Chapter Four
Like the previous morning, Simkins gathered everyone together in the lounge after breakfast, to reveal the day’s plans. “I bet you’re all wondering what the big secret is, eh?”
Buffy shot Drusilla a sharp glance, wondering how she’d known if it had been kept quiet until now. The brunette’s attention was riveted on Simkins, however.
“Tonight,” he continued, “we will be visiting Ventnor Botanic Gardens and conducting an overnight vigil. We’ll be joined by my Medium friend, Alison DuVall, who will hopefully contact some spirits for us! I’d recommend getting plenty of rest today, friends; we’re leaving at five o’ clock sharp and we won’t be back until the early hours of tomorrow morning. Dress warmly, bring supplies, and, most of all, keep your wits about you!”
A whispered murmur ran through the group, but Buffy paid it no mind. Was this what Liam had warned her against? A night spent in the dark with the aim of contacting ghosts was enough to give anyone a fright, but after what he had said…
Then again, she had spent all afternoon in the gardens at Osborne House the day before and nothing amiss had happened. She shook her head, dismissing the whole thing as nonsense for the last time and vowing to herself that she wouldn’t think of her ex anymore.
By the time she came back to herself, the lounge had mostly cleared, and only Spike and a couple of the other members of the group remained.
Spike tapped her hand to get her attention. “Was there anything you wanted to do today?”
“Um, not really,” she replied. “To be honest, I was expecting there to be something going on. I knew this trip was going to be slow-paced, but I didn’t realise we’d almost be going backwards.”
“Yeah.” He nodded, then yawned. “Although I could do with a rest. Late night last night.”
“Oh?” Buffy tried to hide a smile. “Go anywhere nice?”
“Well… I went dancing with the prettiest girl on the island. Had a few drinks, shared a few kisses.” He smirked before continuing flippantly. “Nothing special.”
“Hey!” Buffy hit the top of his arm lightly, biting her lip. “Prettiest, huh?”
“Oh yeah. By miles.”
Neither spoke for a moment, until Buffy realised that the lounge had emptied out and they were alone. “Where did Drusilla go?”
“Couple of the others were off to a little village—Godshill,” he said. “Dru asked if she could tag along.”
“You’re okay with that?” Her voice was light. She didn’t want to overstep her boundaries.
“Yeah.” He sighed. “I… try not to smother her. Wes’d probably have a go at me; he never likes her going off on her own. But she’s not a child.”
“It must be difficult.”
“Definitely. Dad left when we were kids, and when Mum died it was just the three of us. I was sixteen—Wes was twenty-three, so he applied for guardianship. Had to fight for it, but he got it in the end. We’ve looked after Dru between us ever since.”
“You were so young,” Buffy said. “My mom… she was sick, recently. A brain tumour—cancer. She’s better now.” She added the last sentence hurriedly. “But God, if anything had happened I don’t think I’d have coped myself, let alone have been able to take care of Dawn.”
“There’ve been times when I wondered if it would have been easier just to let someone else look after her, then I just feel really guilty for even considering it.” He frowned and shook his head. “Bloody hell, this conversation took a turn for the morose.”
“I don’t mind,” Buffy said quickly. “We can talk about it if you like. Or not. Whichever.”
Spike suddenly leaned in very close, his eyes fixed on hers, his stare intense. “I like you, Buffy Summers.”
She swallowed, somewhat nervously. There was something so very familiar about those eyes… The moment was lost when he sat back in his chair and stretched.
“Feel like getting some hot chocolate and watching a couple of films with me, love? Snuggle down and see what they’ve got on the old pay-per-view?”
Buffy nodded. In that moment, nothing sounded better.
***
It was dark when they left the hotel, but the night was crisp, clear and—according to Simkins—perfect for contacting the spirit world.
The latter had dressed for the occasion, the combination of waistcoat, cape and walking-stick adding to his eccentricity.
Buffy had dressed warmly in jeans, sweater, and thick winter coat, and she buried her hands in the deep pockets as the bus trundled along the winding island roads. Leaning her head against Spike’s shoulder, she allowed herself to drift off slightly, Drusilla’s excited babble about her day out in Godshill strangely comforting.
It didn’t take long for the bus to get them to their destination. It pulled to a stop with a grumbling wheeze of the engine, jolting Buffy from her drowsy state. She followed everyone out of the van and peered into the surrounding darkness. The immediate area around the parking lot was well-lit, and a security light flickered on and off at the entrance, but other than that the darkness was absolute. She could definitely see the need for flashlights and she clicked hers on, aiming it towards the building to her left.
A flash of something—a vision of a much larger, more foreboding building, made of dark-red brick and with wide glass windows—filled her mind, making her stumble backwards. She jumped when warm hands caught her from behind.
“All right?” It was Spike.
“Y-yeah,” she said. “Just thought I saw…” She shook her head. “Nevermind.”
Simkins led the group over to the entrance of the gardens, where he climbed up onto a wall and cleared his throat, gesturing for silence. Before he could speak, Buffy’s phone rang, the jaunty ringtone sounding overly loud and harsh in the silence. She fumbled in her pocket and winced when she saw the display. Liam. Her finger hovered over the answer button, but she ended the call with a resolute glare. Turning the phone off, she put it back into her pocket sheepishly, all the while wondering why he had called again—and why now.
Simkins nodded approvingly and set an extravagant hat on his head before continuing to speak.
…he saw you in a garden, with a man in a top hat.
Buffy felt suddenly dizzy and she leaned heavily on Spike’s arm. He shot her a concerned glance, and she smiled back weakly, mouthing, “I’m okay.” It was a lie. She didn’t feel well and she definitely didn’t want to go into the gardens anymore. She didn’t want to participate in the vigil, but what choice did she have? She could remain with the group and find comfort in their presence, or stay in the parking lot on her own. It was an easy decision, so she focused her attention on Simkins once more.
“Before we begin, I'd like to introduce you to Ms. Alison DuVall, one of the most renowned Mediums in the country.” Simkins swept his arm to the side, the gesture so over-the-top that, teamed with the outfit, it lent him a theatrical air. Buffy found this relaxed her a little. “Alison,” he continued, “will try to focus our collective energy to enable us to contact the many spirits that haunt this site. Come; let us walk a little way into the gardens.”
He led the group through the entrance and into the gardens. Every so often, a lantern lit the way, and they followed the path until it opened out onto a wide courtyard with a decorative pond in the middle. A light flashed on from the visitor’s centre behind them, illuminating the area and lighting up Simkins, who had stepped onto the wall surrounding the pond, his own lamp held high.
“Let me take you on a journey into the past,” he began. “The year is eighteen hundred and sixty-eight, and construction of a revolutionary hospital has just ended: The Royal National Hospital for Diseases of the Chest. The hospital, as its name reveals, is built to receive and treat patients suffering from Consumption, and its location is perfect for its cause—” a wide sweeping gesture with both arms accentuated his next words. “—sheltered by the tall Ventnor cliffs and overlooking the English Channel, it provides patients with the optimal environment for their recovery.”
An obviously practiced glumness overcame his features and his voice turned grave. “Even that, though, is not enough. Despite their efforts and the quality of treatment they offer the patients, doctors and nurses are not infallible, and the medical science still has a long way to go—for every patient who recovers, several more die from the terrible disease. It is those poor souls who now haunt the gardens and its surrounding areas.” He paused dramatically. “Tonight, we will attempt to contact these spirits and perhaps help them to move on. If you will all follow me, we will see which of you can sense the Dark Entity…”
A hospital. Buffy saw again in her mind's eye that flash of the long, forbidding building, bleak in its intensity. Dizziness overcame her once more, and she reached out to touch the wall of the pond to steady herself. The cold stone centered her a little, and she sent a wobbly smile to Spike when he looked at her questioningly.
“Are you sure you're all right?” he asked, brow creased in worry.
“The atmosphere's getting to me, I think,” she said, not wanting to let on just how shaken she really was.
“If you're sure.” Spike took her arm, not very convinced. “We've fallen behind, come on.”
They hurried after the group, Drusilla's long trailing dress the only thing in sight, and caught up as Simkins came to a stop in front of a dense corner of trees.
***
Buffy found it difficult to concentrate on the rest of the tour. She felt as if she were moving in a haze, forcing her way through suffocating tar, and she clung to Spike’s arm as though her life depended on it.
Simkins showed them the old hospital incinerator, and a secret tunnel to the beach that had been used for disposing of medical waste, but she couldn’t find it in herself to get excited about any of it. Not even when one of the other members of the group snapped a photograph on their digital camera showing a blurred, misty shape in the background.
Eventually, the walk came to an end, and they gathered once more by the pond, where hot mugs of tea were handed around. The picnic benches outside the visitors’ centre were damp with dew, leaving everyone no other option but to stand and mill around the courtyard.
Buffy was content to keep to herself as her uneasiness had yet to dissipate, but Spike moved from person to person, chatting and laughing. She watched him, warmth filling her insides at the sight of his smile, the tilt of his head. She sighed. She was falling hard and fast, and she was helpless to stop it.
“Dunno about you, but I’m feeling a bit spooked.” Buffy felt Spike's words from behind her, like a rush of warm air in her ear, and his arms slipped around her waist. She shivered, and it had nothing to do with her restlessness of before.
She turned in his arms and tried to smile. “I know what you mean. There’s… something about this place.” She slid her hand into his, and he squeezed it reassuringly.
“Dru’s in her element though,” he said, nodding towards his sister, who was talking animatedly to Simkins. “Says she feels connected. God knows what that means.”
The sound of a throat being cleared turned attention to Simkins once more. “It's almost midnight,” the man said. “We must prepare for our vigil.”
“The witching hour,” Drusilla murmured, eyes alight. “I can’t wait.”
***
Silence descended on the group as they walked to the area Alison had prepared for the vigil. In an isolated corner of the gardens, surrounded by trees and lit now with an abundance of candles, she stood waiting. She held a book in one hand and a small pendant in the other; objects from the old hospital to focus the vigil.
The natural noises of the night echoed all around: the occasional shuffling of an animal in the undergrowth, an owl flapping its wings overhead, and the far off sound of waves crashing on the shore of the beach at the foot of the cliff. Buffy heard it all as though it were amplified, the sounds resonating deep within her bones, and she wondered if this was what Dru had meant when she’d said she felt connected.
Something was pulling deep within her, leading her down a path she didn’t understand and, whilst it should have scared her, it instead caused a profound calm to settle over her. She turned to Spike, wanting to share this strange realisation.
One look at him and the serenity slid away, panic taking its place. He’d turned ashen, his face devoid of all colour and his skin clammy. Buffy touched her hand to his forehead and her eyes widened. He was burning up. Spike shook his head and backed away, his body suddenly wracked with coughs. He collapsed to his knees, one hand splayed across his chest.
He met her eyes. “Buffy. Hurts… can’t breathe.”
She fell to her knees beside him, her hands running all over his body but never settling in one place for long. She didn’t know what she could do to help him; all her nurse’s training and knowledge had become a scattered mess in her mind.
Spike coughed again, the spasms seemingly never-ending. Buffy could hear worried shouts and murmurs all around her, see hands that were not her own touch Spike’s shoulders and arms, but they seemed hazy and far away.
“You’re all right,” she said, stroking the back of his neck. “You’ll be okay.” He shivered uncontrollably and coughed again, and Buffy was horrified to see specks of blood around his mouth.
Vaguely, in the distance, she heard someone talking, asking for an ambulance. Another voice kept exclaiming over and over that a spirit had got in him, that he was possessed.
But it was Drusilla’s voice that rang out loud and clear over the panicked din, her tone measured and lucid. “It’s time.”
From somewhere far away, a church bell struck twelve, and its clanging chimes were the last thing Buffy heard—a harsh ringing in her ear—before the air around her shuddered, and everything went dark.
***
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Author's Chapter Notes:
Thank you to everyone who's reading and reviewing! :) Thanks again to Sotia for beta reading this for me.
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