“What’s there to think about?” she says as she races into the kitchen to grab the car-keys, and then Luna from the living room. “We need to leave now!”
Before I can even think of a reason for us to stay, Aimee is out the flat door.
“Wait!” I shout as I follow her downstairs and out of the building.
Outside is still dark, and I have no idea what the time is; my watch and phone are still up in the flat. So is my wallet.
Aimee races over to the driver’s side of her car. “I’ll drive,” I demand.
She doesn’t argue, just hands me her keys and climbs into the passenger side. I start the car and speed off down the street—with no clue where we’re going.
The car is silent, apart from Aimee’s shallow breathing. I glance over at her; her eyes are wide with madness, fixed to the road ahead, her right hand is stroking Luna as he sits on her lap, and her left hand is prodding and pulling at her ruined hair.
I look at the road again, struggling to process the situation. Did a ghost really cut her hair? Is that even possible?
A cold, gut-wrenching thought slithers through my mind—what if Aimee’s face was cut instead?
Or her throat?
I quickly throw the notion to the back of my head, and focus on the road.
After a few more miles, Aimee finally speaks: “I think we should postpone the wedding.”
Did I really just hear that? “What are you talking about?” I ask, stopping the car at the side of the road. “We can’t postpone the wedding. It’s too late. I’ve got family travelling all the way over from Ireland. And everything’s paid for. The dress. The photographer. The whole lot.”
“I don’t give a shit! I can’t walk down the aisle looking like this. Look at me!” She grabs the left side of her hair, parading the damage. “It’s ruined! There’s no way I’m showing my face until it’s grown back. No fucking way!”
Reaching out, I try to take her hand, but she pulls away. “Look, why don’t we drive over to your parents’ house,” I say, trying to appear composed, “take a minute to calm down, and think of a way to sort this mess out.”
“There’s nothing to sort out, Matt,” she replies, sternly, wiping her eyes with her pyjama sleeve, “the wedding is off!”
I don’t know what to say. My throat is dry, too shell-shocked to think of a simple resolution.
Maybe there isn’t one.
I start to drive again, heading for Aimee’s parents’ house, squeezing the steering wheel in frustration.
Fuck this shit! There’s always a solution.
It’s time we found some help.
12
The thought of being driven out of my own home is ludicrous, especially by a ghost.
But all that ends today.
No more running, no more hiding, just a plan of action. And with every shitty situation, there’s always a remedy.
And his name is Dylan Strong.
Finding a medium was pretty easy. Aimee’s mother got his name from a friend, so I did a little research online, and Dylan’s name kept popping up in various paranormal forums and articles. I checked out his website, read his many glowing testimonials, booked an appointment, and just like that this chubby, balding middle-aged man is now sitting on our armchair, dressed in a thick brown suit and yellow tie, sipping a cup of tea.
Aimee is sitting uneasily next to me on the couch, baseball cap on her head, grasping my hand tightly. I told her to stay at her parents’ house, but she insisted, told me that I’d only mess it up if I saw Dylan on my own. Mess it up? It’s not like we’ve ever hired a medium before, so God knows why she’d think that.
“You say all this started when you first moved in?” Dylan asks, setting his cup down on the coffee table.
“Yeah, that’s right,” Aimee replies. “On our first day actually.”
I turn to her with a frown. “I don’t know about that, Aim.”
“Yes it did,” she barks at me defensively, like I’ve just accused her of lying. “The jar of beetroot smashed over the kitchen floor.”
“Yeah, I remember, but we can’t be sure whether that was just an accident.”
“Tell me what else happened?” Dylan asks, clearly trying to move past our squabble. “No matter how small, because, when it comes to spirits, it’s not always about the big events, the loud noises. Sometimes it’s the little things, the tiny whispers, the cold chills; those are the first things to get under your skin.”
“Well, there has been a strange draught in the flat,” I say, “but I assumed it was some hole in the wall, or a dodgy window.”
Dylan picks up his tea and takes another sip. “And it absolutely could still be a draught coming from a window. I’m not going to sit here and tell you that everything you’ve experienced is paranormal. That would be irresponsible of me. But when unexplained occurrences keep building up, then it’s only right that we start thinking outside the box.”
“Okay, then,” Aimee continues, “next was my new mirror cracking. All my ornamental dolphins were smashed. The TV was pushed over. I saw a dark-haired woman in the bathroom, and Matt saw her again in the bedroom. And then,” Aimee removes her baseball cap and shows Dylan her hair, “this happened.”
Setting his cup down, he leans in closer to inspect. “Oh, I see. What happened there then?”
She slips the cap back on, and takes a moment to collect herself, squeezing my hand even tighter. As soon as she opens her mouth to speak, her first word brings on a bout of tears. I pull her into my shoulder, wrapping my arm around her.
“Three days ago,” I cut in, “Aimee was using the scissors to decorate the wedding gift-boxes. When we woke up, her hair was like that.”
Dylan’s eyes broaden. “I see. And do either of you have a history of sleep walking, or any other sleeping disorders?”
Aimee and I shake our heads in unison.
Dylan reaches into his jacket pocket and pulls out a pair of glasses. He slips them on and then reaches into his leather satchel, which is positioned at the side of the armchair. He pulls out a black electronic device, about the size and look of a mid-nineties mobile phone, complete with a small silver aerial at the top. “Okay,” he says, standing heavily with a groan. “I’ll get started then.”
“What does that do?” I ask as he turns the device on, its tiny screen lighting up blue. “Looks like something a Ghostbuster would have.”
“This is an Electromagnetic Field Detector,” he replies. “I use it to scan homes, making sure that magnetic fields aren’t the cause of these occurrences.”
“Sounds pretty technical,” I say, as he walks around the living room, with the device pointing in front of him. “What do you need us to do?”
“Nothing for now, thank you,” he replies. “I can find my own way round the flat.”
Dylan exits the living room, with the device pointed straight ahead. He disappears into the kitchen, then the bathroom, points the device up at the hallway ceiling, opens the flat door, points it out onto the landing, and then finally enters our bedroom.
I imagine Dylan storming out onto the hallway, and then bursting out through the front door, his screams of horror fading as he flees the building. But I can also see a vision of him laughing at us, telling us that we’re a pair of bloody morons for wasting his time with this bullshit.
After a few minutes, he emerges from the bedroom and then re-joins us in the living room.
“Well,” Aimee says, “what does that machine say?”
Dylan’s eyes scan each corner of the room, a deep grimace of concentration on his brow. “I’m not getting any readings,” he replies, shaking his head. He then turns the device off.
“Does that mean that we definitely have a ghost then?” she asks.
Dylan sits down on the armchair. “I’m not picking up any spirits either. Not one.”
“What?” she blurts out. “There must be something here.”
He takes his glasses off and slips them back into his ja
cket pocket. “Normally when there’s a spirit in a house, I feel something the moment I step inside. But,” he shakes his head again, “there’s nothing here.”
“So what does that mean?” I ask, a tone of frustration in my voice. “Do you think we’re making all this up?”
“No, of course I don’t,” he replies, waving his hand in protest. “If there was a ghost here, then it could have quite easily just left of its own accord.”
“Really?” I reply with a frown of pessimism. “Just like that?”
“Absolutely, Matthew,” he replies. “Remember—ghosts were once just like us. They would have loved, hated, laughed, felt remorse. The stress caused by cutting your hair could well have driven it away. Guilt can be a powerful thing.”
Aimee lets out a stressed out sigh. “Okay, then—but what’s to stop it coming back, though?”
“Well, that’s the easy part,” Dylan replies with a smile, and then reaches into his satchel again. “We cleanse your home.” He pulls out a small white bowl and a bundle of light brown leaves, wrapped in string.
“What’s that?” I ask, leaning forward to take a closer look.
“Sage,” he replies, reaching into his jacket pocket. He takes out a blue lighter, ignites the end of the bundle, and then rests it in the bowl. “Hopefully this should keep your unwanted guest away.”
As Dylan walks around the living room, with a bowl of burning sage held in front of him, I can’t help but think that this is complete and utter drivel. Does all this really work? I glance at Aimee; her eyes are following him around, clearly intrigued.
“Are you sure there’s nothing we can do to help?” Aimee asks.
“Lots of positive energy from now on,” he replies. “No fighting. No shouting. Just make your home into a nice, calming environment.”
Aimee and I look at each other and grin, as if to say that selling the flat will probably be easier.
“Your mother tells me that you’re getting married in a few days,” he says to Aimee. “That’s good—very good. Positive energy. Keep thinking it. You’ll be surprised at how effective it is when dealing with a presence. Some of them feed off negativity.”
We glance at each other again, this time with a look of guilt. I think about telling him that Aimee has called the wedding off, but there’s no point.
Just as Dylan steps out of the living room, he says, “oh, and make sure your home is spotless. A clean house—positive energy. Trust me on that one.”
Just as he disappears into the kitchen, I spot a few crumbs on the carpet, and dust on the windowsill.
Clean house? No arguing?
This is going to be tougher than I thought.
Dylan has finished his tea, taken his bag of ghost-repellents, and left Aimee and me alone in the flat. I can tell that she’s still uneasy about being here; her body is hunched, her arms are crossed, and her eyes are constantly travelling around the living room. But it’s daytime. Nothing seems as scary when the sun is shining.
“So what do you think?” I ask, struggling to hide my scepticism.
Aimee shrugs and then looks at me, her eyes broader than usual. “I don’t know. He seemed like the real deal, and I have heard about burning sage before.”
“So does that mean we can come home?”
Aimee’s eyes inspect the room again. “Maybe,” she replies with another shrug.
“How about we both stay away until after the honeymoon? You know, to give the place a good airing.”
Letting out a long, tired exhale, she turns to me. “I don’t know, Matt,” she replies, taking her hat off again. “I just don’t think I can face all those people with this mess on my head. It looks vile.”
I take her hand. “We need to do this, Aim. Positive energy, remember. If we postpone it, then all we’re doing is letting it win, letting negativity rule our lives. This is our flat and our wedding, and we shouldn’t be afraid in our own home. So let’s show this bitch that nothing is going to drive a wedge between us.”
Aimee starts to play with her hair in silence. She looks over at the sage on the coffee table, still burning in the bowl. “You’re right,” she says with a self-assured nod. “It’s only hair—and there’s always extensions.” She smiles. “Let’s do it.”
Beaming, I lean forward and hug her. “Oh that’s great, Aim.” I come out of the hug and kiss her on the lips. “I love you so much.”
“I love you too.”
The relief that’s surging through me is almost too much to bear. I want to scream it from the window, tell the world that I’m marrying the most wonderful person in the world. Everything that I’ve been through in my life, all the shit, all the misery, everything has lead me to Aimee.
And our ghost can kiss my hairy arse—because I’m getting married!
13
My wedding day. It’s finally here.
Not just because of Aimee’s hair, but the simple fact that I never thought I’d actually do it. I always thought that marriage was for parents and boring couples. I never truly believed that someone like me could ever be part of that dream. That fantasy of a normal life, with a normal woman. Maybe even have a kid down the road. Hell, maybe even two.
Definitely not three.
I massage my lower back with my thumb. It’s still a little sore from sleeping on Ed’s couch. I wonder how Aimee slept. Not too well I bet. Stressed about everything—especially her hair.
It’s been raining for the last hour, but the news said that it would clear by ten. It’s now five to eleven and it’s not letting up. I’m trying not to let it bring me down. I was already expecting it to rain, even when I asked her to marry me. It’s Britain after all. If I wanted guaranteed warm weather in summer, we should have got married abroad.
My ushers, Paul, Jones, and Mark, are busy handing out hymn sheets and guiding people to their pews. Ed is sitting next to me in the front row, reading from a crumpled up piece of paper, most definitely his speech. I scan the rest of the church in awe. So glad Aimee insisted on a church wedding. At the time it didn’t seem important, especially since neither of us are religious. But now, staring at the breath-taking high ceilings, with its thick wooden beams, and the massive hanging cross just above the podium, it’s obvious that we made the right choice. It’s a gothic, stunning place that won’t be easy to forget. There are about fifteen rows of pews, separated by a paved aisle. Mum is sitting behind me, chatting to Auntie Thelma, and on the bride’s side, I notice Aimee’s Mum, turned in her seat, eyes fixed nervously on the doors, clearly waiting for her daughter’s grand-entrance.
My hands are trembling. I take a few deep breaths and they settle. “You’ve got the ring safe?” I whisper to Ed. “You better not have lost it.”
Ed pats his top suit pocket and nods. “Stop asking. You’re making me paranoid.”
“Can you blame me?”
“Look, I may not be the most reliable bloke in the world, but when was the last time I lost someone’s wedding ring?”
“You’ve never been best man before.”
“Exactly. So stop worrying, and just relax.”
I nod, take another deep breath, and then pick up the hymn sheet. It’s a four-page booklet, which Aimee made last week. Not something I could ever help with. It’s not like she’d need my advice on which flowered pattern to have on the front cover.
Suddenly the room vibrates with movement as the old lady sitting at the organ behind the Reverend starts to play The Wedding March theme, and everyone’s attention turns to the entrance. As Ed and I both stand, the double doors are pushed wide open. Jordan, Aimee’s eight-year old niece, enters, dressed in light pink. Next to her is Aimee’s older, slightly plumper sister, Nia, also in a light pink bridesmaid dress; her thick blonde hair pinned up high. Both girls are throwing flower petals on the floor as they walk.
And then I see Aimee.
I watch her, eyes glued as she makes her way down the aisle, escorted proudly by her father. She looks incredible with her white corset-st
yle dress, clinging to her body, with the bottom-half dragging slowly behind. There’s a lump in my throat. But it’s not just because of the excitement I can feel exploding inside—it’s the fact that I’m here, I’ve made it. I’ve found someone. Someone that loves me.
And it feels pretty fucking good.
Nudging me, Ed smiles when she’s almost here; his eyes wide with unspoken envy. That’s really something for him.
Aimee is now by my side. I don’t notice her hair; I’m too drawn to her deep blue eyes, glowing like the first day we met; her smile that seems to be fighting off her tears. My hand is shaking again when I take hers. I whisper that she looks beautiful. She thanks me and we turn to the Reverend.
The vows feel like a dream. I repeat the words, we laugh when Aimee stumbles on hers, and then like no time has passed at all, I hear the words:
“I now pronounce you, husband and wife. You may kiss the bride.”
“So how long before you two have kids?” Susanna shouts over the music; one of Aimee’s drunken aunties; her heavy arm wrapped around me; her whiskey-smelling breath buried in my left ear. “Can’t leave it too long. Neither of you is getting any younger. It’s time to give up all that partying and get to it.”
Smiling awkwardly at her, I spot Paul coming towards me. I throw him a pair of ‘save me’ eyes, and he comes over. “This is my good friend Paul.” I tell her. Susanna is at least fifty, but she’s single, and kind of loose. And Paul is thirty-three and will shag anything that breathes. So there’s a good chance that he’ll take her off my hands.
She pulls away from my ringing eardrum and shakes his hand. “So you’re Matt’s friend then.”
“Yep, that’s me,” Paul replies, his words slurry. “And you’re one of Aimee’s family?”
Susanna nods, her eyes half-shut. “I’m her auntie. Well, I suppose I can call her my friend now. She’s old enough.”
“Who’s old enough,” I hear Aimee say from behind my shoulder. “You better not be talking about me, Sue.”
Susanna laughs. “There she is. There’s my beautiful niece.” Shoving past both Paul and me, she gives Aimee a big hug. Aimee has to practically hold the weight of her auntie up as she wraps her arms around her.
Eyes On You: A Ghost Story Page 9