The House We Haunted and Other Stories

by Amy Cross

  "In bed."

  "And were you asleep when I called?"

  "Yeah."

  "And listen to the house. I know it's late and you're alone, but what do you hear?"

  I pause, and for a moment I try to concentrate on the silence. The only thing I can hear, however, is the sound of Wilbur's contented snores.

  "Nothing, right?" she asks, sounding as if she's about to prove some kind of point.

  "Sorry," I reply, "but there's really -"

  "If I was there," she continues, "there'd be noises. Maybe you wouldn't hear them, but I'd hear them. Maybe even the bell that I used to hear when I was a child. I still hear it occasionally, you know. I never told you that, did I? I didn't want to worry you; I didn't want to worry anyone, but I do hear it, and it drives me crazy. Not all the time, obviously, but every few months there'll be a night when I'm in that bed, trying to get to sleep, and I'll hear the bell on the stairs, and then it'll get closer to the room. Why do you think I always insisted on keeping the bedroom door shut?"

  "I thought that was just to keep Wilbur in," I reply wearily.

  "It's to keep things out of our room!" she hisses.

  "Fine," I reply. "I get it."

  "No," she snaps, "you don't get it at all, because you don't even notice it!"

  "I can't pretend to hear something," I tell her.

  "Of course you can't," she says, starting to speak faster and faster, as if she's warming to her point. "It doesn't bother you. It doesn't give a crap about you. As far as it's concerned, you're just some guy who moved in. You're not part of the family."

  "Thanks," I mutter under my breath.

  "You know what I mean!" she hisses. "Don't start trying to twist everything I say into an insult! There are ghosts in that house, Luke, and just because you can't see them, don't think for one second that they aren't there, all around you!" She pauses. "Sorry," she adds, much more calmly, "am I scaring you?"

  "No," I reply, "it's fine."

  "I wish you could open your mind and see them," she replies, sounding absolutely distraught. "Even if it was just for one second, I wish you could understand what it's like for me."

  "I always thought I had quite an open mind," I tell her.

  "I didn't mean it like that." She pauses. "I should go. It's late, and you need to sleep. I think I'll take a bath and see if it relaxes me."

  "You hate baths," I point out.

  "Well, I want to take one now!" She sighs. "I'm glad you don't hear anything," she adds eventually. "If you have to be alone in the house, at least you don't have to listen to the things Ellen and I can hear when we're there."

  At the bottom of the bed, Wilbur rolls onto his side and lets out a long, satisfied sigh.

  "I'm sorry," Kate says. "I shouldn't have called. You were asleep. I shouldn't be such a bitch."

  "You're not a bitch," I say for the thousandth time, before realizing that I'm being a little unsympathetic. "Do you want me to come over?" I ask. "I can be at your apartment in half an hour."

  "No," she replies with a hint of scorn. "Of course I don't want you to come over. The whole point of me getting this place is that I want to be alone!"

  "But if you -"

  "Good night," she says firmly, before cutting the call.

  Even though I don't want to talk to her right now, I bring her number up and try to call her back. Unfortunately, she seems to have already turned her phone off, which at least spares me another interminable conversation about her problems and her fears. I know I should be more attentive, but over the years she's worn me down to the point that I don't have the energy to constantly engage her on these topics. Lately she's been more frantic than ever, and I just hope that she'll start to calm down soon. If she doesn't, I honestly don't know how I'm going to deal with her.

  Maybe I should have slept with Laura earlier tonight. At least that way I'd know that things were going to change.

  Chapter Six

  Luke

  Opening my eyes and finding that morning light is streaming through the window, I look down at the bottom of the bed and see to my surprise that Wilbur is sitting up, as if something is disturbing him.

  "What is it?" I ask.

  He stares at me, as if he's frustrated that I don't understand. I know this dog well enough to be certain that something has definitely disturbed him, and I have a vague feeling that some kind of noise woke me up.

  "What's -"

  Before I can finish, there's the sound of someone knocking on the front door. Still feeling groggy after my disturbed night of sleep, I get out of bed and wander over to the window. Pulling the curtain aside, I look down into the driveway and spot a police car, with two offers standing by the door. After a moment, one of them looks up and sees me, and I can immediately see from the look on his face that something's very wrong.

  I swear to God, I can feel my blood suddenly start running cold, and somehow - deep down - I immediately know what has happened.

  Chapter Seven

  Luke

  "She called 999 at around 4am," the officer says as he leads me up the steps toward Kate's flat. "We believe she had second thoughts about what she was doing, but she was only able to give her name and location before passing out. By the time the paramedics got here..."

  He holds the door open and leads me into the corridor. Up ahead, the door to Kate's flat is open and there's the sound of several people working in there. It's such a small place, I can't imagine more than a couple of people being able to fit inside. A few days ago, the place seemed so calm and still, and yet now it's a hive of activity. At the far end of the corridor, a guy is leaning out of his doorway and gawping, as if he's desperate to find out what's happening. There's a part of me that wants to go and slam his head into the wall and shatter those dumb, thick glasses that are perched on the end of his nose.

  "I should warn you," the officer says, stopping at the door and turning to me. "The scene hasn't been fully cleaned yet. There are certain things in here that might prove upsetting and -"

  "I already identified her body," I tell him, feeling a shiver run through my chest as the words leave my lips. "I think, if I could handle that, I can handle this. I just want to see the place."

  He nods politely and steps aside.

  As soon as I step into the room, I'm stunned to find half a dozen people working in such a cramped space. All the surfaces are being checked, and it looks like they've been going through all the cupboards. God knows what they expected to find, but various items of food have been laid out on the kitchen counter, while Kate's books have been removed from the shelves and piled neatly on the floor. On a nearby chair, there's the silver hairband she bought last year when we were on holiday; she used to wear it whenever she wanted to feel pretty, and I can help thinking back to all the times I saw her checking her own reflection, making sure that the hairband was on properly.

  "Is this really necessary?" I ask no-one in particular.

  One of the female officers glances at me for a moment, but she quickly returns to her work.

  I walk over to the bed and see that the sheets have been pulled aside. There's the faintest impression in the mattress, which I guess comes from Kate having spent a lot of time here since she moved in. Lately, it's been as if all she really wanted to do was sleep, and although I kept trying to think of things for her to do, she was never willing to make much of an effort.

  Walking over to the bathroom door, I glance inside and see that two men are taking photos of the blood-stained bath. I don't know how I'm supposed to be feeling right now, but a strange kind of numbness comes over me, as if my mind is simply incapable of processing what I'm seeing and has, instead, decided to shut down all non-essential functions. I feel as if I should say something or do something, but I just stand in the doorway, staring at the bath and storing its image away for later. There was nothing I could do when she was alive, and there's nothing I can do now she's dead. I'm useless.

  Looking down, I see some blood smears on
the floor, which I guess came after Kate called for the ambulance.

  "Like I said earlier, Sir," the police officer says as he joins me, "there's not strictly any need for you to be here. We can release personal items, but -"

  "I don't really want anything," I tell him, still staring down at the blood on the floor. Glancing back at the bath, I spot something glinting on the edge, and after a moment I realize that it's a small pile of razorblades. She obviously prepared well, which is surprising; all her previous suicide attempts were so haphazard and last-minute, I never really believed they were sincere. Even now, it's hard to believe that when she sat in that bath and picked up the first blade, she truly intended to die. It was probably just another cry for help, or attention, or both.

  "We're done here," says one of the photographers, nodding at me respectfully before he and his colleague head out into the hallway. I'm tempted to ask them for a copy of the photos, for future reference, but I guess I won't have too much trouble remembering the scene.

  "Where exactly was she found?" I ask, turning to the police officer.

  "Right here," he says, taking a step back and indicating the spot where I'm standing. "We believe she was trying to crawl to the door once she made the phone call, but obviously she didn't get very far. Her phone had been playing music immediately before the call, so we think she'd been using it to calm herself. The phone call itself was very brief, and I believe the operator had trouble understanding her at first. Fortunately, he was able to look up the location and number, and it only took eight minutes for an ambulance to get here."

  "Can I have a moment alone?" I ask. I don't even know why I want to be in here by myself, but somehow it feels like the right thing to do, and also the only way I can feel close to her again. I know it's crazy, but there's a part of me that can't help clinging to the idea that she might somehow be able to reach out to me.

  Dumb.

  I know it's dumb, but I can't shake the hope.

  "Of course," the officer replies. "I think our team is pretty much done." He leans back out into the main room and confers with his colleagues for a moment, before turning back to me. "We'll be outside. Please, take your time. And I just wanted to tell you that we're all very sorry for your loss. I know that must sound pretty hollow, but it's true. Cases like this... They're always the hardest. Everyone I've spoken to has had nothing but great things to say about your girlfriend."

  As they file out and pull the door shut, I'm left alone in the cramped flat. Kate had only been living here for a few weeks, and she'd barely had time to make the place untidy. Still, she'd managed to make it more like home, and she's spread her favorite books and DVDs all over the place. Walking over to the bed, I can't help but feel that at any moment she might suddenly jump out from somewhere and tell me that this is all a trick. If I hadn't identified her pale, peaceful-looking corpse an hour ago, I don't think I'd be able to believe that this is really happening.

  After a moment, I sit on the bed, in exactly the same spot where I sat the other day, and I stare at the metal chair over by the desk. She was so miserable and unhappy when I was here, but at least she was still breathing..

  As long as she was alive, I thought we could work something out. I still had hope, even if she'd lost hers a long time ago.

  "Are you there?" I ask.

  Silence.

  "Anything?"

  Silence.

  "This isn't the time to be mad at me," I continue. "If you're there, give me some kind of sign. I don't care what, just..."

  My voice trails off.

  This is stupid.

  On the mortuary slab, Kate looked as if all her troubles had been lifted from her shoulders. If I could have made her look like that when she was alive, even once, she might not have ended up doing something like this. As her boyfriend, it was my job to watch out for her, and I should have endured her constant complaints with a little more fortitude. I'm sure everyone will be blaming everyone else over the next few days, and I'm equally sure that some people, especially her goddamn mother, will want to use me as a convenient scapegoat. If that's what makes them feel better, I guess I should just let them. Still, the image of her pale, bloodless face on that cold metal slab is going to stay with me forever.

  "I'm sorry," I remember her saying on the phone a few hours ago. "I shouldn't have called. You were asleep. I shouldn't be such a bitch."

  "You're not -"

  "Good night," she said firmly before hanging up.

  Those were her last words to me. At the time, I was just pleased to get back to sleep, and I honestly didn't think that she was in a worse state than usual. I guess I'd become used to her constant veiled threats to kill herself, and this wasn't the first time I let a few references slip past without leaping into action. Deep down, I truly didn't think she'd go through with it, and I can only try to imagine the horror she must have felt in her final moments when she realized that the cuts were too deep and she was losing too much blood. I'm convinced that this was all a tragic accident, and that she was simply daring herself to see how far she'd go.

  She tried to kill herself five or six times over the past year, but I was never convinced. It just seemed as if she was doing it as a kind of performance, to underline the fact that her worries were genuine. And now she's gone forever. At least she finally managed to escape from the house.

  Chapter Eight

  Luke

  Just another slow and boring day, Laura types. You?

  I pause. It's late, and I should be in bed, but I'm far too wired to sleep. Kate's family will be here early in the morning; by pure chance, they all happened to be out of town when she died, so now they're racing to get home as quickly as possible. Tomorrow, the house will be a hive of frenetic activity, but tonight it's absolutely quiet and peaceful, save for the occasional snore coming from Wilbur's bed.

  Still there? Laura asks.

  Still here, I reply.

  Regretting your decision last night? she asks.

  It takes me a moment to realize what she means. In my current state, it's barely even possible to think back to what I was doing ten minutes ago, let alone twenty-four hours ago, and that brief encounter with Laura feels like it happened in another lifetime.

  Is that a yes? she types.

  No, I reply. I know I should tell her what happened today, but somehow I want to keep things feeling normal. If I told her, she'd probably run a mile, and there's a part of me that still wants to at least have the possibility of meeting up with her again. My mind is so addled, so filled with anger and rage, that the only thing keeping me going is the thought of getting Laura into bed and fucking her senseless. Last night would have been the wrong time, but some time soon I definitely want to take her up on her offer.

  You seem distracted, she types after a moment. Maybe we should talk some other time? If you've got something more important to be doing, I don't want to keep you.

  No, I reply, before taking a sip of whiskey. I'm good. I just had a crazy day. Lots of things happening. I'll tell you some other time.

  Girlfriend trouble? she asks.

  Something like that, I type, although I immediately feel guilty for referring to today's events in such banal terms. The truth is, talking to Laura is helping me to pretend that this is a normal night. I can't shake the feeling that when I wake up tomorrow, I'll have the usual text messages from Kate complaining about her problems, and then eventually she'll call me up and moan about how much she hates herself. I'd do anything to have another of those banal conversations with her.

  I should have done more.

  I shagged that guy, Laura types. The one from the bar. After I left yours, I went back there and shagged him. He was a drunk estate agent. How fucking depressing is that? FML.

  Was it good? I ask

  Passable. Sloppy, and fairly quick, but it could have been worse. I've definitely had better. Another pause. You know what it's like when you're both a bit drunk? After I left yours, I had a few more glasses of wine at the
bar, so I wasn't quite at my best. By the way, when I told you I saw someone in one of your windows, I wasn't lying. I really did.

  Really? I type. Let me guess, a shadowy figure wearing old-fashioned clothes?

  No. I couldn't make him out very well, but it looked like an older guy in some kind of overall. He was just staring out, but the light was behind him so like I said, I couldn't see properly. It was pretty creepy, though, like he was watching me leave. I honestly wasn't sure whether it was totally safe to leave you in there all by yourself, but I figured you should be big enough and strong enough to look after yourself. The cursor flashes for a moment. I guess I saw a ghost after all, she adds, even if I didn't spend very long in the house.

  Lucky, I type. I'm still waiting to see my first.

  As if on cue, the floorboards creak in the room directly above. I look up, but of course I know that it's just the old house settling again as the cool night temperatures arrive.

  Waiting? she types. So you want to see one?

  No, I reply, figuring that I shouldn't tempt fate. Hell, I almost checked into a hotel for tonight, and the only reason I came back to the house was that I couldn't find someone to look after Wilbur. I keep telling myself that there's no reason to be freaked out, that ghosts don't exist, but tonight of all nights, I can't stop thinking about the possibility that maybe something persists after death.

  I should go, I tell Laura. Things to do.

  Me too, she replies quickly. Very busy here. Good night!

  Closing the browser, I sit in the glow of the screen for a moment and try to work out what to do next. Ever since the police arrived this morning and told me what had happened to Kate, I feel as if I've been in a kind of daze, shuffling along in a bubble and waiting for the sights and sounds of the real world to break through and reach me again. At some point, the full heft of her death has to hit me, and part of me worries that my reaction is extremely unusual. Then again, I guess everyone responds to something like this in their own way, and I should just let things take their natural course. There's nothing to be gained from trying to force myself to cry when the tears won't come yet.