The Haunting of Emily Stone

by Amy Cross

  She paused, aware that the man on the other side of the desk didn't seem to be listening to a word she said.

  “I can adapt,” she added, “and, um, I think I'm good at working with people, I'm customer-orientated and I can take the initiative when challenges arise.”

  She waited for him to say something.

  Instead, he leaned closer to his laptop and squinted slightly.

  “Are you... still interested in hiring me?” she asked.

  “Uh-huh,” he replied, evidently paying more attention to the screen than to her answers. He clicked his mouse a couple of times, followed by a faint smile. “And, er...” He briefly began to laugh, before holding himself back. “And what about stock-taking, Ms. Stone? How are you....” He paused yet again, staring at the screen, before turning back to her. “Where was I? Oh yeah, stock-taking. Any good?”

  “I've done it before.”

  She waited eagerly for him to reply, but something on the screen seemed to have completely absorbed his attention. His smile was growing, and after a moment he clicked through to the next screen and chuckled.

  “Is everything okay?” she asked finally.

  “Yeah,” he replied, “just...” He paused, before glancing at her. “Do you mind if I ask you a question?”

  “Go for it.”

  Leaning forward, he grabbed the screen and began to turn it toward her. “Is this really you?”

  Even before she saw the image, she knew what it would be: one of the photos from twenty-four years ago, showing her apparently suspended in mid-air, or screaming in her bedroom. Those were the same images that had been on the front-page of the local paper when the story had first blown up, and they were the same images that had been plastered everywhere when the story had been exposed as a hoax.

  “Well, is it?” he asked, starting to chuckle. “Are you that Emily Stone?”

  “I am,” she replied, trying not to get too tense. “It was a long -”

  “Bloody hell,” he continued, clicking to the next picture, which showed a close-up of her screaming face. “Bloody hell, I knew I recognized the name when you came in just now, but... I mean, you don't mind talking about it, do you?”

  “No, but...” She paused, as she realized she was starting to feel intensely uncomfortable. “I don't see what it has to do with the interview.”

  “Course not,” he replied, “but we always like to get an idea of our prospective employees' personal lives and -” He clicked through to another picture, and immediately started laughing as he saw a photo of young Emily sobbing in her mother's arms. “I'm sorry,” he continued, “really, I know I shouldn't be looking at this stuff, but... Jesus, it's insane, isn't it? It all turned out to be a hoax, yeah?”

  She nodded.

  “So, what, did your mother put you up to it? That's what the papers said.”

  “Something like that.”

  “I guess it is relevant really,” he continued, leaning back in his chair “You know, it reflects on your character if you've done a lot of lying in the past.”

  “I didn't lie,” she replied, before realizing that her protest was hopeless. “I was twelve years old. People can be be persuaded to do dumb things when they're twelve.”

  “I know, I know.” Turning the monitor back to face himself, he clicked the mouse a couple more times. Falling silent, he was clearly looking at more of the photos. “Bloody hell,” he whispered after a moment. “They look real and fake at the same time. How'd you do the ones where it looks like you're being dragged backwards through the air?”

  “I'm sorry?”

  “Some of 'em look like something's pulling you back across the room, right through the air. How'd you make those ones look so realistic back in the day, without stuff like Photoshop?”

  “I...” She paused. “My mother taught me, that's all. It took a lot of practice. She made it fun.”

  “What about the black vomit that came out of your mouth?”

  “That was...” She took a deep breath. “Sachets I had to burst with my tongue. Filled with various things.”

  “And did you end up making a lot of money out of the whole thing?” he asked. “I mean, obviously not that much, or you wouldn't be here applying for a checkout job, but... Did you at least get a big payday from the papers for all of this?”

  She shook her head.

  “Bugger. So if the -”

  “Have I got the job or not?” she asked, feeling as if she was on the verge of running out of the office. “Sorry, I didn't mean to say it like that, I just... I know it's minimum wage, but I really need it, and I swear you won't regret hiring me, not for a second.”

  “You've got a kid, yeah?”

  She nodded.

  “Single mum?”

  She nodded again.

  “Yeah...” He paused. “Well, I've still got a few people to see -”

  “So I haven't got a chance?”

  “Hang on,” he added, getting to his feet and heading past her, toward the door. “I'll be back in a couple of minutes.”

  Once he'd left the room, she tried to focus and stay calm. The whole poltergeist hoax drama had been following her all her life, and this wouldn't be the first time it'd caused problems when she was applying for a job. No matter how much time passed, everyone seemed to always remember the story of little Emily Stone and the so-called haunting that turned out to be a big hoax. She'd even begun to consider changing her name by deed-poll, although she was reluctant to let the idiots win. After a moment, hearing laughter nearby, she turned and saw the manager out in the corridor, watching her along with a couple of other people in suits.

  “Screw this,” she muttered, grabbing her bag and CV, and storming out the door.

  “Wait,” the manager called after her, “we were only having a bit of fun! We were laughing with you, not at you!”

  By the time she got outside, she could barely breathe. Stopping on a bench next to the edge of the car park, she sat down and tried to pull herself together. She knew she shouldn't have walked out, but at the same time she also knew what it would be like working at a supermarket while gossip and laughs slowly spread among her co-workers. It had been the same everywhere she'd ever worked, and as a result she'd never held down a job for more than six months. Sometimes, she felt as if the whole world knew who she was.

  Hearing some kids singing the Ghostbusters theme, she looked over her shoulder and saw they were at the bus stop, laughing at her. She wiped tears from her eyes as she got to her feet and hurried away.

  ***

  “Lizzie?” she called out, as the last of the children made their way out past the school gate. “Lizzie, sweetie?”

  As other mothers watched with slight concern, Emily tried not to panic. Lizzie was usually one of the first kids to reach the gate, but now it seemed as if everyone was out and there was still no sign of her.

  “Lizzie! Lizzie, where are you?”

  “Ms. Stone?”

  Turning, she saw that one of Lizzie's teachers had come over.

  “Would you mind coming inside?” the teacher asked. “Mrs. Wilson would like to talk to you about your daughter.”

  ***

  “I'm sure you'll understand that we're just concerned for Lizzie's welfare,” said the headmistress a short while later, as she smiled first at Emily and then at Lizzie. “In the circumstances, we felt the best approach would be to ask you to come in for a little chat. To keep things informal.”

  “Is she being bullied?” Emily asked. Reaching over to the next chair, she put a hand on Lizzie's arm, but she noticed her daughter seemed strangely cool and detached.

  “One of the teachers noticed a bruise on Lizzie's neck,” the headmistress continued. “It's... not the first bruise that has been spotted on your daughter, Ms. Stone, and unfortunately Lizzie's explanation when she was asked... Well, it aroused concern.”

  “I'm sorry,” Lizzie said quietly, turning to Emily. “Please don't be mad at me.”

  “Of course I'
m not mad,” she replied, leaning over to kiss the top of her head before looking back at the headmistress. “What exactly did she say?”

  “That she wasn't allowed to tell us what had happened. That you wouldn't want her to tell us.”

  Sighing, Emily began to realize how bad the situation looked.

  “I understand that Lizzie's father is no longer around?”

  “He moved back to Edinburgh after the divorce,” Emily explained. “He doesn't get down to see Lizzie very much these days. Or at all, really. He calls sometimes.”

  “So it's just the two of you in the house now?”

  She nodded.

  “I see.” The headmistress paused for a moment. “Lizzie did say, however, that sometimes you have guests over -”

  “Very rarely.”

  “Male friends?”

  “Only one at a time,” Emily replied, before realizing how bad that sounded. “I mean, I have boyfriends occasionally, but only one at any given time. Only one boyfriend. It's not like...” Her voice trailed off as she realized she was panicking and digging a deeper hole for herself.

  “Do you ever leave Lizzie alone with your boyfriends?”

  “What are you suggesting?” she asked.

  “I'm just trying to understand your daughter's situation at home.”

  “No-one hits her,” Emily replied, trying not to sound too defensive. “No-one has ever laid a finger on her.” She turned to Lizzie. “Tell them.”

  “No-one hits me,” Lizzie said meekly, although there was a hint of fear in her voice.

  “It's going to be okay,” Emily told her, reaching out and taking her hand.

  “You're trembling,” Lizzie whispered.

  “We have a statutory duty to investigate any concerns about a child's welfare,” the headmistress continued, “and, where those concerns persist, to report them to the relevant authorities. You must understand, Ms. Stone, that in many ways are hands are tied and we have strict rules to follow.”

  “Lizzie just...” Pausing, Emily tried to work out whether the truth or a lie would sound more absurd. “She's been having certain experiences lately,” she added finally. “When she's alone in her bedroom, or sometimes in my bedroom, she... She says things happen. I've got it under control, the bruise on her neck is just an unfortunate accident.”

  “Experiences?” There was a pause. “Would these be... experiences of a so-called paranormal nature?”

  Emily sighed.

  “I'm aware of your history,” the headmistress continued. “Ms. Stone, I'm sure I don't need to tell you -”

  “No, you don't.”

  “We take this kind of thing very seriously.”

  “So do I!”

  “No-one is being accused of anything. I'm not suggesting for one second that Lizzie's bruises are the result of malicious activity or -”

  “We can't afford to move.”

  “I beg your pardon?”

  Emily sighed. “We're stuck in that house.”

  “What does the house have to do with anything?”

  “I...” She paused. “Nothing. I guess, I...”

  They sat in silence for a moment.

  “Ms. Stone,” the headmistress said finally, with a frown, “are you okay?”

  Emily nodded.

  “I understand, Ms. Stone, that being a single mother can -”

  “I'm working on it,” Emily replied, interrupting her. She was close to tears but determined not to cry. “It's been hard, but I'm working on it. The only thing I care about is keeping Lizzie safe.”

  “I appreciate that.”

  “And I'm trying to get help.”

  “For what?”

  “For -” Pausing, Emily realized once again that the truth might be unpalatable. Then again, she wasn't even sure what was true, not anymore. “I... I mean...”

  “Are you saying that Lizzie is causing these bruises herself?”

  “No, of course not, I -”

  “So someone else is causing them?”

  Sighing, Emily saw that the headmistress's hand had moved closer to the phone on her desk.

  “Sometimes children just get bruises,” Emily said, although she instantly hated herself for those words. “You know how it is, right? They play a little rough and they get a bruise. It's nothing, but then if it happens a couple of times in quick succession, suddenly they mount up and it starts looking like something else.” She kept her eyes on the woman's hand, hoping and praying that she wouldn't pick up the phone and call someone. “I'll make sure she's more careful. Really, I swear, nothing untoward is happening, it's just a little run of bad luck and I can assure you that it won't happen again. I'll make her play more carefully.”

  The headmistress paused, before moving her hand away from the phone. “If we have any further concerns in the future -”

  “You won't.”

  “But if we do, Ms. Stone, we'll be legally obliged to follow them up with the relevant authorities. It'll be out of our hands.”

  “Nothing's going to happen,” Emily replied, getting to her feet. “I know how to look after my daughter and I'm going to keep her safe from...” She paused, trying to find the right words. “She won't get one more bruise, I swear. Not one. She's just a normal little girl, so of course she's bumped herself once or twice, but she'll be okay from now on. If I have to wrap her up in cotton wool, I'll do it. Whatever it takes.”

  “I'm sure,” the headmistress replied, before turning to Lizzie. “Just remember, you can come and see one of the teachers at any time, okay? If anything's worrying you at all, if there's anything you want to talk about, you mustn't be afraid. Do you understand? You can always come to us.”

  Lizzie stared at her for a moment, before nodding.

  “Come on,” Emily said, taking her daughter's hand. “It's late. We should get home.”

  ***

  A few minutes later, having left Lizzie outside to play on the swings, Emily sobbed quietly in a bathroom cubicle. All the toilets were slightly lower than normal, for the children.

  Chapter Thirteen

  “What about paranormal phenomena as a symptom of mental illness?” asked Julie, one of the brighter students, from her usual spot on the front row of the lecture hall. “Schoepenhauser and Stiller both argue that people with undiagnosed psychiatric issues can manifest their internalized conflicts by imagining supernatural encounters.”

  “Well...” Pausing for a moment, Robert took another sip of water. His head was throbbing and he was barely able to fight the urge to throw up after another heavy drinking session the night before. “That's a perfectly valid point,” he said finally, almost tripping on one of the steps as he made his way back to the main desk, “and there's certainly some convincing literature regarding externalization processes, but I think we're straying a little from today's subject.”

  “What if it can be used in a diagnostic setting, though?”

  “Well, again -”

  Suddenly, his mind seemed to empty. He was aware of all the students staring at him, waiting for him to continue, but he could barely remember what he was supposed to be talking about. Turning to Julie, he saw that her infernally perky smile was fading a little, as if she could tell that something was wrong. Finally, from somewhere in the back of his mind, he began to start scrambling some coherent thoughts together.

  “It's true,” he continued, “that some forms of mental illness can be expressed, often involuntarily, through claims of, er, paranormal activity. A kind of desperation, perhaps, sets in and -”

  “Like the Emily Stone case?”

  He paused again. Of all the days, this was not the time for the Stone case to come up in class. For some reason, however, Emily's name seemed to have been popping up in conversation a lot over the previous few days.

  On the back row, a couple of students giggled at something.

  “The Stone case is a little different,” he said cautiously, “because of the nature of the mother-daughter bond and the degree to which on
e mind can be controlled by another. A child is a very different proposition to an adult, when we're talking about suggestiveness and emotional malleability. You could write a whole book on the subject, and as I pointed out a moment ago, we're really straying off today's topic.”

  “I know,” Julie continued, “but in this week's reading, Mendel argued that the parent-child relationship can give rise to particularly strong beliefs in paranormal events, particularly within the home setting.”

  He nodded, trying to think of a way to shut down this particular brand of the conversation.

  “Did you really believe them?” asked another student, Michael.

  Robert turned to him.

  “Sorry,” he continued, with a faint smile, “but... I was just wondering... Did you really believe the Stones, right up until the moment you found out they were faking the whole thing? I mean, I know it was almost twenty-five years ago, but a few of us were talking last night and we couldn't help wondering, like, at what point you started to have doubts.” He paused. “Some of the photos look kind of fake. Like, it's hard to believe anyone took them seriously, but apparently you spent six months on the case, absolutely convinced that there was a ghost in their house.”

  “That's not quite correct,” he replied. “I believed there was some form of phenomena that merited further investigation.”

  More giggles from the back row.

  “What you have to remember,” he continued, “is that...” He paused. What? What did they have to remember? He looked over at his notes, then back at the faces of the students. Those last couple of whiskeys the night before had been a real mistake. “What you have to remember is that Joyce Stone had trained her daughter to lie, to pretend that these things were happening. It was much the same way that a circus trainer gets an animal to perform certain tricks. Now, I'm not saying that Emily was of sub-normal intelligence, or that Joyce was some kind of master manipulator, but in that setting, the manipulation was relatively easy. And very difficult to detect.”