Fourteen Days

by Steven Jenkins

  “Hang on a second.” He cleaned his teeth in record time, watching her through the mirror as she stood in the doorway. He quickly spat in the sink and followed Nicky out of the bathroom.

  “What’s wrong?” she asked as they walked across the landing toward the bedroom.

  “Nothing,” he said, standing close to her.

  “You’re being weird.” She opened the bedroom door and stepped inside the darkened room. Richard followed, all the time with his eyes fixed on the bed, praying that when the lights went on, the woman with the white dress wasn’t sitting there again, staring with those gloomy, tear-filled eyes.

  Nicky flicked on the switch and the room came to life with light.

  The bed was empty.

  Relief washed over him as he closed the door. But oddly, a part of him wanted to see her sitting on his bed. At least then his skeptical wife would see for herself, instead of mocking him, or even thinking that he was crazy.

  Nicky put on the bedside lamp and turned the main light off. With the room dimly lit, they climbed into bed. Richard spooned up to his wife. She turned to him and asked, “Are you sure everything’s all right?”

  He forced a smile and held her tightly. “Everything’s fine.” He looked into her eyes. “I love you, Nic. You know that, don’t you?”

  “Of course I do,” she reassured him, smiling. “I love you more than anything.”

  He squeezed her, then kissed her on the cheek. “Good night, babe.”

  She kissed him back. “Good night,” she whispered, turning the other way. “See you in the morning.”

  He watched her closely, and remained watching until she fell asleep.

  Alone in the darkness again.

  The room changed in appearance. The walls and ceiling seemed closer, almost suffocating him. Every object he could make out looked like a figure: the chair resembled a crouched-down child, the dressing-gown hooked behind the door reminded him of a hanging corpse, and he could swear that there were two feet sticking out from under the curtains. The loneliness of the house crept all around him, and the fear had well and truly returned. The fact that Nicky was right beside him meant nothing. He had been abandoned and left to face the house that he had once loved, yet again.

  He turned over onto his back and scanned the moonlit room, with the quilt now pulled up to his chin. Having most of his body covered made him feel safer, more guarded. The last thing he wanted was to have his leg or arm hang out off the side of the bed and risk it being grabbed by someone, or something.

  The minutes passed by. Each noise, however slight, widened his eyes and jolted his heart. He even shuddered at the sound of the wind outside. He prayed for Nicky to be awake. No such luck. She was fast asleep.

  The longer he lay and listened, the louder the sounds got. Was it his imagination? Or was it simply the sounds of the night? Or worse still, the woman creeping around the house, waiting, luring him out to investigate the noise?

  Not a chance in Hell.

  Too afraid to close his eyes for fear of her standing over him when he opened them again. Too terrified to pull the quilt over his face for the same reason. There was nothing to do but wait for her to show herself.

  Any other time he could put all this down to simple paranoia, left over from his childhood. But this time he did have something to fear. This time there was something lurking in the shadows, living under his bed, watching him, preying on him. There was no way to avoid it other than move out, and he was in no way able to do such a drastic thing. Although, right now, that sounded like a very tempting prospect. Right now, he would gladly trade his warm bed for the carpet-less floor of his best friend’s grotty flat over on St. Pauls.

  Right now, he would gladly sleep anywhere but here.

  He checked the time on the bedside cabinet; an hour had passed since Nicky had fallen asleep. He closed his eyes with reluctance. He had to get some sleep. Visions of the woman sitting on his bed, staring at him, flooded his mind. He could hear the sinister tapping noise she had made on the spare bedroom door resound in his head. His dream flooded his mind. And the name Christina Long. Was it really her name, and if so, who was she? And how the hell did she end up in his house, tormenting him, day after day, night after night?

  His head filled with unanswered questions and constant reminders of his ghost, which lasted well into the early hours of the morning. He could feel that sleep was just around the corner.

  The sound of something falling in the kitchen made his eyes spring open, causing his heart to pump fast and his breathing to increase. His eyes were fixed on the door handle while he prayed that it wouldn’t start to turn; that there wouldn’t be another knock on the door.

  As the terror built to a boiling point, he repeated in his head: Please be a burglar. Please be a burglar. Please be a burglar. Please be a burglar. Please be a burglar….

  Chapter 10

  Day 10: Thursday

  Richard ransacked the spare room, looking for his missing laptop. “Where is it?” he shouted, surveying the damage. Every box was tipped over, the contents spilled across the floor; the drawers of the wooden chest were open, with clothes hanging out the sides; the junk from underneath the bed had been pulled out and scattered.

  Out of breath and sweating, he stood back and glared at the cluttered room. Where’s she put it? he thought, shaking his head in mystification. I bet it’s at her bloody parents’ house. “Shit!” he said, almost spitting the word, realizing that his computer was unobtainable.

  Leaving the room, he stepped out onto the landing. He had closed his bedroom door tight to avoid the chance of seeing her sitting on the bed again. Still petrified, he raced past the door and down the stairs, leaping over nearly half the stairs into the hallway. Relieved, he let out a long breath and headed for the kitchen. Passing the dreaded chair, refusing to look at it, he grabbed his car keys from the counter and exited as fast as possible.

  “I hate this house,” he mumbled.

  Leaving, he let out another long sigh.

  The rain had stopped, but the sun was nowhere to be seen. He crossed the road and climbed into his car. Glancing over at his house, he thought about how different it seemed to him now, as if the house belonged to someone else. Not the exciting first-owned home of five months ago, or the place where their children might play and grow up. Now it was a darkened place of terror where the dead dwelled.

  He hated it now with all his heart.

  He pulled off and headed into town to use the library computer, hopeful of finding out once and for all if Christina Long actually existed.

  He stared ahead at the damp, glistening road. Someone must know something. Anything. A clue. Something to put me on the right track.

  And he couldn’t think of a better place to find out the truth.

  Sitting at the library computer, Richard began to surf the Internet. Despite everything that had happened, his first thought was to check his e-mails. No. Got to stay focused on this. Can’t get distracted. I’ve got too much to do.

  He typed the name “Christina Long” into the search engine and waited. Thousands of results filled the screen. Sifting through the first few pages he discovered only businesses, government workers, and various other organizations with the name Christina Long attached. So he broadened his search. Next to her name he added the word “Bristol” on the search engine. The thousands of results became less, but still high in the hundreds. Scrolling down the page, he saw the name attached to a small cleaning company. He clicked the link and entered a website. Clicking on the title he saw “about us”, a picture of a Christian Long beside a profile came up. He clicked the photo to enlarge it. Leaning in close to inspect, he quickly moved away when he saw that the woman looked nothing like his ghost. Deflated, he returned to his search results and tried again.

  His next attempt was to find out whether or not a Christina Long had in fact died. He entered the words “Bristol deaths,” and a variety of sites popped up, each with details on how to order death
certificates. He typed her name into the site’s search bar and waited; he got no results. The same happened with the other sites. Frustrated, he entered the words “missing persons Bristol.” Various newspaper sites filled the screen, none with the name Christina Long included. A few sites were dedicated to missing persons, but yet again, none with her name listed in their databases.

  Still sure that the name was of importance, he contemplated the fact that the Internet would not be able to show every death or missing person. Perhaps the woman had no loved ones to report her disappearance. And what if her body had not yet been found? What if her message was just to lay her to rest? Should I give up on the name—or even the search? Maybe there’s an easier way to get rid of a ghost. Maybe there’s some kind of machine out there, or a spray that can ward off spirits. Or even one of those plug-ins like the ones that keep out rats and bugs.

  Probably not.

  A million thoughts and possibilities raced through his head, but none seemed to help, so he decided to continue his online search.

  After nearly two hours of failed attempts with various social network sites and different combination search keywords like “Old Hall Road” and “Clifton”—even the words “dead” and “ghost”—he decided to call it a day.

  Getting up from his chair, he noticed a sign that said “Reference Room.”He walked into the cold, musty-smelling room, deserted apart from an elderly couple sitting at one of the tables in the back, reading a newspaper. Unlike the rest of the library, there were hardly any books, aside from a few encyclopedias stacked on tables on each side of the room.

  He scanned the old, dusty room for an employee, hoping that they would be able to point him in the right direction. To his left next to a large photocopy machine he saw an office with the door ajar. He tapped on the door and waited. With no response, he ventured back out into the computer room. Just as he stepped in, he bumped into an elderly woman, knocking a stack of books out of her hands and scattering them across the floor. “Jesus, I’m sorry,” he blurted out, his voice echoing in the silent room.

  “That’s all right,” the lady whispered, bending down to pick the books up.

  “Let me help you.” He followed her down to the floor and started to pick some of them up. Carrying them over to a table, he quietly set them down.

  “Thank you,” she murmured, and then started toward the office.

  “Wait,” he said too loudly. “Can you help me with something?” he whispered, remembering where he was.

  Stopping, she turned to him and smiled. “Yes, of course, my love. What would you like?”

  “Well, I need to pick your brain.”

  “Come into my office so we can talk properly.” She stepped into a tiny room, no bigger than a shed. Richard followed, his eyes drifting around the office. There were stacks of files piled up on shelves, another photocopy machine crammed in the back, and a mini-fridge and kettle on top of a small table under the window. He smiled as it reminded him of his own office at TSH.

  Sitting on a chair, she sighed loudly, as if worn out. “Oh, that’s better. My legs are killing me. I’ve been on my feet all day. Old age, see—gets you in the end.” She rubbed her calf. “Right then, how can I help you?”

  He closed the door and leaned against it. “I’m looking for someone. A woman. I know what she looks like and I know her name. I’ve tried the Internet but nothing’s come up. Any ideas?”

  She thought for a moment. “Mmmm…let me see. Is she a local woman?”

  “I think so.”

  “Do you know roughly where she lives, or used to live?”

  “I’m not really sure. Most likely Bristol. Maybe Clifton.”

  “You could try the phone book. We have lots of different areas out on display. Or failing that you could try the police. But I’m not sure they’ll give out that type of information. Unless you’re a family member.”

  He could feel his face light up as if a cloud had been lifted. “The police. Why didn’t I think of that?”

  Frowning with concern, she inquired, “Can I ask who this person is?”

  He paused, trying to think of something to tell her. The truth? Surely not. Maybe he could tell her that she’s a long lost friend, or even an old relative. Or perhaps someone to do with Nicky. At least then he could be a little more vague about the details.

  “She’s an old school friend of my wife, Nicola,” he said. “She hasn’t seen her in a while. She more or less vanished into thin air.”

  “How long ago?”

  He shrugged. “Not sure—a few years maybe. She’s desperate to find her, but doesn’t know where to start.”

  She got up from the chair and walked over to the door. He moved out of the way as she opened the door. “Let’s have a look then.” She walked over to one of the tables and pulled out a recent phonebook. “What’s the name then?”

  “You don’t need to do that,” he quietly said, following her. “I don’t mind doing it.”

  She beamed. “Nonsense, love, it’s no bother.”

  “All right. Thanks. Her name is Christina Long,” he replied, peering down over the woman’s shoulder as she opened the book.

  She licked her thumb and then began to flick through the pages, searching for the letter “L.”“Long…” she whispered to herself. “Long—ah, here we are: Long.” Running her thin index finger down the page, she mouthed the name “Christina.” After scrolling through only two pages, she closed the book. “No, there’s no Christina Long listed, I’m afraid.”

  Disheartened, he frowned. “Oh, right.”

  “But that doesn’t mean she’s not living here. Not everyone’s listed. She could be ex-directory.”

  “Well that narrows it down,” he said, sarcastically. “What if she’s dead? How do I find out that information?”

  Sliding the book back in its place, she shook her head. “Oh, we don’t have that type of information here.”

  “Do you know where?”

  “Probably the police station if she’s missing, they may be able to help. Or the Registrar’s Office; they keep records of all marriages and deaths. Failing that, I’m not sure.”

  “Where’s the Registrar’s Office? Is it close?”

  Looking up for a moment as if to think, she said, “It should be on Marble View, near the hospital—unless it’s moved, that is. I’m not a hundred percent sure.”

  “That’s great,” he said, smiling. “I really appreciate all your help.”

  “No problem at all. Glad I could help.”

  He gave a subtle wave goodbye and quietly left, feeling a little more optimistic about finding the truth. As he exited the building, something shocking occurred to him: checking the TSH website had completely slipped his mind.

  Wonders never cease.

  Leaving his car parked in the town center, Richard decided to walk the half a mile to the police station. With only two-hundred meters to go, the heavens opened and the rain began to pour. He ran to the nearest shop doorway for shelter, holding his arms above his head, thinking how foolish he was for leaving his car.

  Waiting for the rain to subside, he thought about Christina Long—if in fact that was her actual name. He desperately needed to find out if she existed, if only to eliminate her from his investigation. And to Richard this was most certainly an investigation. He would not give up until she had vacated his house, no matter how long it took.

  Why couldn’t her name just pop up on the Internet? he thought. Everything else does. And then I wouldn’t be stuck under some grotty beauty salon’s doorway, soaking wet. He angrily ran a hand over his face, into his damp hair. God, I wish I was back at the office slaving over a computer screen. My life used to be so straightforward. Wake up, go to work, come home, see Nicky, go to bed.

  Simple.

  Absolutely no dead people.

  Five minutes had passed and the rain had only worsened. Shaking his head in frustration, he decided to make a bolt for the police station. Taking in a few preparation breat
hs as if to hold his breath under water, he dashed from the doorway and down the street. Many puddles had formed, forcing him to jump over several. Passing cars splashed water over his ankles, and the rain hit his face fiercely as the wind joined forces. “Spring, my ass!” he struggled to say.

  Arriving at the police station reception, he shook off some of the rain from his jacket and ran his hands through his hair, flicking droplets of water all over the carpet and walls. He walked up to the front desk. It was unmanned, so he rang the buzzer positioned at the side of a large glass separator. Waiting, he glanced around the room and wondered what the hell he was doing in a police station. He had only ever been in one once when his cell phone was stolen seven years earlier. He hated being there. But at least this time the reception area was empty. The last time he had to sit and wait, with what he would describe as scumbags, down-and-outs, and pissheads. Despite his only being there as a victim of crime, the place made him feel like a criminal. He got the same feeling passing through the metal detectors at the airport, even though he had nothing to hide.

  An overweight police officer walked up to the desk and stood behind the glass. “Can I help you, sir?” the man asked, speaking through a small grid speaker at the center.

  Butterflies formed in Richard’s stomach. He had completely forgotten to prepare what he was going to say. He couldn’t exactly be vague with the details like he was with the librarian. This was a police officer after all, a man of the law. He wouldn’t be able to give him the run-around. And what if Christina Long had been murdered, or just reported missing? How would he explain how he came across her name, without sounding completely insane? What if they suspected him of her murder? How would he be able to talk his way out of it?

  Have I made a horrible mistake coming here?

  “Yes sir, can I help you?” the officer repeated.

  Richard snapped out of his train of worry. “Urrr, yes. I just need some information… for my wife.”

  “All right. What’s the problem?”