by Jason Arnopp
Ever since, I have often wondered whether Tom’s death was my fault. If I had been on a different bus that day, seven years ago, we would never have met. It was also I who chose this place for us to live.
But how was I to know? How?
At the tense and overworked police station, a detective questioned me with precious little urgency. She was going through the motions, which felt appropriate, since I was doing the same. I sat there in that small airless room, a robot answering questions about Tom. Our life together. My movements in the hours prior to his death. None of it felt at all real.
A post-mortem confirmed my lack of culpability. Tom had suffered from a heart murmur. One of those invisible defects: a time bomb waiting to blow.
A bomb which, as far as I was concerned, had been detonated by the entity with whom we shared our home. I knew this from the terror on Tom’s face.
I hate to break the news to you, my friend, but this thing can strike during daylight hours. It comes whenever you sleep.
And how I hated that spectre. Whatever it was, I wanted it destroyed.
Work had granted me compassionate leave, which was a relief of sorts. I didn’t need to maintain the facade that I could still handle my job. On the other hand, I harboured grave doubts as to whether I could ever return.
All I knew for sure, was that I needed to get away from the place where Tom died.
As I checked into a local hotel, I could hardly believe I was getting a break from the ghost. Perhaps, in my absence, it might lose interest in that property and decamp to another.
If only Tom and I had thought to move. I should have insisted on it, at the first sign of trouble. Why didn’t I?
Because all us poor, eternally gullible souls assume things will work out and improve. That’s why.
My hotel room offered a view of a brick wall.
On that first night, I downed several vodka and lemonades in my favourite local bar. You’ve probably been there. Nothing special about the place besides familiarity. By that point I existed in a haze, looking drunk whether I was or not. Sometimes I would fall asleep then jerk awake, a hardcore narcoleptic waiting to happen.
Right there and then, ‘Familiar’ was good. In fact, ‘familiar’ was an essential anchor.
Back on the hotel bed, I flicked the complimentary mint-biscuit aside and rested my head on blissful duck-feather pillows, still fully clothed.
Even as I cried myself to sleep over Tom, I felt relief that I wasn’t doing so at home. I could breathe freely, all night, without that filthy leech assailing me.
Oh, how very naive that belief was.
Three hours later, as I slept, I became dimly aware of gasping, spluttering, choking.
A terrible feeling spread through the room.
The familiar wasn’t always a source of comfort.
Slowly waking up, eyes still closed, I shuddered as breath was snatched from my mouth, nose, throat, lungs.
That sense once again, of something directly above me.
The thing which killed Tom.
I propelled myself faster, up through the dark waters of unconsciousness. Although terrified, I needed to see what I was dealing with.
I forced myself to look at the entity.
And I cried out in shock.
The child hung above me, suspended in nothingness, gazing down, its face horribly close to mine.
Those blank eyes spoke of the grave.
Circles of pallid, featureless blue with an unnatural shine.
The mouth, a round hole punched clumsily into worn, mottled flesh which clung loosely to what passed as a face. The nose had rotted away altogether, leaving just two tiny holes.
The thing’s withered arms stretched out at either side, its wasted frame clad in black rags. Filthy, age-old hessian cloth.
I goggled up at this abomination, barely able to breathe as it plundered my lungs.
My hatred for this thing was eclipsed only by my fear.
Acting fast while I still had energy, I rammed both palms up hard against cloth, bone and clammy flesh, shocked by how corporeal it all felt.
The thing was sent hurtling back into the shadows. Arms and legs outstretched, rags blowing around it, the eyes twin sparks of light.
And then it was gone, leaving me breathless and spent.
Clutching my chest, getting my wits back, I sat up on the side of the bed, appalled.
The thing had followed me. It had followed me here.
I sat by the window and gazed out at the brick wall, my head spinning.
Trapped.
Why had Tom and I never heard these sounds, or sensed the oppressive atmosphere, in the first couple of years at the property? My theory: it took us a while to tune into the frequency. Once you had registered that stuff, you became so much more aware. You wondered how you ever missed it.
The rest of my hotel stay was rendered joyless by the knowledge that the entity was haunting me, rather than the place where I lived. Checking out five days early, I returned home, closed the front door behind me and looked around feeling defeated.
I couldn’t believe what had happened to my world. I used to be so carefree. Now, I would have paid any amount of money, I would have given it all, to claw back even a tenth of what I had.
I found myself in antiquarian book shops. Vast dusty labyrinths, wall-to-wall and floor-to-ceiling with oversized, cloth-bound tomes which reeked of the ages.
I wanted help with expelling ghosts and demons, but didn’t know which topic to focus on. Was this thing a ghost, a demon, something else? Eventually, I hedged my bets and slapped down my credit card, buying all the relevant books I could find.
I was soon sprawled back home on the living area’s floor, surrounded by outdated knowledge. My aching eyes did their best to scan one yellowed page after another.
I found a Papua New Guinea ritual from the 16th Century, which purported to specifically banish “all nocturnal visitations.” I carried out that ritual, using various items acquired from local stores. A splinter from a broom handle, a stuffed mouse... all that garbage. It took me many, many attempts to read the text aloud coherently. Clearly, my brain had started to curl up and perish.
The ritual didn’t work. Still, all this half-hearted amateur sorcery kept my mind off Tom.
I awoke the next day without having detected the entity during the night. This, mind you, was more disturbing than if I had. I could tell it had aggressively drained me as I slept: my head was thick and throbbing, my eyes prickly as though rubbed with sand-paper, my bones weary.
The answer to all of this couldn’t lie in archaic books written by madmen. So where?
It came to me when I opened a kitchen cupboard and found a small pile of old mail addressed to previous residents.
I was mentally hauled back through time, to the previous resident of our home. Tom and I met him while viewing the place with an agent. A quietly-spoken, 30-something gaunt Russian with striking olive eyes, he had courteously shown us around.
When I leafed through the sealed envelopes, this guy’s name was easily recognisable on one: Dimitri Filischkin. I recalled this singular piece of mail falling through our letterbox a few days after we moved in.
So. Here was the big question, which you, in turn, will be wondering about me: when Dimitri Filischkin moved out of there, why didn’t the entity follow him to wherever the hell he went?
What changed?
Determined to find out, I scoured the globe and made numerous calls.
I searched for every Dimitri Filischkin across the world. How many could there be?
Two days later, I stood beside a half-moon bay in San Sebastián. Holding up a hand to protect my eyes from the sun.
The search for Dimitri Filischkin had led me here. I had discovered a fairly recent photo of him in a place called Bar Plaza. In fact, crucially, it was a photo of two men. Turned out the younger man, the one I’d met, was actually Dimitri’s son Vsevolod Filischkin. Perhaps I’d merely assumed Vsevolod was D
imitri or, more likely, it had been a deliberate smokescreen.
(Note: I would later create a similar smokescreen for you. In my last official weeks of residency, I paid actors to pose as dwellers in the property, for when people came to view. These amateur performers were expressly forbidden to sleep there, for obvious reasons. In truth, I do not know if you met them, but wanted to reveal this artifice, in case you tried to hunt these innocents down. Trust me, they had nothing to do with this whole sorry business and have no idea whatsoever of where in the world I now am. They merely assisted me, without realising their true purpose: to prevent you from knowing my identity.)
By now, I had transcended mere tiredness and even exhaustion. I had entered an unnatural twilight realm and things also felt different inside me. Something bad was happening to my body and I wondered how long I could fight off a total collapse.
I strode as resolutely as possible towards San Sebastián’s Old Town. Tom and I would have enjoyed this place for a holiday: it had a sandy beach, fair weather and seemed very authentically Spanish, although many proud locals would quickly note that it was actually in Basque Country.
My gaze lingered on a mountain top, from which an enormous statue of Christ stared balefully. I felt a flash of anger, wondering why God had allowed Tom to die.
My friend: I know you will tire of this bitter travelogue. You want to know whether I found Dimitri Filischkin and what he told me, right?
I’ll cut to the chase.
The tiny Bar Plaza was nestled deep in the grid of tall, traditional buildings which formed the Old Town. These buildings were close together, with narrow streets threading between them. They bustled with locals and tourists who scurried between tiny tapas bars, ‘disco pubs’ and restaurants.
I was surprised to find Vsevolod Filischkin behind the bar, pulling back a large creaky pump handle in order to fill a customer’s glass with frothy beer. Some of the ceiling was decorated with hanging meat: substantial legs of ham on hooks.
Vsevolod flashed me a nod, but it wasn’t true recognition. This was clearly a gesture afforded to any and all entering customers.
The second time he looked at me, something clicked. He stiffened, tiny muscles rippling at his temples. After dealing swiftly with his customer, he signaled for me to lean over the bar towards him.
“You must leave,” he said, face set in stone. “Leave now.”
His demand only served to fire me up and I held my ground. “I need to see your father.”
A firm shake of the head. “You cannot.”
“I’m not leaving until I’ve seen him.”
The Russian’s nostrils flared. He reached over to a high shelf at the back of the bar. Pride of place there went to an elaborately decorated urn, which he seized.
He placed the urn on the bar, his face betraying indignation and sorrow all at once.
“There,” he said. “Now you’ve seen him.”
My heart sank as I regarded the urn. Still, surely Vsevolod himself would know something.
As if reading my mind, the Russian gripped the handle of a small hatchet, keeping it low, flush with the counter. As his eyes burned into mine, the implied threat was plain.
I glanced around at the other, oblivious customers and sloped out.
When Bar Plaza closed, hours later, Vsevolod yanked down the heavy shutter which covered its front, then crouched to lock it.
This, I covertly watched him do from a shop doorway along the street. Seeing him glance around, I stepped back out of sight.
Peering back over again, I saw Vsevolod head off in the opposite direction through a throng of people.
I followed Vsevolod halfway across the Old Town, a journey which ended at a communal front door to what looked like ancient apartments.
As the Russian unlocked the door, I blended in with pedestrians, walking towards him.
As he opened the door, I drew as close as I could without him seeing me.
Before he could shut the door behind him, I darted across and jammed my foot in the gap.
Barreling inside, I grabbed Vsevolod clumsily by his collar. In the process of ramming his head against a wall, I glimpsed his shocked expression. I was unaccustomed to violence; a hopeless beginner. The only factors on my side were desperation, sleep deprivation and some threadbare semblance of a plan.
As a dazed Vsevolod struggled to regain his balance, I produced an empty gin bottle from my pocket and smashed its base against the wall. I hoped that holding the bottle’s jagged top-half out between us would complete the illusion that I was not someone to mess with. I also really hoped he wouldn’t see my hand shaking.
Drawing back a fist to swing a punch my way, the Russian caught sight of the broken glass and froze. He kept his eyes fixed on the razor-sharp edges, as if talking to them.
“What exactly do you want?”
I extended my arm, moving the broken glass a few more inches his way.
“I want to know what happened to my life.”
Next door in Bar Extebe, a ‘Pinball Bingo’ machine made a distracting racket beside Vsevolod Filischkin and me. He lit a cigarette, drew in a fat, measured puff, then expelled smoke through his nose.
“How you find us anyway? Russians in San Sebastian.”
I let the Russian’s question crumble away without an answer.
He had flat-out refused to take me to his apartment. Said I’d have to kill him first, in fact, so I guessed he had a loved one up there. I didn’t want to kill him, and doubted I’d be capable of such a thing, so we agreed to go to a bar instead.
Vsevolod was making short work of a beer. I cradled an espresso cup, gently tipping the liquid to and fro and enjoying the warmth of the porcelain on my hands. I had learned to appreciate the simplest, smallest pleasures and cling to them.
“You know what I’m going through, right?” I asked.
Smoke blossomed around him as he nodded. “My father suffered at the boy’s hands for many years. Many, many years.”
The boy.
“It’s a he?”
I had known this, I supposed, but the confirmation felt like real progress. It was incredible to meet someone who matter-of-factly acknowledged the spirit’s existence.
“It took us years to find out… what was happening. How do you say: ‘trial and error’? And all that time, my father would not let me go to any of his homes. ‘Just in case he takes a liking to you too,’ he told me.”
A wave of dizziness hit me. Every now and then I would also experience a quick rush of euphoria, which seemed so wrong in a grieving person.
“Who is this boy?”
“In time, my father and I found his name, tracing back to old newspaper, family tree, obituary. In life, this thing was called Josef. A Czech boy, from Pisek.”
I stared at this man; this living proof of my sanity. I yearned for more.
Vsevolod knocked back more beer and sighed.
“In 1898, Josef’s father thought his son was possessed by Devil. He hired priests to try to… you know… exorcise the child. One night, he found out Josef kill family dog. An old Czech newspaper ran quote from police. It said how, in middle of night, Josef’s drunk father strangled him as he slept. Josef woke up dead, you may say.”
My face prickled hot. All that gasping, spluttering and choking. In my shattered state, it seemed as though I could hear it, right there and then in the bar.
I shifted uneasily in my seat.
“I... I have heard him dying,” I managed to say.
“My father heard him too, many times. First of all in apartment he rent in Budapest. He did not notice for four years, but then he say it sound like someone being murdered every night. And at same time, his own breath was taken.”
I nodded hard and licked my lips, aware that my mouth had become very dry.
“Eventually, my father moved apartment to somewhere else in same city. Josef followed. My father moved to Mexico City, Perth, Peru. Josef followed to all.”
“He follows me
everywhere too,” I said. “It’s like he homes in on my mind.”
The Russian hesitated and surveyed the smoky air around him. His voice became quieter, conspiratorial. “It is not your thoughts he is linked to,” he murmured. Before I could ask what he meant, he continued: “He will remain where you last sleep. If you go somewhere new, he will come to you only when you sleep again.”
I opened my mouth, trying to pool my brain cells to form a concise question. I really wanted, needed, to know how to break this link.
“Josef followed my father to what is now your home,” said Vsevolod. “That was the last place. After that, my father broke free.”
“How?” The word rocketed out of me. “How did he free himself?”
Vsevolod drained the rest of his beer and shook his head. “Sorry, impossible. No. I must protect myself and family. If you became free of Josef, he might find way to return to Filischkin bloodline. I cannot take risk.”
Dread clawed at my guts as I glared at the Russian. “Tell me,” I insisted.
Vsevolod gave me a small shrug, expressionless. “What you gonna do? Smash another bottle? Next time I will be ready, believe me.”
I closed my eyes for a moment, feeling so weak. I no longer had it in me to feign the capacity for violence. If Vsevolod wasn’t going to tell me how Dimitri rid himself of this accursed child, was there other information I could glean?
As I spoke, my voice cracked with emotion.
“How did your father die?”
Vsevolod said nothing for several seconds, looking at the table between us. Then he stood, sweeping a long coat around himself.
“In the end,” he said, “they would not take.”
A slight smile from him. A kind smile, as if he had just given me something.
He headed out into the street, leaving me to sit at the table for some time, pondering those words. What had he meant?
When I finally drank the espresso, it was cold.
Sitting numb on the harbour wall, I dipped in and out of a paper bag of fresh, salty prawns I’d bought, pushing them into my mouth. Boats bobbed and groaned on the moonlit water. San Sebastián’s coast line was daubed and speckled with golden light.