Enter the Dead: A Supernatural Thriller

by Mark White

  ‘Max tells me you’re sceptical of my work,’ she said, as if able to read his mind.

  ‘I guess I am.’

  ‘Do you have faith, Sam?’

  ‘Faith in what exactly?’

  ‘In God, in Mother Nature…in some kind of higher power.’

  ‘Not really, no.’

  ‘I don’t mean to pry, but do you mind me asking why not?’

  ‘I do, as it happens.’

  ‘Fair enough.’

  ‘Wait…sorry…I didn’t mean to be rude or anything. It’s just…well…let’s just say I have a pretty good reason for my cynicism. Any notion I had of there possibly being a merciful God in heaven was laid to rest a long, long time ago. When I was only a boy.’

  ‘A death in the family?’

  Sam’s eyes widened. ‘How did you find out about that? Who told you? Was it Sarah? I know it couldn’t have been Max.’

  ‘Calm down,’ she said, smiling at him. ‘Nobody told me anything.’

  ‘Then how do you know about Lucy?’

  ‘I don’t know anything about Lucy. What I do know is that when children lose their faith in God it usually comes as a result of some traumatic experience. You see; we adults question our faith without giving it so much as a second thought, especially nowadays when it’s socially acceptable to be an atheist or agnostic or whatever else we might choose to be. But with children it’s different; they are born into a fascinating world of fairies and witches and ghosts. They hang on to their belief in Father Christmas long after they suspect that he’s not real, and the same goes for God. That’s just the way they are. More often than not, something serious has to have happened for a little boy or girl to lose their innate instinct to believe. A divorce, a death in the family; those are two of the most common explanations. That’s why I asked. I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have pried. Force of habit, I’m afraid.’

  ‘Right,’ Sam said, relaxing slightly as he considered her explanation, but unable to lower his guard completely. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d spoken his sister’s name aloud; just hearing it sent a shiver through him. And then, without any prompting: ‘Lucy was my younger sister. I…erm…I was only eight years old when she passed away.’

  ‘Oh, I am sorry, Sam. That must have been awful for you.’

  ‘Yes, it was,’ he replied, staring into the fire. ‘It still is.’

  ‘You must miss her terribly.’

  ‘Every day.’

  ‘Would you like to talk about her? I’m a good listener.’

  Sam looked up at her. ‘No,’ he replied, shaking his head. ‘I’d rather not.’

  Gracie nodded. ‘I understand. However, if you ever change your mind-’

  ‘I won’t,’ he said, cutting her off, his thoughts now somewhere else. Somewhere he would rather they weren’t. ‘I should be going,’ he said, standing up and taking his coat from the back of the chair. ‘Thanks for the tea. Maybe I’ll prepare that nice family dinner you mentioned.’

  ‘I think you should. Before you go,’ she said, surprising Sam at how nimbly she was able to rise to her feet. ‘I need to ask you about something.’

  ‘Okay.’

  ‘I know you don’t believe in my line of work, but I’d like you to bear with me for a moment.’

  ‘Go on.’

  ‘It’s probably nothing, but over the past week or so there’s been someone coming to see me. A spirit.’

  Sam shook his head. ‘Gracie, really, I’m not the man for this kind of thing.’

  ‘This spirit, this figure,’ she said, ignoring his protest, ‘refuses to show his face or even talk to me, and that’s highly unusual. In fact, it’s never happened to me before.’

  ‘Honestly, Gracie, I can’t help-’

  ‘The funny thing is,’ she said, ‘he tends to appear whenever Max is in the room.’

  ‘Max?’

  ‘Hmm. Don’t worry, he can’t hurt anyone or do anything. It’s just…well…it’s just strange for a spirit to appear without any apparent reason for doing so. Usually there’s a message or something they want me to share, but with him there’s nothing. I can’t figure it out.’

  ‘I’m afraid you’re barking up the wrong tree telling me all this.’

  ‘The reason I mention it, is that this spirit is always dressed the same way: a tattered grey suit and an old brown hat; I think it’s called a fedora. He’s tall and very thin; I’d go so far as to call him lanky. I know it’s a long shot, but someone of that description wouldn’t ring any bells with you, would they? I only ask because I’m trying to figure out the link – if indeed there is a link – between him and Max. You don’t know anyone like that, do you? Anyone from the past, maybe?’

  ‘Not that I believe any of this nonsense, but no, your description means nothing to me. Sorry I can’t be of any more help. Now, if you don’t mind, I better go and fetch Max.’

  ‘Of course, I was just asking on the off-chance. If you do think of anyone, maybe you could let me know?’

  ‘That’s not very likely, but okay, I will.’

  ‘Whoever he is, he seems to know you.’

  Sam sighed heavily. ‘Really? How come?’

  ‘Because he’s standing beside you right now.’

  In spite of his open scepticism, Sam shuddered at this last remark. Such talk was of course nonsensical to him, but that didn’t stop him from looking around on the off-chance that there really was somebody standing beside him. He couldn’t feel anything out of the ordinary, and he certainly couldn’t see anything, but even so, Gracie seemed so sure of herself that he couldn’t help feeling a little afraid. Eventually, however, common sense returned and the rational part of his mind once again took over. He started laughing; not a natural laugh, but rather a contrived snigger aimed at relieving the tension in the room.

  He raised his hand and shook a finger at Gracie as if he were about to scold her for tricking him, but he was smiling; the butt of a joke which, for a second, hadn’t been in the slightest way funny. ‘Nice one, Gracie. For a while back there I almost believed you. And to think that people pay you for this kind of thing!’

  Gracie, however, was neither laughing nor smiling. She was deadly serious. ‘I know you don’t believe me, Sam,’ she said, taking the tray from the table and making her way towards the kitchen sink, ‘and that’s fine. But promise me one thing, will you? If you do happen to think of anyone who may have once dressed like that, cast aside your cynicism and let me know. Spirits never visit the living without good reason. Whoever he is, I think he has a message for you or Max; he’s just not yet ready to pass it on. Now you go and enjoy a nice evening with your family.’

  Once more the room fell silent, the only sound coming from the swinging pendulum of the old-fashioned walnut clock hanging on the wall. Sam studied her as she turned on the hot water tap to fill up the sink, wondering why on earth he’d let Sarah convince him all those years ago that this crazy old woman was suitable to look after their son. He’d always dismissed the tarot cards and the clairvoyance as harmless gimmicks, but now he was not so sure. For a brief moment back there she’d frightened the life out him, and if she could do that to a middle-aged man, what influence could she have on a gullible child? What effect would all this have on Max?

  With a half-hearted goodbye, he collected Max from the sitting room and walked out of the house. He knew what he had to do about Gracie, but first he had the unenviable task of breaking the news of his redundancy to his family.

  Fired from work, haunted by faceless spirits…could his day possibly get any worse?

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  ‘You’ve been what?’

  ‘Fired.’

  ‘Is this some kind of joke?’

  ‘Afraid not.’

  ‘Why? They can’t do that to-’

  ‘Calm down, will you? Let me explain. Max, run and fetch your mother a glass of wine. I think she could do with a drink.’ She’s not the only one.

  ‘Okay, but wait ‘til I get back
. I want to hear this.’

  Max left his parents sitting together at the dining room table. Neither said a word as they waited for their son to return. Unwilling to look his wife in the eye, Sam focused his attention on the oversized pepper mill that appeared to have been made for a giant rather than an ordinary human being. Max soon returned, setting the glass of wine down on the table in front of his mother. She looked at him and smiled a thank you, before returning her attention to her husband.

  ‘Go on,’ she said, taking a sip from the glass.

  ‘There’s not a lot to say,’ Sam said. ‘I was with Tom in the Board Room. We’d just finished presenting our ideas on a new website to a client, when he asked me to stay behind for a chat. I assumed it was for a debrief and a pat on the back, but instead he sat me down and told me that the company was being restructured and how going forward my services would no longer be required. Simple as that.’

  ‘Simple as that? Tom can’t do that to you…he’s supposed to be your friend!’

  ‘That’s what I thought. Some friend.’

  ‘He can’t just fire you without any consultation or warning. Surely there must be some kind of policy that needs following. A redundancy procedure or something?’

  ‘It’s a design agency, Sarah, not a government department or multinational organisation. Even if there is a relevant policy, nobody would stick to it. They never do.’

  ‘But you’re the only copywriter they’ve got! How will they manage without you?’

  ‘They’re giving my job to Gabby.’

  ‘The intern?’

  ‘Yep.’

  Sarah gawped open-mouthed at Sam as if he’d just revealed to her that he secretly enjoyed walking around the house wearing nothing but her underwear. ‘You are joking, aren’t you?’

  ‘I wish I was. He reckons she has what it takes, and she’s cheap. A damn sight cheaper than me, anyway.’

  Sarah’s face reddened as if she were about to spontaneously combust. ‘Max,’ she said, struggling to control her temper. ‘Be a good boy and go to your room, would you please?’

  ‘But mum!’

  ‘Just…do as I say. I need to talk to your father in private. I’ll come and see you in a little while.’

  ‘Why am I always being told to go away?’ he asked, climbing down from his chair and walking to the door. ‘I’m part of this family too you know.’ Neither parent answered him; the most his father could manage was a limp nod, and his mother didn’t even look at him. Letting out an exaggerated huff of frustration, Max left the room, slamming the door behind him and stomping up the stairs to his bedroom.

  When Sarah was confident he was out of earshot, she said: ‘Gabby the intern? The girl Tom’s been screwing behind Jane’s back?’

  ‘Uh-huh.’

  ‘Jesus Christ, Sam. You can’t let him get away with this. It’s not fair!’

  ‘What am I meant to do? Tell the Board? Threaten Tom that I’ll tell Jane if he doesn’t change his mind?’

  ‘Yes! Why not?’

  ‘I’ll tell you why not. For a start, the Board couldn’t give a shit about me. Compared to Tom I’m just a minion. I’m not even on their radar.’

  ‘But you do all the work.’

  ‘And Tom takes all the credit. Secondly, there’s no way I’m prepared to tell Jane about Tom’s extra-curricular activities. That’s not the sort of person I am, and Tom knows it.’

  ‘You’ve got to do something! Surely you’re not just going to take this lying down?’ Like you did, Mrs Railton, she thought. Lying down, on all fours, up against the wall; any damn way Tom wanted you. Now both you AND your husband have been well and truly screwed.

  ‘Of course not,’ Sam said. ‘I’m going to call Tom in the morning and talk to him; see if I can convince him to change his mind.

  ‘Good. Call him first thing. Perhaps he might realise the error of his ways when he’s had a chance to sleep on it.’

  ‘I hope so.’

  ‘And if that doesn’t work, then I’ll talk to him.’

  ‘You bloody well won’t!’

  ‘I bloody well will! We can’t afford for you to lose your job, Sam. I can’t support the three of us by myself.’

  ‘I’ll find another job.’

  ‘Where? McDonald’s? In case you haven’t heard, there’s a recession on. The only people companies are hiring these days are over-qualified graduates who are so desperate for experience that they’ll work like slaves for a pittance. And evidently some of them’ll even sleep with their bosses if there’s a chance of a job at the end of it. The bitch. Mind you, it’s not all her fault. She’s not the married one.’

  Sam watched as Sarah raised the wine glass to her lips and took another sip of the dark red liquid. What he wouldn’t do for a drink right now; a chance to render himself oblivious. It wouldn’t take much: two or three glasses…maybe four. Why not? What harm would it do? After all, he was the only person who genuinely believed he had a full-on, bona-fide drink problem. Everybody else seemed to think his self-diagnosed problem could be cured with a dose of good old-fashioned willpower. It might even do him some good; help him to lighten up. Perhaps he was now mature enough to manage a little moderation?

  He stood up and walked to the door.

  ‘Where are you going?’

  ‘To put the kettle on,’ he said. ‘Do you want anything?’

  ‘More of this,’ she said, shaking the glass in her hand. ‘You may as well bring the bottle.’

  ‘Okay.’

  As he entered the kitchen, his eyes immediately sought out the opened bottle of Merlot and he went over to it, admiring its elegant shape and attractive label.

  Why not take a little drink? The only person who’d mind would be you, and you’re hardly the best judge of character. Christ, you couldn’t even see your best friend for what he truly is; a lying, devious, self-serving bastard.

  He grasped the bottle in his right hand and lifted it to his nose, inhaling the heavenly aroma of temptation.

  Just one sip. Just one.

  He tipped the mouth of the bottle to his lips, allowing it to linger against them as he imagined what it would be like to drink from it. Slowly, he raised the base of the bottle up towards the ceiling, deciding to throw caution to the wind and finally give in to this most seductive of all mistresses. Why should he be denied that which everyone else took for granted? Why should he be-’

  ‘Sam? What are you doing in there? Hurry up, will you?’

  Sarah’s voice shot through him, snapping him out of his trance-like state. He could feel the beads of sweat forming across his brow as he set the bottle down on the bench, backing away from it as if it were a grenade about to explode. Memories of a past ruined by alcohol came flashing across his field of vision, causing him to stumble backwards against the wall.

  ‘Did you hear me, Sam? Come on…we haven’t finished discussing this.’

  He couldn’t reply. Dark patches of sweat had formed across his light blue t-shirt. He began to shiver, as the realisation of what he’d almost done dawned on him. His eyes remained fixed on the bottle; he knew that he needed to get out of the kitchen. He hurried out of the room and along the hallway, pausing at the bottom of the stairs only to inform his wife that he was going to take a shower and go to bed.

  By the time she’d emerged from the dining room to ask him what was wrong, he’d already climbed the stairs and entered the bathroom, locking the door behind him. Sarah didn’t follow him, didn’t even call after him. Instead she reached into her handbag on the hallway table and pulled out her phone. If Sam wasn’t prepared to fight his corner, then she would have to do it for him.

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  When Sam awoke the following morning he was surprised to find an empty space beside him in bed. He was usually the first one up; one of the benefits of sobriety was never having a hangover pinning you to your mattress. He checked his alarm clock: 7.30am. He hardly ever woke up this late; as far as he was concerned, 7.30am was practically midd
ay. In a fit of panic he threw back the covers and leapt to his feet. It was only as he pulled on his dressing gown and stepped into his slippers that he realised he had nothing urgent to get up for: no job, no torturous commute; nothing but a free day ahead of him.

  Unfortunately, the very idea of freedom sent a shiver down his spine. He thrived on structure, relished stability and routine. The very nature of his job as a copywriter required him to create order out of chaos, to make sense from uncertainty. Having nothing to do with his day did not appeal.

  There was a note waiting for him in the kitchen: Didn’t want to wake you…don’t take this lying down! Love you xx. Sam smiled at the words Love you, words that weren’t used often enough in the Railton house. Sarah may have had more get-up-and-go in her little finger than he had in his entire body, but she needn’t worry. Sam wasn’t about to give in to Tom Jackson without a fight. He wasn’t as attractive and sexually available as Gabrielle Williams, but he was a damn sight better at his job.

  He poured himself a coffee and sat down to plan his next move. He needed a strategy: there was no point rushing into a conversation with Tom half-cocked. He had one chance to change his mind. He couldn’t afford to waste it.

  Part of him wasn’t even sure he wanted his job back. Why should he go begging cap-in-hand to a man who’d stabbed him in the back? He still couldn’t understand why Tom had acted the way he had; why he’d acted so coldly. Maybe it was Gabby. Maybe Tom had promised her Sam’s job in return for her sleeping with him. No, it couldn’t be that. As pretty as she was, Gabby was no more than another notch in Tom’s bedpost. Besides, she seemed too decent a person to play that kind of game.

  So if it wasn’t Gabby, then what? There was always the possibility that Tom was telling the truth, that the decision to let Sam go was entirely a commercial one. Sam might not have been a member of the inner sanctum, but he knew that times were tough and business was scarce. And there was no denying that for a copywriter he was handsomely remunerated, even if he was up there with the best. Perhaps it was as simple as a cold-hearted financial calculation; maybe sentiment played no part in the process. That would be the most plausible and perhaps the least painful reason. If that was the case, then what would be the point in calling Tom up and trying to change his mind? As Tom had said, the decision had been taken higher up the food chain. What would be the use in calling him up if there was no chance of it making the slightest bit of difference? Surely it would be better to remain quiet and salvage at least a modicum of pride?