“Then next time I get a decent job, I will bring you along, to see how you go. If you are any good, you are on the payroll.”
Payroll? Obviously, there was money involved in this. Rachel was unemployed now, so why not? This might be the answer to her prayers. Andy Horton and his dodgy-sounding ghost-hunting gig wasn’t the best offer she had ever received in her life, but she was desperate right now and beggars could most certainly not be choosers.
*
It sat quietly in the corner of the train station. It was crouched down, waiting and looking for one certain person, who had not arrived yet. No one could see it, yet, as people walked by, they pulled their coats closer around themselves, glanced about as if expecting to see something, and held on tighter to their children. Although no eye could see it, many felt its presence.
It scratched at its flank, examined its claw afterwards and then looked around. This thing and its kind had moved around on earth ever since there was an earth. Untouched by age or evolution, they remained (rather like the louse), unchanged as everything else passed by. Its view of humans was a low one. Humans were physically weak, aged quickly and their actions were guided too much by their hearts, not by logic. They were no match for these creatures.
While inhabiting the bodies of humans, it had seen films and read books, showing the familiar fight between human and creature. Sometimes in these celluloid representations, the humans got the upper hand, by calling a priest or saying some words from a holy book. It smiled slowly, exposing its razor-sharp, little teeth. Why did humans think the creatures cared about holy words or priests, each of whom was, after all, just a mortal man in a dress? It was sheer stupidity.
It shifted from one foot to the other in its crouched position. Most people now didn’t believe in anything paranormal or spiritual – they just trusted in what they could hear or see – and that suited it just fine. It meant that the creature could move amongst the living and the dead, relatively undiscovered and unspoken about. Like spies from the underworld, they came to this dimension, did what they had to do and then left. Most people didn’t even believe in their existence, hardly anyone could see them, and, certainly, no mortal man – or woman – could stop them.
It grinned again when it saw its target. Following the smart-suited man along the platform, it began to move with a shuffle, with its hairy, ape-like limbs moving effortlessly to keep up, but it had to gather its speed as the man hopped onto the train. The railway announcement display flickered slightly as the creature passed, but, other than that, there was no indication it had ever been there.
Chapter 16
Andy walked up to the front door of the 19th-century property. It was a very simple house, with no front garden to speak of, just a small wall, and a two-foot gap between the frontage of the house and the street. It was well kept, whitewashed and had two windows to the front; it was a small terraced cottage.
He had received a call from the gentleman, a Ronald Easton, a week before; however, after meeting Rachel last night, he decided he needed to up his game. After about five minutes of thinking, Andy decided to visit all the potential clients he had put off investigating before now and explored the possibility that he could make a full-time living from ghost hunting, as there were only two weeks left before he had to start that blasted shelf-stacking job. In his mind, he had formulated some kind of plan in that if he could get through a few of the people on his list of customers, check that the haunting was legit (he didn’t want Rachel seeing him fixing a knocking pipe and taking the cash), then return with her, he might be able to triple his income. He could then give the benefits office the finger and possibly become self-employed.
He wasn’t sure what he made of Rachel; she was quite plain-looking with her slightly skinny build and brown hair, which hung down, hiding her face. He also wasn’t struck by any kind of personality coming from her. There was no way he could leave her with clients, as you had to be a bit of a showman when visiting people’s homes, and she looked so bored all the time. Andy would have to introduce her as being a psychic when he took her on jobs, then people would accept her oddness. You could be completely bonkers if you were labelled a psychic; in fact, people practically expected it. Maybe he should get her to wear some odd clothes, such as long, flowing dresses in bright colours, something crazy-looking, and maybe glasses too; everyone knew most psychics wore glasses.
He had chosen this case to visit first as it sounded more likely to be a real haunting. Mr Easton had explained that he had been bothered by a ‘floating sailor’, strange noises and a cold breeze coming through the room when nothing was there. The strange noises and cold breeze hadn’t necessarily caught Andy’s attention (people often felt that even in unhaunted homes), but the floating sailor? He was intrigued, so said he would stop by today.
Most of Andy’s cases – in fact, he guessed about 98% of them – were nothing to do with the paranormal. After each ‘investigation’, he usually found a perfectly rational answer; this could include the person having mental health issues (such as paranoia), old houses making noises, people playing tricks, dodgy plumbing, tom cats yowling outside windows and even, on one occasion, a neighbour’s radio being placed too near an old air brick, causing odd sounds to carry. All were explainable. Andy had started out by admitting the truth when he discovered it, showing homeowners the broken window the wind came through, getting them into the loft to see the knocking ballcock, etc., but he soon found that honesty was not the best policy. Confronted by the simplicity of the explanation, people would usually expect to not pay him, or only give him a small fee because he hadn’t found a ghost. He had even received aggression on a couple of cases, where the person clearly felt foolish so took it out on him and, again, didn’t pay.
So, now, whatever the problem, he pretended it was paranormal and that he had solved it. In the past, he also used to go in the house, snoop about, find the problem then confront the resident. Again, he had found this didn’t work; people wanted a show for their money – calling out to the spirit, a rain dance to be done or some such – so Andy invented his own little performance. He had bought an old Stetson from a charity shop, and he had tied Mrs Braithwaite’s crucifix to the front, which he would wear when he was ‘in character’. He also made sure he used overblown, dramatic language: “Oh, come out ye spirit” and “Step forth.” “Kum by yah” was also becoming a personal favourite; he told people this chant often revealed the dead, although, of course, this was a total pile of horseshit.
Over time, Andy became reliant on his own gimmick, in spite of being fully aware that it was complete bollocks. He found that the ritual itself not only helped him play for time, but also acted as a tuning fork that helped to sharpen his problem solving abilities, regardless of whether there was anything paranormal going on or not.
He had only ever met a handful of real spirits during his work, which had been enough, and a few things he couldn’t explain. But now he had Rachel, well, maybe he could uncover some more real ghosts and make more cash.
Another trend that had emerged was that it tended to be wealthy, older people who called him in to get rid of paranormal activity. Andy wasn’t sure why this was; did ghosts not bother the poor or the young? The person’s age didn’t bother him, but a rich customer was always good because he could charge more.
With the thought of £ signs floating before his eyes, he went up to the brightly painted, blue door and pressed the bell. A song played within; he recognised the melody but did not know what it was. Within moments, he heard footsteps, and then the door opened.
Mr Easton was in his sixties, Andy guessed, with neat, white hair, a small moustache and a beard.
“Mr Horton?” Mr Easton asked.
“Yup,” confirmed Andy.
“Please do come in…” Mr Eastman waved Andy into a small but very clean living room.
It was furnished in a style favoured by older people, with a floral ca
rpet and little doilies draped over the back of the chairs for headrests. As he sat, Andy noticed that cut-out, small pieces of carpet had been put by all the doors leading to and from the rooms, from the same roll of carpet that had been used in the main room, which was probably the worst tripping hazard ever invented. Mrs Braithwaite also used these ridiculously dangerous, curled, cut-out pieces of rug by the doors, presumably to save the main carpet. But they always looked tatty, and were probably dangerous in the home of an older person.
After the offer of some tea, which Andy gratefully received, Mr Easton sat down and began his story. “It started about a year ago, but has got much worse recently. My wife is particularly worried about it, especially after the… apparition.”
“Tell me what happened. You said on the phone that you had felt uncomfortable for a while living here,” ventured Andy.
“Yes, it was odd things; for example, we would be upstairs in bed and we would hear something moving around downstairs.”
Andy groaned inwardly. It sounded like the ‘spooky noise’ thing; old houses often made noises, and also sound travelled from neighbour’s homes quite easily. This was not compelling.
Mr Easton continued, “The cold breezes, I told you about. We would be standing in the kitchen, minding our own business, and we would feel a breeze, really cold, on our backs. It was only for a second mind, then gone, but no window or door was open. My wife also said something was watching us; she felt eyes on her.”
Andy was bored. This was crap. A breeze and a noise; it was time to dig deeper. “The apparition, tell me about that.”
Mr Easton leapt up. “Do you want to see where it happened?”
“No, just tell me.”
Mr Easton sat down again, slightly disappointed. “My wife and I were in bed when we saw a movement, like a mist, which drifted over our bed, then sort of disappeared. It was clearly a person; a sailor. It gave us a shock, and we thought we were imagining it.”
“How did you know it was a sailor?”
Mr Easton looked surprised. “He had a beard and a naval uniform on: a big coat with stripes on the arms, and a cap with gold around the front of the brim. He was a captain, I think?”
Andy put his finished cup of tea down. “Did it speak?”
“No.”
“Did he point to anything or make a gesture of any kind?”
“No, he just floated over the bed and disappeared.”
Andy considered this. It did sound genuine. There was nothing spectacular about this sea-faring spirit; it uttered no well-worn phrases such as, “Get out,” or “Avenge my death,” nor did it point to any walls or floors, indicating secret passageways or hidden treasure, as shown in films.
“I would like to see your bedroom now, if I may?” Andy enquired.
“Of course; the wife has changed the quilt especially.” Mr Easton jumped up again and led Andy up a small dog-leg staircase with ornamental plates on the walls, featuring Winston Churchill. At the top of the stairs, Mr Easton went straight into the room in front and ushered Andy in.
The bedroom was small and cottage-like, and, just like downstairs, it was neat, clean and twee. It had pictures of flowers on the wall, floral curtains and an old-fashioned wooden bed, which was pushed against one wall and had a sort of woven bedcover with yet more flowers on it.
Mr Easton hopped onto the right-hand side of the bed, lay down then pointed upwards. “It went from right to left, above the bed, then towards the window.”
Andy looked about; he felt something was odd in the room, and he really felt the sensation of being watched – as if someone was by the window – but, of course, he could see nothing. “Show yourself,” he said.
But there was nothing.
Andy frowned. “Thank you, Mr Easton. I will return with my psychic investigator and rid you of your ghost. Because there will be two of us, my fees must go up slightly, I am afraid.”
Mr Easton sat up on the bed. “That is no problem at all, as long as you can get rid of it. My wife has been terribly worried about it, in case it comes down on her in bed.”
“Ahem… yes…”
Andy looked at Mr Easton. Captain indeed; why the hell would a sailor float around a room in the middle of a city? This seemed likely to be some more crap, but something bothered him about the bedroom. Why not let Rachel loose on it and see what she could find?
Chapter 17
Rachel didn’t know what was worse, the pain or the fatigue. She had never been a well person, not since childhood. Puberty had been hard; the hormonal changes had made her ill. She had always been prone to headaches and stomach upsets, often for no apparent reason, and she wasn’t fit at all.
Since the haemorrhage, things had been a whole lot worse; every day, she had felt unwell in one way or another. Her problems ranged through extreme exhaustion no matter how much she slept, headaches and migraines, an upset stomach, problems with sleeping, and the constantly irritating ‘brain fog’. The doctor said most of it was to do with the brain bleed, rather than stress or aging. She wasn’t sure. All she knew was that she had grown tired of living half a life.
Things didn’t hold much enjoyment for her anymore. As a child, she remembered becoming very excited as the family holiday loomed, watching her mother and father choose where they would go. Then, after they had booked it, she would take the old holiday brochure and keep it in bed with her, so if she felt nervous or had trouble at school, all she needed to do was turn to the page showing where they were going, and she felt better instantly. Looking at the brightly coloured pictures of parents and children on the beach and by the chalets – she loved it.
She remembered how she would select her best dolls and teddies to come with them on the trip, line them up and tell them all how fortunate they were to have this twice-yearly holiday. The day before they were due to set off, she wouldn’t be able to sleep, so eager was she that her heart would race so it was fit to burst. She was so excited over this small thing, like an exquisite drug had been pumped into her veins. But nothing got her excited now; nothing. Not when she moved into the flat with John and not when she got a wage rise at work; nothing. It was as if her senses had been turned down or switched off. Was it depression? Who knew? But she wished something would thrill her now in the same way as she had been enthralled by holidays as a child.
Her parents had been killed in a car accident when she was nine; she didn’t remember much about it. Rachel had been staying with her grandmother when it happened. All she could remember was her grandmother screaming in the living room, some policemen and that was it. Her memory from that time was very vague. She had later been told that her father had lost control on the motorway, and the car had flipped over, and they had died. That was it. She knew the story, and she had retold it many times, often in an emotionless way, to anyone who asked.
She was so jealous of people who had big families, brothers and sisters and those whose parents were still alive. Acquaintances would ask if she had any family, and she would say no. They would probe, asking if she had no parents, no siblings, and no aunts or uncles. All of which she answered no. Her grandmother was dead now too, so she had no one.
Since her brain haemorrhage, she had felt worse. Every day was an effort, particularly after losing her job, and this odd, newly acquired ‘talent’ of being seemingly able to see ghosts. Rachel looked up from the sofa and watched as a very large, old horse pulled a plough across her living room, followed by a man holding the plough share; they appeared from her doorway and vanished into the far corner. Again, the bottom of the horse’s and man’s legs were missing, as if below ground, so it looked like they were walking knee-high through the floor.
After watching them, she realised that some spirits seemed to have consciousness; they were aware she was there, and could speak to and see her, like a living person, such as that odd bloody doctor who had accosted her that time. But there were
some who were more like ‘recordings’; they would do something over and over again, as if in a film, but there would be no interaction, and you couldn’t speak to them. The horse and ploughman seemed to be one of these occurrences. She knew they were recordings (as she called them) because they appeared slightly fainter than the other spirits.
All the while, in the back of her mind, she kept wondering if she was, in fact, mad; maybe the ghosts or whatever the hell they were – spirits or sprites – were not really there at all. Perhaps her mind was making them up, using information gleaned from her own years as a teacher to make them seem more real. If she actually was mad, she should keep a lid on it; she really didn’t need idiots like Andy Horton running around, calling her a psychic. Rachel wanted to wind this all in, but she had a nagging feeling that this particular horse had bolted.
Her phone bleeped. Pulling it wearily from off her sofa, she saw a message from Andy. He had lined them up a job, which was something about a floating seaman; great. He would meet her at the house tomorrow (he only had a bicycle), and asked if she could make it there OK. She simply replied, “Yes”, then put the phone down. Again, she wasn’t sure about teaming up with Andy. Rachel had looked his company up on the internet, and, yes, it was there, listed as ‘psychic investigators’. She recognised his mobile number, but no name was given, and she wondered if he was on benefits or something and trying to hide his earnings. Who knew? She didn’t care.
She needed to look for another teaching job, but, in the meantime, she might as well cop some money from this caper to keep her going. Slowly, the exhaustion began taking over her again; her brain started slowing down, with the front of her head and her eyes feeling heavy. Within five minutes, she was asleep, her snuffles filling the room.
*
The morning seemed to come too soon. Rachel arranged to meet Andy in a small café, just down from Mr Easton’s house, to discuss their tactics for the job. She found the café easily, which was a small greasy-spoon café, frequented by truckers. Ignoring the staring men sitting by the window, tea mugs in hand, she went in and looked for him. Seeing his overweight frame sitting in the corner and fiddling with a small, black box, she felt instant relief; the last thing she wanted was to be left sitting alone in this bloody awful café.
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