Shattered

by C. S. Kane

  “You came in like you had the weight of the world on your shoulders and kindness doesn’t cost much.”

  “Not everyone realizes that.”

  “To be honest, you look even worse now.”

  “Thanks,” I said with a half-smile.

  “What’s troubling you?”

  “It’s a strange place.”

  Hope scanned the room. “I can sense that…”

  “Really? You feel something here too?” I said as I set down my mug.

  “I’m not a clairvoyant or anything, but it’s plain to see the place doesn’t have…good energy.”

  “But hang on a minute, you are into all that occult stuff, right? I mean if this place needed some kind of exorcism or something…”

  “I sell New Age tools, Stacey, joss sticks and crystals. My mum introduced to me that world before she died. My sister and I were raised Wiccan. I do believe in a spiritual plain, but I am by no means able to control it. Why do you ask?”

  “I don’t know where to start. Since I stepped into this place, I’ve been having strange dreams about children and blood running down my bedroom walls. There are these weird carvings on the wall. I have felt and seen things that aren’t really there, Hope, and I’m afraid I’m losing my sanity. I never believed in all that hocus-pocus stuff, but if it isn’t something supernatural, then what the hell is wrong with me? Can you do an Ouija board or something? Can you call them, or it, or whatever out if they are here?”

  “To allow the spirits to speak in such a free way is far too dangerous.”

  I sank back into my chair with an exhausted sigh.

  “There is, however, something we could try. Do you have a deck of cards?”

  I hopped out of the seat and pulled out the boxes from underneath the coffee table. I riffled through them until my hand fell upon the pack.

  I held them up. “Like this?”

  “Just like that. Now open all the doors in the flat,” she instructed.

  I rushed through the flat, cracked open the doors, and hurried back to find Hope kneeling at the coffee table. She had unfolded a deep purple silk scarf and placed it on the table.

  “Do you need candles or anything?” I asked as I knelt opposite her.

  “Nope, just these cards will do.”

  “How does it work?”

  Hope shuffled the deck. “When my sister and I were kids, we used to play our own version of the ‘Yes/No’ game.”

  “What does your sister do?”

  “She died a few years ago. I talk to her this way sometimes. Like I said, it’s dangerous to give access in a free way as evil spirits can force their way through, but this is more limited, more controlled. You only talk directly to who you want to and no one else can butt in. You simply ask questions that can be answered by either ‘yes’ or ‘no’ and then flip a card over. Black signifies a ‘yes’ and red means ‘no.’ Easy as that.” She placed the cards in the center of the coffee table.

  “Right then,” I said, looking at Hope with anticipation.

  “This is your show, Stacey. Ask the questions you need answered.”

  I reached out shakily and flipped the top card. “Is there anybody here?”

  “Yes,” Hope said as she nodded at the black card.

  My eyes widened.

  I flipped the next card. “Are you trying to communicate with me?”

  “Yes.”

  “Will you leave me alone?” I asked.

  “No,” Hope said as our eyes fell upon the first red card.

  I hesitated for a moment.

  “Are you trying to hurt me?”

  “No.”

  “Is someone or something trying to hurt me?”

  “Yes.”

  “Did it hurt you?”

  “Yes.”

  “Were you hurt in this house?”

  “Yes.”

  “Were you…were you murdered?”

  “Yes.”

  “I knew it, Hope,” I said, feeling the throbbing pain in my head again.

  “Carry on…” Hope whispered as she grabbed my hand.

  “Can you stop it?”

  “No.”

  “Can I stop it?”

  “No more,” I heard a pair of voices whisper in unison from behind me.

  I screamed and turned toward the kitchenette so I could look out the living room door. The scarf and the cards tumbled from the table and scattered all over the floor. Hope jumped back herself.

  “What is it?” Hope yelled.

  I squealed as I began to push myself back along the carpet against the far wall. “Can you not see them?”

  Standing in the doorway of the kitchen were two identical-looking little boys, their clothes plastered in dark blood, standing hand in hand, staring at me. Their faces were emaciated and their throats were ripped open, exposing meaty tissue and hollow dangling pipes. They stared silently at me with wide, glassy eyes and searching expressions.

  “Christ! Can’t you see them?” I shouted.

  Hope was screaming. “Look at me, Stacey, look at me! You’re shaking, Stacey, please!”

  My eyes were fastened on the specters of the boys standing in the eave of the kitchen doorway.

  “Why can’t you leave me alone?” I shouted at them.

  “Fly away, Peter. Fly away, Paul. Come back, Peter. Come back, Paul,” they began to chant.

  Every single bone in my body was frozen into place and my head began to spin. I could hear Hope shouting but I couldn’t understand what she was saying. The boys continued repeating their haunting words.

  My face stung as my gaze was broken and I looked up at Hope. Her hand was poised, ready to slap me again.

  I looked toward the kitchen but the little boys were gone.

  “Didn’t you see them?”

  “All I saw was you pressed against the wall, shaking, white as a ghost, sweating and clutching your chest. I thought you were having a heart attack.”

  I tried to reassure her. “I’m okay now.”

  “No you aren’t, Stacey. I think you should go see a doctor. You really don’t look well,” she said as she grabbed the scarf and began to pat down my head.

  “Hope, thanks for…you know…”

  “Hitting you in the face?” she said with a nervous smile.

  “Yeah.”

  “What are friends for?”

  “I must be going insane.”

  “I don’t want to leave you here alone,” Hope said, looking around to the dark doorway I had been so fixated on.

  “Liam will be home soon.”

  “All right, I’ll stay here until he gets here,” she said softly.

  I crawled to the sofa and lay with my eyes closed tightly. “Thank you.”

  20

  I had worn my duffle coat to protect me from the cold as I walked from the train station to the doctor’s clinic—bad idea. I was sweating and thanks to the overweight spluttering man next to me, I couldn’t loosen the layers. I felt as though I was being slowly smothered to death to the soundtrack of a squealing newborn baby. The scarlet second hand on the waiting room clock ticked rhythmically and I willed it to move faster.

  “Ms. Sheldon, please,” a soft voice called out.

  Dr. Bain was standing at the door waiting, my inordinately thick medical file cradled in his arms. Ever since I was child, I had frequented the doctor’s clinic routinely. For some reason, I had always caught every bug, cough, and virus that did the rounds. I had been sent to the hospital for sprained ankles, a chipped wrist, and appendicitis. In short, I was a medical disaster. Furthermore, due to the many times I had arrived with swollen, puffy cheeks, sunken eyes, and hideous rashes from allergic reactions with no obvious cause, Dr. Bain had dubbed me his “conundrum.”

  The doctor ushered me into the surgery, where I took off my coat and sat down. “What can I do for you today?”

  “First off, I’m having trouble sleeping. I find it difficult to get to sleep and if I do drop off, I keep having really bad
nightmares.”

  “It sounds like you aren’t getting into a proper sleep pattern and the sleep you are getting is hyper R.E.M. I am reluctant to prescribe sleeping pills but would rather determine the root cause. Have you been under any stress lately?”

  “I…I seem to be having these episodes… I moved recently and that’s been stressful. I’m not getting on very well in university and I’ve started a new job. It isn’t the work—I just feel under a lot of pressure and I’m so tired.”

  “Tell me about these episodes.”

  “I get nervous. Noises in the house, the people downstairs slamming the door, they make me jump out of my skin. It’s almost like I jerk out of myself. After that, I feel dizzy. My chest gets tight. I feel like I can’t breathe and everything is closing in on me, suffocating me.”

  “Stacey, it sounds as though you are having panic attacks. When did they start and how often do they happen?”

  “It started when I moved to Ballast and they are becoming more and more frequent, every day now. I had a really bad turn recently, that’s why I called for an appointment. I feel like my life is spiraling out of control.”

  “Don’t worry. We’ll get to the bottom of this. In the meantime, I’m going to prescribe you some beta-blockers. As soon as you feel yourself going into a tailspin, I would like you to take one. This is only a temporary measure, however. I am going to refer you to a cognitive behavioral therapist.”

  “That doesn’t sound good,” I said nervously.

  “It sounds scary, but it’s a way of learning techniques to help you cope with stressful moments in your life. I believe in your case it is the best method of moving forward. Medication has a place but it’s a temporary measure. If you can, unburden yourself from some of your responsibilities. If you aren’t happy doing something, then don’t. Life is too short.” Dr. Bain reached over and passed the prescription to me.

  “Thank you, Doctor.”

  “I’d like to see you again in four weeks but in the meantime, I’d like you to do something for me.”

  “Of course.”

  He smiled as he opened the door for me. “Take it easy.”

  21

  I held tightly to the thick, musty books I had borrowed for my thesis as I pushed hard against the blustering wind to get to the library. Dried leaves whipped up and around my face. I was nervous. The books weighed heavily in my arms not only because of their size but because I was returning them and would probably never enter the library again.

  My heart beat rapidly as I ascended the steps. My chest tightened as I entered through the revolving doors. My hands were sweating, causing the books to slip from my grasp. A huge clatter echoed around the foyer and everyone turned to stare, their eyes boring into me as I struggled to gather myself. I finally composed myself and flung the books on the counter.

  “Returns,” I said as I hastily retreated from the stuffy reception.

  I ran out onto the steps and grabbed the railing. My stomach churned at the thought of what this day would bring; the significance of quitting school. Desperate, I fumbled in my pockets and pulled out the little brown bottle of pills, pushed down the cap and twisted it off. I poured out a single tablet and stared at it, feeling like Alice eyeing up the “Eat me cake.”

  I shoved the pill in my mouth and swallowed with a gulp. “No more panic.”

  Within seconds, I felt as though everything was slowing down. I steadied myself and sat down on the cold stone step. The twitching in my fingers stopped and the pounding in my head gradually ceased. When I felt a little more relaxed, I turned to the row of Victorian houses to my left. I gazed at Dr. King’s window and saw the glaring white of his brand-new Apple Mac. The top of his head was visible above it. He was waiting for me.

  I walked up the steps and wrapped the door lightly.

  “Come in,” Dr. King yelled.

  I could feel the shakiness set in. “Afternoon,” I mumbled.

  He gestured to a chair in front of his desk. “Sit.”

  I did as instructed and clasped my hands together.

  “Well what is this e-mail all about then?”

  The words were stuck in my throat, bound together by nerves.

  “I’m…I’m having some personal issues at the minute…panic attacks.”

  “I’m sorry to hear that, Stacey. I went through something similar when I was doing my PhD. Take all the time you need.”

  “Thank you,” I said, relieved.

  “Keep in touch,” he said as he stood and guided me to the door.

  “I’ll try.”

  I stopped before I reached the door and turned to face him.

  “Do you think the governess was truly haunted or do you think she was mad?” I said.

  He smiled. “Everyone is haunted by something.”

  As the door closed behind me and I descended the spiral staircase, I didn’t look back. A massive weight had been lifted off my shoulders.

  My mobile vibrated, startling me out of my contemplations as I walked home. I glanced down and furrowed my brow.

  UNKNOWN the screen read.

  “Hello?”

  “Ms. Sheldon?”

  “Speaking…”

  “This is Mrs. Brown from environmental health. I received your message and would like to arrange an appointment to inspect your flat. Would the day after tomorrow suit, say about one in the afternoon?”

  “That would be great.”

  “See you then, ta ta for now, dear.”

  For the first time in a long time, I smiled. Things were finally beginning to get sorted out—or so I thought.

  22

  I had set out a couple of mugs for myself and Mrs. Brown. Liam was away at work naturally, and we’d been quite frosty with each other that morning. My lack of sleep didn’t help the situation.

  The doorbell rang, and I hurried down to the front door, eager to meet the woman that could get me out of this hellhole once and for all.

  “Surprise,” Jake Clarke said as I opened the door.

  “What are you doing here?”

  “I’m here to defend The Rental Shop’s reputation,” he snarled.

  Before I could retort, the singsong voice of Mrs. Brown rang through the air.

  “Hello, hello, hello…Ms. Sheldon…Mr. Clarke,” she said as she waved a cream-colored leather glove at us.

  “Mrs. Brown, so lovely to see you! You look beautiful as always. I’m sure you’ll find everything here to be above board,” Clarke said in a sickly sweet tone.

  “Yes well…you represent the landlord and you have a right to be here. It was simply procedure for me to alert you to the time and date of the inspection, so shall we?”

  I led them up stairs.

  Mrs. Brown pushed a pair of reading glasses up the bridge of her nose. “Right, Ms. Sheldon, please show me what the problems are.”

  I shifted awkwardly as Clarke glared at me.

  “First off, there’s a load of damp creeping from both the ceiling and the floor.”

  “It has been a humid autumn,” Clarke interjected.

  “Really! We’ve been freezing. The boiler is completely banjaxed,” I said angrily.

  Mrs. Brown said, “Can you show me the ventilation, please, Mr. Clarke?”

  He trotted into the kitchen and pointed to the rickety old vent with a flourish, then moved into the bedroom where he swung open the wardrobe to show Mrs. Brown the hole that went all the way out through the gable wall.

  She scribbled something on her notepad.

  “Is there anything else?” Mrs. Brown asked.

  “There’s no fire escape.”

  “How many people live here?” she asked.

  “Two,” Clarke said. “We do everything by the book here, Mrs. Brown. You need three people to justify a separate fire escape. You only need two ventilation points, which I have shown you, and I’m sure Ms. Sheldon is most embarrassed for wasting your time.”

  Mrs. Brown consulted her notepad again, then said, “Mr. Clarke
is right, dear. The flat meets the minimum required safety guidelines, but I suggest you find a nicer place to call home…and a reputable renting agency.” She glared at Clarke before starting down the stairs, leaving me alone with the smarmy ass.

  “You really are a little bitch,” he said.

  “Get out! Now!”

  He snarled. “You thought you were in a living hell before…”

  “Another word and I’ll—”

  “You’ll what? Get your big burly boyfriend onto me? Please. I was on the phone to him earlier. I told him I hadn’t seen or heard from you since the day I gave you the keys. He thinks you’re paranoid and delusional.”

  “You son of a bitch…” I was pissed. But deep down, I felt betrayed.

  “Business is business, sweetheart. Be seeing you.”

  23

  When my tears had dried up, I called Liam to confront him about Jake Clarke’s accusation. He was cross that I had called him at work but I was beyond angry. He had said if we really had to, we could talk about it over dinner and then hung up the phone. I realized I had totally forgotten about the restaurant booking we had made for my birthday. With everything that was happening around me, with uni, my panic attacks, and my seeming hallucinations, my birthday was the last thing on my mind.

  * * *

  I stood outside Luigi’s and adjusted my belt. I had chosen my extra-tight extra-wide-flare hipster jeans. I had also straightened my hair within an inch of its life and added a slick of bubble-gum-pink lip gloss. I remembered how I had been looking forward to this date and resolved to try to sort things out with Liam or at the very least get some answers as to why he had betrayed me to Clarke. The smell of garlic and ripe tomato wafted from the restaurant and my stomach growled in response. Finally, I saw Liam jogging toward me on the other side of street and waved.

  “You shouldn’t keep a girl waiting, you know!”

  “I’m sorry…I was sorting something,” he answered through gasps of breath.

  “Sorting what?” I asked.