by Geoff North
Hugh leaned back and sighed. Could it all have been a bad dream? He had been spending a lot of time cooped up in his study writing. Had he dozed off in the attic? What about the voice in the kitchen? He was wide awake when that happened, and the voice had even repeated itself. Could he have been sleep-walking, or perhaps still in some kind of half-awake dream mode when he came back downstairs?
The thought disappointed him. That meant Cathy was right, he never had discovered a crate full of old comic books. Still, it was better than being visited by creepy, invisible ghost-girls.
Sleep didn’t come easily that night. He kept imagining movement above him, little footsteps running back and forth two floors overhead. Someone trapped in blackness, kicking at the couch and scratching the sloping ceiling, someone afraid and furious at the same time, some little thing desperate to come downstairs.
He dreamed of comic books. He was leafing through piles of mint books with ten cent covers. All the familiar old titles were there, the great heroes, the funny animals, the daring astronauts and the double-revolver wielding cowboys. They were stacked in piles around him, some six, seven, eight feet high. They leaned this way and that way, swaying in a steady pulse of sickly red and green light.
One of the piles fell in front of him, displaying hundreds of covers with disturbing images in cancerous colors. There was a shiny black copy of Blood ‘n Brains Bridge, the title banner painted in dripping wet red, the dots over the ‘i’ letters were squirming white maggots. The cover was of a mangled body holding its own decapitated head. The face of Bob Roberts grinned at him through skeletal fingers and winked. He batted it away and saw a copy of Lofty Tales beneath it. An image of Thomas Nelson hanging from a spike stared back at him. He was facing forward here, the spike’s end protruding through his eye socket. There was a dialogue balloon beside it. Old man Nelson was screaming. “YOU’RE DEAD, KID! YER FRIENDS ARE ALL FUCKIN’ DEAD! WE’RE ALL FUCKIN’ DEAD THANKS TO YOU! DEAD! DEAD! DEAD!”
He tore it in half, but there were others. The Pharaoh’s Revenge showed a lurching mummy wrapped in bloody rolls of rotting linen, the sunken face of his father staring out at him with blank, white eyes.
A diapered toddler lying dead at the bottom of a shadowy set of crooked stairs was featured on the cover of Baby Steps. On another cover, Cathy was being done doggy-style by the corpse of Billy Parton; his head was crushed in on one side with splinters of red and amber tail light fragments sticking out.
And then he saw Horror on the Highway. The letters were in the shape of comical ice blocks with drifting snow piling over the top. He saw the wrecked car and the fuel truck it had smashed into on its side in a black ditch. There were volunteer firemen everywhere and they were all looking out at the reader. They grinned and waved various body pieces above their heads.
Hugh tried to scream but couldn’t make a sound. His eyes snapped open and everything was brown. “Cathy?” He finally managed to croak. He felt beside him, expecting her to still be in bed with him.
“Welcome back.”
The voice was in his left ear. He smelled that heavy, rusty smell and knew where he was.
“Am I…Am I going back?”
“Going back where?” The voice in the brown asked.
“Back to my first life? Is this test, or whatever it is--is it over?”
“This isn’t a goddamned test.”
“Please! I have to go back!” Hugh felt so close to reclaiming his first life. If only he could convince the voice to let him return. He wanted it back, wanted to show his family of 2011 how much he had changed. He wanted to walk away from that car crash and hold his wife. He wanted to kiss Dana, and Julie, and Colton. He wanted; he needed to love them again.
“Slow down there, Hugh. You haven’t turned into a saint in the last nine years. You still have a long way to go.”
It was like a blow in the gut. “Thirty more years?”
“Only twenty-eight…not a life sentence.”
“Then why bring me back here?”
“I just wanted to let you know you had company.” He sang the last word making it sound like a warning.
“Please! Tell me what this all about! Am I alive or dead?”
“Shut your eyes.”
When he opened them again he was back in his bed. Which bed? Which house? When? He could hear Cathy breathing softly beside him. Moonlight flooded in through the window and he recognized the room. It was the master bedroom in the McFarlane house. It was still 1983 in his second go at life.
No. I was so close.
He went to shake Cathy awake. He was still feeling the effects of the comic book nightmare and he needed to hear her voice for comfort. She wasn’t there. The soft breathing continued. Hugh felt the hairs rise on his arms again, the buzz-fear in his ears returned. He turned his head slowly to the left and saw a little girl standing next to the bed.
“Hi, sleepy head.”
Chapter 23
May 14 1983
My mom kept a diary her entire life, or at least until the Alzheimer’s made it impossible for her to spell her own name in the late nineties. She never put much in it, but she faithfully made entries day after day. Where dad was working, recipes she’d found, how us kids were doing in school, and the weather, always the weather. I guess she figured future historians would be amazed at how shitty and unpredictable our seasons had been in the second half of the twentieth century, living in the middle of a country that could be minus fifty one morning and melting the next.
She gave me this diary on my eighteenth birthday. She told me how important it was to keep our days recorded, even if there wasn’t much to say. She didn’t bash other her people in her diary. She never wrote about who had wronged her or wrote down any juicy gossip she may have heard. She just wrote about her family, where they were, how they were doing, and the weather.
I never used the one she gave me in my first life, not even sure where it ended up. I wasn’t going to bother with this one either. I guess I figured I could tell my tale through the pages of my book. I’m glad I found it again. I’m going to try and make entries faithfully. Not daily like mom, but I will at least try and report the big stuff. Not because I care if anyone reads it someday. No one would believe a word of it anyway. I want to keep track of things for myself.
People that see ghosts and claim that they can read the future have always been considered nut jobs. I’m not one of those people. I have seen ghosts, and I do know what’s going to happen in the future. At least I thought I could see into the future. I’m not so sure now. This house, the little girl that pops in to say hello weren’t supposed to be a part of my future.
I thought I was re-living one life, but now? It seems like there are two of me now. There was the real Hugh, the selfish, uncaring guy that died in 2011, and now there’s me, Hugh Nance the 2nd (sounds cool hey?). I like to think this Hugh is nicer, a guy that’s learned his lesson.
I’m keeping this journal because I don’t want to forget old Hugh. I have to keep a record that he did exist. The battered old lottery newsletter doesn’t cut it anymore. New Hugh sees ghosts, and new Hugh is afraid he may be one himself.
I have to keep track of what happens next; compare it to what happened in that other life. Hopefully the two Hughs will meet up somewhere, someday, and the ghosts of the future and the past will go away.
Good news: have won some big wagers placed on the semi-finals in NHL playoffs this year. Thirty grand so far, and if I win the final, that figure should double. Islanders in four-- I like my odds.
“What did she look like?”
Hugh slid the diary into the top drawer of his desk before Cathy could notice. He had told her of the ghostly visitor he’d seen the night before, but was reluctant to go into it any further the next morning. He told her he needed some time to get his thoughts together, that he needed a hot shower and few strong cups of coffee before he could go into details. He was still a little sore that she wasn’t in the bedroom to see it. Cathy had exp
lained his tossing and turning had forced her to sleep on the couch downstairs, but if she’d been there; if she’d seen it as well…perhaps he wouldn’t feel so alone. It’s easier to accept you may be going crazy when you’re not the only one.
She pulled an armchair in front of his desk and sat down. “Whatever it is you think you saw has really spooked you, hey?”
He ignored the jab of her second question and answered the first. “She was maybe ten or eleven with these cute little pigtails sticking out at the sides. And she was wearing one of those old-fashioned dresses, short sleeves and all frilly at the ends, you know what I mean?”
She nodded slowly, like a psychiatrist. Go on Mr. Nance, you’re safe here…
“I know it was dark, and it’s tough judging color in low light, but it was like she was all black and white, no--more like she was kind of grey all over, it was her face that was white. Really white and her eyes were so black. I shut my eyes and told her to go away. When I opened my eyes again she was gone. I was terrified…maybe she sensed that.” He remembered the story his father had told him one Christmas Eve about his dad paying him a little visit in the night.
Cathy shuddered and leaned back in the chair. “Jesus, that’s creepy. Maybe I don’t want to hear any more.”
“You asked.”
She was silent for a long time. Hugh knew what she wanted to say, and she said it. “It was probably just a bad dream. You’ve been working so hard on that story it’s no wonder you have nightmares.”
She didn’t say ghost story this time. She really does think I’m losing it.
“It wasn’t a bloody nightmare! I was awake, I saw her.”
“I believe you, Hugh…it’s just that, well these things can seem so real when you’re overworked and under stress. I used to have all kinds of horrible dreams when I was still living with you know who.”
She refused to even say his name. They had cut all ties with Cathy’s family, never once spoken on the phone with her mom since moving back. It calmed his temper just thinking how far Cathy had come in the last half year. She was much more independent, much happier. “I can prove it wasn’t a dream, I can take you up into the attic and show you all those old comic books. You’ll see that hole in the wall she came out of.”
“I don’t doubt that part of it, but finding some old books in a cubby hole doesn’t prove you saw a ghost.”
“Well it will prove it to me.”
And that’s what he did.
The couch was there, moved away from the wall. He could see the three foot square hole of black and the brown painted door lying on the floor. Hugh pulled himself up through the attic floor opening and called down for Cathy. “Come on up, I’ll take your hand.”
“Are you crazy? I’d break my neck for sure on that ladder. Go grab me some comic books and I’ll believe your story.”
Hugh stood up in the red and green light of the attic. It was warm, too warm for the heavy sweater he’d decided to put on this time. He walked toward the old milk crate and the books piled on the floor, giving the black opening a wide berth.
Get the comics and get the hell out.
He saw the old newspapers first, then the copies of Life and the Eaton’s catalogue. He stepped closer and saw the rest scattered across the dusty floorboards. There were hundreds of battered Reader’s Digests and National Geographics, the old ones without pictures on the covers. Hugh fell to his eyes and scattered them about, desperately searching for Batman and Tales from the Crypt. “What the hell?” He emptied the rest of the books out of the milk crate. More Digests and Geographics spilled out. There were boring old farmer magazines and a few dozen issues of Red Book and Good Housekeeping. There were no mint copies of Jungle Comics, Forbidden Worlds, or Uncle Scrooge & Donald Duck.
He piled them back into the milk crate and shoved the entire works back through the hole in the wall. “I should’ve known…it was too good to be real.”
“You alright up there?”
“I’m fine.” His disappointment gave way to anger. He pulled a small flashlight from his back pocket and crawled in through the cubby hole opening. He clicked it on, half expecting a ghoulish child with black eyes and fangs to lunge at him. But all he saw was the box he’d just pushed in. He swung the light around and settled on an old baseball glove. Had that been her brother’s as well? The cramped space ran along the entire length of the attic but there was nothing else. No old family photo albums, no secretive journals that could explain who had once lived there.
Cathy steadied the ladder as he climbed back down. “There, are you satisfied?”
“No, I’m pissed off. Those were some nice comic books.”
She hugged him. “It was a long winter and spring for both of us. Don’t feel so bad. Why don’t you talk to your mom and dad about the house? They probably know a bit about the place’s history.”
Hugh put the ladder away and hung the sweater back up in the closet. “Maybe I could Google it,” he said absently as they headed downstairs.
“What?”
It was a time-displaced slip of the tongue. He didn’t make them as often, but every once in a while they come out. “Nothing. Why don’t we call them over for supper?”
“As long as you’re cooking.”
She didn’t care for cooking in his first life. There were some things in history that couldn’t be changed.
***
“I remember old Michael McFarlane,” Steve Nance said as his son poured his parents each a cup of tea after a heavy meal of grilled burgers and smokies. Hugh wasn’t a much better cook than Cathy, but he knew his way around a barbeque. “He was the town’s doctor back in the day. Crazy old bastard…scared all us kids whenever we had to go see him.”
“Are the stories true about him committing suicide?”
“Yeah, he did himself in alright, hung himself from a basement rafter.”
Marion Nance glanced at Cathy and scolded her husband. “Steve! You’re going to scare these kids right out of the house.”
“Well, he asked.”
Cathy smiled. “Don’t worry about me, I’ve read some of Hugh’s stories. Believe me, I can handle it.”
Hugh pressed on. “Was he married?”
“Yeah, he was married. What was her name? Helen? Ellen?”
“Helena,” Hugh’s mother said.
His father nodded. “She was a mousy little thing, scared of her own shadow.”
“Any kids?”
“A boy and a girl,” his mother said, giving Hugh an instant chill despite the warm evening they were enjoying out on the veranda. “It was so long ago, I can’t recall their names. He was so mean to them…Helena finally packed up and took the boy with her. They were never seen again.”
“Just the boy?” Cathy seemed outraged. “What about the girl?”
“They said it was an accident…that he never meant to go that far,” she trailed off and looked out over the front yard.
Hugh’s father finished for her. “Too late for her. McFarlane choked her to death, drunk or high on his own dope, who knows? He had a wicked temper.”
“She should’ve left him years before,” Cathy said. Hugh could see the tears in her eyes. The same thing could have happened to her.
“Yeah, she should have. He never got any jail time; I guess they figured he’d suffered enough. He locked himself up in the house and took his life about six months later. That was back in what? Fifty two or fifty three?”
“It doesn’t matter if it was thirty years or three hundred,” Marion Nance said. “It was horrible and I wish you’d never moved into this place.”
“Don’t blame the house; it’s a fine old building.”
Hugh expected a comment like that from his carpenter father. “Sorry, Mom, I didn’t want to upset you. Is that the reason you won’t come to Cathy to get your hair done?” He wasn’t looking at Cathy, but he could imagine her embarrassment, could sense her glaring at him.
“No dear, of course not!”
&nb
sp; “It is so,” Steve Nance piped in. “I practically had to drag her over here tonight.”
They all laughed at that and the tension vanished. The evening ended well and Cathy booked Hugh’s mom in for her first appointment. Questions about the house’s history had been answered, sad and disturbing as they had been; it made the young couple feel better.
Hugh continued on with his book and Cathy’s business began to thrive. There were no comics hiding in the attic, and he never went back up there to explore any further. Whatever…whoever had been up there was out now. Through the summer and fall of ‘83 and the winter of 83-84, Hugh felt her presence often. In his study there were nights he could sense someone watching him. He had occasionally seen the armchair across from his desk pull away a few inches, quietly, furtively, like someone trying not to disturb his work, but wanting his company never the less.
March 22 1984
I found an agent! She loves my story and has a big publisher in mind already. It’s a great, early wedding gift. Plans for that are going well. No plans at all! Unlike the first time round, we’re eloping. No guests, no drunken disasters, no Gordo! Passports came in last week and we’ve booked an all-inclusive vacation to Jamaica. Can’t wait to get away from this frigging cold.
April 30 1984
Caribbean was great! We were married on the beach and ended up with more guests than the first time, all tourists and happy locals. My wife was so beautiful. Mexico next year, maybe Cuba.
June 1 1984
Book deal has been signed! I’m officially an author! Big advance means I can quit gambling. Think I might invest some of it in the stock market. I’ve heard some good things about a few small computer software companies starting up.
August 12 1985
Heard from Billy that Suzey Phillips left her husband. Too bad considering they just had twins. Hope she finds someone that can treat her better. Billy says Calvin Wilkinson is interested. He’s a good guy. It would be a perfect match.