Why Ghosts Haunt
By Wayne Mansfield
Published by JMS Books LLC
Visit jms-books.com for more information.
Copyright 2018 Wayne Mansfield
ISBN 9781634867221
Cover Design: Written Ink Designs | written-ink.com
Image(s) used under a Standard Royalty-Free License.
All rights reserved.
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This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are solely the product of the author’s imagination and/or are used fictitiously, though reference may be made to actual historical events or existing locations. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
Published in the United States of America.
* * * *
To Mark Nichols.
* * * *
Why Ghosts Haunt
By Wayne Mansfield
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 1
It was a dark and stormy night. Silver-white lightning slashed the sky, while thunder rumbled menacingly overhead. Wild winds whipped through the trees, bringing down branches and filling the darkness with leaves. Despite it being Halloween, it was no night to be out in the elements, yet Charlie Thorne had no choice. Somewhere behind him was a contingent of police giving chase.
It had been a spur-of-the-moment decision.
For weeks, Charlie had been depressed. Arrested for a crime he hadn’t committed and awaiting trial, he’d spent the better part of his time incarcerated pining for his partner, Ellis. In their fifteen years together, they hadn’t been separated for more than a week and their enforced separation was a source of constant torment for Charlie as it was, he knew, for Ellis also.
True to his word, Ellis—tall, dark, and handsome as the devil himself—visited every week, and wrote. They both knew that every letter was read by the prison staff and therefore couldn’t contain anything more than mundane details of daily life. However, they provided comfort and let Charlie know he hadn’t been forgotten.
Every night, after lights-out, Charlie climbed into his bunk bed, closed his eyes, and pictured more pleasant times. With Ellis. Their last summer at the beach. How attractive Ellis had looked in his black-and-white-striped bathing suit. His lithe body, toned and tanned, and glistening with coconut oil. His chest, lightly covered with dark hair, and his stomach, washboard flat. With his mirrored sunglasses and jet-black hair slicked back over his scalp, he looked like a Hollywood star. And in Charlie’s eyes, he was.
On another night, he might recall a different part of that same holiday. How in the evening, they would hold hands and stroll along the beach at the point where the water gently lapped at the cool sand. How the last traces of heat would be defeated by the chill seeping in from the sea, and they would talk in low voices about things that lovers talk about. They would steal kisses, and occasionally, Charlie would take Ellis in his arms and their kisses would become more passionate. Charlie would grow rigid under the thin prison-issue blanket as he recalled how he had felt Ellis’s cock growing hard against the muscles of his thigh, and how his cock had responded in kind. The kiss would continue as they gently ground their hips together, both longing for the time they were in bed, making love for real.
There had been no thought of escape when Charlie was asked to deliver the guard on duty at the entrance his evening meal. Besides, apart from the gatehouse, there were two other gates between him and freedom. He would be accompanied by a guard to the gatehouse, and once there, be in the presence of a second guard. The chances for success were slim at best.
Yet God, or someone in his employ, must have been on Charlie’s side that evening. No sooner had he been admitted to the gatehouse than a van had arrived.
“Bit late for anyone, isn’t it?” asked Officer Andrews, watching Charlie as he placed the water-logged tray on the desk beside a small bank of screens.
Officer Harris got up from his chair. “Not really. Once you’ve been here a while longer, you’ll realise it’s never too late. For anything.”
Officer Andrews’s curiosity must have got the better of him, for he temporarily forgot about his charge and followed Officer Harris out to the van.
Just inside the door, Charlie could hear voices, shouting above the wind and rain. It was then he had noticed both the gates were open, although the first was just starting to slide closed on its runners.
He’d had no time to think.
Officer Harris was looking over some paperwork and Officer Andrews appeared to be reading over his colleague’s shoulder. There seemed to be a problem with it. The driver of the van was raising his voice at the officers.
Charlie took his chance. He slipped out the door and edged his way along the side of the gatehouse. His instinct was to make a break for it, to sprint towards freedom. Yet that would draw attention. Instead, he moved stealthily towards the open gates, hoping his saturated clothes would help camouflage him. Then, with a single backwards glance over his shoulder, he made a dash for the first gate, which had almost finished closing.
As Charlie reached freedom, he thought he heard a shout, but against the howling wind and drumming rain, he couldn’t be certain. All he knew was he had to run, to find cover.
He sprinted across the road, into a forest. Beyond the trees lay farmland. Albury was to the east. To his left. When he’d gone far enough into the trees, he turned and, using the moon as his guide, headed for town. Ellis was there, probably watching television with his feet up and a mug of steaming coffee on the table beside him, completely unaware that his beloved Charlie was on his way home. Or perhaps he was writing Charlie another letter. No matter what Ellis was doing, Charlie had no time to contemplate it.
Charlie pushed through the undergrowth, somewhat protected from the rain, though not so against the twigs and branches that scratched and stung, leaving scarlet lines on his forearms and face. The rain may not have been as fierce beneath the canopy of the forest, but the darkness seemed thicker. Once, he almost collided with the trunk of a tree he managed to see only at the last moment.
As he ran, Charlie calculated.
Five kilometres to Albury. Eight or nine minutes per kilometre. Forty-five minutes. He smiled. If there are no problems. The smile faded. The cops will be after me by now. They might be waiting for me at home. He frowned. I have to get inside. To Ellis. Then barricade the door. Definitely barricade the door. From there I can convince them I’m innocent.
He ignored the voice at the back of his mind telling him he was mad to think such a plan could ever work. He was an escapee. The police wouldn’t be interested in conversation. They’d be there to take him back to prison. One way or another.
But if I’m innocent in the first place, they’ll let me go. In fact, they’ll owe me. There’ll be compensation for wrongful imprisonment.
Still the voice continued, telling him things he didn’t want to hear.
He did his best to block it. He had to concentrate. He had to put as much distance between himself and the pris
on as possible while at the same time remaining alert for any sign of danger, a more difficult task in the darkness, with a wild storm manifesting distractions all around him.
Unfortunately, he had no concept of time. He simply ran as though his life depended on it. He ran until his lungs were on fire, until his throat was dry and he couldn’t feel his tongue inside his mouth. He propelled himself forward, almost automatically, since his leg muscles were stiff and aching, particularly his shins and ankles, which felt as though they were burning.
After a long while, the forest began to thin. The space between the trees became greater and the rain once again assaulted him. He came out onto a field. In the distance, he saw the lights of Albury. He paused a moment to take in the view, or more specifically, to catch his breath and check the coast was clear.
The icy rain numbed his skin, rendering him immune to the worst the storm was throwing at him. Gone were the needles of ice, pricking his skin. Now he felt only wet splashes, blurring his vision and chilling his nerves. His heavy clothes no longer offered protection from wind or rain. In fact, they’d become a hinderance, slowing him down.
He thought of Ellis. How he missed those lips and those tender kisses they used to share. Those arms that embraced and made him feel that everything in the world was right. He’d lost track of the number of times he’d been comforted in those arms. He thought about the way Ellis smelt, his natural, manly odour mixed with the slight perfume of the soap they used. It was a pleasant aroma, a familiar aroma. It was an aroma he thought he could smell at that very moment.
He became aware he was shivering. It was time to continue. The sooner he got going, the sooner he’d be home. Safe and warm. Yet it was hard to coordinate his shuddering limbs. He had to focus on making each of his aching muscles return to the task of getting him home.
Finally, he managed to get some momentum. His arms flailed about at his sides, and he was wasting precious energy by running in such an awkward fashion. To his left, a police car with sirens blazing sped towards the prison, but Charlie could manage no self-satisfied smile. Soon there would be a more coordinated search. There might even be helicopters, with searchlights. He would have to be under cover when they appeared, and from where he stood, he could see no such cover available until he reached the outskirts of Albury.
The running warmed him, though only slightly, removing the chill from his bones. He still felt numb, as though he wasn’t moving. It was as if something was transporting his consciousness through the night. He only wished whatever it was would hurry up. He wanted to be warm. He wanted to be safe. He wanted more than anything to be in Ellis’s arms.
Finally, he found himself at the edge of town. He had reached someone’s back fence. He could see people sitting in their lounge room, watching television. The house lay dark but for the light from the screen. It must have been late.
It would be too dangerous to take the main road into town, so he headed away from the road, following the line of fences until he found a break. A cul-de-sac. He turned into the road and walked as quickly as he dared to the intersection.
Bartlett Place and Herrington Road.
The names meant nothing. They didn’t have to, since Albury was only a moderately sized town. He knew where his own home was located, though, based on the fact that the road on the other side of the block, Wharton Road, led to the prison. If he could make it to Wharton, it would be only a five-minute jog to the mock-Victorian he shared with Ellis.
Being so close to home was all the motivation he needed. He hurried like a thief in the night towards the centre of town, crossing Wharton, and with every step, getting closer to Ellis. Fortunately, the inclement weather had brought with it some advantages, mainly the lack of traffic. Even the streets near the centre of town stood all but deserted. He didn’t go anywhere near the main shopping area, but many of the cafes and restaurants on the side streets lay empty or closed.
Elverd Place. This led onto Cutler Avenue, which in turn was dissected by Adamson Terrace, where he lived. Time for greater caution. He crept forward, his senses honed for any sign he might no longer be alone. He glanced at the sky in front of him and behind. He saw a light in the distance. A helicopter? They were too late. He’d be home by the time its searchlight hit his current position.
He turned into Cutler and found a handful of cars parked along the road. Did they contain police? Detectives? He’d have to keep out of sight, which would be difficult. They had the advantage. He wouldn’t see them until long after they’d seen him.
He decided that rather than take any unnecessary risks, he’d go around the block and approach Adamson Terrace from the far side. It would add precious minutes onto his journey, but if he was captured before he laid eyes on Ellis, he’d go mad. It would be a fate too cruel to live with if they caught him before he could see those beautiful brown eyes and that warm, generous smile.
It took him only an extra five minutes or so to circumnavigate the block. From the bushes on the corner by the Taylors’ fence, he could see the street was deserted. As it should be. There was never more than a single visitor’s car parked on the road. Everyone had their own driveway, and most houses came with double garages.
He inched forward, stepping into Adamson Terrace. His heart beat a tattoo in his chest. He became aware of the fact that every inhalation stung the inner lining of his nose. He shook and shuddered uncontrollably now that he had stopped running, and although the rain had eased slightly, it was still falling. He had to keep wiping his face, sweeping off the rain so he could see more clearly.
He continued past Number 48, Number 46, festooned with Halloween decorations. As he drew ever closer to Number 38, his heartbeat quickened to the point where he thought it might give out under the strain. Number 44, 42, and 40. He pressed himself into the privet bushes bordering Mrs Andersson’s front yard and peered through the foliage into his own front yard. He saw a light on.
Good. Ellis is still up.
He stepped from the bushes and onto his driveway, noticing the helicopter now closer and the searchlight much brighter.
His body was close to collapse. It took every ounce of strength and determination to propel himself forward. He wanted to call out to Ellis, but he’d lost all feeling his mouth and throat. As he approached the front steps, the security light came on and a face appeared in the lounge room window.
“It’s me!” he wanted to shout, yet the only thing he was capable of releasing was tears.
He tripped on the first step, his body crashing onto the concrete steps. By the time he picked himself up, the front door lay open and Ellis stood there in his tracksuit.
“Who is it?” asked Ellis, staring at the figure draped over the front steps.
Charlie forced a smile.
“Charlie. Baby. Quickly! They’re looking for you.”
Charlie struggled to his feet, half-stumbling, half-falling up the three steps into Ellis’s arms.
“Thank God you’re safe,” he said, supporting Charlie.
Then, just as they turned, a voice shouted, “Stop or I’ll shoot!”
They stopped momentarily, but Charlie shook his head.
“We have to,” said Ellis, “or they’ll shoot.”
Again, Charlie shook his head. All he could think about was locking the door behind them and barricading themselves inside. He’d need enough time to get warm, then he could negotiate. He could plead his case with the police. He was innocent. They had to know that. He wasn’t capable of manslaughter. So he’d matched the description given by a witness. A hundred other guys matched the description, too. The fact he didn’t have a rock-solid alibi surely wasn’t enough to convict him. The fingerprints on the knife were unidentifiable. The police had nothing else. He was innocent. That’s all there was to it!
“Mr. Thorne, do not take another step or we’ll fire,” warned a voice through a megaphone.
Charlie shook his head once more. Hell, they were inches from the front door. One more step and they’d
be inside. They’d be safe. Or at least, safer.
They kept moving. They were at the door. A shot rang out. Both men ducked, and the bullet probably meant for Charlie’s leg got him in the back, piercing a lung and breaking a rib. He heard Ellis scream, but before he could look up, the night crashed in on him.
Chapter 2
When Charlie opened his eyes, he found himself sitting on the couch in the lounge room. And standing like a vision by the fire was Ellis.
“It’s good to be home,” he said, his clothes dry and his body surprisingly free of aches and pains. “Have the police gone?”
Ellis looked at him blankly. “The police? What are you talking about?”
Charlie furrowed his brow. “The police. The police that were out front not five minutes ago. Or at least earlier tonight.”
Ellis turned his back to the fire, clasping his hands behind him. “You know, it doesn’t matter how close to the fire I get, I can’t seem to shake the chill from my bones.”
Charlie stared at him. Ellis never usually ignored him. Perhaps it was his way of telling Charlie he should get up and look for himself, and so he did. Discreetly lifting a corner of the curtain, he peered into the stormy night, yet could find nothing out of the ordinary. The front lawn looked as if it could do with a mow. And several shrubs had grown wild. But the police were gone. Nor was there any sign they’d ever been there.
Curious, Charlie walked to the front door and opened it. Outside, the porch was strewn with leaves, and several newspapers still in their plastic wraps lay like bodies on the lawn. He examined the place where he’d fallen and saw no evidence of a shooting. No trace of blood. No stains. Though the rain could very well have washed them away.
He walked down the steps to the path and immediately felt the wind rush through him. Not metaphorically, but literally, tearing through him to the point he thought he could very well be carried off into the night. He suddenly felt very frightened and returned inside, to Ellis.
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