The Ghost of Longthorn Manor and Other Stories

by Amy Cross

  I shouldn't be here.

  It's half past six and I'm pressed for time. I should have driven straight home after my trip to the supermarket, but sometimes I just feel compelled to come out here and take a look at the site of the accident. I know this kind of thing probably isn't very good for my mental health, and I'm sure both Jacqui and John would tell me to pack it in, but I can't help myself. Even now, just sitting here and looking out the window toward the stump of the old oak tree, I feel a strange sense of calm. Finally, I unbuckle my safety belt and open the door, climbing out of the car and into the cold evening air. I can even see my own breath.

  This is where they died.

  After pushing the car's door shut, I step across the dark road. There's nothing on either side but the vast forest spreading off for miles into the distance. This is a back-road, barely used by anyone since the bypass was built, and it twists and winds its way right through the heart of the forest. David always preferred coming this way, since he liked staying off the main road. Plus, Hannah always used to beg him to drive through the forest, because her favorite book series was all about pixies who lived in a place just like this. On the night of the crash, David had just picked Hannah up from a friend's birthday party, and I'm certain she must have asked him to drive along this particular road.

  I was waiting for them at home.

  The stump is all that's left of the huge old oak tree that used to stand here. According to the accident report, David swerved suddenly, leaving the road at high speed and crashing head-first into the tree. The impact was so severe, it pretty much destroyed the car, while leaving the oak tree with so much damage that it had to be cut down. I remember coming out here, just an hour after the accident had happened, and there was so much shattered glass all over the road. The police wouldn't let me near the mangled car, of course, but there were some bright rig lights set up nearby, silhouetting the wreckage. I saw David's body being lifted from the car, and nearby there was a stretcher being carried to an ambulance with a sheet covering another body.

  Hannah was eight years old. She'd been wearing her belt in the front of the car. David had probably let her sit next to him as a treat. The belt hadn't been enough to save her, though. According to the accident report a month later, a branch from the tree had broken through the windshield and hit Hannah in the head, just to one side of her nose, piercing her skull through the eye socket. She and David both died from a combination of head trauma and massive internal injuries.

  And nobody ever figured out what caused David to swerve off the road.

  ***

  “What's she doing in there?” I mutter, checking my watch again. “She's been in Hannah's room for almost five minutes now.”

  “Relax,” Jacqui says, taking a sip of wine. “Louise is a professional, and these things take time. There's no point barging in there and interrupting her.”

  Feeling distinctly uneasy, I can't help looking toward the hallway again. Maybe I'm being irrational, but I really don't like the idea of this Louise woman rooting around in Hannah's bedroom. I left that room untouched after the accident, with all Hannah's toys still on the shelves, and for the most part I've managed to keep other people out. Now Louise is in there, and I'm struggling to resist the urge to hurry through and tell her to leave. What if Hannah's ghost is in there right now? What if my little girl thinks I don't want her spirit in the house? Then again, I'm not even sure that ghosts are real.

  Leaning forward, I put my head in my hands.

  This is too much.

  I don't know what I think about the things I've seen, and I can't decide which option is better. Do I want my dead daughter and husband to be haunting me, or do I want the whole thing to be a figment of my frenzied, crumbling mind? What would be best for them?

  “It's all going to be okay,” Jacqui says calmly, placing a hand on my shoulder. “This is part of the healing process.”

  I open my mouth to tell her that I'm not comfortable, but suddenly I hear footsteps coming this way. Turning, I see Louise stopping in the doorway. She's going to tell me that she senses ghosts here, I'm sure of it. She's going to explain that there are two spirits, and that they're trapped here because of my grief.

  “There are no ghosts in your house, Mrs. Carter,” she says after a moment.

  I stare at her, convinced that I must have misheard.

  “Are you sure?” Jacqui asks.

  Louise steps into the room, stopping again at the other end of the table. There's a hint of sadness in her eyes as she watches me for a moment.

  “I'll be completely honest with you,” she says finally. “After hearing about the tragic deaths of your husband and daughter, Mrs. Carter, I was certain that there'd be spirits in this house. There are no hard and fast rules regarding these things, but I felt that the circumstances of their deaths would compel their souls to return here. However, I've checked twice over now, and I'm absolutely certain that there are no ghosts in your house. I could still conduct a brief cleansing ritual, to try to improve the energy here, but I'm not sure that there's any point. In terms of spiritual energy, this is one of the cleanest houses I've ever entered.”

  I turn to Jacqui, and I can immediately see the surprise in her eyes.

  “There are two possibilities,” Louise continues. “One is that because they were together when they died, your husband and daughter were able to help one another move on to the next level of existence. The other possibility is that their spirits lingered somewhere else. They certainly aren't here.”

  “Maybe they're just hiding?” Jacqui suggests. “Maybe the ghosts are shy?”

  “I have to get going,” I tell them, both checking my watch as I get to my feet. This has been a complete bust, and I want it over with as quickly as possible. I'm already late for John's event, and I feel like I've wasted enough time on this nonsense already. “Thank you, Louise, it was very kind of you to come this evening. But it looks like there's nothing more you can do, and I'd hate to waste any more of your valuable time.”

  “You're not going to that stupid book reading thing are you?” Jacqui asks. “Come on, let's go to my place and get wasted on white wine.”

  “Another night.”

  “Are you kidding? You'd rather hang out with that grumpy washed-up old former writer who can't even bash out any more of his awful novels?”

  “I promised I'd support him.”

  She rolls her eyes. “John Myers is a trash merchant,” she mutters, before turning to Louise. “You've heard of the guy, right? His books are garbage.”

  “I quite like them, actually,” she replies, stepping toward me. “I don't suppose you could ask him to sign a book for me, could you? Sometimes, when I'm losing a little faith in my work, I read one of his novels and get all my confidence back. He's a wonderful writer.”

  “Oh God,” Jacqui mutters, rolling her eyes. “Trust me, Louise. Never meet your heroes.”

  Four

  “He's a great writer, isn't he? One of the most original horror novelists of modern times.”

  Looking up from the back cover of the novel I'm holding, I see that a man has come over to join me in this hidden-away corner of the bookshop. With a faint smile and a hint of caution in his eyes, he seems slightly nervous.

  “John Myers, I mean,” he continues, as John continues to get ready for his Q&A session at the far end of the store. “To me, he's up there with King and Herbert and Hill, all the truly great genre writers of the past few decades. I just hope that some day he can get over this case of writer's block and finish his latest novel. Five years is a long time to wait, huh?”

  “Sure,” I reply, forcing a smile even though I feel a little embarrassed. I've never been good at small-talk with strangers, so after a moment I look back at the book I'm holding.

  Damn it, why do my hands suddenly feel so clammy?

  “Jason Hodges,” the man continues. “I'm sorry, I've seen you at a few of these evenings before. I think maybe you and I seem to come to all the
author events.”

  “Um, yeah,” I say, setting the book down and quickly picking up another. “It's always interesting to hear authors talk about their work.”

  “I'm sorry,” he says, taking a step back. “I shouldn't have come over and disturbed you. You were obviously enjoying a good browse.”

  “It's fine,” I tell him.

  “No, it's not. Just ignore me and I'll stop bothering you. I'll leave you in peace.”

  I open my mouth to tell him that he wasn't bothering me, but he's already heading over to another set of shelves. If Jacqui could see me now, she'd be hissing at me to go and talk to the guy. After all, he's around my age, and very attractive, and we obviously have similar interests. Of course, what Jacqui doesn't understand is that I have no intention of getting into small-talk with men I don't know. The last thing I'd want would be to give a guy like Jason the wrong idea. Besides, I'm sure he was just being polite. He's obviously just someone who shares my interest in literature. And especially, it seems, in the books of the great John Myers.

  ***

  “Well that was a waste of bloody time,” John thunders ninety minutes later, as he comes over to join me next to the bookstore's cash desk. “If these people truly appreciated my work, they'd understand that events like this are torture for me. They wouldn't ask me to come in the first place!”

  “If you hate it so much,” I say with a faint smile, “why do you come here once a year like clockwork?”

  “I suppose I feel a need to keep my hand in,” he mutters, turning and watching as members of the audience continue to file out of the store, most of them clutching freshly-signed copies of John's work. “I bet half those bloody books end up for sale online before the end of the night. Bloody parasites.”

  “I doubt the -”

  “And did you hear all those bloody questions about writer's block?” he adds with a sigh. “If one more person asks me when my next book is coming out, I'll strangle the life out of them!”

  “When's your next book coming out, Mr. Myers?” a voice asks from nearby. “How's the writer's block coming along?”

  John turns and glares at the man, only for his face to soften as he recognizes him. I recognize him too.

  It's Jason, the guy who briefly approached me earlier.

  “Very funny,” John mutters glumly, reaching out and shaking Jason's hand. “What are you doing here, anyway? I thought I told you to keep away tonight.”

  “I couldn't resist the urge to come and see you squirm in the spotlight,” Jason tells him, before glancing at me with a faint, slightly embarrassed smile. “We meet again, I see. I'm sorry, Beth, I hope you don't think I'm following you around the store.”

  “Of course not,” I reply, feeling as if I should get going and leave them to talk. Before I can say anything, however, it suddenly occurs to me that I never told this guy my name. I guess he must have overheard someone else talking to me during the event. And that, in itself, would be quite a miracle, seeing as I've spent most of the time loitering at the back of the crowd, keeping myself to myself.

  “Beth Carter,” John says after a moment, “allow me to introduce Doctor Jason Hodges. Jason is one of the few members of his profession who actually knows what he's doing. For that, I can only offer profound thanks to the gods.”

  “John's always something of a drama queen,” Jason tells me. “He basically uses me as a walking, talking prescription pad.”

  “Jason helps me deal with my physical ailments,” John explains, “and you, Beth, help me deal with other problems.”

  “I do?”

  John turns to Jason. “Beth is an angel. She listens to me whenever I need to talk through a particularly knotty plot problem. One might even say that she's become something of a muse for me. If it wasn't for her, I'd never have completed that short story that I managed to put out a few years ago.”

  “The Ghost at Marley Witch Grove?” Jason replies. “I loved that!”

  “And if I ever get through this bout of writer's block and finish my current novel,” John continues, “I'm sure Beth will deserve a great deal of the credit. She humors me with such patience.”

  “I do no such thing,” I tell him. “I just act as a sounding board, really. I let you talk and I try not to interrupt too much.”

  He opens his mouth to say something, but suddenly someone calls his name and he turns to look back across the store. Sure enough, someone is waving at him, and I can already see the disdain in John's expression.

  “Wonderful,” he mutters. “My delightful agent seems to want a word. You two young things will have to excuse me, I'm afraid. This might take some time, since Joanna is somewhat verbose. I'm sure she has all manner of contracts and offers for me to deal with.”

  Still grumbling under his breath, John heads back across the store. As he reaches his agent, I can't help feeling just a little sorry for her. After all, John seems to be in a particularly grouchy mood this evening, and I wouldn't like to be the one who has to deal with his cantankerous responses. Sometimes, I think he plays up the idea of the moody author with just a tad too much relish. It's becoming a habit for him.

  “I've got a confession to make,” Jason says after a moment.

  I turn to him. “And what's that?”

  He hesitates for a moment. “We've met before.”

  “I know. Earlier, by the new release table.”

  “Before that.” Again, he seems a little nervous. “I'm sorry, maybe I shouldn't have said anything, it's just... I've never quite forgotten your face from that night.”

  I feel a flutter of concern in my chest. “What night would that be?” I ask cautiously.

  I wait for an answer, but it's already clear that he's worried.

  “I used to work with a first-responder unit,” he says finally. “Typically, I'd be called out to the scenes of accidents. One night, I got a call to visit the site of a car wreck.”

  I instantly feel myself starting to tense up.

  “A vehicle had hit a tree, out on the old road that runs through the forest. The adult male driver had been killed instantly, but one of the police officers thought he'd detected a very faint pulse when he checked the little girl in the passenger seat. Her injuries made that seem very doubtful, but I had to be sure so I leaned through the broken window at the side of the car. There was no pulse, of course, but when I saw the girl's face... Well, to be perfectly honest, it was that moment that made me decide I needed a different job. I couldn't go around witnessing such horror anymore and -”

  “I think maybe I should head home,” I tell him, turning to leave.

  “That's when I saw you,” he adds.

  Stopping at the door, I hesitate for a moment before turning back to him.

  “You were getting out of a police cruiser that had brought you to the scene. You looked so lost and scared, and I never forgot the sight of you as you were led though the chaos. There were flashing lights everywhere, but you looked as if you were in another world.”

  “I'm sorry,” I stammer, turning again. “I just -”

  “I wanted to come over and speak to you,” he tells me, grabbing my wrist. “That night, I mean. I wanted to say something, anything, that'd make you feel better. But there was nothing, was there? I couldn't have helped. I felt so powerless.”

  “Please -”

  “I'm so sorry about what happened to your family,” he continues, still holding me tight. “I've seen you here a few times recently, and I told myself that I shouldn't approach you, but that night just weighs so heavily on my shoulders. I guess, deep down, I was still hoping that I might find something to say, something that would help you deal with the pain.”

  “I really have to get going,” I tell him, forcing a smile so that he won't see how unsettled I feel. Reaching out, I shake his hand. “It was nice to meet you.”

  “But about the -”

  “Goodnight!”

  With that, I turn and hurry out of the store. I feel panic-stricken and a little b
reathless, as if another anxiety attack is about to come on, so I make my way quickly along the street and I only slow my pace a little once I'm certain that Jason isn't following. Taking my phone from my pocket, I start typing a message to John, apologizing for having left so abruptly. To be honest, the mention of Hannah and David's accident has left me feeling shaky, even if I know I'm probably over-reacting a little. I can't stop picturing the scene in my mind's eye, especially the part that Jason described a few minutes ago.

  I can see a hand, reaching into the wrecked car, checking for a pulse on the wrist of my dead little girl.

  ***

  “I have been instructed to issue an apology,” John mutters later, close to midnight, as we talk over the phone. “Our newly mutual acquaintance Jason Hodges telephoned me a short while ago, and I'm afraid he was in something of a state. He seems to think he might have offended you earlier in the evening.”

  “It's fine,” I reply, sitting on the bed in my gown, ready to climb under the covers. “Tell him not to worry. It's been a long night and I just want to go to sleep.”

  “He's a good fellow,” he continues, evidently not picking up on my attempt to end the call. “Did I mention that he's a doctor?”

  “Once or twice, yes.”

  “Actually, there's something else I meant to bring up,” he adds. “I didn't get a chance earlier, since you left rather suddenly. I assume you didn't let your friend's psychic enter the house?”

  “She was here before I headed out to the bookstore.”

  He sighs.

  “She didn't find anything,” I tell him.

  “What do you mean?”

  “I mean that she said the house is clear.” I pause for a moment, listening to the silence, and I've got to admit that I feel a little more relaxed now. Maybe Louise was helpful after all. “She went through every room, and I was convinced she'd put on this big show about ghosts and spirits and all that stuff, but instead she said that there's nothing here.”

  “She did, eh?” He sounds skeptical.