Ghosts and Hauntings

by SIMS, MAYNARD

  Niederman shrugged and smiled slightly. ‘You do, Herr Towner. You make your point very eloquently. Forgive me for my intrusion into your grief. I apologise.’

  Towner nodded, and looked away, up at the mountain. The cable car was reaching the top and, thankfully the journey was nearly over. He was shaking slightly. He hated confrontation and it was totally out of character for him to speak out like that, but the disturbed night and dreams of Caroline had left him feeling slightly ragged. He had noticed in the past that dreaming about his late wife, even when she was alive, put him a bad mood for the rest of the day. There was nothing he could do about it and usually the mood only lasted until bedtime. After a good night’s sleep he was usually his old self again.

  Niederman was unfortunate in that he’d been in the wrong place on the wrong day, and Towner was beginning to feel guilty.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ he said, ‘…for my outburst. It was unforgivable and very rude. I’m a little out of sorts today.’

  Niederman smiled solicitously. ‘I do understand. I am in love with a very wonderful woman. If anything ever happened to her, well, I think my life would end too.’

  That’s not what I meant, thought Towner, but let it pass.

  Louise saw the place as a challenge and had set about stripping walls and repainting doorways with all the passion of a zealot. She’d always supported him, always been there to bolster his confidence and to embrace his sometimes hare-brained schemes, and he loved her for it.

  He drank his drink and poured another generous measure.

  The next story was THE PAIN COLLECTOR and it seemed to be complete, without intrusion from any others. It was about a woman who had an affair and the pain is taken away by a mysterious ghostly figure.

  I wish that could happen to me. I wish I could be visited by the collector.

  She was thinking about Robert’s story. It was truly awful and she suspected the after-effects of it would be with him for years, possibly for the rest of his life. But she would endeavour not to see him again. She couldn’t take somebody else’s problems at the moment. Her own were too fresh in her mind.

  She closed her eyes and thought about home, about Brian and their relationship. How good it was, and how suddenly and bitterly it ended.

  She knew Brian was married long before the affair began. She’d even met his wife at a staff dinner; she was a teacher as well, at a school on the other side of town. A nice woman, if a little dull and mouse-like. And Joanna was determined nothing would happen between herself and Brian, despite the definite attraction between them.

  But that resolve was undermined last summer, when they had taken a school trip to Amsterdam, and circumstances threw them together. A mix up with the hostel booking had led to them sharing a room, and despite assurances to themselves and others that they were responsible and respectable adults, the inevitable had happened.

  The affair lasted a heady six months, and during that time she fell deeply in love with Brian. So much so that she wanted nothing more than for him to leave his wife and set up home with her, so they could be together forever. So desperate was her desire for this that she forced the issue, sending an anonymous letter to Brian’s wife, telling her of the affair.

  She’d been so convinced that it was the right thing to do; and for a while that appeared to be the case.

  “But life never really works out the way we’d like it to, does it, Joanna?”

  He didn’t want to think about his life not turning out as he wanted it to.

  He would meet with Mandy on Monday, perhaps take her for a nice lunch in that new restaurant by the bridge, and tell her it was over. She’d be fine.

  It was as though I had entered a nightmare world of unreality. Unseen creatures laughed in my ears. I found myself running around in circles on the wet grass, my eyes blurred by the blinding rain. My thoughts were in chaos. The trees were alive, swaying above my head with monstrous intent. An icy blast swirled around me, sweeping my hair over my face, clutching and pulling at my garments. I found myself being pulled along by the rushing wind, while my arms flapped helplessly against my side. Round and round I was pulled until finally I slumped to the ground, exhausted. My mind entered the realms of unconsciousness, and as I fell asleep I heard the wind, with a satisfied murmur, enter the house.

  He realised that without it registering he had begun to read the next story, BENJAMIN’S SHADOW.

  I woke with the dampness of the early morning dew covering my body. I felt cold and stiff as I stood up. I looked around and saw that I had travelled a long way from the house. Looking down at my feet I found that I had slept on a concealed concrete slab embedded in the earth. I bent down to inspect it, because I saw that there was writing carved into the surface. With disgust I realised that I had spent the night upon a grave, for the words read: `Here lay the bodies of Stephen and Helen Young. May their tormented souls rest in peace'.

  The story was about a dead baby and he found his eyes full of tears as he remembered the two babies Helen miscarried, late in the pregnancies.

  The characters in the story weren’t called Steve and Helen but here he was reading his and his wife’s names on a fictional headstone.

  He was fairly certain in his own mind that Mandy wasn’t what they called a ‘bunny boiler’ but he actually didn’t know how she would react when he ended it with her.

  He turned the book over in his hands. The title was now showing as GHOSTLY HORROR HAUNTINGS

  The contents page had the stories moved around so they were in a different order.

  He closed the book and re-opened it at the contents. They were changed again. BENJAMIN’S BEETLES, FLOUR WHITE IMAGES, SPINDLE THIN MOTHS.

  The stories had been speaking to him, reflecting on the situation he had taken himself into. Now they were becoming jumbled and confused, as if they were telling him that where he was right now was a mess.

  He had sought some solace reading ghost stories but they had ended up haunting themselves and adding to his torment.

  He looked at the title page of the last story, then looked at his watch. No more whisky but time and energy to read the last story.

  Perhaps this one would ease his mind, help his conscience, point him in the right direction.

  FLAME.

  The following thirty pages, to the end of the book, were completely blank.

  The actual story, FLAME, is not full of blank pages.

  It is the title story in the collection

  FLAME AND OTHER ENIGMATIC TALES.

  THE MAN WHO WORE THE WRONG COAT

  Sunshine poured in through the mullioned windows as though it was a liquid eraser trying to blank out the conversation within the room. The two men talking were aware of the warmth but it did little to alleviate the shivers they experienced or to eradicate the shadows that shifted in the unlit corners.

  Pulford’s house was large and rather grand. Built of the local honey coloured stone it glowed when shining in the sun and appeared mellow and restful when the weather was inclement. Pulford had lived there with his wife of many years but since her early death from pernicious cancer it was really too large and he rattled around with only his memories and the shadows to bump into. It was the memories that kept him rooted there, and despite its size it was an agreeable house in which to live and it suited him.

  It suited his friend Priestley to visit on a regular basis and since the suicide of his own wife some time ago they found they had more in common than they wished to admit.

  The two P’s in the pod as their wives had called them in happier times had settled into a rhythmic pattern of behaviour that was more comfortable than exciting, but it was sufficient to leave them satisfied enough and able, just, to confine their personal sadness to a constant nagging instead of the debilitating grief that threatened to overwhelm them.

  “Has sufficient time passed for you to tell me about Noble’s adventure in Suffolk?” Pulford asked, and blew a thick cloud of cigar smoke into the air where it vied for suprem
acy with shafts of sunlight.

  Priestley looked at his friend with a degree of discomfort. “Check I think.”

  Pulford turned his attention to the partially populated chessboard on the oak refectory table they were using.

  “In truth,” Priestley said. “It is Noble’s story to tell but I don’t think he will object to me enlightening you. It will need a refill of Taylor’s before I can start though.”

  Pulford took the stopper from the port decanter and poured a generous measure into his friend’s crystal glass. Then he reached across the chess board, moved a knight and said, “Perhaps we should suspend the game for a while and get ourselves sat and comfortable.”

  “We could even sit outside and admire the setting of the sun.”

  “It’s certainly warm enough.”

  “And we can each take with us a fresh Ramon Allones.”

  It is said there is a philosophy behind the ability to select the right cigar for a given moment, and of course, like any philosophy, it is subject to interpretation and even debate. Some have their belief in certain strengths and shapes of cigars depending on the time of day the cigar is smoked. Others, bizarrely, feel that only particular shapes go with certain body or facial types. Others even suggest a cigar should be smoked only when one has the time to savour it to the fullest. It can certainly be suggested that smaller, milder cigars be smoked in the morning, cigars of medium strength and size go well in the afternoon, and the more full-bodied larger sized cigars should be savoured after dinner.

  The two P’s had dined well on locally sourced venison cooked to perfection by Pulford’s house keeper of longstanding, Mrs Wilson, and were content and ready for a cigar of full flavour.

  They seated themselves on the flag stoned patio on the south side of the house. An ornate metal table was set at the correct angle to maximise the last couple of hours of sunlight. They placed their glasses on the table and each pulled back a cushion covered chair to sit on.

  Pulford brought two ashtrays from the house and both men went through their own ritual to prepare their cigars. When each cigar was drawing satisfactorily and the bright air above their heads was clouding with aromatic smoke Priestley looked at Pulford and the latter nodded.

  Noble had passed down from Cambridge with a first class degree and had accepted the invitation from his uncle to join the research institute his father’s brother ran in Huntingdon.

  This arrangement suited the family well and for more than thirty years the work was demanding but rewarding. Government contracts were won and renewed, several important medical advancements were achieved and both the institute and Noble himself became respected and admired.

  It was a sad shock when Noble was woken one morning by the ringing of the telephone.

  “Do you know what time it is?”

  “Anthony?”

  “Aunt Julie?”

  “I’m sorry to wake you, Anthony, but I have some terrible news.”

  Fully awake now, Noble sat up in bed and became suddenly aware of the tremor in his aunt’s voice. “I’m so sorry.”

  “He went peacefully in his sleep. His heart has been bad for a while; they said he was on borrowed time the last occasion.”

  “He was a good man. Is there anything I can do?”

  The long drawn out breath was not an optimistic portent but Noble owed his career and fortune to his uncle and he was ready to help in any way he could.

  “I know you won’t want to be away from your work for too long but the institute can be run capably enough with the others in charge. Naturally you will assume full control once Adam’s affairs are dealt with…”

  “Is that what you want me to do? Sort out his affairs?”

  “Would you mind stopping here for a few days? There are the funeral arrangements, all his papers, and then of course there is the chapel issue.”

  “Chapel issue?”

  “There’s the doorbell. I’ll explain when you get here. You will come?”

  After packing a small suitcase with things he would need for an extended stay with his aunt, Noble drove to the institute to ensure everyone who needed to know was informed, and to instruct the deputies about the current projects and to facilitate the smooth running of the work while he was away.

  It went smoothly enough until he went into his uncle’s office. There he found it hard to keep a stiff upper lip, so redolent of the recently deceased was the room. Noble picked up the photo frame from the desk and smiled at the photograph which showed his uncle and aunt, arms entwined, in the garden of their home. In the background, half hidden by a line of beeches and pyracantha were the vague outlines of an old stone built building that had to it a familiar shape. He realised this was probably the chapel to which his aunt referred.

  He had visited the house in the past but couldn’t recall having been aware of such a building. It didn’t look a modern addition, although the edges of it in the photograph were quite blurry and indistinct, almost as if the chapel was trying to shy away from the lens. There might have been some figures standing just outside the door but then again what he could see were just as likely to be small trees or bushes.

  He resolved to leave any speculation until he was at the house and his aunt could explain fully what she had meant by ‘the chapel issue.’

  The drive was a pleasant one, and with the summer sun alternately warming and then blinding him he was able to keep the top of his convertible down for the whole journey. It wasn’t a long enough trip in all honesty to warrant a stop for lunch but the news of his uncle’s death had instilled him some reflective thoughts of his own mortality, as such news does often tend to do, and he was disposed to slow life down a bit, to look after himself as his mother might have said.

  He pulled into the car park of a country pub that advertised itself as gastro, not a welcoming word so far as Noble was concerned, but the hanging baskets of bright flowers and the absence of too many cars attracted him.

  One car in particular caught his attention, an old Alvis. For some reason, and his interest in vintage and classic cars was a mild one, he remembered this British car manufacturer had created its name by shortening aluminium to AL and adding VIS the Latin for strong.

  It was quiet inside the pub. He took a pint of IPA to a corner table and selected from the menu. The young girl who took his order had a tattoo of entwined hearts on her wrist but the aggression in her eyes didn’t speak too much of love or affection.

  Other diners numbered just three parties and he tried to play a guessing game about who might own the Alvis. One small group consisted of two men and a woman but with their predominantly brown and beige attire, and their demeanour of suburbia, he had them down as the owners of the modern estate car. A young woman on her own and permanently connected to her mobile phone was the driver of the pale blue Mini, he decided. That left the third person, but when he glanced in the direction of what he was sure had been a man alone, he had gone. Noble had not seen or heard him leave and when he tried to recall what he had looked like he found he couldn’t think of a single distinguishing characteristic. In fact the table where Noble was sure he had been sitting was empty, no glass, no plate, nothing.

  When the waitress brought his food he asked her if she had seen the man. She looked at him as if he was asking for something not only illegal but unsavoury. She hadn’t seen anyone who wasn’t there. Oh, and would that be all?

  He finished his meal, paid at the bar and was preparing to leave when his attention was caught by raised voices. He turned to see one the men in the group of three arguing with the waitress and a man who exuded minor authority. It seemed, Noble deduced by eavesdropping shamelessly, that the man had with him when he arrived a coat, despite the warmth of the weather, and the coat had now disappeared.

  Noble considered for a brief moment making the suggestion that the man it was claimed had not been there might have taken the coat, but it was a futile thought and he shrugged mentally and went on his way.

  The afternoon
sun was still high and regal as he pulled into the driveway of his aunt’s house. Already that was how he thought of it, although it had been his uncle’s before their marriage, had been in the family for generations.

  The house was a medieval manor house with later additions. The main part of the house dated from the mid 17th century and the beautiful mellow stone of the original had been well matched by the more modern extensions. There was a purposeful symmetry about the external façade and with the proportioned windows, the correctly attended grounds, and the chimneys and turrets the house was as welcoming as Noble remembered it to be.

  He parked in front of the huge front door, reached by climbing a set of stone steps, removed his bag and looked about him. There was barely a sound to be heard bar the birdsong and the droning buzz of bees that flocked around buddleia. The sky was as blue as innocent girl’s eyes and mostly cloudless. He breathed deeply and let the peaceful atmosphere wash over him. If he had a task ahead of him then at least it would be conducted in agreeable surroundings.

  The front door opened and he saw his aunt standing at the top of the steps.

  “Anthony, good of you to come.” She looked tried and drawn, as she had every right to be.

  Noble greeted her warmly, gave again his sincere condolences, and reassured her he would stay for as long as she and the affairs of her husband required. She thanked him profusely, and led him into the house.

  The entrance hall was oak panelled and vast. From it led several doors, mostly closed, but through those that were open he could glimpse sumptuous rooms of almost stately proportions and décor.