Haunted

by Amy Cross

  I force a smile, even though I know damn well that he was talking about Mo Garvey. And as always, the mere mention of that name sends a shiver down my spine.

  ***

  “Do you mind if I join you?”

  Startled, I turn and find that Diane has come over to find me at the side of the little pond at the garden's farthest end. I look back toward the house and see that Brad is still locked in conversation with Tom, although I think I can just about make out a slightly glazed expression on my husband's face. He looks bored out of his mind, but he's doing a good job of nodding and murmuring as Tom continues to talk.

  A moment later, my gaze shifts to the house's dark upstairs windows. It takes a few seconds before I realize that I'm searching for any sign that we're being watched.

  “The history of farms in the area,” Diane says suddenly.

  I turn to her.

  “That's what my husband is talking to your husband about,” she continues, stopping next to me and looking down at the pond. “Tom is a wonderful man, but sometimes he forgets that others don't share his interests. I must give Bradley some credit, however. He's not only managing to stay wide awake during this particular lecture, but he's even asking questions occasionally. That's more than I can do sometimes.”

  “I'm sure he's finding it very interesting,” I lie.

  “Oh, rubbish,” she says with a smile, rolling her eyes. “I hope Tom didn't upset you earlier. His interest in local history is rather dry sometimes, and terribly academic. He forgets that for other people, history – especially recent history – can be more personal. Since he retired from his position as the town's doctor, he's rather lost himself in the past. Sometimes he disappears into his study for days at a time, and I barely see him at all. Some nights, he doesn't even go to bed. We sleep in separate rooms now, but I still know that he's not there.”

  “It's totally fine,” I reply, as I tuck a stray strand of hair behind my ear. “It's good that people are -”

  “You should leave Railham,” she adds suddenly. “Now.”

  I hesitate, convinced that I must have misheard. “I'm sorry?” I ask finally.

  “You should leave this town and never come back. I can't imagine why you even came back here in the first place.”

  “I...”

  My voice trails off. I still can't quite believe what I'm hearing.

  She glances over her shoulder, as if to check that there's no danger of Brad or Tom coming closer and overhearing, and then she takes another step toward me.

  “I know what you young women are like these days,” she continues, lowering her voice just a tad. “Always trying to show that you're brave, or fierce, or strong, or whatever the watchword is at the moment. It's commendable, honestly, and I understand that you want to show you're equal to the men. In some respects, I think you're quite right to do so, but not when this put-on bravery leads you into trouble.”

  “I'm not sure that's quite what it's about,” I say cautiously.

  “Oh, I've seen those videos they play on the internet. The Katy Perry and Taylor Swift and Beyonce songs, all those lyrics about empowerment and standing up tall and whatnot. I envy your generation sometimes, really I do, and I think its marvelous that you all feel so optimistic. And I fully accept that I might be out of touch, but still, I know this town and I am telling you that you're making a big mistake.”

  “Railham's my home!”

  “Not anymore,” she continues, shaking her head. “You're only stirring up trouble by coming back here. Your father -”

  “I'm not here to talk about my father.”

  “I find that hard to believe.”

  “I'm here to get on with my life. I specifically don't want anything to do with my father's story.”

  “Well now you're just lying to yourself, young lady.”

  “Excuse me?”

  “You won't make any friends,” she continues waspishly. “If you're after sympathy or pity, you're straight out of luck. Your presence here is going to upset people, and it's going to remind them of the bad times. If you have any concern for Railham at all, you'll put the needs of this town above your own selfish desires, and you'll pack your bags immediately.” She pauses for a moment, before taking a deep breath. “There. I've said my piece now.”

  Staring at her, I half-expect her to suddenly crack a smile and admit that she's joking, but she seems deadly serious.

  “Was it you the other night?” I ask finally. “With the brick?”

  “I don't know what you're talking about.”

  “Did you throw a brick through our kitchen window?”

  “Of course not. Do you think I'm some sort of hooligan?”

  “Do you know who did it?”

  “I do not. But there are plenty of right-minded people in this town, and if I ever do find out who was responsible, I shall give them my fullest, most heartfelt thanks.”

  I open my mouth to ask if she's serious, but my heart is pounding and finally I turn to walk away. After just a couple of steps, however, my shock turns to anger and I look back at her.

  “You can't tell me to leave my own home,” I point out, unable to keep my voice from trembling slightly. “I have every right to be here.”

  “Legally, perhaps. But not morally.”

  “I've done nothing wrong!”

  At this, she merely smirks.

  “I'm not my father!” I continue. “I can't be held accountable for his sins!”

  “Perhaps not,” she replies, eyeing me up and down for a moment, “but the apple never falls very far from the tree, does it?”

  “What's that supposed to mean?”

  “It means that we suffered in this town, Miss Blaine. Or Roberts, or whatever you call yourself these days. It means that for several years, the people of Railham struggled to get over the horrific acts committed by your father. Finally we managed to reach of point of peace, and then what happens? You selfishly decide to come back, and in the process you reopen all those old wounds. Nobody is going to thank you for that, my dear.”

  She finishes her drink, before setting the glass down and stepping closer to me.

  “You'll soon see that I'm right,” she adds. “Nobody likes a ghost.”

  “I'm not a ghost.”

  “You might as well be. You're his ghost. Your father's, I mean, or at least that's how people around here will see it. After all, not every ghost has to be dead. You're a living reminder of that wicked man, and you'll bring nothing but pain and misery to everyone you meet. Your father -”

  “My father was a monster!” I snap, finally unable to hold my temper. “We were supposed to be happy in this house, but he ruined everything! My mother has spent the past twenty years in a psychiatric hospital because of him! I'm glad he's dead, although if he was alive I'd tell him to his face how much I hate him!”

  “My dear -”

  “But I am not going to run away and hide,” I continue, “just because of what he did! The house isn't going to stand as some kind of morbid memorial to his insanity, and do you know why not? Because I'm going to make it a new home. A better home. A happy place. And by doing that, I'm going to wipe out every last stinking memory of who he was and what he did!”

  With that, I turn and start heading back toward the patio.

  “And what about your children?”

  Stopping, I pause for a moment before glancing toward her over my shoulder.

  “It's one thing to bring your husband here,” she continues, “but what if you have children of your own? I saw that look on your eyes earlier when the subject came up, and I noticed how you avoided commenting directly. Your husband wants children, but you were evasive. Could you, in all good conscience, raise a child in this house, knowing what happened to the last child who was raised here? Knowing what happened to you? And knowing that this is where your father murdered four people, including an innocent little child?”

  “What my husband and I might or might not do,” I reply through gritted teeth,
“is none of your business. Now, if you'll excuse me, I'd like to go and see if your husband liked the pie. And if he did, and if he's finished, then maybe it's time for you two to head home. It's been a long night and I'm sure we're all very tired.”

  “You're the only ghost in Railham,” she calls after me. “By bringing back memories of your father, you're haunting this town! People don't like ghosts, Alexandra. And that's what you are to the people round here! You're your father's ghost!”

  Chapter Twelve

  Sheriff Michael Blaine

  20 years ago

  “Hey Tom,” I call out as I head through to the examination room, “I need to ask you a couple of questions about this report!”

  Stopping in the doorway, I'm surprised to find that there's no sign of Tom. I figured he'd be working on the case all evening, and indeed Mo Garvey's body is still laid out on the table. Tom himself, however, seems to have stepped out. To be honest, I'm a little surprised that he left the corpse completely uncovered, and for a moment I consider finding a sheet and covering her up, if only to give her a little decency. Then again, I guess Tom must have a very good reason for leaving her out in the open like this, and I probably shouldn't second-guess him, so I simply trying to avoid looking at the body as I head over and peer into the side-office.

  There's still no sign of Tom.

  “Great,” I mutter, making my way to his desk and writing a quick note, asking him to call me as soon as he gets a chance. Once I've done that, I head back through to the examination room, figuring that I should just -

  Stopping suddenly, I see that the table in the center of the room is empty. There are a few smeared blood stains, but the body of Mo Garvey has disappeared. I look around, convinced that Tom Milford must have come through and taken her, but I can't quite believe that I wouldn't have heard him transferring Mo's body onto a trolley and wheeling her through to one of the storage areas.

  “Hello?” I call out. “Tom, are you here?”

  I wait, but there's no reply.

  “Tom?”

  Silence.

  I head to the main door, only to find that it's locked. I try a couple of times, but someone must have locked the place while I was through in the office. Sighing, I reach into my pocket to grab my phone, only to find that I must have left it on my desk, apparently along with my radio.

  “Great,” I mutter, before banging on the door in the hope that someone in a nearby part of the building might hear me. “Hey!” I call out. “Can somebody -”

  Suddenly the lights flicker off behind me. I turn, just as the lights on the other side of the door die too, leaving me standing in complete darkness except for a hint of moonlight shining through the frosted window at the room's far end. Checking my watch, I see that it's almost 8pm, but nobody should be closing the place for the night just yet. Turning back to the door, I bang again, a little louder this time and with a lot less patience.

  “Hey!” I yell. “Is this some kind of joke? Let me out of here!”

  I bang again, but I'm starting to think that this is kind of futile. Remembering that there's a service door at the far end of the office area, I head past the table and into the storeroom, and then I make my way past the coroner's office before grabbing the handle to the rear door. Sure enough, just as I'd feared, this is locked too. If I didn't know better, I'd swear someone was trying to seal me inside this place.

  “Come on!” I shout, banging my fist against the door. “I'm in here!”

  I wait a moment, but all I hear is the faint hum of the air-conditioning system.

  Finally, struggling to find my way in the darkness, I shuffle along the corridor and through to Tom's office, and then I take a moment to fumble for the phone on his desk. Once I've found the cradle, I pick up the receiver and reach down to dial, only to hear that there's no tone. I try a couple more times, without any success, and then I set the phone down before pausing for a moment so that maybe I can try to figure out a better plan. There has to be a way out of here, and I'll set off the goddamn fire alarm if that's what it takes, but I'm not -

  Suddenly someone touches me from behind, placing a pair of hands on my shoulders.

  Ice-cold hands.

  I spin around, startled, but there's no sign of anyone. Reaching out, I wave my hands through the air, but there's still nobody there and I can't believe anyone could have run out of the office in just a fraction of a second. I wait, listening in case I hear a giggle or the sound of footsteps, but there's nothing. Still, those hands felt very real, as if someone was standing right behind me and reaching up to touch my shoulders.

  They were small hands, too.

  The hands of a child.

  Stepping back through to the examination room, I'm about to go to the door and bang until somebody hears me, but then I stop in the doorway as soon as I see that somehow Mo Garvey's body is back on the table. I blink a couple of times, convinced that I'm hallucinating in the darkness and that she'll turn out to be a collection of shadows, but it's quickly becoming clear that she's really here.

  First she was on the table, then she was gone, and now she's back.

  If I didn't know better, I'd start to think that I'm losing my mind. Fortunately, I know I'm not that kind of person, so there has to be some other explanation.

  I look around, but there's still no sign that anyone else is in here. Heading to the door that leads into the storeroom, I peer through, half-expecting to find some chuckling orderly hiding in the shadows. There's clearly nobody there, but that doesn't mean I'm about to start believing in bullshit paranormal fantasies. Somebody wants me to think that Mo Garvey climbed off the table and touched my shoulder, but I'm not that simple-minded. People who believe in ghosts are gullible at best, and sometimes even downright insane.

  And then suddenly, as I rub my shoulder and realize I can still feel the cold from the hands' touch, I start to hear a very faint clicking, gurgling sound nearby.

  There's something in this room with me.

  Something behind my back.

  Something next to, or on, the examination table.

  I know I should look, but I don't quite dare, not yet. As I try to find the courage, however, I realize I can hear another sound too, a kind of shuffling that's followed a moment later by a pair of faint bumps on the floor. Again I try to make myself turn and look, but now I swear I can hear footsteps coming closer, as if somebody is slowly, awkwardly edging toward me.

  I know it can't be Mo Garvey.

  Mo Garvey is dead.

  This has to be someone's sick idea of a joke.

  Just as I'm about to turn and look over my shoulder, however, I feel several cold little fingers brushing against my left hand. I immediately flinch, telling myself that the fingers can't be real even as I feel them slipping between my own and slowly tightening their grip. I know that this can't really be happening, and I try to remind myself that I'm simply letting my imagination run wild. At the same time, an icy hand is now holding me firmly, and I don't dare around, not yet.

  “It's not real,” I whisper, trying to find some courage from somewhere. “You're not an idiot, Mike. Just turn and look.”

  I almost manage to turn, but instead I hesitate. And then, before I can try again, I feel something brushing against the back of my shirt.

  A moment later, another set of fingertips start running across the side of my neck. Each tip is icy, burning my flesh, but I'm frozen by fear as I feel a thumb pressing against the top of my spine. It takes a moment longer before I realize that this second hand seems to be reaching up to take hold of my neck.

  “They're not real,” I say again, much more firmly this time, as I try to will the hands to leave me alone. “None of this is real.”

  I wait, convinced that the sensation will suddenly end and my right senses will be restored. Instead, however, the second hand continues to tighten its grip on the back of my neck, while the first hand has moved up slightly to take hold of my left wrist.

  “None of this is
real,” I whisper, even as I realize I can hear a series of faint, shallow breaths in the darkness directly over my shoulder. “I'm not falling for it.”

  Again, I tell myself to turn and look, but in my mind's eye I can see Mo Garvey's rotten face, and there's a part of me that's certain I'll see her if I turn. Finally I realize that I can't wait a moment longer, so I steel my nerves and get ready to look.

  “It's not real,” I whisper again. “It can't be real. It's all in my head.”

  And then, slowly, I start to turn and look over my shoulder.

  Suddenly the lights flicker on, just as the door opens at the far end of the room. Blinking, I'm astonished to see one of the deputies coming through, and a moment later I look around and realize that not only is there nobody else here with us, but the cold hands have faded away.

  “There you are,” the deputy says with a nervous smile, as he holds a phone out toward me. “Your phone kept ringing in your office, so I came to find you. I think it's your wife.”

  I take another look around, before heading over and grabbing the phone. I glance one final time toward Mo's bare body, and then I follow the deputy out into the corridor so that I know I can't get locked in the examination room again. Even as I bring up Louisa's number and call her, I can't help rubbing the back of my neck and telling myself that I was dumb to let myself get so easily spooked.

  I turn just in time to see the deputy swinging the door shut. I briefly spot Mo's prone body, but then she's gone as the deputy locks the door.

  “Mike?” Louisa says as she answers. “Where are you?”

  “I'm at work,” I reply, trying not to sound too dazed. “Sorry, I didn't have my phone with me.”

  “Okay, whatever. We're outside.”

  “Outside?” I pause for a moment, before checking my watch and seeing that it's almost 10pm. “Why are you outside?”