Now We Can’t Sleep At Night (The Dead Speak Paranormal Mysteries Book 2)

by Robert Wilde

  The door opened, and a smart man in a suit stood there, peering at Darke over glasses and making no attempt to hide contempt. Harold sighed to himself: even the estate of the recently deceased owner knew he was making it up just to get the money. And they let him, for the money. Which, he supposed, made them just as bad, but it really didn’t feel like that. It felt like your heart was rotting and about to dribble down inside you.

  “So what do we do with all this money?”

  Nazir had just opened a beer and sunk into Dee’s sofa.

  “Well,” she said, picking another can out of Nazir’s bag, looking at the brand, wincing, and opening it anyway, “it looks very much like our million dollar payment is being regarded as a legitimate payment which allowed us to discover some severe criminality, and no one is going to try and take it off us.”

  “So we’ve a third of a million dollars each?”

  “Hey!” Joe objected. “I’m here!”

  “You don’t have a bank account. Or a body,” Nazir said grinning. A magazine came flying over and struck Nazir on the head. “Okay, that construct is strong, try not to decapitate me, I could have stayed in Syria and got that.”

  “We have a quarter of a million dollars each,” Dee explained, “unless anyone wants to chip into some sort of business account.”

  “Not unless we can bill ourselves for long lunches.”

  “Maybe Naz,”

  “And long evening meetings.”

  “Possibly not.”

  Nazir put a hand to his ear like a phone. “Yes, we can discuss your case in a wine bar…”

  “That’s probably already happened.”

  “Yeah, in a nightclub.”

  “We should get some sort of sponsorship for our website. Laptops provided by this lot, cameras provided by that lot, alcohol provided by as many people as we can get to feed us free, or cheapened, booze.”

  “I like the idea of adding advertising, imagine what we could claim!”

  “Okay, I said sponsorship, I didn’t mean adverts for whatever sordid porn and advertising websites you use to get you through the night.”

  “Because I’m the only one that looks at porn. I’m sure if we looked at your web history there’s a few middle of the night episodes of naughtiness.”

  “Don’t start that again. I’ll have to put a password in.”

  “Passwords are balms to make people feel safe as they walk a tightrope over a horde of sharks.”

  “A horde of sharks is probably the tagline for your dating apps.”

  “How is everyone settling in this evening?” Pohl asked as she came in and sat down with her tastefully sized bottle of wine and even more modest glass.

  “Good thanks professor. Hey, you’ve got that smile, I know that smile, that’s the ‘I’ve found something smile.”

  “I have a smile?”

  “Oh yes.”

  “Well, I have. You remember the obituary of Stranos we all read?”

  “Yeppers.”

  “Do you remember who wrote it?”

  Nazir laughed. “Yeah, you got me there.”

  “Okay, it was penned by Harold Darke, a ghost hunter of some… well let’s say reputation. Media friendly, prolific, has his own niche. Able to write an obituary.”

  “And the smile means…”

  “He was injured yesterday. I have some news alerts, I set one up for Darke’s output expecting to learn more about our field. Instead I discover that he went on a vigil, or a ghost spotting mission, or quite what they call it, and part way through he hit himself with a hammer.”

  “A hammer?” Dee checked.

  “Yes. Very badly, he may well die. Beat himself around the head. The police have no evidence of anyone else in the property, and aren’t looking for anyone else. They have concluded something serious happened to the man’s mind and he tried to kill himself. With a hammer he’d found in a shed.”

  “Why would he do that?”

  “They have no motive.”

  “And you suspect weirdness?”

  “The house was the scene of a tragedy years ago. People were bludgeoned to death. A man is in near death for the same thing. I don’t have a pig’s nose for truffles, but I hope I am developing one for this.”

  “Did you just compare yourself to a pig?”

  “Err…oh dear, I think I just did. I’m sure you’ll skip over that and never mention it again.”

  When you’re in the army, there are certain kinds of call you expect. What you do not anticipate is being called into an office, told your father is lying on the precipice between life and death, and being told you have time off to go and see him. You are not then, as a general rule, supposed to pause and wonder aloud what took the inevitable heart attack this long, and you are not meant to sink to one knee as the officer tells you kindly, but without being able to escape from the key issue: that your father beat himself, almost to death.

  The military offered him a car to take him straight to the hospital, which wasn’t protocol but people did have a heart, and so Theo Darke sat stewing during the journey. There had been no way he’d enter the army called Dick, and so the Darke name spread, but Theo always had the feeling his dad had disapproved. Which, Theo supposed, was fine, because the son had always disapprove of his father’s journey into pulp-faction and depression.

  But he refused to believed Harold had cracked after all these years of writing shit and tried to kill himself. There had to be a reason, but the first thing to do was being there in case in father… well, yunno.

  On arrival Theo realised he was still dressed as he had been on the base, and so acquired some admiring looks from nurses and was actually rushed through. He was sure he’d have been bemused and grateful on any other occasion, but displays of fealty weren’t helpful when you were ushered into a room to find the pale, almost ghostlike body of your father who’s head was almost completely covered in bandages.

  “Will he be alright?” Theo asked the nurse who’d shown him the room.

  She widened her eyes, looked at the bed, then back to the man. Tall, muscular, short hair, a handsome fellow and she hated to do it. “I’m sorry, there must be some confusion. I thought someone told you. Your father died a few minutes ago.”

  Theo turned and walked over to the bed. A hand was placed on his father’s, and he began saying a prayer. The nurse, still deciding he should have time, closed the door.

  It was a few minutes later when Theo emerged from his haze to hear voices.

  “He was a ghost hunter.”

  “Ghost hunter? Like that chap on the television?”

  “I don’t know, wife only puts crime on and I’ve had enough of that. But he was staying overnight looking for ghosts. Then he kills himself.”

  A third voice chimed in. “Sad. Must have gone mad. I’ve dealt with psychics and the like. All smoke, drink, many are druggies. This paranormal business screws you up.”

  Theo didn’t realise he’d moved, but he found himself at the door to the room, and he yanked it open quickly to see who was talking, to shout, but the words stuck in his mouth at the three uniformed police who stood there looking sheepish.

  It was never going to be as simple as ringing up the executors, saying you were yet another paranormal investigation team, and asking for permission to stay the night, because everyone involved was rather wary about it all. As a result Dee didn’t even try that approach. Instead she emailed the executors from a slightly different angle: she represented a company of private detectives who specialised in esoteric matters, and they believed that, with a few days access, they could discover why Darke had beat himself to death. Crucially, the email also listed a police detective who had worked with the group and who recommended them. This was why Jeff received a phone call from a stern woman trying to ascertain whether the whole thing was a joke, or whether there really was a chance at finding the problem and realising some resale value to the property.

  Jeff had, of course, been briefed, and Dee considered
getting his permission the most difficult part of the whole operation, because your average police employee liked to stay as far away from the paranormal as possible, and because Jeff kept his use of the box quiet. But after an evening spent with a laptop and a bottle of wine a wording was created which fitted into everyone’s impressions of themselves and Jeff gave his assent.

  Once the email had been sent the phone call followed quickly, and then an email returned. The group had permission to spend several days at the property, and would be given a copy of the key. They just had to be out at a reasonable time in the evenings. The group had a quick discussion, and decided they’d accept and then totally ignore the evening rule, which was how they found themselves driving to the Midlands the next day.

  “I’ve packed us a sensible amount of ghost hunting kit,” Nazir said.

  “Sensible? We have a box. Sensible is no ghost hunting kit.” Dee was driving.

  “Yes, but if they ask we can wave the cliché stuff at them and not mention our own equipment.”

  “That does feel like a good point.”

  “Thank you.”

  “And I assume this professionalism has extended to not packing a case of beer.”

  “Only if you’ve left the vodka at home.”

  “As if I’d bring a bottle of booze to an investigation.”

  Nazir coughed the word bullshit.

  “I still think we should have put me in the boot,” Joe moaned.

  “There’s a phrase you don’t hear everyday.”

  “Joe, be realistic, what are we likely to encounter which would need a construct? It’s a potentially haunted house. It’s not a riot.”

  “Still could have done it.”

  Dee sighed and refocused on the road. Sometimes it was like talking to a child, albeit a dead one they all felt guilty about.

  “I have done some research on the house’s history,” Pohl explained, “but I feel it will be far more interesting to tell you when we’re surrounded by the building itself.”

  Nazir turned and smiled. “Once a historian, now a tour guide of the horrible.”

  “Perhaps Naz, perhaps. I was in my university theatre company.”

  “Really?” they all exclaimed.

  “Okay, technically, it was for a week as I was drafted in by a friend to fill an illness, but I was on the stage briefly, and it did give me a feeling of immersion into that world.”

  “Which you’ve ignored for the last thirty years…”

  “And am beginning to re-evaluate, yes.”

  “Okay, we can have a spooky history reading when we get to the house.”

  The journey was a smooth one, little in the way of holdups, and they were soon pulling up outside the property and taking a look. End of terrace, neat, ordinary. No clues as to what had happened inside. What they did notice was the stern faced woman coming up behind them. She appeared to Dee exactly as she’d imagine the woman on the phone to have looked, and a key was handed over, time limits promised, and the woman vanished as swiftly as she’d arrived.

  “Clearly the executors are really happy about this whole situation,” Dee laughed, as they unlocked and walked in. The place was still furnished, and it was immaculately dusted and cleaned, well, all except for the bloody stain on the living room carpet.

  “Can we put something over that?” Pohl wondered.

  “I’ve got some bad news,” Joe said as they wandered through the downstairs, finding a time capsule. Nothing from the last twenty years seemed to have ever entered, as everything they did find was the old. Working, fading, and old.

  “What’s the bad news?” Dee asked.

  “I can’t find any ghosts.”

  “None?”

  “Nope.”

  “That surprises me,” Pohl said as they stood around in the kitchen. The fridge was still on and Dee noted food was still in it. “Given the history of the house.”

  “Perhaps you better tell us the history?” Nazir said, lifting up the sort of kettle which you put straight onto the hob and pondering using it.

  “Ah, well, this house has had a number of tenants, but only a minority have died peacefully.”

  “She really has gone theatrical.”

  “In the 1960s, the Smith family moved into this property. Mr Smith, a council planning officer, along with his wife, a seamstress for theatre productions, and their three children. All seemed well for the first few weeks, until a neighbour heard screams one night and called the police. When the constabulary arrived they discovered that Mr. Smith had bludgeoned his wife and children to death with a hammer and then killed himself with it.”

  “With a hammer? Like Darke?”

  “Oh yes.”

  “I’m not sure whether to be disturbed or pleased by the glee in your voice.”

  “Why, why kill his kids?” Joe said aghast.

  “That’s the mystery. They never knew. No financial worries, no health issues, no affairs, nothing. One day he killed his family and no one ever knew why.”

  “And now something in this house did it again on another night.”

  “But there’s no ghosts…”

  “Joe, I think we have to wait for the darkness.”

  Steven Smith was a proud man, although he would admit to a little bit of shame. He was proud first of his wife, who had married him ten years ago when he was little better than a schoolboy, and who had supported him during those late nights and lost weekends when he’d pushed his council career up and up until he was now young but senior, youthful but on a good income, comfortable and looked up to.

  He was also proud of his daughters, three girls who had been happy, content babies and who were growing into confident, well presented young women who could take on a world which seemed to be opening up for their sex. Maybe they would even help the world open themselves. Never once had they scolded him for the time spent away from them, and now he knew he could repay that time.

  No, he was ashamed, just a little, because right this very moment, as he stood outside a nondescript brick building and watched furniture being bought in, he was proud of his house. Many social climbers who filled the council ranks would sneer as a terraced house, but the Smith family had been crammed into just a few rooms all these years, and now they could spread out into a proper property. It was perfect, everything he had dreamt of. Not for him a house in rural nowhere surrounded by flowers, he liked bricks and neighbours and walking to work. This place, this urban hub, was perfect. He knew his wife liked it, and he was sure the girls would too. There’d already been a fight over who would sleep in the very top room, which surely meant they’d love the place!

  He snapped back to reality, and watched the flow of boxes and wooden items moving in. Yes, he was financially secure, in love, a father, and now had the home he’d wanted. There really couldn’t have been a better moment for a man or woman in life. Although, he supposed, he should spare a thought for the man who’d lived here before, a veteran of the Great War who’d lived decades in this property and whose sad death gave the Smiths the chance to buy it and move in. Steven supposed that was life, tragedy leading to happiness, and that eventually he and his wife would die and a new family would move happily in. Nothing to be done about that short of arguing with god, and he didn’t feel like that today. He felt like the greatest man alive.

  The plan was simple: take up occupancy of the living room, put some music on low in the background, and just chat the night away while waiting for the inevitable appearance of the suicide causing ghost which must surely haunt this place. Somewhere. Beers had been left behind, so everyone had buckets of coffee, larger containers of snacks, and a quiz book to ask questions from.

  “What is the capital of Czechoslovakia?”

  “Woah, woah,” Dee said to quizmaster Pohl, “that stopped existing years ago, how old is this quiz book?”

  “I don’t know, let me turn to the front and see when it was published.”

  “Don’t do that!” Nazir protested, “knowing the da
te helps with the answers.”

  “Did you buy this quiz book just so everything was old?” Dee sighed.

  “It’s in mint condition.”

  “Great, there’ll be questions about Thatcher and everything.”

  “That’s probably the most benign thing anyone’s ever complained Margaret Thatcher for,” Pohl mused. At this point they heard an odd noise, like a stifled scream, and everyone rose and moved into the hallway, the direction from which it had come. That meant they were ready for the fierce pounding the door now took.

  “A very well behaved ghost, knocking to come on,” Naz asked, as Dee stepped forward and pulled the wooden entrance open.

  A man was stood there, fist raised from knocking. He had a combat jacket, jeans and a very unhappy look which was making his face turn red. “What the fuck are you doing here?” he bellowed.

  “We’re investigating the death of Harold Darke,” Dee explained calmly, “We have the executor’s permission.” Then less calmly “What the fuck are you doing here?”

  “Permission? You don’t have my fucking permission.”

  “Right, and who are you?”

  “Theo Darke, the man’s son!”

  “Yeah, okay, I’ve no reply for that, you better come in.”

  The group in the hallway moved into the lounge and picked their mugs up. Theo, confused by their nonchalant attitude, was still angry.

  “My dad died here, and you’re playing silly buggers, pretending that ghosts or what have you are about. Where do you get off on that!”

  “Do you believe in ghosts Theo?” Pohl asked.

  “What, no, of course I don’t.”

  “Then why did your father kill himself?”

  “Because he was depressed, getting ever more depressed.”