Miss Simpkin looked about thirty, and was very slim, with clear skin and a short bob hairstyle. Well-dressed but in an old-fashioned kind of way, with an overly fussy pussy-bow blouse and black pencil skirt, she had keen eyes, which flashed around the living room, taking everything in. She watched as Mrs Braithwaite placed the cup slightly shakily on the coffee table before her. A small amount of tea slopped onto the saucer.
“I saw Mr Horton’s ad online; I am hoping he can help with my problem,” stated Miss Simpkin.
“What is your problem? A haunting?” Mrs Braithwaite lowered herself into her battered, old chair, which was always in the corner.
“It’s something odd. At night, when I go to bed, I hear this banging noise, like tapping… banging. The neighbour hanged himself a while back, people tell me. I suspect it is him.”
“Really?”
They both sat silently, sipping tea, as they heard the front door bang shut.
“Screw me… Jesus wept,” could be heard from the hallway, followed by a loud bang, then slow and deliberate footfalls on the stairs as Andy went to his room.
Both ladies got up, and Mrs Braithwaite opened the door in the hallway, only to see a muddy pair of boots left sprawled on the front-door welcome mat. “Andy, you have a visitor here,” she called.
“Jesus…” The word, although spoken softly, echoed gently down the stairs.
“No… a Miss Simpkin,” said Mrs Braithwaite with a smile. “Where do you want her?”
He appeared at the top of the stairs. “My office, if you please…” He pointed to his door.
Miss Simpkin – although at first slightly perturbed at going into what appeared, to all intents and purposes, to be a bedroom – felt slightly more at ease after telling her story. This was the tale of a neighbour, who, according to people in her street, had hanged himself in the room adjoining her bedroom, in the house next door. The tapping came from there, though sometimes it was loud banging. She was convinced it was him.
“What makes you think that?” Andy queried, slurping from a tin of energy drink almost franticly.
“It makes sense, doesn’t it? The flat next to mine is currently empty, so it isn’t due to anyone living. Also, it is always, always about five minutes after I go to bed, no matter what time it is. I feel his presence; do you understand, Mr Horton?”
Andy looked at this quite attractive but oddly dressed lady. “I am happy to investigate, but I must charge a fee. I start at £50 for a callout and then charge £20 per hour afterwards.”
“Mr Horton… if you can rid me of this ghost, I am prepared to pay £500,” she said sharply, “Just do your thing and cleanse my home of this poor man’s soul.”
“Let’s arrange a time for me to come and see you, and we can sort it all out,” he replied, with £ signs floating in front of his eyes.
Chapter 10
Rachel had hardly slept properly for weeks now, since John had gone God knows where. She noted that, since he had left, her painkiller consumption had gone up; she was not only taking the medication from the doctor, but also copious amounts of strong codeine pills she had bought on the internet. It was the only thing that stopped the constant invasion of pain into her life. She didn’t like to think about it.
When her doorbell rang one morning at 9am, she was still in bed. She debated ignoring it, but then worried it might be something to do with John, so she heaved herself out of bed, padded downstairs and answered the door.
On her doorstep was Luke Fairfax, the reporter she had seen before in the school. Thankfully, no ghost grandmother accompanied him this time.
“Miss Holloway… It is Miss Holloway? Remember me? I’m Luke Fairfax from the Burwood Echo,” he explained.
“Yes, I remember you. May I help you? I don’t work at the school at the moment, so it’s no good asking me about that,” Rachel responded.
“No, it isn’t that… May I come in?”
“You might as well.” She signalled him into the main living area, which had its curtains half drawn and looked like some kind of riot had taken place.
“Excuse the mess; my boyfriend left me.” She sat down heavily on a large beanbag in the corner.
Luke moved some magazines from a chair and sat down. “I am writing a piece for the paper about paranormal happenings round and about. You know, ghosts and stuff.”
She carried on looking at him blankly.
He continued, “So, I er… thought I might be able to use your recent experience.”
“What experience?” she enquired.
“At the castle; a number of people contacted us about some kind of incident at Pierrepoint… It seems you saw some ghosts outside.”
When it was put like that it sounded awful. “I had an attack… I’d recently suffered a brain bleed, and it’s left me a bit shaky. I’m taking a lot of medication, so I probably hallucinated.”
“According to an eye witness at the castle, the theory you gave about one brother murdering another might not be quite as far-fetched as you think. I’ve done a little research of my own, been digging around, and discovered that some fresh evidence was recently stumbled upon that supports your theory. A small group of local historians have been keeping it to themselves for the moment, to give them time to cross check their information, so it hasn’t been published yet. A layperson would never have known this.”
“I would rather not think about what happened at the castle.”
“I would like to write your story: a woman who has suffered a terrible health misfortune now gains second sight. It’s a great story.”
“I will sound like a nutter.”
“I will write it sympathetically.”
“I don’t think so.”
“You’ll get £800 if it’s published. More if the national papers pick it up.”
Rachel had a think. She would be on half pay from next month, so the money might be useful. “Look, OK, but I don’t want some loud, big piece; just a little story, OK?”
“Of course. I will come by tomorrow for the interview; how does that sound?”
“Fine.”
She showed him out. Goodness, £800 just for a little interview. Maybe there was some money to be had in this. Nobody really read the local paper; it wasn’t like TV news, was it? There was nothing to be lost by doing it, and, anyway, there was no story there really. She had a funny turn, and that was that. His editor would see it for what it was, and she would be £800 better off. She thought she may sleep a little easier that night.
*
Andy was all tooled up and ready to go. He was standing in Debbie Simpkin’s flat at dusk, which he told her was the right time for ghosts, just as he always told everyone (although this wasn’t actually true, as some ghosts didn’t like the dark and preferred daylight). He had rigged up his little closed-circuit television (CCTV) cameras that could see in low light, and he was now checking for electronic frequencies and making sure any surge wasn’t due to a faulty electric socket. He removed his electronic voice phenomenon (EVP) box from his pocket and switched it on and off.
“Testing… yeah, testing… hum…” he said.
He played it back. The little machine whirred his voice back to him in a slightly shaky recording. He sniggered as he decided that the word ‘hum’ sounded like ‘bum’.
“We are good to go,” he said finally.
“What do I do now?” asked Debbie.
“I need you to do what you do when you go to bed; as much as possible, keep it real. Do everything as you would do normally, and I will watch.”
“Watch?” She frowned.
“For the spirit to make an appearance.”
Miss Simpkin didn’t seem too convinced, but she was so desperate to get rid of this spirit that had been plaguing her that she agreed.
Whilst Andy sat in the living room, watching all the monitors, h
e heard her in the bathroom, water was running, then came a flush.
She came out. “I don’t have to put on my pyjamas, do I?”
“Er, no, not for the moment. We will see if the spirit responds. Just get into your bed and turn the light off,” he suggested.
“This had better work, Mr Horton.” She went into her room and closed the door.
He heard the light snap off.
“I am in bed, Mr Horton,” she called out.
“Please… call me Andy.” He looked towards the bedroom. “That’s the best offer I have had all week,” he muttered to himself.
Nothing was happening. The CCTV cameras showed no movement, and there was no unusual electrical activity.
He sat down. He thought about it and wondered whether he might have to use some sort of ‘conjuring’ device to get the spirit out of its stupor. Then he heard it: tap, tap, tap. It was oh-so faint that it could barely be heard. TAP, TAP, TAP.
“Andy… it’s coming!” he heard Miss Simpkin exclaim from the bedroom.
The taps grew louder, then became banging – loud, rhythmic banging.
Debbie Simpkin rushed from the bedroom. “Do you see, Mr Horton? The spirit walks amongst us!”
He went round checking the CCTV, but he could see nothing.
“I am afraid,” whispered Debbie.
“Have you got a neighbour you can go to whilst I commune with the spirit? I would like you to leave, as this could be disturbing,” Andy confirmed.
He didn’t have to ask twice. She grabbed her coat, and, before he knew it, she had left the flat.
“Right.” Andy went into the bedroom; the banging did indeed come from the wall between her flat and the empty one. He listened as, slowly but surely, the taps receded.
He went into the living area and proceeded to get out his ultraviolet light and a Ouija board; then he stood up. From a small case, he took a Stetson; it had a crucifix tied to it with string, so that the crucifix sat at the front, resting on the brim. He shoved it on to his head roughly. Andy then switched on his EVP machine and set it down on the sofa.
“Speaketh, oh spirit; tell me your quest.”
Nothing happened.
“Shit.” Andy shifted position and went into Miss Simpkin’s bedroom. It was a very pink, clearly female bedroom with a large floral duvet cover and an overlarge Hello Kitty stuffed toy on the bed.
He began to wave his arms back and forth, like a person guiding a plane down to land.
“Kum by yah… oh spirit… Speak to me.”
Still nothing happened.
He removed his hat. “I need a piss,” he said to himself, and he went into the bathroom. After relieving himself, he flushed the toilet and then went back into the living room to set up the Ouija board.
Just as he went to open the board, the tap, tap, tap started again.
An idea immediately came to him. He rushed to the sink in the kitchen area and looked underneath to see a pipe vibrating. “Screw me,” he declared.
He then rushed to get a screwdriver. After hurriedly tightening some fittings that secured the pipe to the kitchen wall, he flushed the toilet again, and…
Silence.
Confident, he called her back.
As soon as she arrived, she asked, “What was it, Mr Horton? A spectre? A demon?” She opened her purse, which was absolutely stuffed with large denomination notes.
He looked at the toilet, then slowly back to her. “It really was just a simple problem; I fixed it right away. It was just—”
“The undead? You dealt with it spectacularly, Andy; I feel peace running through my home… What was it?” There was a clear glint in her eye, and a smile played at her lips. Her fingers hovered over the bursting purse.
“It was a… er… phantasm.”
“Not the hanged man?”
“No, but it’s gone now. I… er… conjured it out with my Ouija board and… er… sent it off.”
The EVP recorder was still humming away on the sofa, committing his lie to tape.
Miss Simpkin hugged him violently. “I absolutely cannot thank you enough for what you have done; you are my hero.” She took out a handful of notes from her purse. “Here’s £1,000 for you. I am so grateful.”
“You said £500?”
“You have rid me of this phantasm, and I am grateful, as I can now sleep at night. God bless you, Mr Horton. I shall recommend you to everyone I know who has a ghost. You seem to have all the right equipment to track them down.”
“Well, not quite everything.” He smiled. “It would be cool if I could find some piece of equipment that could just sort of see ghosts and spirits, like I see you; that would make it all so much easier. Save on all this gear and shi— er, stuff.”
“You would then be quite unstoppable, Andy.”
With that, he packed up and left, with a delighted Debbie Simpkin waving him off. Jesus, £1,000 for tightening a few screws, he thought. He felt a little bad, but no one had lost out. Miss Simpkin could sleep well at night, and he could pay his bills now as well; it was a win-win situation as far as he was concerned.
Chapter 11
There were a lot of sleepers out in the park that night; some nights there seemed to be more than others, but, that night, the roads were lined with them. The clothed figures were lying down stiffly, some with eyes closed and some with eyes wide open, staring towards comfort and sleep that would never come.
Dr Maxwell wasn’t a sleeper. Being a sleeper was fooling oneself. Some of those who were caught in this purgatory of being dead, and yet not redeemed to heaven, chose to remember being alive, and thus, every night, they would lie down – anywhere usually, but mostly down the sides of roads and beside buildings – to feign sleeping. But, of course, they could not sleep: they were dead. The dead could no more enter the state of sleep than a living person float unaided into the sky. But, still, every night, they did what they knew. They lay down as dusk began to settle and kept still until sun rose, when – like shuffling zombies – they would get up and begin to move again.
He stood in the light of a street lamp, pulling his great coat around him – more in a habitual movement as, of course, he could feel neither heat nor chill – then cast a suspicious eye up to the electric-powered street light and sniffed. One day, they would discover that this electricity was damaging to people and the environment, as there was never a breakthrough without cost. He preferred the gas lamps of his time; yes, they could be dangerous, especially in houses and theatres, but they really used to put out the most wonderful glow, unlike these monstrous lights.
He turned away and stared again at the sleepers.
The dead were split into two camps: ‘sleepers’ and ‘non-sleepers’. The sleepers, like those lying before him, chose to repeat the familiar pattern of lying down at night and rising in the morning. Non-sleepers, such as Dr Maxwell, lived during the night hours much as they passed the day: musing about things, walking around and thinking about the question: why, when they died, did they not ascend into heaven, descend to hell, or whatever? Why did they end up just aimlessly wandering the surface of the earth? Why did some souls, upon death, pass on, and some get stuck on earth? Sometimes they were stuck for centuries, walking amongst the living like faded shadows. This was the question.
The answer: now this was the big one. Those with religion claimed prayer and penance could bring ascension into heaven. This did seem to work at times. William knew a spirit nun he used to see at prayer every day on the church steps, but she disappeared one day, and never returned. Clearly, she had found the answer and had left this mortal place. Those who followed no god said hard work and reflecting on things one had done wrong in life brought the answer, but, again, he wasn’t sure about that. He had seen both people pure of most sins, and those filthy and ridden with terrible deeds all caught here for years. Why some souls remained here and
some departed was a complete mystery to him.
In life, William had been a man of science. He based his decisions and opinion on scientific facts that he had tested and found to be true or untrue, which is what had led him to become a doctor. He tried to do the same with his quest to find the answer, and this was why he was so excited about this lady he had met at the hospital, who could see the dead. He had seen others before in his lifetime and deathtime who claimed to see those who had passed on; some people could to a certain extent, but not like her. He was utterly convinced that she might be able to help him find out more about why some people remained and some went, but this meant he had to find her. She didn’t go to the hospital anymore; he had waited there for many days, but she had not shown up. Besides, he thought she had probably been scared off by his approach last time, but he had been so excited.
No, somehow, he must find her again. And when he did, he must not scare her off but also must somehow utterly compel her to help him, and make her realise just how essential her ability was to assisting him and all the other lost souls stuck here in this eternal nothingness.
A woman lying on the path before him looked up. She had closed her eyes twice, but then they snapped open.
“You are a fool, madam,” he bellowed. “You are as dead as yesterday’s capon, so why you lie there as a vagrant is beyond me.” He spun on his heels and walked into the shadows, leaving the woman remaining still, feigning the long lusted for state of sleep that would never overcome her again.
*
Rachel had cleaned up her flat as much as she could, and she watched nervously as Luke arrived and settled in. She had never been interviewed before; to be honest, she had never done anything interesting enough for someone to want to interview her. She watched as he got out a jotter, pen and a small voice recorder, which he tinkered with several times.
He looked up at her, his pen and jotter poised. She sat opposite him, her hands clenched tightly together.
“Are you ready, Rachel? Now, I explained most of this earlier. I am recording what you are saying, which will help me write this up later, if I miss anything…” He gestured towards the recorder. “If there are any questions you don’t want to answer, say so, but I think your story is very interesting and should be told.”
Seeing Things Page 6