by Dean Cole
When my feet reached the cold stone floor of the hallway, another noise came out of the darkness. I jumped, spinning my head to the right. It had come from there, down the corridor leading to a part of the house I hadn’t explored. My pulse accelerating, I moved towards it, like the foolish character in the scary film who goes off to investigate a strange noise when anyone with half a brain can see they’re going to end up paying the price for it. Was I going to end up paying a price for my curiosity?
A door was ajar at the end of the corridor. A dim light spilled out of it along with a cold draught that snaked along the ground and nipped at my bare feet. My footsteps slowed as I moved towards it, each step becoming more tentative. My ears pricked to detect the slightest noise. More movement came from behind the door. The flicker of a shadow caught the light. I braced, reaching out my hand to push open the door — when all of a sudden it swung open.
‘Jesus!’ a voice hissed, and a body barrelled toward me brandishing a heavy bottle. Mercifully it was lowered before being brought down on the crown of my skull.
The figure holding it grew into focus. Will Anderson was glaring down at me with a look somewhere between anger and deep relief. He uncoiled his breath.
‘I thought you were a flipping ghost.’
I swallowed. Unclenched. Felt my heart decelerating from its runaway rate. ‘I thought you were.’
We stood in the light of the doorway, uncertain what to do next, our fear thawing.
‘What was all the noise?’ I asked.
‘Came down to get a drink.’
I stared at the bottle in his hand. Wine. A very large and considerably empty bottle of wine, I noted dubiously.
‘Well, what are you waiting for?’ Will said, edging to the door.
‘Sorry?
‘I think we both need a drink after that scare.’
He vanished through the door and a second later there were sounds of cupboards opening and glasses tinkling.
I don’t drink, I thought. But I followed him through the door anyway.
* * * * *
The kitchen was a practically antediluvian affair with a charcoal stove and copper-ware hanging from racks on the walls. A window looked out at a jungle of garden bushes and potted plants which were swaying in the flourishing wind.
Most of it was just for show, Will informed me, as I sat across from him at a large oak table, my hands crossed in front of my privates. To represent what the manor looked like in a previous era. Hilderley Manor wasn’t just for ghost hunting tours and people looking for convenient accommodation, he explained. It was a popular tourist attraction for history enthusiasts and educational school tours — even if the school kids were more interested in its haunted reputation than its historical past.
Suddenly the creepy non functional nursery made sense. As did the juxtaposition of everything looking like it came out of a Sherlock Holmes mystery but functioning like any other modern lodging.
I took another sip from the glass of wine Will had poured me. It was a tentative sip; the hypochondriac in me was well aware of the risks of mixing alcohol and prescription medication. Inevitably, even with my specs fixed firmly to the bridge of my nose, the room was turning blurry and my head was feeling drowsy.
It appeared Will, too, was affected by the beverage. He was looser, more animated, pointing out the room’s features with sweeps of his arms like he was the manor’s tour guide. The disenchanted look had washed from his eyes, and instead they possessed an almost childlike glint of wonder and enthusiasm.
Through the moody light provided by the candelabra light fitting above our heads, and the heady fumes of the wine, I studied the self-assured northerner sitting across from me, who was swaddled in a tartan dressing gown and guzzling wine from the bottle like it was cranberry juice. His eyes bore the dark circles of a person who is often up past midnight. Light creases on his forehead and between his eyebrows were evidence he spent a lot of time concentrating. I found myself transfixed by both his peculiarity and those classically handsome looks that made it hard not to stare.
‘I know what you’re thinking,’ he said, noticing me staring.
I said nothing.
‘You’re thinking, that’s not a writer: look at him, he drinks, smokes, has that thick northern accent — he doesn’t even speak grammatically correct.’
I was actually thinking of telling him about the dream, and the other happenings that made up my odd life. But for some reason I couldn’t bring myself to say the words out loud. I’d kept them to myself up until now, not even telling the doctor who had prescribed the pills, instead describing my symptoms as excessive worry, hallucinations and vivid nightmares. ‘I think I see dead people’ isn’t something you want to say when you meet someone for the first time. Not if you don’t want to be ridiculed, accused of lying or, worse, locked up in the modern equivalent of a mental asylum. But surely Will Anderson, the supernatural writer, wouldn’t be so judgemental?
‘I probably wouldn’t have guessed you were a writer if you hadn’t told me,’ I replied honestly.
‘Don’t you find that fascinating?’ There was a slur in his voice — and no wonder since he’d nearly drained the bottle and was already eyeing up the cupboards for another one. ‘People probably look at you with your glasses, your nice voice and that ridiculous getup you wear, and think one thing. They look at me and think the opposite. In fact, they probably think you’re the writer. They picture you sitting at a bureau, a real old-fashioned one, knocking off reams with your quill like you’re goddam Poe or someone. They look at me and think … what?’ He appraised his reflection in the window. ‘Male model? Actor? Escort? Yet they’d be wrong about both of us.’
I didn’t know whether to be insulted or flattered by that comparison. Watching the handsome wordsmith ponder over what he’d just said, I struggled to reason what could have spurred such a random revelation. As if sensing my bewilderment, he elaborated.
‘What I’m saying is, people always have their own version of who you are in their head. And you can’t blame them. I mean, what else have they got to go off? But even if they get to know you, do they really know you? What if you’re putting on a pretence? What if they are? It begs the question, can anyone ever really know us other than ourselves?’
Was this what they called an existential crisis? Or was he just drunk? I looked dubiously at my own glass. Was I? I wasn’t prepared for such a profound and mind bending statement at — I glanced at the clock on the wall — nearly two in the morning. I did, however, now fully understand why Will was a writer. If his musing was even a tiny insight into how his brain worked then it was no wonder he felt the need to get the thoughts out of his head and onto pages. He’d have probably gone mad by now if he hadn’t.
‘I can’t say I’ve thought about it much,’ I said. Though I’ll confess I wasn’t being entirely honest there. I had thought of such things. I just didn’t like to dwell inside my mind for too long. It’s like peeking inside Pandora’s box: you know if you lift the lid too far, there’ll be no going back.
‘I have,’ he said with a sniff. ‘And I’ve come to the conclusion that the world only exists based on what we believe it to be. Life is a one man show, my friend. A one man show.’
‘Is that what you like to read about? Philosophy?’ I asked, hoping to steer the conversation back to something more comprehensible.
‘I’ll read anything if it’s got words on it. Except maybe romance. Not snubbing it, I just don’t believe in happily ever afters.’
This was a view I did share. A non-fiction reader myself, it was science, quantum mechanics, politics, art and photography that lined my bookshelves. Save for that introspective phase in my teens when I thought fiction might hold the answers to why the world was so dark, messed up and confusing. Hours and hours were whiled away one cold winter with Clive Barker, Stephen King and James Herbert paperbacks. The only romance I’d invested time in had ended in tragedy in the middle of a lake. Maybe that’s why I avoide
d them.
‘Reading anything good at the moment?’ I asked.
‘I am, actually. A book about negative emotion. It talks about how we numb them with addictions — prescription medications, drugs, sex, video games, shopping, dopamine hits we get from likes on social media. The author explains how it’s all a distraction, a plaster for a society that’s never felt more lonely and disconnected. It’s facing our emotions and understanding why we’re so screwed up that leads to our ultimate freedom.’
A nice, uplifting read, then, I thought sardonically.
I sipped more wine. ‘How’s the research for your own book going?’
‘I’m hoping to probe Esther Hill tomorrow. Figuratively speaking, that is,’ Will added with a wink. ‘The woman’s harder to get alone than the prime minister. She’s either getting the ghost hunters to run around her like skivvies or making calls to her management team. The fame has gone to her head. It’s a ghost hunting weekend for Christ’s sake. The writing, well, that’s another story.’
‘Oh?’
‘Good old writer’s block. Haven’t had a workable idea for weeks. Which is a problem when your publisher’s breathing down your neck and the deadline’s inching closer by the second. I thought this place might give me some inspiration, get those creative juices flowing so to speak. But so far nothing.’
‘What’s it about, this book of yours?’ I asked, interested.
‘It’s about a parapsychologist torn between his own scepticism and the evidence he uncovers when investigating reported hauntings. It’s the second in my Jack Reid series. I plan to write seven in total. My working title is Portent, I know that much. But I usually discover the title after I’ve written the story, buried somewhere within the paragraphs of its pages.’
‘Parapsychologist?’ I raked my brain. ‘That’s like Norman, right?’
‘Yeah. They study near-death experiences, precognition, telepathy, clairvoyance, psychokinesis … the list goes on.’
‘Don’t all parapsychologists believe in ghosts? I mean, isn’t that the point of being one?’
Will necked another swig from the bottle and shook his head. ‘Many of them are trying to disprove paranormal claims by finding logical explanations for them, only concluding that they’re unexplainable after eliminating the obvious first. My protagonist, Jack Reid, does this. I thought it would create enough conflict for a story if the main character was a sceptic, but the occurrences in his investigations constantly make him question that scepticism.’
The conversation we’d had hours earlier floated back, making me question if Will, himself, was a sceptic. Was writing the protagonist in his books his way of exploring his own doubts about the subject? Or was it, as Esther Hill had cheekily pointed out, that logical thinking brain of his coming at the topic from an objective angle?
‘I’m boring you with this writerly talk, aren’t I? Feel free to tell me to shut up. Hell, I bore the knackers off myself half the time.’
‘It’s not boring,’ I said sincerely. ‘It sounds like a good story.’
For the first time I saw a softness emerge in Will’s face. And, if I wasn’t mistaken, a touch of scarlet had reached the tips of his cheeks — though that could have been the drink.
‘Cheers, squire,’ he said with a wink.
A brewing wind rattled the windows. There must have been an opening somewhere, because a draught leaked in, brushing my bare skin, making my nipples harden and goose pimples erupt across my limbs. Even my privates shrank reflexively. I lifted my bare feet off the cold tile floor and placed them on the chair’s footrest. Will noticed this.
‘You look freezing,’ he said. ‘Here, take my dressing gown.’
He stood and, a little unsteadily, walked around the table, shedding the dressing gown off his shoulders. Chivalrously, he held it open for me to slip my arms through. The warmth from his body, held in the fabric, extinguished my chill as the gown cascaded over my bare skin. The garment smelled of stale aftershave and cigarette smoke, but I couldn’t help feeling touched by the kind gesture. Did everyone get the same treatment, or had I done something to deserve such courtesy?
‘I’d have grabbed something to wear but I didn’t want to wake Kat,’ I said.
Will fell back into his seat. I blushed at the sight of his bare chest, a smattering of dark hairs growing in between the nipples. The man was attractive before, but that was nothing compared to what he looked like underneath his clothes. He drained the last vestiges of wine from the bottle at the same time as keeping his eye on me. There was a tattoo etched along the inside of his right forearm, an illegible scripture most likely containing some deep meaning. When he’d finished drinking, he said, ‘She’s pretty, your girlfriend.’
‘Oh, we’re not — I mean — I’m — Kat’s …’ Blood suffused my cheeks. I gulped my wine to try and conceal my chagrin. Could I have sounded any more moronic?
Whatever Will’s thoughts, his expression didn’t betray them. Or was I right in thinking that cheeky grin had returned to his lips for the briefest moment?
‘Don’t worry, mate. I’m messing with you. Anyone with eyes can see you’re gay.’
‘What —’
Exactly what did people see that made my sexuality so obvious to them? I didn’t walk around wearing a rainbow badge. I wasn’t effeminate, flamboyant or overtly groomed in any way that could indicate I was trying to attract the eyes of another man. I don’t think I even knew how to groom. In twenty seven years I had never plucked an eyebrow. I had gone nowhere near a tub of moisturiser. And I treated my hair like one of those ‘grow your own’ grass heads you get for kids: I just watered it and hair sprouted out in all directions. Not that I was afraid of people knowing about my sexuality, as Kat assumed. But privacy is sacred in this social media age where everyone is too willing to share every detail of their life. I like to retain at least some mystery.
Will got up and started searching for more wine, whistling as he peered in doors, pushing aside pots and jars. A slave to my male visual brain, when he stood on tiptoe to search a higher shelf I couldn’t resist snatching a furtive glance. In just his boxers and crew socks, much of his smooth olive skin was on display. The buttocks, squeezing together beneath the fabric of his underwear, resembled a ripe peach. He had what your standard gay dating application would rate as an average-to-athletic physique — not that I was familiar with such applications. Not that familiar, anyway. Maybe he lifted weights, played a sport or visited a gym regularly. Maybe he was one of those blessed souls born with lucky genetics that made you look great whether you worked at it or not.
I felt inadequate by comparison. My whole life I have been cursed with a body as thin as a rake. My twenties had filled me out a little, but when I looked in the mirror it was hard not to see the scrawny teenager I used to be. Hard not to see the unappealing baby face: the eyes bereft of hope, eyebrows like two upside down smiles etching a permanent expression of forsakenness into my forehead. Which, as an adopted illegitimate child, I technically was. Forsaken, that is. Where had that face come from? My mother or my father?
I was thinking that it’s a good job I have a large penis or I’d have nothing positive going for me, when Will returned to the table, fresh bottle of wine in hand. He dropped down and popped the cork like an expert. I eyed the shadowy corridor beyond the doorway nervously. I hoped no one was going to steal downstairs for a midnight snack and discover us. I didn’t think Mrs Brown would take too kindly to her stockpile of alcoholic drink being consumed so flagrantly. He offered to refill my glass but I reclined.
‘Are you usually up this late?’ I asked, feeling much warmer now thanks to the dressing gown.
‘I’m a writer. Staying up into the middle of the night is part of the job. Even with writer’s block. Just because I’m not producing words, that doesn’t mean I’m not using my noggin to figure stuff out. I find some of my best ideas come in the early hours, actually. Something about the moon focuses my mind, clears space for my imagination t
o run wild.’ A picture of me sitting with Elliot on the lake drifted into my mind, but I forced it away. ‘A little juice helps to loosen the cogs, too.’
I raised an eyebrow. A little juice?
The light above us flickered suddenly. The wind made a ghoulish howl as it blew through the crevices in the exterior door. The dream niggled at my mind still. The misty figure I’d seen standing in the window. The painting in the lounge. The knocks on the walls we’d heard only hours earlier.
‘Have you always been interested in the supernatural?’ I asked.
‘The afterlife, the unknown … it leaves so much to the imagination. As a fiction writer who wouldn’t want to go there?’
‘Have you ever seen one? A ghost?’ I waited carefully for the answer.
‘I’ve seen things. Couldn’t say for certain if they were a ghost, though.’
‘Like what?’
Will looked at me, then at the wine bottle, picking the label with his thumbnail. He was recalling a memory. And it wasn’t a good one. I knew because I recognised that look, was used to dwelling in the darker corners of my own mind. I looked at the bottle. Was alcohol the vice he used to numb out his own uncomfortable feelings?
‘You have seen something, haven’t you?’ I prompted.
As if coming back to the room suddenly, he took a deep breath and shook his head. ‘Ghosts aren’t real. Spending your time chasing them is a waste of time.’
‘You’re the one who writes about—’
‘Yeah, well, it doesn’t mean I have to believe in them, does it?’ he replied shortly.
A quiet ensued. Outside, a gate creaked on its hinges then slammed shut. Branches scraped the window.