She was relieved to see it wasn't raining this morning, although the dark clouds looked threatening, otherwise she would be forced to bring him inside, and the thought of dragging him all the way across the lawn while he fretted and resisted was unappealing.
That morning there had been too much frantic bustle to reflect on the events of the previous night because the whole family had overslept. Hasty breakfasts, Chester taken out on his lead to do his stuff, quick kisses goodbye for Gabe and Loren, Eve especially twitchy for Loren, who was starting her first day at the new school, finally waving to them as they crossed the short bridge, and then the panic was over. Peace returned. Eve helped her youngest wash and dress, then came back down for a second cup of coffee at the kitchen table, while Cally played with her toys upstairs until it was time for her reading lesson.
The house seemed different today, not so dispiriting, not so—not so joyless. Perhaps it was because the sun kept breaking through the rainclouds, cheering the air itself as it flooded through the hall's tall window, brightening even the gloomiest corners, its warmth stirring the air so the dust floated in its beams. Still in her white waffle dressing gown, Eve sipped from the mug, holding it to her lips with both hands, the coffee's heat reviving her, yet a calmness seeping through her limbs, her back, her neck. It had been a long time—almost a year—since she had felt this level of relaxation, this lessening of tension, and it was good. No, it was wonderful.
But why? she asked herself. Then she remembered, although it had not truly been forgotten, just temporarily laid aside as life around her continued with its flow. Yesterday, in the sitting room, on the couch. The dream. The bad dream. Something—someone—horrible, leering over her. The foul smell; then the other smell underlying it: the stinging scent of harsh soap. And the paralysing fear that had gripped her while she dozed.
Then its easing. She had felt—she knew she had felt—Cam's presence. She had not seen his face, but then never in her dreams had his features been clearly defined. And with most of those dreams had come a terrible sadness. But not so yesterday. Yesterday there had only been a calmness and a sense of loving. Cam, somehow, had reached out to her.
She had been under threat, she remembered that; threat from something wretched in this house; something horrid; something hidden inside Crickley Hall itself. But then the relief: Cam touching her, unseen fingers soothing her brow and cheek. It hit her then: was it his spirit that had come to her?
No! No, it couldn't be! If that were true, if it was his spirit, then Cameron must be dead! And that just could not be! She could not allow it to be!
Besides, there was another conclusion, she told herself, almost slyly, for she could not—would not!—accept the death of her little boy.
It wasn't Cam's spirit that appeared to her, not his soul. No, it was his mind. There had always been a telepathic link between them, between mother and child, but it had never been anything to wonder at, nothing so strong that it demanded anything more than casual interest. Neither was it particularly odd: many mothers had intuitions about their offspring, knew instinctively when their child was in pain or disturbed in some way when they were in different rooms, or even miles apart. Mothers could understand their baby's incoherent cry, mothers could sense their child's moods and ills. But her psychic connection with Cam was stronger than just that. Three out of the five clairvoyants she had interviewed some years ago had virtually convinced her of supernatural power, but she had never followed through, had lost interest once the feature had been written. Yet afterwards, she could never again deny there was something more than mere physical existence.
Hadn't she, herself, sensed the strangely sombre ambience of Crickley Hall? She had felt it even before she set foot inside, when she had studied it from across the bridge. Was it haunted, then? No, she couldn't quite buy that. But it seemed susceptible to paranormal activity. Was that the same as being haunted? Eve had no idea, although she was vaguely aware that paranormal didn't always mean supernatural. She needed guidance.
Leaning against the counter and putting her mug down, Eve brought her hands to her face and pressed the fingertips against her closed eyelids.
What did it mean? Had Cam subconsciously contacted her from another place? Was it possible? Was it really possible?
She lowered her hands again and turned from the window, intending to finish her half-drunk coffee, when something caught her eye.
The old-fashioned tin spinning top that Cally had found in the upstairs storeroom last night was standing nearby on the work surface where she had left it. Attractive colours gleamed from the section Gabe had wiped with the palm of his hand; she moved closer.
Those colours were primary and vivid. Curious to see more of the toy's pattern, Eve reached into a drawer and took out a soft duster. Cally was anxious to play with the top for reasons only a child would understand and that morning Gabe had promised to check out the mechanism when he returned from work. 'Drop of oil is probably all it needs,' he had reassured his daughter.
Eve picked up the toy by its plunger and began wiping the metal surface with the duster, soon revealing glorious colours and patterns. She could not help but smile at its gaiety. Running round its bulging circumference were dancing children, their tiny hands joined and their knees bent in frozen motion. Their depiction was simple and quaintly archaic in style, but wonderfully rendered. They played under a bright blue sky, with gentle but radiant green hills on the horizon, a deeper and no less pleasant green beneath their feet.
She blew away dust from her face and continued to clean the toy. There were coloured rings top and bottom, with small stars in the bands of red and yellow. It was a joy to look at and Eve could only wonder why it appeared never to have been used—nor even touched. There were no blemishes or scratches, no dents in the tin, nor any chipped paint. The spiral plunger was not rusted, although it refused to sink into the ball when she pushed at it. Perhaps the turning wheel inside was locked with lack of use.
She was about to call Cally to come down and see it, but had another thought. She put the spinning top back on the work surface and went to the cupboard beneath the sink where Gabe had stored his toolbox. Drawing the scuffed and grimy metal box out and planting it on the floor, she opened up its flaps, then pulled it open wider to reveal all its sections. There was a small can of light machinery oil lying on its side, pointed plastic cap firmly in place.
Taking out the can, Eve returned to the pristine spinning top. She uncapped the oil nozzle and pushed it against the tiny gap where the top's spiral drive rod entered the tin body. She squeezed drops of oil into the gap, the rod's spiral shape helping the fluid to sink down into the interior workings of the top itself. For good measure, Eve lubricated the visible part of the spiral rod. Satisfied, she put down the oil can, wrapped her fingers round the handle at the top of the rod, and plunged down.
The ball began to turn and then the plunger rod stalled, became stuck. She drew it up once more, counted to three, and tried again. This time the rod went all the way down and the top began to spin. She pulled it up again, then pushed down, working up a rhythm, the ball spinning faster and faster, the dancers moving swiftly, catching more speed as Eve plunged, lifted, plunged again. The colours began to flow into each other, began to meld, the dancers becoming a blur, Eve holding her breath as she worked, a humming noise now rising from the toy, soaring higher in tone with each spin, the colours beginning to fade, to become white, absent of any design, and Eve, as she pushed and pulled, remembered that the absence of colour was not black but white, white like the spinning top, its whiteness capturing her attention, the humming somehow hypnotic, the gyration mesmerizing, so that she could feel herself sinking into a void…