The Angry Ghost and Other Stories

by Peter Spokes

  On the walls was the obligatory nautical regalia such as anchors, nets, oars and pictures to remind the viewer that they were inside a seafarers’ environment – as if the constant sound of seagulls and the tide, as it chewed the shore, wasn’t enough.

  My grandfather gingerly manoeuvred himself into a chair and, resting his stick against its arm – he couldn’t take a step without his walking stick nowadays – he gazed through the French doors and to the sea beyond.

  “Would you like a hot cuppa, old boy?” I ventured.

  He didn’t smile nowadays, in fact he barely spoke or even reacted, but I thought I saw a light in his eyes, though I doubted it came from the offered beverage.

  I wandered off to see if I could find a kettle.

  On my return, I stopped, surprised to see the old man on the other side of the room. He was gazing at a picture on the whitewashed brick wall. He was peering closely at it.

  I placed our drinks on the table before wandering over and looking over his shoulder at the picture. He slowly lifted a trembling and wrinkled hand and moved his fingertips, with surprising gentleness – almost caressing – across the faces in the picture.

  I saw six young men – maybe in their late twenties. They were clearly having a great time as they were smiling and laughing and there wasn’t an arm that wasn’t wrapped around another’s shoulder.

  At the front and sitting down, a big man with a curly black beard and unruly hair beamed at the others. There was little resemblance to the old man that now stood – aided by his stick – staring at an old picture.

  “They were your team… crew?” I asked gently.

  I had become used to my grandfather’s silence and lack of any reply to questions and so was surprised when he spoke.

  “… My friends… each and every one was like a brother… I miss them… Jimmy… Mikey… Dusty… we called him that because his name was ‘Miller’, like calling a guy called ‘White’, ‘Chalky’.”

  I nodded surprisingly excited by my grandfather’s communication.

  “Who are they?” I asked pointing at the last two, hoping to entice further conversation.

  “Artie and Davinderjit – we called him ‘Davinder’.”

  His mouth broke into a sudden smile as he gazed at something a long time ago.

  I smiled too. “What is it?”

  “I never did get the two shillings and sixpence that he owed me.”

  I had no intention or desire for him to revisit tragedy but this was the most the old man had spoken in years and I wondered if more might be good for him.

  “What happened?” I asked quietly.

  He turned his head and looked at me, a positive gesture as sadly, he rarely reacted to anything nowadays.

  “It was the day after St Valentine’s Day… 1954… we were going to spend the evening in a nearby pub as it was Mikey’s birthday, but we had a call that a trawler was in difficulty and at 1.46 am the boat was launched… the storm was bad… very bad… and…”

  He stopped and I waited.

  “… and all were lost…” he whispered.

  I looked up.

  “The trawler? Lifeboat…?”

  “… Very bad… all lost,” he whispered shaking his head.

  “Not all; you survived,” I said.

  He looked at me with horror and then began to weep. “I didn’t go… I had twisted my knee a couple of days earlier – that’s why I’m sitting in the picture – and so I had missed recent callouts… they had laughed as they left me… I should have gone with them… they said they’d be back for me and we’d be drinking by four…” He repeated sadly, “… back for me they said… first promise they ever broke.”

  Then he looked at me more closely than I’d ever known before. The unexpected strength of intensity in that look made me take a step back.

  “They didn’t come back! … They said they would!” he shouted before lowering his voice to a whisper, “… And I wish I had gone with them… my friends…”

  He looked down.

  “I miss them so much and I’m so alone…” he said wearily, looking again at the picture and gently touching the glass.

  I started to wonder if maybe this visit was not as sensible as I had first thought.

  Scene 3: Old Friends

  My grandfather ignored the tea I had made and was soon on the whisky which I had previously decided – silently – as probably not conducive for someone with dementia, but as it was his holiday, anything that might cheer him up must be a good thing, though I did wonder as to the coherency of his mental faculties once the alcohol was met with the dementia.

  I wasn’t sure what to expect of the evening but not in a million years would I have guessed how it would end.

  I watched as the old man succumbed to a deep melancholia. I could hear him muttering to himself and I ended up partaking in a brandy – a large bottle of which I had hastily purchased in preparation for the holiday, and I imbibed to the extent that sometime later I found myself trying – with little success – to focus on my wristwatch. I was not blind to the fact that it was the day after St Valentine’s Day and it was 1.15 am.

  Finally, in something akin to a drunken stupor, my eyes closed and I dreamed.

  In my dream, I was gazing across the room at the old man except that he was no longer old. He looked as he had in the picture.

  He was smiling as he gazed with some expectancy through the French windows despite the blackness beyond.

  Then I jumped as the French doors suddenly blew in and the candles blew out. Only the moonlight provided light.

  Then suddenly five raucous fellows practically stumbled through the doors in their excitement and eagerness.

  My younger-looking grandfather leapt up and joined them; there was much clapping of backs and surprisingly loud laughter and shouting.

  Scene 4: Back for Him

  I awoke to the lord of all headaches and slowly I got to my feet. As I rubbed my aching neck muscles, I noticed the French doors wide open and my grandfather gone.

  I ran out of the doors and looked around. The moon cast a glow on the drifting clouds and twinkled on the surface of the water as the tide crept and retreated.

  I called out but there was silence but for the rasping shore – though for the briefest moment, I thought I heard laughter.

  Gingerly I shook my aching head to lose the dream which I felt must still be playing in my mind, but after almost an hour of calling and searching, I returned to the room.

  Once inside, I noticed that the floor was wet. Maybe it had rained in the early hours and with the doors presumably blown open, it wouldn’t take long for the floor to become that way, though I couldn’t explain what appeared to be multiple footprints.

  But then I noticed the walking stick still leaning beside the chair and some coins on the table; I counted it – old money – two shillings and sixpence.

  I walked over to my chair and sat down.

  Then I wondered, and though I could feel my eyes welling up, I smiled.

  They said they would be back for him.

  Rachel and the Beast

  Chapter 1: The Beast 1

  Rachel sat with her knees up and her back to the dumpster, and very slowly peered around it.

  Her heart was beating too fast.

  She could see DeMarco coming down the alley towards her. He had a large hunting knife in one hand and a pistol – that is her pistol – raised, in the other.

  At every box or bin, he stopped before moving on again inexorably towards her.

  As he turned around searching for her, she could see the ‘beast’ tattoo that covered his entire back.

  He was smiling as he waved the knife that still had Markin’s blood on its blade.

  She tried unsuccessfully to slow her breathing but the blood was rushing in her ears and her pul
se was hammering. Looking down at her right hand she could see that blood from her shoulder wound had now progressed to dripping from her fingers.

  This was not the way she expected to ‘go out’.

  Chapter 2: Rachel

  Earlier that evening…

  Officers Ethan DeSouza and Vincent Markin sat in the precinct office drinking black coffee. It was 7.30 pm and the evening temperature was dropping but the coffee did its best to warm the blood and if not galvanise, then at least shake them from their torpor.

  DeSouza was a large middle-aged man whose recent sedentary years behind a desk had not been too kind to his once powerful body. He was a good officer but contentment in his job and perhaps a knowing of his limits had been misconstrued as a lack of ambition and had halted his progression through the ranks.

  He had no truck with his lot. Debs and the kids were more important to him than his career. As long as he could pay the bills and take his family to a Yankees’ game once in a while he was quite content.

  Markin by contrast was still on the better side of twenty-five and enjoying a carefree existence. He had only been out of the academy eighteen months and spent most of that time under DeSouza’s wing.

  “Well, I guess it’s finally here,” Markin said eagerly, standing beside the window and staring at the frost that still covered the panes of glass.

  “What’s that – winter?”

  “No – the day we get the Hooker Killer,” and then he looked back, “unless the captain puts it off until Jen’s better – we do need a babe for this, after all.”

  DeSouza shook his head, and not for the first time, at Markin, “Jen’s thirty-five with two kids! Give her some respect!”

  “Well, I think she’s hot,” he replied nonchalantly.

  “Anyway,” DeSouza continued, “I thought you were keen to continue with the other case – the lunatic who’s been ripping guys’ throats out?”

  “No, I’ve decided that’s too creepy.”

  DeSouza studied Markin as the door opened and they both looked up.

  An extremely petite young girl walked into the room closely followed by the captain.

  “DeSouza, Markin, we have a new recruit from the academy and she’s here to help us in the capture of the Hooker Killer while Jen’s off.”

  Both officers stared for several moments with some disbelief before nodding at the slight figure standing before them.

  “Does she have a name, Captain?” Markin asked, his eyes lingering on the sylphlike figure with some appraisal as DeSouza’s eyes rolled heavenwards.

  The captain paused awkwardly, “Of course, it’s Rachel Ger… Gorgu…”

  “It’s Georghiu-Dej – my grandfather was Romanian – but please call me Rachel,” she said quietly.

  Chapter 3: DeMarco

  Later that day…

  There was a gunshot and Officer DeSouza tried to open his eyes but dried blood resisted his attempts. He felt as if he had been hit by a freight train. He raised his head fighting the newly released pain that shot forth through his cranium.

  He could just make out Markin lying beside him, his eyes open and a neat red line etched across his throat – the blood had long since dried up.

  Both officers had been shadowing Rachel as she walked the strip. They had stopped at vantage points in alleys on opposite sides.

  He remembered losing sight of Markin and he wasn’t answering his radio and so had crossed to the other alley unholstering his sidearm. Someone must have crept behind him for his head had exploded with fireworks and all had gone black.

  He looked up at the backs of four dark figures – one tall and powerfully built figure held a large, bloody hunting knife and a gun – he recognised it as Rachel’s but looking around, could not see her.

  He noticed too the ‘beast’ tattoo on the big guy’s back.

  Chapter 4: Alone on the Strip

  Rachel had been walking along Rhinelander Avenue towards Bronx Park East. It was almost eleven-thirty but despite the bright lights from the Pelham Parkway to her right and the zoo lit up just ahead, it was dark and she didn’t feel comfortable.

  For the umpteenth time, she gripped and tugged her leather jeans higher up onto her hips – her bodice so tight that she could barely breathe.

  She moved her hand suddenly to her hip as a dark shadow ran from an alley close by and remembered that her Colt was actually in her handbag over her left shoulder.

  The dark figure hailed for a taxi and Rachel relaxed.

  If this was going to be a recurring activity in her new role of NYPD police officer, maybe it was not for her; her high heels were killing her and, rather than walking provocatively and enticingly, she felt like this would be how a jellyfish might try to walk.

  This was her first assignment and she was naturally keen to show that she was not the shy, introverted little cadet that she felt she was always considered as.

  She was so sick and tired of being treated as a delicate flower; okay, she was slim and barely five-foot, but they were unaware of the fire that sometimes coursed through her; there was an energy of molten lava in her that she could sometimes barely contain. She had experienced an increasing number of dreams, where she had been able to vent this volatile inner self, only to wake up tired and sweating.

  There was a fierceness in her that no one saw and she so wanted to be taken seriously.

  There were currently two serious perpetrators on the books: some psycho ripping out throats and someone slicing up prostitutes. The former was too scary for Rachel and so she had agreed to help in bringing to justice the latter. She had readily agreed with the chief that to catch the murderer that had spent the last six months preying on young prostitutes, a lure would be needed and bait set. But now, all alone and walking along the dark alleys of one of the seedier areas of the Bronx, she wondered if maybe she must have done something wrong in another life.

  At least, she thought, someone else was chasing the psycho who’s been leaving his victims with just a few vertebrae where a neck once was.

  Rachel looked over her shoulder. DeSouza and Markin were supposed to be shadowing closely but though she had a keen sense of spatial awareness, she felt certain that they were no longer nearby.

  She continued to parade up and down the strip, as instructed and wearing attire that accentuated every curve of her small but shapely body – something that very much went against everything she believed in. Her upbringing had had a serious sense of decorum and caste.

  She tried to distract herself with thoughts of other guises she had sported in and around the Bronx area in her short time at the precinct. Even as a cadet she had been instrumental in putting away a thoroughly dangerous individual who had been a janitor at a seminary school in downtown Brooklyn. Coincidentally, it hadn’t been the police force that had terminated the individual’s perverted reign for he had been found with his throat ripped out a day after his arrest – although the killer had escaped, Rachel wondered if perhaps the psycho served a purpose after all.

  Rachel’s reasons for joining the Bronx police force were hardly original – her father was shot on his way back from a shopping trip. He had been a strong but strangely haunted man; one that none could have bettered in unarmed combat but for reasons she never understood he chose on this occasion not to fight back or run away; he simply opened his arms wide towards the hail of bullets that ripped into his heart.

  She walked on.

  Chapter 5: The Beast 2

  The present

  DeMarco slowly walked towards the dumpster and holding Rachel’s Colt outstretched in front of him, moved to see what was behind it. He knew she was there – there was nowhere else she could be.

  “Your friend’s blood ran like a river and I’m sure yours will too; you are meat for the Beast!” he said moving closer.

  Rachel had seen the tattoo earlier and
knew what he meant.

  DeMarco took another step and smiled as he saw Rachel cowering in the shadows.

  “I’m not going to kill you… immediately. Your blood will be mine and so you’ll live on… within me. It is what makes me strong – the blood of all those I have killed. You are all scum and vermin and God has chosen me to rid the world of you and your gutter sisters.”

  Despite her terror, Rachel started to feel angry; people always walked all over her and although the most courageous of men may well have cowered from this killer, her mind boiled with the weak, subservient and submissive manner she felt she had always exuded from every pore.

  Then suddenly her body experienced a sudden jolt that continued with a series of convulsions.

  DeMarco paused and watched – amused by the girl’s apparent fits.

  Rachel opened her eyes and blinked, breathing hard; she felt different; she felt free – just like in one of her many dreams – but awake.

  All her life she had been afraid but now her self-doubt and feelings of vulnerability and subservience had quite suddenly dissipated.

  DeMarco was still smiling as he approached the crouching figure. He lowered the gun and raised the knife.

  This was going to be so much… fun.

  Rachel stood up and blinked several times before very slowly turning around to face him, her helplessness replaced by a feeling somewhat strangely… predatory.

  DeMarco stopped – his smile faded and he swallowed hard. The knife and Colt fell from his fingers, forgotten and eclipsed by the horror of what he saw.

  He suddenly smelt urine and realised it was his own.

  He took a step back – and then another.

  This wasn’t the soft bit of tail he was going to savour slowly – no, this had teeth and long claws – so long…

  Before he was able to take his third step the beast was on him pinning him against the wall and suddenly he could taste blood in his mouth, in his throat, in his lungs; he was drowning and unable to take in air and still the teeth were biting – the claws, relentlessly ripping.