Eleven New Ghost Stories

by David Paul Nixon

  As I tried to wipe water up from the counter, I heard something. It was the slightest sound of tapping; not loud, but it was there.

  I scoffed – it was the pipes after all. That idiot! I turned on the over-pressured tap again – it splashed heavily against the dirty dishes in the sink, getting me wet again. But I turned if off quickly and waited for the sound of knocking.

  I was sure I’d got it, but then nothing happened. I waited for more than a minute. I was so sure I’d found the source, but nothing was heard.

  That didn’t prove anything though; the tap was still probably the most likely explanation. I filled my glass with water from the hot tap instead. I waited a little then too, but there was no sound.

  I started to walk out of the kitchen, and then I heard it:

  Tap-t-t-t-tap tap.

  I stopped still. That wasn’t the sound of a pipe; it sounded like someone tapping on a wall or a table. Quite clearly in a rhythm; no clumsy clunking or banging.

  I immediately assumed Craig was taking the piss, so I walked quickly out into the hall to see if he was there. It was empty and dark. I looked both ways, down to the bedroom at the end of the hall, and back across the landing to the living room. All seemed quiet and empty.

  What had he said? It always stops when you go looking for it… Now it was giving me the willies. I felt a shiver and suddenly thought it would be best to go back to my room and hope the dark words of the occultists might protect me.

  I walked forward a little, past the door to the bathroom. There it was again, behind me:

  Tap-t-t-t-tap tap.

  It came from the landing, I was sure of it. I spun around and saw a figure – I almost screamed, but after a second realised that it was the hat-stand.

  I exhaled and shook my head. I chuckled slightly at myself and turned back towards the library.

  There it was again: tap-t-t-t-tap tap.

  It was from the stair bannister, creeping along the surface, getting closer to me with each tap.

  I inhaled quickly – then it came again, from the bathroom door right next to me:

  Tap-t-t-t-tap…

  …TAP – right on my shoulder! Like someone poking me hard in the back.

  I span around in a fright and tripped over the end of the rug in the hallway. I fell over backward with a screech, throwing my arms up in the air. My glass of water splattered dramatically over the wall. The glass, by some miracle, didn’t smash – it landed with a thud on the carpet and rolled up to the door of Craig’s bedroom.

  I tried to get up, but as I scrambled to my feet all I did was roll the rug up under me. I stumbled again and fell back on the floor with a thump.

  The door opened and Craig came out into the hall: “What the hell’s going on?”

  “It touched me,” I screamed. “The thing touched me!”

  He took me into the living room and, rather quaintly, thought that what I needed was some warm milk to calm me down.

  He accused me of imagining it because I was drunk. I almost hit the roof: “I felt it! It touched my shoulder. You expected me to believe you; now you won’t believe me!”

  He said I should calm down: “All it did was touch you. That’s not so bad.”

  “He didn’t touch me, he poked me!”

  “Well, how do you know it’s a ‘he’? Maybe it’s a ‘she’?”

  “Oh you’d love that wouldn’t you? A jealous she-spirit who wants you.” Sounded like the kind of thing he’d try to make a story out of.

  Despite my distress he was clearly very excited. I’d experienced it too, so there was no question now. It was real! He was suddenly in his element. It was time to research, find out about the house’s history, who’d lived there before, what crimes had taken place in the area – maybe unsolved?

  He’d missed something obvious: “What about the people who live downstairs?”

  “There’s no one – it’s been empty since I got here. Maybe this is why it’s not for sale – there’s no sign. I bet it’s something that happened in the house below.”

  It struck me instantly that he was very much in his own fictional world. That he was actually living out one of his own stories and that he was going to approach this like a work of fiction. I tried to point this out, but he said he’d studied ghost hunting and knew what it was that psychical researchers do when they hear about phenomena.

  I didn’t dare point out that most of that was made up too – guesswork that lent itself to mankind’s natural capacity for making sense of things by making a story. But then I thought, well, what if it isn’t all nonsense? I had just been poked in the shoulder. And I hadn’t imagined it – I wasn’t that drunk, surely?

  I didn’t sleep well the rest of that night as you can imagine. I kept having this unpleasant feeling that I was being watched. I think I was just being paranoid. But there was something in that house; something had touched me. I knew it. I didn’t wait around for breakfast; I walked home and climbed quickly back into my own bed for comfort.

  I didn’t see Craig for a week or so after that. This wasn’t deliberate – the thing at his place hadn’t scared me that badly; I just had accountancy exams coming up and needed to revise. I got a phone call from him after a few days saying he was trying to contact the previous owners of the flat. The estate agents wouldn’t let him contact them without themselves acting as go-between, but he was sure their address was on the paperwork somewhere. He remembered being told they had emigrated back to India, so it would be a while, one way or another, before he would hear from them.

  He was also going to go to the town library to see if he could find any interesting references to the building and had contacted someone at the local historical society for any interesting things that had happened on the road. Some of the buildings were noticeably newer than some of the others and he’d wondered whether they’d been bombed in the war. Was this the restless spirit of someone trapped in the wreckage? Someone who had tried to make a noise so they could be rescued, but had not been heard in time?

  He was so keen to make a narrative out of it.

  He called on me again after my exams were over, under the guise of asking how it went. But quickly he wanted to update me on how things were progressing with his ghost hunt. I couldn’t help but be jealous that he had all this time on his hands to spend chasing his fantasies.

  The latest news was that he’d written to the flat’s previous owners in India, having found their address, and was looking into finding a way to trick the council into giving him the address of the owners of the empty flat downstairs.

  His historical research of the area had come to nothing as of yet; no suspicious goings on to speak of. Yes, some houses had been bombed in the war – but just down the street, not close by. The man at the historical society had been very friendly, but he didn’t have anything “juicy” for him. He did, however, know someone who was researching a spiritualist guide to the area, and that he would contact him on Craig’s behalf. So something good could come of that.

  Then Craig stopped silent for a moment. “There it is again,” he said. “The rhythm of six.”

  He said he’d be in touch soon and hung up. Later that night he texted me asking if I wanted to come over the evening after. I suggested an earlier time – somehow I didn’t want to go over there again and be around when night fell.

  I called around at about two in the afternoon. He invited me up and almost as soon as I had reached the top of the stairs there it was:

  Tap-t-t-t-tap tap.

  “I knew it,” he said with relish.

  “Knew what?”

  “It doesn’t like you.”

  “What?”

  He walked me into the living room. “I think it reacts when you’re here.”

  “What on earth are you talking about?”

  “I’m here all the time. It never bothers me. I hear it hanging around, making its noise, but it’s always in the background. You show up and suddenly it gets all agitated. Starts doing its tap
ping loud – did you hear how sharp and clear that was?”

  “Oh come on Craig – you’re letting your mind run away with you.”

  “And it does it when I’m on the phone to you. It’s like, when I’m on the sofa, just watching TV and it makes its noise, does the tapping, it’s like it’s just reminding me it’s there. You know, like it doesn’t want me to forget about it. But I start talking to you and suddenly it’s banging its fingers down in a mood.”

  “Just stop it Craig. Seriously, just stop it! You’re starting to freak me out.”

  “But get this: haven’t you noticed how cold it is?”

  “What?”

  “When you came in the flat; it’s suddenly gone cold”.

  “It was cold when I came in.”

  “It’s June – it’s 24 degrees outside. Why would it be cold in here?”

  “It’s not that cold in here,” I lied – it was chilly. “Look, I don’t want to talk about this. Can’t we go out somewhere, get a coffee or something?”

  “Not yet, I brought you here to help me with something.”

  “With what?” I hissed.

  “I want to take a look downstairs.”

  “And how are you going to do that?”

  “The backdoor isn’t locked properly. The bolt is unlocked; I think I can wriggle the other lock with a credit card or a scraper.”

  “You want to break in!”

  “I climbed out the bedroom window last night and got down there – look.”

  He took me into his bedroom. Directly under the window was the roof of part of the flat below.

  He opened the window: “I just climbed out and dropped down; it’s easy.”

  “You just walked out onto the roof? Are you crazy?”

  “It’s perfectly safe. I remember the estate agent telling me that the old owners wanted to build a balcony up here, but they weren’t given planning permission.”

  “That doesn’t mean the roof is already strong enough!”

  “It supported my weight yesterday.”

  “You’re so irresponsible.”

  “I need you to keep a lookout for me while I try to get the door open.”

  “Absolutely not, I’m not having anything to do with this.”

  “Come on, where’s your spirit of adventure?”

  “This isn’t a game Craig. You’re breaking into someone’s house.”

  “It’s empty.”

  “It’s still a crime. What if someone catches you?”

  “We’ll just say we thought we smelt gas. Better yet, we could tell them that we’d left a tap on and were concerned there might be water damage downstairs.”

  “I can’t believe you’re trying to do this.”

  “I’d rather you help me, but I’m doing this without you if I have to. I’d rather you were there, that way I can know if the neighbours are coming.”

  “What do you even expect to find?”

  “I don’t know. When you investigate you have to rule out the dead-ends first.”

  “You’ve read too many detective books.”

  “Are you coming?”

  I thought it was stupid and crazy, but part of me did want to give it a go because I was curious about what was going on. And it was sort of daring breaking into someone’s home – stupid though it was. Besides, I was afraid he would get into more trouble, or that something bad would happen to him. It was cold in his flat; something was not right here.

  I let him walk out on the roof first – I wasn’t going to let both our weights risk making it break. He got to the end and carefully lowered himself down to ground level.

  “There’s a bench here you can drop yourself on to; it’s really easy.”

  With reluctance I climbed out onto the roof, which thankfully did not groan or creak. I walked to the edge as he suggested and lowered myself down onto a rusty cast-iron bench. The garden was overgrown with thick grass and weeds – no one had been here in quite some time.

  It was left, around the side of the house, to the back door. Craig was already there, trying to force the door with a credit card. I didn’t like that the old wooden fence panels behind him were coming loose and that there were gaps between them where we could easily be seen.

  “This is going to break my card,” Craig said.

  I looked through the gaps into the garden next door. It was paved over, a depressing grey and tired looking place, with a rusty bike and broken garden furniture – but at least there was no one there.

  “Hurry up,” I said.

  He was trying the paint scraper now, forcing it into the gap between the door and frame. He wiggled it a little, then made a fist with his other hand and struck the top of the scraper’s handle. The door opened with a loud creak. “Get in quick,” I gasped.

  I virtually pushed him inside, slamming the door closed behind us.

  What we found was a disappointment. The kitchen and living room had an open corridor between them, with the bathroom sitting between. Then down the hallway were two bedrooms – Craig’s place had a much better layout.

  But there was nothing remarkable about the place at all. It was empty, nothing on the walls or floor, no left-behind furniture or waste. Just a clean, empty home.

  “Well, was this what you were expecting?” I said sharply.

  “There’s nothing…”

  “In an unoccupied house? No kidding.”

  “No, but there’s literally nothing. This place is spotless. There’s not a mark or… a scrape or scuff. It all looks brand new. Look at the floor… And walls, no marks, no wear, no dirt…”

  I took a step into the kitchen – it all looked pretty sparkling now that he mentioned it. I ran my finger across one of the countertops. There wasn’t even any dust.

  “It’s brand new, completely re-decorated”. It was quite warm too; not chilly like upstairs.

  He waved his finger in the air. “Something happened here.”

  “Yeah, they did the place up to sell it.”

  “But it’s not on the market.”

  “How do you know? Just cos there’s no sign outside.”

  “I checked online, it’s not listed anywhere.”

  “That doesn’t mean anything.”

  “I think something happened. Something bad; something bad enough for whoever owns the place to want to do it over completely. To wipe the slate clean. But even now, they’re too afraid to put it on the market. Because of what happened.”

  “You’re just making it up. You don’t know any of that. Stop writing a story out of this. You don’t know any of this–”

  “Hey, hey, ghosts and stuff – that’s my specialist field. Trust me; I know what I’m talking about.”

  “It’s all rubbish. You’re talking rubbish. All this crap about it going cold and it getting aggravated – you don’t know any of that. You’re just guessing and making it up as you go along. You don’t know anything Craig, you don’t know a damn thing!”

  He was about to answer back angrily – his mouth opened wide – but then we heard a loud creak.

  We both looked up to the ceiling – there were footsteps. Short, gentle, creaking footsteps above, in Craig’s flat.

  We both looked at each other – then we dashed to the doorway. Craig threw it open and slammed it shut behind me. He was up on the roof at an incredible speed, more athletic than I’d ever seen him. It took me longer to pull myself up from the bench and scramble through the window.

  He was stood in the hallway looking around. “Nothing,” he said. “There’s no one here.”

  I didn’t know what to say, I just stood there, in his bedroom doorway, out of breath.

  We listened quietly for a moment, looking up and down the hall and across the landing.

  “There has to be some logic behind it,” he said pointing at me. “Whatever’s going on, there has to be some logic behind it.”

  Tap-t-t-t-tap tap.

  It was quite loud. I couldn’t tell where it had come from.

 
Tap-t-t-t-tap tap.

  “Who’s there?” I said carefully. Craig looked at me with surprise.

  Tap-t-t-t-tap tap – louder.

  Tap-t-t-t-tap tap – louder still.

  I walked towards him. “Where’s it coming from?” I hissed.

  “I don’t know,” he said quietly.

  Tap-t-t-t-tap tap – becoming a thundering drumbeat.

  I was trembling: “Let’s get out of here”.

  Tap-t-t-t-tap tap.

  Tap-t-t-t-tap-TAP – the bathroom mirror leapt from the wall. It bounced off the edge of the sink and crashed onto the bathroom tiles, smashing into pieces.

  The noise stopped. Glass was all over the floor – it hadn’t just broken, it had exploded into pieces. Even the frame looked like it was torn apart.

  Craig stepped over it, and picked up two of the frame’s pieces – they were joined by the picture wire used to hang it. It hadn’t snapped, and the hook was still in the wall.

  It had literally flown off its own hook.

  “We need to get out of here.”

  “It’s all right,” he whispered. “I think it’s ok now.”

  “I don’t care what you think!” I cried. “I want to get out of here now!”

  He paused for breath. “Yes, all right” he said. He went for his keys and we made a hasty exit.

  We went to a café a few streets away, wanting to put a fair bit of distance between ourselves and the flat. It was a Greek place that was pretending to be Italian; we just ordered coffee, neither of us felt like eating.

  “That settles it then,” he said.

  “Settles what?”

  “It’s a poltergeist, not a ghost. Ghosts are benign, this thing reacts. It can be angry and destructive.”

  He took a sip of coffee. “You’re not on your period are you?”

  “Excuse me?”

  “Well, they can react to changes in the body, especially sexual ones.”

  “I’m 31, Craig, I’m not going through fucking puberty.”

  With a line like that, it wasn’t surprising that people started to look at us. We should’ve gone somewhere quieter.

  “What are you going to do?” I asked him.

  “I don’t know.” He was scared now. This thing was no longer fun or extraordinary; it was a problem. A problem he really couldn’t explain, not with all his books and horror movie trivia.