Psychic Mist

Caroline Alcock

This book is for sale at http://leanpub.com/mist

This version was published on 2019-07-17

This is a Leanpub book. Leanpub empowers authors andpublishers with the Lean Publishing process. LeanPublishing is the act of publishing an in-progress ebookusing lightweight tools and many iterations to get readerfeedback, pivot until you have the right book and buildtraction once you do.

© 2014 - 2019 Caroline Alcock

Also By Caroline AlcockPsychic Awakening

Psychic Dawn

Endless Journey

The Immortal

Contents

Chapter One . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 1

Chapter One1

Stacey Nielson lived in two worlds. Here and There.

Here was drab, grey and monotonous. There was bright,colourful and fascinating.

Stacey preferred to spend her time in the other world.

At the age of four Stacey taught herself to read. Or rather, sheguessed that letters represented sounds and these sounds, puttogether, bore enough resemblance to familiar words for herto form entire sentences.

This discovery triggered an insatiable craving for the printedword, a craving that could not be satisfied by the old newspa-pers and magazines scattered around her impoverished fosterhome, nor the worn copies of the only three books in thehouse: a Gideon Bible, Whitaker’s Almanack for 1987, andan illustrated history of the Second World War.

Unaware that their daughter had learned to read, her fosterparents were puzzled and disturbed by her tendency to spendhours staring at one particular photograph in the third ofthese books. It showed a blazing Sherman tank, charredbodies scattered over the torn wreckage.

Staring at this photograph, oblivious of the world around her,she had to be shaken loose and the book dragged out of herclenched fingers.

Chapter One 2

This morbid fascination with a gruesome photograph did notlast, much to the relief of Mary and Jack, her foster parents.They would have been less relieved had they known that,at the age of five, she had discovered something far moreinteresting: public lending libraries.

The staff of the Blythwood Junior Library soon got used tothe skinny, shabbily dressed girl with straight mousy hair,who always borrowed the maximum of three books andreturned them two days later – clean, free of stains and dog-eared pages, and in perfect condition. The staff soon stoppedchecking Stacey’s books when she brought them back.

Within two years she had read every book of interest inthe Junior Library, some of them twice. One memorableafternoon, warm and sunny, she plucked up the courage toask the librarian to help her with the catalogue. She knewthe meaning of the letter M at the beginning of the referencenumber. The book was located in the main library upstairs, acelestial realm of unreachable treasures. She asked anyway.

The librarian, familiar with Stacey’s voracious appetite, smiledand asked her to wait. A short phone call later, she returnedto the catalogue and told Stacey to go upstairs and introduceherself at the counter.

No one made a fuss about her yellow ‘Junior’ lending card.Twenty minutes later she walked out clutching five preciousbooks, never again to return to the Junior Library.

Neither did anyone make a fuss about her propensity torequest books from the reserve collection – a vast archive ofdusty old books withdrawn from the main library and storedin dimly-lit stacks in an adjacent building.

If any of the librarians were surprised by the bewildering

Chapter One 3

variety of books borrowed by the shy, quiet girl, they saidnothing.

It was her teachers in elementary school who noticed some-thing odd about Stacey and recorded their concerns in thereports she brought home to unhappy parents. ‘Lacks moti-vation.’ ‘Could do better.’ ‘Shows little interest.’ ‘Intelligentbut lazy.’

Unhappy her parents may have been, but they had moreserious problems to contend with. A series of failed businessventures forced the family to move from town to town, everin search of cheaper housing and new business opportunities,of which there were few for a freelance salesman and aseamstress.

While her foster parents struggled to keep their family andtheir marriage afloat, Stacey moved from school to school.With each new school came a grace period of a few weeks,during which teachers gave the new student the benefit ofthe doubt. With the end of the term came her first report cardand the inevitable stream of negative comments.

Never in one place long enough for a thorough evaluation,Stacey was interviewed and forgotten by a succession ofcounsellors, doctors, and psychiatrists, none of whom couldagree on her problem. Diagnoses ranged from a feverish,overactive imagination, to ADD, to a hitherto undocumentedform of autism.

While specialists struggled to categorise her disorder, Staceyconfounded them by easily passing every test and exam shehad to take.

Had any of her teachers bothered to analyse how such anunder-motivated, under-achieving student had managed to

Chapter One 4

get this far, they would have probably concluded that hervacant affect and lack of response were a cover – a strategyintended to draw attention away from her above-averageintelligence and astounding knowledge. In this they wouldhave been partly correct.

Forced to write a paper or take a test, Stacey found allthe information and answers she needed in her mind. Theinformation came to her, lingered briefly, then disappearedto wherever it came from.

Caught up in their divorce proceedings, her foster parentswere unaware of giving Stacey one precious gift before shewent to university: their bankruptcy. This allowed Stacey toreceive the maximum financial aid available and helped herscrape her way from day to day.

Even with her financial aid, Stacey was unable to affordanything except the cheapest of student accommodation,beginning with a room in an on-campus dormitory. One termof dormitory life was all she could take.

The university housing office sent her to the cheapest flat onits list – one that had stood vacant for years, turned down bygenerations of more discriminating students.

The bed-sitting room, kitchen and bathroom were situated onthe top floor of a second-hand bookshop, reached through aside door and down a claustrophobically narrow corridor thatran the length of the shop andmet a flight of creaky, linoleum-covered stairs.

How the Malvern Bookshop had survived the age of onlinesales and next-day deliveries was a mystery. Sandwichedbetween a greengrocer and a launderette in a terrace of 1930sshops, its glass-panelled door sounded a metal bell as Stacey

Chapter One 5

entered. The lack of lighting and the piles of dusty booksstacked on shelves, tables, and every corner of the floor madeit difficult for her to get her bearings. A slight movementcaught her eye. Sid Cohen, the owner, was leaning on thecounter at the back, reading a newspaper. He didn’t botherto look up as Stacey approached.

Grey-haired, pink-faced, and overweight, Sid was dressed ina faded denim shirt and a darned green sweater.

“I’ve come about the student flat,” said Stacey, pausing a fewfeet from the counter.

Sid grunted and turned a page of his newspaper. Todaywas not a good day. His blood pressure was soaring andhis arthritic joints were giving him hell. His last customerhad come in two days ago, bringing six old paperbacks andexchanging them for three sci-fi pulp magazines, yellow andbrittle with age. Yesterday had been blissfully quiet – onlyone telephone call asking if he had any Victorian travel books.Sid had several but said ‘no’ and slammed down the old blacktelephone on the counter.

Today? Yet another pesky student who would climb the flightof rickety stairs to the top floor, take one look at the emptyflat, and decide they could do better elsewhere.

“The university housing office sent me,” added Stacey, unsureif Sid was deaf or just not listening.

Sid sighed and looked up from his newspaper, about to tellStacey that the flat was already taken. Something stoppedhim. It was the expression on her face as she stared aroundthe shop – a mixture of curiosity, expectation, and delight.The face of a booklover.

Elbows propped on the counter, Sid watched her with increas-

Chapter One 6

ing interest. Her eyes leapt from book to book, from shelf toshelf, like a tiny monkey set free from a confining cage. Herleft hand moved unconsciously to her hair, rolling the longstrands around her index finger.

“See anything interesting?” asked Sid after two minutes ofsilence.

Stacey turned her head towards the counter but her eyescontinued to flicker over the piles and stacks of books. “Yes…”she said, unable to complete the sentence. Sid understood andsmiled.

He waited another two minutes before saying, “I’d show youthe flat myself, but what withmy arthritis and blood pressure,I don’t think I could make it. Why don’t you go upstairs andhave a look around?”

He pulled open a small drawer in the counter and took out akey. “The entrance is through the side door. Take your timelooking around, then bring the key back before you leave.”

“Thank you, Mr. Cohen,” said Stacey. She took the key andstepped out of the shop, leaving Sid wondering how she knewhis name. It wasn’t on the sign above the shop, and thebusiness card holder on the counter had long been empty.The university housing office – they must have given her hisname. That would explain it.

* * *

The two floors above the shop were deserted. At the top ofthe first flight of stairs was a small landing with a windowoverlooking a back yard and a door to an old-fashioned WC.

Chapter One 7

One with a cast-iron water tank high on the wall, flushed by achain with a white ceramic handle. The second flight broughtStacey to the floor directly above the store. The doors to thetwo rooms stood open, revealing evenmore stacks and piles ofbooks. Stacey was tempted to go in and look around, but sheresisted the urge and ascended the next two flights of stairs,which brought her to the top floor. Like the floor below, thisone consisted of a large front room and a much smaller backroom – the kitchen. Another door next to the kitchen led intoa windowless bathroom with an huge enamel bathtub and awall-mounted hot water geyser.

Years ago the two floors above the shop must have beenoccupied by the owners of the shop, or perhaps by twoseparate families, sharing the WC on the first landing and thebathroom at the top.

The university office listed the flat as furnished. It was –barely. All the essentials were there, but they must have beengathered from different second-hand furniture and charityshops, and at different times.

A bed, armchair, desk, coffee table and obsolete analoguetelevision in the large room. A sturdy wooden table in thekitchen, the cupboards filled with an astonishing jumbleof mis-matched tableware, some of it chipped and cracked.Drawers beneath the cupboard held enough cutlery for afamily of three, all of it dull and tarnishedwith age and disuse.

Standing in the middle of the front room, Stacey saw thewalls slowly dissolve into a misty glimpse of her other world.Through this mist came vibrant colours, subtle fragrances,and the soughing of summer trees. She was comfortable here.The rent was minimal, the location convenient, the placeempty and, wonder of wonders, she had ended up in her

Chapter One 8

own particular version of earthly paradise – a store full ofthousands of unread books.

* * *

“How was the flat?” asked Sid, still reading his newspaper.This time, however, he looked up.

“It was fine. Could I take it, please?” she said, her eyes alreadybeginning to wander around the astonishing contents of Sid’sbookshop. Junk there was aplenty, but here and there werebooks crying out to be taken down and opened. First editions,rare books, collectors’ items.

“Have a look around, if you like,” said Sid.

“May I?” answered Stacey, but she was already heading forthe far corner of the shop where a ten-volume set of booksbound in leathery brown had caught her attention. Eventhough his weak, watery eyes couldn’t make out the titles onthe spines, Sid knew the name and location of every book inhis shop.

“That’s a private reprint of Hakluyt’s Principal Navigations,limited to a hundred numbered copies.”

Instead of reaching up and pulling out one of the volumes,Stacey ran her fingers gently down the tooled spine of thebook, her face breaking into a joyful smile.

With a spring in her step, she moved around the shop in arandom pattern, drawn to certain books, none of which sheopened or read, all of which she gently caressed.

Sid said nothing. This totally unremarkable young woman,dressed in a camouflage-green parka, frayed jeans and dirty

Chapter One 9

white sports shoes, had come into the shop with a blank,lifeless expression on her long, delicate face. The more shewalked around the shop, the more was her face transformedinto a thing of beauty, and her already tall figure seemed togrow an extra inch as it filled with some kind of inner energy.

Sid was fascinated.

“What did you say your name was, love?” he asked.

“I’m sorry, I didn’t. It’s Stacey Nielson. I’m a first-year studentat the university. Could I ask you a question, Mr. Cohen?”

“Sid. Call me Sid. What do you want to know?”

“What kind of books do you keep in the back?”

At the rear of the store a single step led down into a workshopand kitchen. Just before the step and behind the rearmost wallof bookshelves was a narrow alcove, stacked with shelvesfrom floor to ceiling, with only enough space for one personto squeeze in.

“How did you know there was an alcove back there?” askedSid with a smile.

“I… I… I didn’t,” stuttered Stacey. “Intuition, I suppose. Afeeling of anticipation, if that makes any sense.”

“It does. Why don’t you come through? Careful of the step.We don’t want you taking a tumble. I’ll turn the light on foryou.”

Sid reached for an old brass switch on the wall to his left anda couple of incandescent light bulbs lit up the alcove.

As Stacey passed in front of the counter, Sid could see thatshe was trembling inside her thick parka. An odd one this, hethought to himself.

Chapter One 10

Stepping into the alcove, Stacey felt light-headed, almostdizzy. She ran her slender hands over the books on the shelvesand closed her eyes.

Sid had come out from behind his counter and was standingat the entrance to the alcove, arms folded, wondering whatwas going on in Stacey’s head and what she was going to donext.

“Disappointed?” he asked. “Not what you expected?”

It took a few seconds for Stacey to regain focus.

“No, not at all. This is wonderful. I don’t know what tosay. Jewish mysticism over here –” she ran her hands overthe books – “Renaissance alchemy here, grimoires over here,something much more personal over here.”

“Private diaries and notebooks. Eighteenth and nineteenthcentury. Perhaps you recognise some of the names, Stacey.”

“Why, yes, I do.”

“Now let me ask you a question. Two questions, in fact. Wouldthat be all right?”

“Yes, Sid, I don’t mind.”

“What happens when you touch the books? You haven’topened a single one, but somehow you’ve found all of mymost treasured volumes. And don’t tell me it was intuitionthat led you to this alcove. Please, if you can, share with mewhat led you here.”

“You’ll probably think I’m mad, Sid. Everyone else does. Thepsychiatrists gave up on me years ago.”

Sid shook his head, indicating that he was listening andwanted to hear more.

Chapter One 11

“I can feel a kind of energy radiating from some books.Touching them is like…. Sorry, Sid, I can’t explain it. It’slike establishing contact with them. And to answer yoursecond question, the minute I walked into your shop I feltthis tremendous pulse of energy coming from behind the backshelves. It was still there when I came downstairs. It wascalling to me. Sorry if I sound like a nutcase.”

“You don’t, Stacey. If you have time, fancy a cuppa in thekitchen at the back? Maybe we can chat a little more. Youhave no idea how happy I am to have met you. This is goingto be a very, very good day.”