The Haunting of Highdown Hall by Shani Struthers

Corinna.
    Quickly, Ruby envisioned the last scene from The Phoenix, the one in which Gayle declared that she would rise again from the ashes, reclaim her life once more, her Titian-curls wreathing wildly around her tear-stained but determined face. Taking this vision she bathed it in pure white light, the light of love, yet still the crashing and banging around her continued, the dark mass drew closer. She stole a glance at Cash. She should never have brought him along. It was irresponsible of her. This experience must be terrifying for him, he’d be scarred forever. But to her surprise, he looked far from terrified. His face was smooth; his brow distinctly unfurrowed. He was witnessing one of the most dramatic cleansings the team had ever encountered as a collective, and yet he remained cool and calm throughout, doing exactly as he was told to do: project white light.
    With a final ear-splitting scream, the energy around them imploded. Cynthia hadn’t been able to manifest after all. She would be quiet for some time now, depleted.
    “Corinna,” whispered Ruby urgently, “scatter eucalyptus drops. I’ll place crystals all around. Rose quartz I think, to help promote love and peace. Ness, the bells.”
    “Bells?” whispered Cash, his eyes open once more.
    “Yes, bells,” Ruby whispered back. “Sound is a frequency; we use it to break up lower frequencies, to dispel any negativity that may still be lingering.”
    “Oh, right,’ Cash nodded. “And she’s gone has she, Cynthia?”
    “No, she hasn’t gone. She’s still here and she’s still angry.”
    “So, what do we do?” asked Cash, his use of the word ‘we’ not lost on Ruby.
    “Remember I said to Mr Kierney if this doesn’t work we go deeper. Well, we do just that, we go deeper.”
    “Deeper? How do you mean?”
    “I’ll explain when we’re out of here.”
    ***
    Cynthia huddled in the shadows, exhausted, drifting in and out of consciousness. Dead? She wasn’t dead! But if not, what was she? This existence she endured, it could not be called living. A heart attack, the young woman had said, the one who called herself Ruby, the girl who looked no better than a street urchin. She’d had a heart attack the night of her party? Insane! She had just turned thirty-one; there was nothing wrong with her heart. She was perfect, both inside and out. And John had found her, held her as she took her dying breath? If that were true, she would have remembered. Instead, all she knew was the thrill of the evening, the love and admiration in everyone’s eyes. But wait – there was something else. She had removed herself from the crowd, but only for a few moments surely? A flame of memory lit up the darkness, but just as quickly it fizzled out. Everything was black again. If it were true, if she had left the party, for what purpose had she done so? Not for sex; that would come later. A select few invited into her sanctuary until the break of day.
    Was John responsible for her death? He had a temper; she knew that, he blamed his Irish origins for it. Before sailing to America, his mother had lived in Carrickfergus, a small village on the north shore of Belfast Lough. Often he compared Cynthia to her.
    “You’ve got hair as red as hers,” he would say.
    “Got a thing for red heads have you?”
    “Don’t.” He hated it when she was crude. He saw her as something pure, how wrong he had been.
    When had they last rowed? Cynthia tried to remember. Not long before the party. He had flown over to visit her in between shooting his latest movie. Yes, that was it. Just two or three weeks before, she was sure of it. He was angry again because she had refused yet another proposal.
    “But why, Cynthia? Why won’t you marry me? Give me one good reason.”
    They had been in bed at the time; he had just ravaged her, bringing her to climax time and time again as only John could. Effortlessly.
    Sitting up, the silk sheets slipping down to reveal his strong, muscular body and