The Automaton's Wife (Society for Paranormals Book 2)

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  Freebies!

  Prelude

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Facts & Fiction

  Gifts for You

  Read More!

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  Copyright © 2015 Vered Ehsani

  THE AUTOMATON’S WIFE

  Society for Paranormals: Case 2

  By Vered Ehsani

  from Africa… with a Bite

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  Copyright © 2015 Vered Ehsani

  All rights reserved

  Prelude

  Dear Reader

  As I mentioned to you in the previous instalment of my adventures in British East Africa, I maintain a diary. It is only due to the insistence of my dead husband that I’ve bothered to extract from it the more pertinent notes. My objective is to advance the understanding regarding the paranormal community in my new home.

  In my last compilation of discoveries, I made mention of my nearly fatal encounter with a pair of ghost lions. I also referred to the giant snake into whose nest the identity thief Mr. Timmons boldly dragged me.

  I’ve since discovered that the forests behind the house and the grasslands stretching away from the railway construction camp and village of Nairobi are replete with a menagerie of paranormal beings and curious animals.

  This collection of paper you now have before you describes my subsequent adventure, one that I barely survived.

  In fact, I owe my twenty-five years of existence in no small part to my highly robust constitution. I don’t meant that in a boastful manner, for such an unfeminine constitution is frowned upon by Englishwomen of refinement, such as my Aunt Steward.

  Given my line of work, it is rather fortuitous that I’m not such a refined woman; it would never do to faint while escaping hungry lions or battling supernaturally enhanced insects. Being a pragmatic sort, I’m quite prepared to accept a little less refinement in exchange for an alert mind, a superiorly equipped walking stick, and a decidedly unladylike refusal to easily succumb to demonic possession and other inconveniences.

  I shall not bore you with the details of my numerous close encounters with death. Instead, I shall focus on those events that will advance our understanding of the truth regarding a reality that few people see, and even fewer care to admit to.

  I have done my best to avoid the more gruesome descriptions. That said, these notes are not for those inclined to collapsing at the mere sight of blood and body parts scattered across the savannah. If you realise that you are indeed one such fainthearted creature, please cease reading immediately. Perhaps a bit of children’s poetry is more suited to your disposition.

  Now let us begin…

  Chapter 1

  My childhood was overshadowed by three events which held great significance for me in later years. Of two, you are already aware: the dog bite that savaged my right ear; and the violent demise of my parents.

  The third was the tragedy concerning my younger brother, Drew, a disaster that ultimately led to the downfall of my family.

  I’d hoped that moving to East Africa with the Stewards would remove me further from the daily reminders of the past. But of the many lessons I’ve learned in my life, the most bitter is this:

  You can’t outrun your memories.

  Chapter 2

  While I desired nothing more than a leisurely lie-in while someone prepared my breakfast and brought it to me in bed, that was not to be. For a start, I needed to use the facilities, which raised an uncomfortable reminder of our lowered station in the world.

  Please pardon me as I divulge details of a delicate nature: back in London, we had access to civilised infrastructure, including chamber pots at night. In that way, we were spared the inconvenience of venturing out of our bedrooms for a trip to the outhouse. However, back in London we’d had a servant specifically tasked with emptying the pots in the morning.

  Jonas, our gardener / driver / cook, had absolutely refused to perform this service from the day we arrived. This wasn’t an auspicious start to his continued employment, I might add. Despite bribes and threats issued by Mrs. Steward, and Lilly’s tearful implorations, he hadn’t relented in his resolute refusal. It appeared the stubborn little man preferred the possibility of unemployment over that odious task.

  I can’t say I blame him – a despicable job, cleaning up after other people’s night deposits – but it did cause quite a stir in the house, for chamber pots were a necessity for any civilised family. And Mrs. Steward was determined that we would maintain our dignity and superiority despite our poorer circumstances.

  Jonas however triumphed, so we were obliged to use the outhouse at all hours. Thus I was required to leave my cosy room for that reason, if nothing else.

  As I was fully awake and the sun was shining, I didn’t overly mind. In any case, I needed to clear my head of the nightmare-cum-memory I’d just experienced, its hideous tendrils still lingering on my conscious. In the illogical way of dreams, this one had combined my dead brother and a completely unrelated creature I’d left back in London.

  “Ridiculous,” I mumbled into my pillow. “Koki and Drew could never possibly meet.”

  The she-demon named Koki had been searching for me ever since my ill-fated trip to West Africa a few years previous. She had the unappealing ability to transform into a Praying Mantis of any size, and the odious habit of biting off people’s heads.

  It’s all Gideon’s fault that I had the nightmare in the first place, I mused as I pushed myself out of bed. Ever since he’d disappeared with a stolen automaton, I’d been deprived of my evening lullaby that he would sing to me.

  And if the above weren’t reasons enough to extract myself from the comforts of a warm quilt, there was the matter of the zebra carcass and its necessary removal.

  The zebra had been on the property with a herd when we’d arrived here. The herd had eventually moved away, upon realising that their presence was unwelcomed by Mrs. Steward who harboured strange hopes of cultivating a garden in the wilderness.

  One zebra however had remained, controlled by a serpentine spirit with an aversion to flowers. Now that the zebra was dead, I didn’t dare contemplate the fate of the snake spirit. I could only hope it had found a new host well removed from our abode.

  But about that carcass…

  “The body isn’t getting any less smelly,” I said as a breeze carried to my overly developed olfactory senses the distinct odour of early decay.

  I hurriedly dressed, compulsively double and triple checked that my chewed-up right ear was s
ufficiently covered by a strategically placed lock of hair, and left my room for the outhouse and the kitchen, in that order.

  Jonas had already stoked the fire in the stove’s belly and put a blackened kettle on the surface to boil. On the wooden counter nearby sat the round and ornately embossed metal teapot, a gift from my mother. While I’m no one’s servant, Mrs. Steward had implored me to take over the task of preparing breakfast.

  “The preparation of tea and toast is best left to those who actually know what English tea and toast should look and taste like,” she’d declared while staring pointedly at Jonas when making that comment.

  The dark man had merely shrugged off the implied critique, delighted I’m sure to have one less task to do, and I’d taken to overseeing the breakfast preparations.

  As I went about my appointed undertaking, I glanced around automatically, expecting Gideon Knight, my dearly dead but not quite departed husband, to float through a wall at any moment. Obstinate ghost that he was, he failed to make an appearance.

  You’d imagine I’d feel relief at the lack of haunting, if not outright joy at finally being allowed full widowhood. Yet a mild disappointment lingered, if for no other reason than I couldn’t castigate him for his uncivil habit of walking through walls. But ever since he’d stolen a life-like automaton from one of our few neighbours, I hadn’t seen or heard from Gideon.

  A knock interrupted my glum musings. As it was too early for social visits – few as there were to begin with – I anticipated the worst. So it was with mild surprise and relief that I opened the door to reveal Dr. Cricket, inventor of the automaton and other useless contraptions. His countenance was aglow with anticipation even as his eyelids fluttered in a furious fashion.

  “My dear Mrs. Knight,” he said, his thin blonde moustache twitching above his pale lips. “I heard the most extraordinary news concerning a recently deceased African equid. Is it true?”

  I glanced past him to the black and white mound of fur and flesh desecrating our front garden. “If by equid you mean a zebra, then yes, we have one matching that description and condition.”

  “Brilliant,” the good doctor exclaimed with more enthusiasm than was normally polite to exhibit, particularly in relation to a corpse, and all before breakfast. “I would be most grateful if you would allow me to take possession of the body.”

  My first thought was of the serpent spirit that had until recently held that claim of possessing the zebra, and I wondered how Dr. Cricket hoped to do the same. As far as I could tell, he had absolutely no paranormal powers with which to carry out such an act.

  Then I realised his true intent – to take the zebra away with him – and blamed my first thought on the lack of my obligatory cup of morning tea.

  “You wish to take the corpse away,” I said with some relief at my inner clarification of the matter.

  He stared at me with his pale, blinking eyes, his eyebrows expressing a certain degree of confusion, as was his normal reaction to most of my statements.

  “Well, yes, madam,” he said. “More to the point, I wish to examine the zebra, to learn more of its physiology and, in this particular case, the cause of death.”

  I refrained from informing Dr. Cricket that I already knew the cause of death: possession by a malevolent, energy-draining spirit. Instead, I smiled demurely and responded, “By all means, good sir. I leave the matter entirely in your hands.”

  His eyes opened wide and momentarily ceased their rapid blinking. “Thank you, Mrs. Knight. You are most altruistic in this as in all matters. I shall remove the animal from your property with great haste.”

  With that pronouncement, he spun about, almost collapsing in the process as his legs became briefly entangled together.

  I didn’t feel it necessary to mention that it was he, not I, who was performing an act of altruism. Instead I retreated to the kitchen, immensely pleased that I wouldn’t need to handle the matter, or the dead zebra, any further.

  Jonas was in the small kitchen, squatting on the rough stone slabs, his countenance all melancholy and wrinkles, such that I paused in the recital of my good news.

  “Good heavens, what is it, man?” I demanded with little sympathy. Surely nothing nastier than a dead zebra on the lawn could’ve occurred so early in the day.

  Jonas scratched the black-and-grey stubble covering his scalp with rough fingernails. I don’t think he ever maintained those nails, and most likely didn’t own a file with which to do so; he let the gardening work keep them from growing too long.

  “Well, Miss Knight,” he lisped through the gap in his front teeth. “It’s Nelly. She isn’t herself, not at all.”

  Chapter 3

  As we entered the small barn, I made two observations: the ox and the other horses were cowering in the corners of their stalls. Meanwhile, Nelly, my lazy, ever-hungry and somewhat rotund horse, was fully awake and alert, as if all set to run a race.

  When I saw those bright eyes and proudly held neck, I most certainly knew there was something wrong with that nag. The only time she every fully woke up was to eat, belch and emit other bodily noises best not discussed in civil society. Generally speaking, she could barely stay awake, even while being ridden across lion-infested grasslands.

  “Oh dear,” I said, thus admitting to a problem.

  “You see?” Jonas asked. “Something is very wrong, very wrong with my poor Nelly.”

  Pursing my lips, I regretted leaving my stout and fully loaded walking stick in the house. If the horse decided on a frisky attitude with me, I would very much like to have had a weapon in hand. I glanced around and grabbed up a shovel leaning against the wall.

  Jonas scratched at his knobbly head as he limped toward the stalls. “Should we call a horse doctor?”

  “Is there one?” I asked, more surprised than impressed.

  “No.” He scratched his head again, deep in thought as his face scrunched up like an old apple. “Dr. Cricket?”

  “Wrong sort of doctor,” I said, even as I wondered what kind of a doctor he actually was. “He’d probably search for the control panel and poke around with a screwdriver.”

  Although I didn’t have my special glasses on, I could still perform a superficial scan of the horse. I narrowed my eyes and energy fields sprang up around Jonas, the ox, the other two horses, Nelly and a few flies. Coiled around Nelly’s energy was the serpentine spirit. It hissed at me with its usual vigour.

  At least I know where you went to, I thought glumly, for I did like my horse despite her oddities and bodily eruptions.

  Meanwhile, Nelly’s horsey energy was sparkling and – dare I say – prancing around her pudgy body. I wondered if this was how the zebra had started off, before the snake spirit had sucked the life out of it.

  “She’s fine for now,” I said, hoping that diagnosis would last, but not sounding too certain at all.

  Jonas didn’t appear convinced either. He glared at me, as if it was my fault Nelly was so perky, and he set his jaw in a most stubborn position. “Nelly, she’s not acting normal.”

  “That’s for certain,” I said as Nelly reared up and neighed, displaying such exuberance in that one movement that I marvelled how this could be the same horse who would fall asleep while trotting through the grasslands. “She seems well enough for now. Perhaps…”

  “Mrs. Knight?”

  Jonas and I turned to face the barn’s entrance to see Dr. Cricket, his eyes rapidly blinking behind his spectacles, one pale hand pushing back his paler hair.

  “Dr. Cricket,” I said with little enthusiasm, for I very much desired to study the interactions of the two energies currently inhabiting my horse.

  “May I have a word?” he persisted.

  “If you must,” I replied with a sigh. “If it’s about the zebra, perhaps you’d best chat with Jonas.”

  Jonas scowled at me, Dr. Cricket shook his head and I raised an eyebrow at Jonas who, with a disgusted snort and an insincere bow to the doctor, departed.

  “I wa
s rather hoping we would be the ones to leave,” Dr. Cricket said, his voice faltering.

  I pretended not to hear him and resumed my study of Nelly, who oblivious to her impending doom was chomping away on some hay.

  Dr. Cricket coughed and then again. I glanced at him, maintaining a neutral countenance to disguise my irritation.

  “Are you not well, Dr. Cricket?” I asked with disinterest. As long as he didn’t collapse before removing the zebra, I wasn’t overly concerned with regard to his health.

  “Yes, thank you for your consideration,” he reassured me. “Perhaps we could sit.” He glanced around and, perceiving the limited options, gestured to a few square bales of hay in a corner.

  Clenching my teeth, I restrained an urge to stomp my boots. I arrived at the impromptu sitting area without kicking anything or anyone, and plunked myself down while checking that the lock of hair was covering my ear. Normally I’d wear a hat in public, as this does a much better job of hiding the chewed-up ear, but I hadn’t expected to have company at this hour. It was thoroughly uncivil, and I still hadn’t had my tea or breakfast.

  “I really must be off very shortly, Dr. Cricket,” I said, feeling the absence of tea and food taking a dark hold on my mood.

  “Of course,” he said as he trotted over and sat, so as to face me. His long, bony hands clenched over his knees and he blinked with even greater rapidity than usual.

  We sat for a moment, the only sound the ox’s nervous shuffles and Nelly’s munching. Only when she belched heartily did Dr. Cricket look up at me, startled. I smiled.

  “Have I told you how my wife – God rest her soul – passed away?” he asked.

  What a strange sort of story to start the day, I thought. “No, I’ve been deprived of the details,” I said, stifling a yawn.

  “Then let me provide them,” he said with a certain eagerness that, given the emptiness of my stomach and the nature of the story, struck me as mildly vulgar.