Fourteen Days

by Steven Jenkins

  After a while, his head was filled with only one thing: the presence that occupied his house. God, I wish I didn’t have to deal with this! Why couldn’t he have had just a normal two weeks off work, instead of feeling dread every time he set foot inside the kitchen or took a shower? Why did this have to happen? If only he could have had a little more notice before collapsing at work. At least then he and Nicky could have booked a holiday for a fortnight—someplace where it didn’t rain in the middle of spring, where drinking in the afternoon wasn’t frowned upon and dead people didn’t walk around, scaring the crap out of him. Why did it have to happen to him? Why was he so special?

  As the darkness settled in, Richard braced himself for another long night of terror and loneliness.

  He closed his eyes tightly and waited for the morning to come.

  Chapter 11

  Day 11: Friday

  Richard opened his eyes and saw that Nicky had already left for work. After lying in bed and staring up at the ceiling in a trance for several minutes, he finally got out of bed. The room, although still daunting, was nowhere near as cold and frightening as last night.

  He quickly slipped on a pair of jeans and a tee shirt and left the bedroom, yawning and stretching his arms high as he walked. He was still exhausted, unsure of how much sleep he managed to get. Two, maybe three hours at best.

  Entering the bathroom, he stood next to the sink and glared at his reflection in the mirror. Back to work on Tuesday, he thought. Away from this house. Away from Christina Long, or whoever that bitch is. Back to some normalcy. Had he given up on finding the truth? Was he now content with sweeping the problem under the rug? And would going back to work really end his troubles, his sleepless nights? He knew the answer was no, but he had reached the point of hopelessness, and running away from his worries sounded like an appealing option.

  Brushing his teeth, he fixed his eyes on the reflection of the open door behind him. He had seen enough horror movies to know that something always appears in the mirror. But at least he would be ready for it. For her.

  When he took his eyes off the mirror for a second to spit into the sink, his head jolted back up to see if the coast was still clear. It was.

  Maybe she’s sleeping. Do ghosts even sleep? What the hell do they do in-between scaring the crap out of the people? And what if no one’s home to frighten? Do they get bored waiting? I bet she can’t believe her luck, having me home so much. I bet she’s thinking, “Thank fuck for him collapsing—I was about to die of boredom.”

  His thoughts trailed off as he finished up in the bathroom.

  He shortly left and headed for the kitchen, where a note lay on the worktop. It read:

  Morning babe. Hope you slept okay. Some extra things I need from the supermarket: table salt, eggs, salmon, baked beans, tortilla wraps, detergent (the big box), shampoo. Love you loads. Nic x.

  He had completely forgotten about doing the shopping. Grabbing the note, he slipped it into his pocket and checked the fridge for anything else they needed when he pulled out the milk to make his breakfast as quickly as possible.

  With his over-filled bowl of corn flakes, he made his way into the living room. He sat on the couch, turning on the TV with the remote control. As per usual there were only tacky morning makeover shows and various other shows which he found unbearable.

  After watching a random, uninteresting talk show for almost half an hour, he switched off the TV, frustrated. Suddenly the room was eerily silent. He could feel dread and isolation slowly start to seep through the walls and creep toward him, surrounding him like a pack of hungry wolves. Not willing to succumb to the hold she had over him and the house, he shook the feelings off and got up. “To hell with this.”

  With that, he exited the living room, grabbed his coat from the radiator by the stairs, and left the house.

  Richard pulled up outside the supermarket. He felt his jean pockets for his wallet and shopping list, locked the car, and then proceeded toward the supermarket entrance.

  Pushing a cart with one hand and holding the list in the other, he glided down each shopping aisle, collecting various items from the list, including several others from his memory. He almost never wrote down lists. He would always try to remember any tasks—which was what got him into his mess at work in the first place. If only he could have remembered to backup the missing files before the system crashed, and then everything would have been fine. No added stress. No time off work. And just maybe, he could have avoided dealing with a dead woman.

  As he strolled around, he aimlessly filled the cart with things he and Nicky didn’t really need—like a giant pack of toilet rolls he was sure that they already had. Just in case. A multipack of crisps, even though she had forbidden him from buying such things because of her ongoing diet. And of course several bags of dried fruit, which neither of them needed nor wanted.

  This was exactly why Nicky always did the shopping.

  Reaching the register, he placed the shopping on the conveyer belt and watched the lady as she scanned each item.

  “Would you like a hand with the packing, sir?” the lady politely offered.

  “No thanks,” he replied, shaking his head and smiling. “I’m all right.”

  After he had refilled his cart and paid the cashier, he walked away, heading for the exit. Passing the supermarket’s café, he paused for a second to readjust one of his plastic shopping bags, making sure that the eggs were still at the top of the bag. As he started up again, something caught his eye. Attached to the wall on his right was a large cork notice board, filled with various For Sale items, business advertisements, and other public notices. Fixed to the left corner of the board, and overlapped by a few other cards, was an A5 sized poster, with a small photo scanned in the center, and the title, ‘Have you seen me?’ printed in bold letters above it. He leaned in for a closer inspection.

  His heart nearly missed a beat.

  Written beneath the photo was the name Christina Long.

  The bottom half of the poster was buried behind another pinned flyer. He pulled the drawing pin out, letting the flyer fall to the floor, revealing a small paragraph.

  Missing since June 2012. Please could you contact Carl Jones with any details of her whereabouts? My number is 0798575433332. Thank you.

  Richard’s mouth began to dry up, and a cold sweat formed on his neck and forehead. With a trembling hand, he pulled the poster from the board, causing several other notices and drawing pins to fall to the floor. He ignored them. Eyes wide open, he examined the photo. Despite the fact that she was wearing a tee shirt and a pair of blue jeans, and her brown hair was tied back, there was no doubt in his mind that it was her. No matter how faded the photo was, no matter how small, it was the woman in the white dress.

  The woman from his house.

  He could barely breathe.

  In spite of all that had gone on, a part of him still believed that there had to be a logical explanation for everything. Even seeing her sitting on his bed, no matter how clear she was, still carried a certain percentage of doubt. How could anyone believe such a thing could be possible? A ghost? But now, after seeing her name and photo, he could put all his doubts to rest.

  His head was a mixed bag of emotions. On the one hand he could feel the terror resurfacing, even in such a built-up place as the supermarket, and on the other, he could feel a certain level of excitement develop at the prospect of solving the mystery… a mystery that had plagued his life for almost two weeks.

  He folded the poster and slipped it into his pocket. Pushing the cart dangerously fast, he continued for the exit. He could barely contain himself as he left the supermarket. Reaching the car, he opened the trunk and dumped the shopping inside, not worried about breaking the twelve-pack of eggs. He slammed the trunk shut, raced around to the driver’s seat, started the engine, and sped out of the parking lot, heading for home.

  On the way, he reached into his pocket, pulled out his cell phone, and dialed Karen Leigh’s numb
er, swerving his car as he did.

  “Karen, it’s Richard,” he said, frantic. “I really need to speak to you. Can we meet?”

  “Hi Rich,” Karen replied. “Everything all right? You sound flustered.”

  “Everything’s fine. When do you finish work?”

  “Well, I suppose I could meet up in about an hour. What’s wrong?”

  “I’ll explain when I see you. Got to go now—I’m driving.” Before she could reply, he hung up and dropped the phone onto the passenger seat.

  He had an hour to kill before meeting with Karen, so he slowed the car down. He tried to control his breathing, but it was no use; the adrenalin was just too much. He had never felt so freaked out in all his life. Surely now, after all the evidence, Nicky would have to believe him. No one could be that stubborn.

  Yes, they could.

  She didn’t believe the smoke detector was anything out of the ordinary; she didn’t think that both fridge and freezer doors being open was bizarre. Why would she think anything different now?

  As he approached his house, he tried to forget about Nicky. His focus would be on finding out the truth about Christina Long. He parked the car, unloaded the shopping from the trunk, and raced across the road, struggling to hold all six bags as the plastic handles dug into his fingers. He entered the kitchen, threw the food into freezer and fridge, and then marched into the living room. He looked at the clock on the mantelpiece as he paced the room, unable to sit. Forty minutes.

  Come on, Karen, I’m bursting.

  As he walked, he pulled the poster from his pocket and stared at the photo. Still in a state of shock, he took a seat on the single couch, eyes still fixed on Christina Long’s image. “I can’t believe I found you.” And then suddenly a wash of sadness flooded his head. In the picture, she looked happy and fun-loving—in fact, he was sure that it was a holiday snapshot. But the woman he had seen in his house was far from happy. Her eyes told a story of depression and loss. A million questions filled his head. What could have happened to make her that way? Was it simply losing her life—or something more? Why hadn’t she crossed over yet? And where was her big shining light? But it hadn’t even been a year since she died; perhaps it takes some time, especially if you die young. Maybe it’s harder to accept, to let go. He shook his head, disheartened by the whole concept of the afterlife. He had always believed that when you pass away things became simpler, not harder; that misery was a thing you left behind. But was his belief from his heart, or was it merely from Hollywood? Was there a difference? After all, Richard wasn’t sure of anything. What he read in books and saw in movies all stemmed from someone’s research, or someone’s imagination. No one could be certain of anything. But at least now, after everything, after centuries of speculation, he was closer to finding out the truth. Christina Long would soon open the floodgates to another world, and he would have front seats. He was confident.

  No, Richard Gardener was positive.

  Karen Leigh sat next to Richard on the couch, holding the poster, staring intently at the photo. “And you’re sure it’s her?”

  Richard nodded. “It’s her. I’m certain of it. That face is unmistakable. And it’s the same name: Christina Long.”

  She shook her head in astonishment, and then a grin slowly formed. “This is amazing. This is absolutely amazing. Do you understand how incredible all this is? This is…”

  “I know. I can’t believe it either. I actually, one hundred percent, have a real ghost in my house. I mean, I always knew it was true, but a part of me still thought that there must be a logical explanation. Hell, I even thought I could be losing it at one stage. But this, well, this is unreal.”

  “Have you told Nicky about this?”

  “What—about the poster?” He shook his head. “No chance. It’s not worth it. I’ve been tearing my hair out trying to convince her, but she just won’t have it. You know how stubborn she is.”

  “Well, I think she’s going to struggle trying to rationalize this.”

  He was unconvinced. “I don’t know—we’ve had so many arguments about this, I don’t think I can take anymore.”

  “It’s up to you, but let me tell you, as much as I believe that spirits exist, this is probably the most blatant case I have ever come across. Seriously. People come to me with stories about ghosts and all sorts, and most, like Nicky says, have logical explanations—but yours…”

  He took the poster from her and looked at the image again. “So what do we do now?”

  “You have to get in touch with this person.” She leaned over and glanced at the writing on the poster. “Carl Jones. I’m guessing he’s the boyfriend or brother.”

  “Or husband.”

  “Doubtful—different surname. You have to tell him what you know.”

  Richard shook his head in protest. “No bloody way. He’ll think I’m nuts. And I’m not the right guy to go and tell someone that their girlfriend, or wife, or whatever, is dead. I don’t have it in me.”

  “So what do you want to do, then?” she asked, firmly.

  He shrugged. “I don’t know—send him a text message, or maybe an e-mail. I don’t know. I really don’t. How the hell do I explain to a grieving guy that the woman who he believes is just missing is now a ghost that haunts my house? He’ll probably call the police—probably get me sent to the nuthouse.”

  “You’ll just have to force the evidence on him. And don’t stop ’til you get through—no matter how hard it gets. You have to at least try, Rich. This is what she wants you to do. This is why she’s still here. This is the only way to get rid of her forever. I’m sure of it.”

  He listened stubbornly, but knew she spoke the truth. And the idea of coming home and not being scared witless was a very tempting proposal. He rubbed his face, worn-out from all the tension, all the excitement. Even someone with impeccable blood pressure would have struggled to cope with everything he had gone through over the past week. And now he was about to push his stress levels even further. But Richard knew he had to do it, knew that he had to speak to this man. With or without a clean bill of health. No one else was going to do it for him. He couldn’t exactly ask Karen to step up; she had already done so much for him. And it was his mess after all, his problem, his ghost. “All right,” he said, defeated. “I’ll do it. I’ll talk to the guy.”

  She smiled proudly. “That’s great. It’ll be fine, I’m positive. Have a little faith.”

  Frowning, he shook his head at the prospect of actually going through with it. “But if I get arrested, or sent to the nuthouse, you can explain everything to Nicky, all right?”

  Nodding, Karen grinned. “No problem. I’ll even bail you out of prison myself.”

  Richard didn’t return the smile; instead he just sat, staring down at the phone number on the poster, sighing loudly. He pulled out his cell phone from his pocket and dialed the number. Before he pushed the green ‘call’ button, he turned to Karen. His stomach was knotted tightly. “I can’t believe I’m doing this. This is stupid. Really stupid.”

  “It’ll be fine,” she said quietly.

  He pushed the button and held the phone to his ear. Then, out of the blue, he frantically pushed the ‘end’ button. “How should I tell him?”

  “Just ask to meet him or something. Don’t tell him too much over the phone, he may hang up on you.”

  Richard nodded, then pushed the ‘call’ button for a second time, setting it to loudspeaker. He gawked at the phone as he held it, and then at Karen, his body filled with dread. He listened anxiously as the call connected. After several rings, he was gladly about to hang up, but then the muffled sound of a man’s voice came through the phone’s tiny speaker. Richard’s mouth suddenly dried up, spreading instantly down to his voice box. Clearing his throat noisily, he spoke. “Oh, hello. Is this Carl Jones?”

  “Yes—speaking,” Carl replied.

  “Well, you don’t know me, but…” he paused to gather himself. “I really need to speak to you in person
about something.”

  “Speak to me about what?”

  Sighing loudly as he saw Karen’s encouraging eyes, he replied, “It’s about…” He closed his eyes. “…it’s about Christina Long.” He then shook his head, waiting for a response.

  The line went silent for several seconds, until finally Carl spoke. “Is this a joke?” he quietly asked, as if saddened and exhausted.

  “No, it’s not. Can we meet?”

  Carl paused again. “Who is this?” he asked, his voice sounding firmer.

  “My name’s Richard Gardener. I live in Bristol.”

  “How do you know Christina?”

  “Please, I don’t want to do this over the phone—can we meet up?”

  “Do you know where she is?”

  Richard looked at Karen and shrugged, mouthing the words, “What should I tell him?” She returned a shrug, along with a look of terror. Returning his attention to the phone, he replied, “No, I don’t, but I really need to speak to you. I don’t want to talk over the phone. I’m not some weirdo, I swear. Please—just give me five minutes of your time. That’s it.”

  Silence filled the room as they waited nervously for Carl’s answer.

  Fifteen seconds passed. Richard wondered if Carl had disconnected. “Hello? Are you still there?”

  “I live on Riverside Park. The new houses. Number 134. I’ll be home all day.”

  “Great. I’ll be over right away.”

  “Okay,” Carl said, barely audible. “I’ll see you later.”

  He hung up before Richard could say another word.

  Richard let out a long breath of relief as he pushed the ‘end’ button on the phone. “That went well,” he sarcastically told Karen.

  “We knew it was going to be hard. At least he’s agreed to meet you.”

  “Yeah, I know,” he groaned. “But that was horrible. He sounded really upset. I don’t think I can face him.”

  “You’ve got to now—he’s expecting you.”