. But she’d longed for her own people – for children – and though they’d come, they’d also gone, lost before birth, again and again.

Cam – ‘my boy’ – but he wasn’t hers. What was the story behind that?”

Though her eyes were shut, Lottie strained to hold on to the visions that slid in and out of view, trying to slow them, to stop them from slipping away so fast. She saw another woman – one who’d lost a child too? Whose world had caved in because of it – and Dot, who knew that same grief, had…helped her. That was it. Not as a counsellor, no – just as a friend. Except there was no ‘just’ about it.

When this other woman became pregnant again, she was still haunted by fear, crippled by it, convinced she was going to lose another – that she was somehow cursed. Dot held her hand, right up until the birth of Cam.

And this woman – Cam’s mother – was grateful. When no one else had understood her, not even her husband, Dot had. They became as close as sisters. She…shared Cam with Dot. Lottie knew Cam’s mother went on to have two more boys, and Dot no doubt loved them too, but the bond she had with Cam, she could sense how different it was, how much deeper it went.

A second mother indeed.

Seeing this, understanding it, filled Lottie with warmth. But that wasn’t all Dot wanted her to know, giving her hands a gentle squeeze at one point, perhaps when she saw the death of Matt. From thereon, it was as though thoughts were forming in Lottie’s mind rather than visions – Dot’s thoughts – and Lottie allowing them in, because if there was one thing she was sure of, it was Dot only ever meant to help.

In them, though, lay a warning.

You’re like me, duck, in so many ways. I see myself in you. You’re a good person, Lottie, and I’m glad Cam’s found you. But…be careful. Where there’s light, there’s often darkness too, hovering at the edges. And sometimes there’s a price to pay for being gifted. Even now, I wonder if all the loss I suffered was my price. A foolish notion, you might say – but even so. You and me, we’re here for others. That’s our role. But others carry darkness too, so with that in mind, be careful how far you go with them into it, okay? Very careful. Because darkness…it’s a living thing. It needs to feed. A sticky thing. Sometimes – just sometimes – it can stick like glue.

Could Lottie do it, she wondered – answer back in thought alone?

Is there a darkness about me?

She waited. Seconds only.

No. Not yet. But I let it stick to me for far too long, let it drag me down, over and over. But the light…it found its way through, eventually. Just…be careful, that’s all.

Like you said, I just want to help. Reggie’s being haunted.

Is he?

Yes! I’ve seen evidence of it.

Who’s he being haunted by?

That’s what I’m trying to find out.

Keep reading. That’s the key.

I don’t know what that means.

Neither do I, but you’ll find out. Just remember – you want to help, and that’s good. But the deeper you go into this… Truly, duck, make sure you’re careful. Be aware that things aren’t always as they seem. That seems to matter here too. You can be…fooled. Anyhoo, as I’ve said, always act from good intent, always keep the light at the forefront of your mind. Because, Lottie, you have a lot of light.

I will, Lottie promised. Always.

Good girl. Good girl. Don’t fall into the abyss. Draw back when you have to, walk away if you must. There’s no shame in it. What matters is that you tried.

Dot then gave Lottie’s hands another squeeze, and chuckled, as though trying to banish the weight of their exchange. “One thing God loves is a trier!”

Cam reappeared then with cups rattling on the tray he carried.

“All okay in here?” he asked brightly.

Dot opened her eyes and withdrew her hands. Lottie did the same.

“We’re all good,” Dot said. “Gasping is what we are. You going to pour that, then?”

Cam laughed. “Give me a chance, Aunt Dot! But yeah, here we go.”

The three of them drank their tea, talking over what Dot had sensed when she’d held the clock – not much of a discussion, as it turned out, the message fairly clear.

That other message, though – the one meant for Lottie alone – was something to mull over privately. To remember. To never forget. Not to fall into the abyss – but more than that. There’d been an inference there, one that lingered as she glanced sideways at Cam while they talked: never to drag others down into it with you.

Before it got too late, she and Cam tidied away the cups and saucers, and Dot walked with them to the door.

“Anything else you need,” she said, looking from one to the other, “just come and see me. And I mean anything.”

“Thanks, Aunt Dot,” Cam said, hugging her. “What would we do without you, eh?”

She smiled. “Ah, lad – it’s me who’s the lucky duck.”

She hugged Lottie too – no downloads this time, just mutual affection.

“Continue with the reading then?” Lottie checked.

Dot nodded. “Yes. Somehow, some way, that’s the key to understanding him.”

Just before the door closed, though, she added, “Not Dickens, though. Give Dickens a rest for now. Try something else.”

“Like what?” asked Lottie.

“Trust your instincts,” Dot replied. “When you’re browsing the shelves, perhaps something will jump out at you. And when it does, choose that one.”

“Then wait and see?”

“Exactly. Wait and see.”