The Dream Weavers

know that. He was the shadow of an old man. He was more frightened of me than I was of him. An earthbound spirit who was sick and frightened and lonely. He threw the books at me because there was nothing else there to defend himself with. I prayed with him, Mark. I did not perform any kind of exorcism – how I hate that word – and he left.’
‘It says there in the paper that he tried to kill you!’
‘That is somebody’s imagination.’ She had reached out for Mark’s hand. ‘I knew what to do, darling. I was safe. And I did tell Mr Hutton before I went there that everything I did had to be confidential. He agreed.’ She sighed. ‘He broke his word. It won’t happen again.’
Had she promised not to do it again, something that was as much a part of herself as breathing? No, not as such, but perhaps she had let Mark believe that was what she meant.
But a visit to a holiday cottage on Offa’s Ridge was hardly comparable; a ghostly voice, at best a woman hunting for a lost pet, at worst a restless spirit, perhaps, nothing more. She would be able to sense at once what if anything was wrong, deal with it and be home before Mark had returned from evensong.
As though reading her mind, Mark paused from his cooking to take a sip from his glass. ‘This problem,’ he said casually as he reached for the last onion and picked up the knife again. ‘Does it involve ghosts?’
She sighed. A straight question deserved a straight answer. ‘I don’t know. I think it’s unlikely. This chap, Simon, is an author. He’s been disturbed by some noises. A voice, he said. He complained to Chris and she gave him my name. She didn’t realise I haven’t done any house clearances lately.’ She dropped her gaze, aware she was being disingenuous. ‘Obviously she’s anxious. She doesn’t want to lose him as a tenant. She wants me to set his mind at rest, nothing more. I won’t spend long up there. I need to get a feel of the place, that’s all. I suspect I shall find a tapping creeper on the wall or, as he suspects, a lady looking for her lost dog.’ She glanced at him and caught the anxiety that showed on his face. ‘Don’t worry, Mark. If I think it’s dangerous, I will leave at once.’
He sighed. ‘If he’s an author, perhaps his characters are haunting him.’ His expression was carefully neutral now. He turned to scrape his chopped vegetables into the sizzling pan on the stove.
Bea laughed uncomfortably. ‘We thought of that.’ She reached for her wine. ‘It’s probably more that he’s not used to living on his own in the country where owls hoot and foxes scream. Do you remember how spooky that sounded when we were in our first rectory? I promise I won’t get involved in anything dangerous. I’ll just go and see. I know you’ll hold me in your prayers, darling. It will all be OK.’

3
There was something here.
It was a presentiment, nothing more, that whisper of cold air at the back of her neck. She recognised the feeling and paused by the gate. Should she stop now? Go home? Forget it? No. Of course not. This was for Chris, and for Simon and his peace of mind. There was nothing here but an unexplained voice. She began her routine of safeguarding herself against whatever might be lurking in the fabric of this pretty place, visualising herself and the cottage and its garden surrounded with light and love, murmuring the prayer of protection. Then, with an almost imperceptible shiver of apprehension, she began to climb the steps towards the front door.
There was only the one main room downstairs at the cottage; Simon had pulled the table over towards the large stone fireplace and there were several books on it, neatly arranged, with a mug holding pencils and half a dozen ballpoints, a stack of A4 paper, presumably a printout of his manuscript, more books – quite a lot of them, she realised, as she looked around – piled on the floor in the corner. She could see his printer sitting on a side table. The hearth was swept clean, the log basket full. There was no sign of a laptop. Presumably he had taken that with him when he went out.
She paused in the doorway, feeling for an unseen intruder, but there was nothing there. Reassured, she walked slowly across the room and went through into the pretty modern kitchen, built as a lean-to on the back of the building. Breakfast dishes had been rinsed and left to dry on the draining board. There was fruit and a cereal box on the worktop, presumably more food in the fridge. Nothing untoward there, either. When she made her way back into the main room and up the narrow, dark, corner staircase, she found the two bedrooms, one double and one with two narrow single beds, with their matching bedspreads and elegant lamps, were equally tidy. It was barely possible to see which one he had selected as his own. She resisted the temptation to look in the cupboard or chest of drawers. The ghost – if there was a ghost – was hardly likely to be lurking there. What interested her was the atmosphere. Or lack of it. The cottage felt empty. Not only because there was no one there; it was empty of echoes, almost sterile in its silence.
Frowning, she went back downstairs to the front door.
On the terrace outside there was a small wrought-iron table and chairs; beyond the low stone wall the view opened out across a broad valley towards the distant hills. It was breathtakingly beautiful.
The fear hit her suddenly and completely. One moment she was relaxed, lost in the beauty of the hazy distances, the next her stomach had turned over, her heart rate had