Ghosts and Hauntings

by SIMS, MAYNARD

  With a sigh she tentatively climbed the stairs. There was nervousness within her that she hadn’t been able to shake off.

  At the top of the stairs was a landing and leading from it were three doors. One was a white bathroom, and the other two were bedrooms, but each room was empty.

  “Sally,” she shouted, and the alarm in her voice concerned her almost as much as not finding her friend.

  Mary ran back down the stairs, through the living room and outside into the front garden.

  The sun was diminished as dusk struggled for supremacy. Mary looked up at the windows of the cottage. There had been three rooms upstairs, but, with the bathroom at the back, only two faced the front, both bedrooms. There were three windows facing the front garden.

  Mary was about to run back into the cottage when she heard the sound of tapping on glass. She looked up and Sally stood at the window, waving. She was smiling and beckoning.

  Mary ran into the cottage. Back up the stairs she opened each of the doors but each of the three rooms was empty of people. There were beds in the two bedrooms, one a double and the other a single. The double looked as if it had recently been used and not yet made up.

  She opened the dark wood veneered wardrobe and ruffled through the hanging clothes. Many of the dresses and shoes she recognised; they were Sally’s.

  On the bedside cabinet there was a photograph frame. It was a match for the one downstairs. Mary knew before she looked at it what the photo would be and she was correct. It was Sally and John on their wedding day.

  In the kitchen Mary at sat at the stained oak table and ate her lunch. She tried not to notice that the second plate had already been cleared, the meal eaten.

  In the living room she listened and she was sure she could hear someone moving around upstairs.

  Outside in the front garden she glanced back at the cottage as she shut the gate behind her. Sally was there and standing next to her was a man, although his face was hidden by the curtain.

  The lane didn’t seem so long on the walk back and when she passed the train station it was just a few moments before she came to a quaint street of houses, and standing at the end of the street was a pub whose lights bathed the surrounding area with safety.

  She booked a room and thought she would decide in the morning if Sally existed any longer.

  LOVE LIES FLOATING ON THE WATER

  Pulford picked the penultimate piece of pork from his plate and placed it politely into his mouth.

  “I have to say this meat is superb,” Priestley said as he savoured the last drop of Chateauneuf du pape. He looked longingly at the empty bottle.

  “Yes,” Pulford said, once he had swallowed his forkful. “Mrs Wilson has excelled herself tonight. We sourced the pork locally of course.”

  “Naturally, and may I compliment this wine…”

  Smiling, Pulford said, “Not to fear. I asked Mrs Wilson before we began to ensure another bottle is breathing for us. It won’t be a moment.”

  “You think of everything.”

  “Pudding is Eton Mess, a foolish name but a delicious concoction.”

  “Ah, Eton, the hallowed halls.”

  “Fond memories indeed. Have you heard from Dunbar since his visit to Venice?”

  Priestley frowned. “I fear you may have just impaired my digestion for the evening.”

  There was a polite knock at the door and Mrs Wilson, Pulford’s housekeeper, entered with a silver trolley containing two glass dessert bowls and an uncorked bottle of red wine.

  Pulford’s house was rather grand. Pulford had lived there with his wife of many years and, since her early death from pernicious cancer, it was really too large, yet it was the happy memories that kept him rooted there, and 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, and able, just, to confine their personal sadness to a constant nagging instead of the debilitating grief that threatened to overwhelm them on too regular a basis.

  Once Mrs Wilson had departed, Pulford said, “I take it there has been no improvement in Dunbar’s position?”

  “The Venice trip was ill advised but seemed to him to offer a rehabilitation of sorts. You and I both know the depths to which the human soul can descend and I fear Dunbar was blind to the effects foreign travel would have upon him.”

  “We can both empathise with his situation but perhaps not with his choice of treatment.”

  “His treatment, for now, consists of a stay of some permanence in a sanatorium on the coast. A splendid setting for a disagreeable establishment,” Priestley said.

  “But necessary nonetheless.” Pulford poured some wine into both their glasses and they enjoyed with quiet pleasure their rather sweet pudding.

  “I can sense you want a fuller explanation,” Priestley said as his bowl lay empty, save for the licked spoon.

  “I think we should retire to the drawing room and, if it suits you, I feel we should dismember Dunbar’s recent history. Not for my sake, or for any consequence of curiosity, but I think it will exorcise some uncertainties on your part, if you don’t mind my saying so.”

  Priestley stood abruptly, and for one awful moment Pulford was concerned that he had offended his friend. Then Priestley nodded agreeably, plucked both wine glass and bottle from the table and indicated that they should move to the other room.

  The drawing room was set out as Mrs Wilson knew the two men preferred. Two high backed armchairs were placed facing one another at an angle sufficient for intimate privacy. At the arm of each chair stood a small table of a size sufficient to accommodate the wine glass and bottle, as well as the ashtrays and accompanying paraphernalia that would afford the convenience of the cigar lighting and smoking rituals.

  It was a warm evening and although the fire was made up it was not lit. It was a fine bright and warm evening and with windows open to the grounds the ambience was welcoming and invigorating whilst retaining a comfort that familiar matters can often provide.

  “I am not aware of your current opinion on the subject but I contend that Cohiba cigars may be considered as the Cuban cigar industry's leading brand. As you know these cigars appeared in 1968 and at first they were supplied only to the top government officials. If I were being contentious I might consider they were an internal bartering method of bribery. Since 1982 Cohiba cigars have been marketed worldwide and I believe their marketing strategy suggests they are very popular with those who like cigar brands with a luxurious image,” Pulford said.

  “Do we fit into the demographic?”

  “I think we are an audience of two, but I like to feel we are connoisseurs of sorts.” Pulford handed Priestley a cigar, and each man began the cutting and preparation using the equipment on their side table.

  “The Cohiba Behike, which is what we have here, is the most exclusive linea of the most prestigious Habanos brand. This extremely limited production apparently incorporates, for the first time in the blend of its three vitolas, the tobacco leaf called 'medio tiempo'. That grants it an exceptional character and flavour. Each and every one of Cohiba Behike Habanos, you’ll notice I am sure, incorporates a band with two holograms, which I am told are for security identification.”

  “Top secret cigars one might say,” Priestley said.

  Pulford nodded his head through his first plume of smoke. “And we have, over the years, become used to matters of some secrecy, not to say delicacy.”

  “Indeed, have we not. Do you still hear from anyone in the Service?”

  “Like you I try to keep my ear to the ground.”

  “If not your shoulder to the wheel.”

  “I think we both did our bit of effort and endeavour for Queen and country
don’t you?”

  A silence that was both long but companionable stretched through several inhalations of fine cigar smoke and a full glass of wine. Drinks replenished Pulford said, “Do you feel up to discussing matters Dunbar?”

  Priestley sighed, but not in a manner to suggest impatience. It was a sigh of resignation that he had to share what he knew of their mutual friend, and if there was any reluctance on his part it was not through any issue of disloyalty but rather from the necessity of imparting a tale that had caused Dunbar such anguish.

  Venice in March of that year was warm, with gentle breezes blown in from the Adriatic, and for Dunbar it was the perfect location for his recovery. It was a city both interesting and, to him a little familiar, and the elegantly deteriorating facades of many of the buildings spoke eloquently of longevity, which was something he thought might be attractive.

  It was on the second day of his holiday that he saw the person in the wheelchair. He could only describe them as a person as their face and much of the body was covered in shawls and blankets that seemed out of place in such clement weather.

  The person pushing the wheelchair was undoubtedly a man, so Dunbar decided, on no greater evidence than the traditional pairing with which he was personally familiar, that the person being pushed must be a woman. And from that moment on, when he saw the couple, he wondered and considered what this woman would look like.

  Dunbar had taken the Alilaguna boat to the Lido, an island in front of Venice, a journey of some fifty minutes from Marco Polo Airport. He sat with his bag at his feet and surveyed the scenes as they passed, appreciating the ancient splendour, the enclosed sense of peace that the city seemed to arouse.

  He had a room booked at the Hotel Riviera that was situated all but at the water’s edge, with the terminal for the ferry directly opposite the hotel entrance, from where he could take the water ferry and within fifteen minutes be seated at a café in St. Marks Square.

  The hotel was a splendid building, exuding charm and elegance, and Dunbar smiled as he walked towards it. The choice had been a good one and he was confident that this change of scene was just what he needed at this difficult time in his life.

  The staircase leading to the entrance doors of the hotel was lined with pitted terracotta pots from which draped geranium and lobelia, colours shining in the warm sunshine. The entrance doors opened into the luxurious foyer where cool marble tiles and graceful pillars were an understated admission of opulence.

  As Dunbar approached the reception desk the uniformed man behind the desk beamed a smile of welcome as bright as the potted flowers. “Ah, Signor Dunbar, so good to see you again.”

  Dunbar placed his bag on the floor and rather hesitantly offered his hand in a return of the effusive greeting he was being given. “Yes,” he said. “Thank you. I have the room I wanted?”

  The man nodded enthusiastically. “Si, a double with a balcony and an excellent view over the water.”

  “That’s splendid, most kind.”

  “And your wife has already gone up and is no doubt enjoying the view as we speak.”

  Dunbar drew in his breath. “What? No…I…”

  Any further discussion on the subject was prevented by the appearance from the lift area of a large and noisy group of Italians who seemed to be playing a game of who could speak the loudest and interrupt the most people.

  Dunbar turned from glancing at them and back to the desk clerk whom it was plain to see had already dismissed Dunbar from his professional attention and was focussing on the group of his countrymen who no doubt were known for showing their appreciation in the form of generous gratuities.

  “My wife cannot have…” Dunbar tried to regain the conversation but it was a hopeless cause. It must be, he assumed, a simple error. There are plenty of English tourists here every day and to mistake the wife of one for another is, he supposed, excusable at a busy hotel.

  As he moved away from the reception desk and walked towards the lifts he all but passed through the noisy group. They all glanced casually at each other as strangers do, except for one man. The Italians seemed to be mainly couples, a man and a woman whom Dunbar could recognise as being together. One man seemed to be on his own, and it was he who caught Dunbar’s glance and held it far too long for polite etiquette.

  The man was around Dunbar’s age, late forties, and was handsome in the way that many Italian men seem to be without effort. Long hair, too long for his age at least, was swept back from an unlined forehead that merely emphasised the Roman nose.

  As they passed one another directly and at close corners the man nodded and smiled in what to Dunbar was an unjustifiably confidential manner. It was as if the man was acknowledging some secret that they shared.

  When the group had left Dunbar behind and were talking animatedly at the reception desk, Dunbar was left feeling he was party to an involvement that he did not quite comprehend. The lift opened and the thought was dismissed as he pressed the button to his floor.

  His room was light and airy with the doors to the small balcony opened and a fresh breeze blowing back the heavy curtains. He had to admit to himself that, due to the comments of the reception clerk, he entered the room with some trepidation. He knew he travelled alone but if a mistake had been made and there was a woman in his room then it was an issue that had to be dealt with. Room bookings are often confused, he realised, and he was prepared for some explanation.

  The room was, of course, empty when he entered, although, it must have been his imagination, he was sure he could smell a gentle scent lingering in the air. It was, indeed, a perfume that his wife favoured, and after some thought he decided it was the power of association that he distinguished. The implication of the clerk allied with his own imagination conjuring a familiar and welcome scent.

  He unpacked and lay back on the bed.

  Venice is a city in northeast Italy sited on a group of over one hundred small islands separated by canals and linked by bridges. It is located in the marshy Venetian Lagoon that stretches along the shoreline between the mouths of the Po and the Piave Rivers. Venice is renowned for the beauty of its setting, its architecture and its artworks. The city in its entirety is listed as World Heritage Site, along with its lagoon.

  The name is derived from the ancient Veneti people who inhabited the region by the 10th century B.C. The city historically was the capital of the Venetian Republic. Venice has been known as the "La Dominante", "Serenissima", "Queen of the Adriatic", "City of Water", "City of Masks", "City of Bridges", "The Floating City", and "City of Canals". It has been described as "undoubtedly the most beautiful city built by man", and as being one of Europe's most romantic cities.

  Dunbar closed his eyes and thought of romance.

  Ten years of Catherine’s chronic illness was a drain on his bank balance. Private nursing and prescription charges took a large bite out of his monthly salary cheque, leaving him in a position of having to forego any kind of luxuries he may have coveted. Gradually he had been able to get his finances back on track, and this trip, inspired by a previous holiday together, was reward to himself.

  He was not a natural traveller, unlike his wife who, before they’d met, had trekked to India, backpacked through Australia, and visited most of the major capitals of Europe with her parents. What she found so frustrating and depressing about her illness wasn’t the constant pain - she learned to live with that with the help of drugs and a pain-management course - but being confined to the house, moreover, as the illness developed, one room, she found intolerable.

  He tried to brighten her moods by bringing her holiday brochures from the local travel agents. At first she accused him of being insensitive and deliberately hurtful, but eventually she sought solace in the glossy pages, craving more when she’d exhausted a particular batch.

  Soon the brochures were not enough, and he was forced to scour shops for anything travel related, and bookshops for maps and tour-guides. For Catherine it became a full-blown obsession. If she could no
t travel physically, at least she could do it mentally.

  In the last three years, Venice became the focus of her obsession. Re-visiting a time when they had been happy. When slow and intimate dinners spilled over into their room and an expression of their love was to be found. Now, in a way, Dunbar saw his coming here, visiting the place she had such a regard for, retracing their steps, a valediction to his wife and the life they endured together.

  He must have slept because he awoke suddenly, the windows wide open and the coolness of the room, and the enveloping gloom, telling him it was evening. His watch revealed it was all but time for dinner and he showered, and dressed hurriedly but carefully.

  As he surveyed his appearance in the full length mirror affixed to the wall he became aware of a sound outside. Stepping onto the balcony he looked across to the water ferry terminal. It was alive with people coming and going, faces alive with anticipation of what their evening held or with the pleasure of what the day had allowed them.

  Dunbar was about to step back into his room when a movement on the terrace of the hotel beneath him aroused his attention. It was the noisy group from earlier in the foyer. Amongst them was the man who had found Dunbar inordinately fascinating, or so it seemed. The man was, even now, staring up at Dunbar as if he knew which room to watch, as if he had been waiting to spy him.

  Dunbar grunted an all but silent expression of impatience and as if he had heard it the man nodded companionably and framed an expression of a wave. Dunbar turned away without acknowledging him and went back to getting ready.

  After his shower he had dressed in a casual shirt and jacket. The creases in his slacks were knife-sharp thanks to ten minutes in the trouser press in the corner and, as he surveyed himself in the mirror, he smiled. Despite the casual wear, he was immaculately turned out, from the polished slip-on shoes to the ruler-straight parting in his sandy hair. The effect pleased him and bolstered his self-confidence. Should he find himself in the position of meeting an unattached lady, then at least his appearance would not let him down, even if his conscience might well do so.