Enter the Dead: A Supernatural Thriller

by Mark White

  ‘For fuck’s sake!’ he hissed, the wet soil ice-cold against his back. Placing his palms down against the ground, he forced himself up into a sitting position, shivering as a trickle of brown water ran from his neck and down his back. So this is the thanks I get for coming all the way out here to attend his funeral, he thought, wiping the rain from his brow with the back of his jacket sleeve.

  He hauled himself up to his feet and went over to a nearby tree, balancing against it as he kicked the clods of mud from his shoes. He looked over to Jane, surprised to find her still standing by the grave. She obviously hadn’t noticed him falling over and making an idiot of himself, as her gaze remained transfixed on the coffin. From where he was standing, and with the weather being as it was, Sam was unable to make out her face; all he could see was a hunched, black figure stood deathly-still by the grave. The sight unnerved him, his imagination likening the scene to something out of the famous ghost story, The Woman in Black. He could understand why Jane would want to stay by her husband’s side, but it wouldn’t do her any good to stay out in the rain and end up catching pneumonia. She had a mountain of grief ahead of her; the last thing she needed was to add to that by falling ill.

  ‘Jane!’ Sam shouted. ‘Come inside, will you? At least until the rain stops.’

  He knew as soon as he spoke that she wouldn’t be able to hear him; even to himself, his voice was barely audible through the torrential rain. He looked at Jane, and then looked back at the church, contemplating his next move. While he didn’t want to interrupt her, he also felt a duty to at least try to get her out of the rain. With a deep sigh, he wiped his brow once again and began walking back towards her.

  As he drew closer, he twice called out her name, but both times she either couldn’t hear him or chose to ignore him. She had barely shifted an inch from where Sam had left her; it was as if the rigor mortis had passed from her dead husband to herself. Sam could only assume that she was lost in her grief, consumed by memories of happier times she had shared with Tom. Maybe it was wrong to disturb her. Maybe she wanted to stand out in the rain. Maybe he should keep his well-meaning nose out of her business and leave her the hell alone.

  ‘Jane,’ he said, softer this time as he approached her from behind. ‘I think you should come with me. Please?’ He reached out and gently placed a hand on her shoulder, surprised at how cold and bony it felt. ‘Come on, Jane. You’ll catch your death out here.’

  ‘It’s nice of you to care, Sam,’ came the reply. Only it wasn’t Jane’s voice. It wasn’t even a woman’s voice. Sam went to take a step backwards, but before he had the chance, the figure lashed out and clasped his hand in its own. ‘But I don’t need to worry about catching my death. Not anymore. You made sure of that, didn’t you?’ There followed a demonic cackle as the figure shook it’s head back in forth as if its neck was not strong enough to support it.

  And then it turned around.

  ‘Recognise me?’

  Sam opened and closed his mouth like a ventriloquist’s dummy, but the sight that greeted him removed any chance of him being able to speak. It wasn’t the face of Jane Jackson staring back at him, but that of her dead husband, Tom. He still appeared to be wearing Jane’s black dress – he was even wearing her hat – but there was no doubt that it was him. Relishing Sam’s fear, Tom’s face broke into a wide, unnatural grin; his lips stretching much wider than was biologically possible, until eventually the corners of his mouth had stretched so far that they were almost touching his ears. And then he spoke, but as he did so, his grin remained fixed and his lips didn’t move; his words seeming to come from somewhere else inside him.

  ‘What’s wrong, Sammy-boy? Are you not pleased to see me?’

  Sam tried desperately to release his hand from the grip of Tom’s, but it was futile. He was too powerful, too dominant. ‘Please,’ he cried, trying but failing to pull away. ‘You’re not Tom. I know you’re not. Tom’s dead…Tom’s dead. This isn’t real. You’re not Tom Jackson!’

  ‘Now now, Sam. Stop being such a pussy,’ replied Tom, his grin becoming more subdued but remaining in place. ‘Of course it’s me. Don’t you recognise your old pal? I haven’t been dead that long.’

  ‘You’re not dead,’ Sam said, tears streaming down his cheeks. ‘You’re not dead because you’re not Tom. This is the medication; the pills are making me see things. This is a hallucination, that’s all. You’re only a hallucination.’

  ‘Is that so?’ Tom said, his grin now more of a snarl. ‘If that’s the case, look me in the eye and tell me you’re hallucinating. Go on, Sammy-boy…I dare you.’ As he spoke, his eyes lit up like brilliant-white torches. ‘Take a look. Take a look at the man you murdered!’

  Even though he knew that to look at Tom would be a big mistake, Sam had no other option than to do as he was asked. He felt powerless under Tom’s control; there was nothing else he could do but obey. Tom’s grip on him was too strong; there was no way he was going to let him go. Against his better judgement, Sam raised his head and opened his eyes.

  He immediately regretted his decision, because as soon as he stared at Tom, he felt a familiar, sickening pain course through him, causing him to double over and drop to the ground in agony. He looked up again at Tom, only to find him towering above him. The grin had returned, only this time it was insidious and tormented. Hallucination or nor hallucination: the man staring back at him was evil. Pure evil.

  ‘Little pig, little pig,’ Tom hissed. ‘Let me come in.’

  As Tom spoke, Sam felt a second wave of pain surge through him. His head felt as if it was one the verge of exploding, and his gut seemed to fill with some kind of dense, gloopy fluid that made him want to vomit. He turned his head to retch, but was unable to expel the foul liquid; instead he could only gag on it. He’d only felt this bad twice before: on the passenger bridge at York station when he’d been assaulted, and the other day in the park when he’d dreamt that he’d seen Stephen Gilchrist hanging from a branch of the cherry tree, only to then be assaulted by the ghost of his dead father. Surely this was also a dream…a vivid nightmare brought on by pills and stress and the traumatic events of the past couple of weeks. This couldn’t be real; how could it be? But if that was the case, then why did it seem so fucking real? Why was the pain so real? The visions? The words? They were all so sharp, so tangible…

  ‘Sam? Sam, are you alright? Sam…talk to me. Sam? You’re scaring me.’

  ‘Huh?’ Sam grunted, his vision blurred by the pain. ‘Jane?’

  ‘Jesus Christ, Sam. You look awful. I think I should call an ambulance.’

  ‘No,’ he replied. He looked up to find Jane towering over him, staring at him with a concerned expression on her face. He glanced around, but there was nobody else there: no Tom, no disfigured monster; only Jane. Tears and rain had combined to cause her mascara to run down her face, but it was definitely her. ‘Don’t call an ambulance,’ he said, feeling the pain in his stomach subdue slightly. ‘I’ll be fine, honestly. Just give me a minute.’

  ‘What on earth happened to you?’ she asked, helping him to his feet. ‘One minute you were asking me to come back to the church, and then all of a sudden you went all weird and started saying things that I couldn’t understand. You had me terrified.’

  ‘I’m not sure,’ he said, rubbing his forehead and grimacing at the pain of his headache. ‘I remember calling your name and trying to get your attention, and then…then…I don’t know what happened, but you turned round to look at me, but it wasn’t you…it was…it was someone else.’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘I…I don’t know,’ he lied. He certainly wasn’t about to tell her that he’d mistaken her for her dead husband. ‘All I know is that it wasn’t you.’

  ‘Of course it was me.’ She placed her hand on his brow. ‘You’re burning up,’ she said, taking him by the arm. ‘Let’s get you inside where it’s warm. The way you acted…I thought you were having a heart attack. Are you sure you’re alright? Maybe we should tak
e you to a doctor, just to be sure.’

  ‘I’ll be fine. I just need to sit down for a while.’ He wasn’t fine, though, and he knew it. There was something seriously wrong, something he seemed powerless to prevent. Furthermore, it was getting worse. Ever since he’d found out about Sarah’s affair, it was as if he was slowly but surely losing his mind. The dark figure he’d seen in the cemetery where Lucy was buried, and then again when Stephen Gilchrist assaulted him at York station; not to mention what he’d seen in the park that morning. And now this!

  He reached into his jacket pocket for his Diazepam, cursing as he remembered that they were in Sarah’s handbag. With Jane to support him, he made his way unsteadily back towards the church, desperate for the pounding in his head to go away. He only hoped that someone had some painkillers with them.

  As bad as the physical pain was, however, he was more concerned about his mental state. There could be no doubt anymore; this couldn’t be passed off as a series of random, unfortunate events that would go away by themselves. He was going insane, and he knew it. Whatever was happening to him was no coincidence, no terrible run of bad luck that could easily be explained or laughed off. The hallucinations, the headaches, the noises – they weren’t normal. They were the twisted delusions of a man who was losing his grip on reality. Something had to change, and soon. He needed help, he needed to speak to someone who would understand.

  Because if he didn’t, then God only knew what would happen next.

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  The drive home from Stanfield was spent mostly in silence. Jane had tried her best to describe to Sarah what had happened, but Sam was the only one who could explain the whole story.

  But he didn’t.

  He wasn’t yet ready to confide in her, he needed time to decide the most appropriate way of opening up to her about the hallucinations and the voices inside his head. Instead, he went along with the general consensus among the people in the church, who had blamed his collapsing on a combination of ill-health and the stress of seeing his friend being buried. He certainly had all the symptoms of someone suffering from a severe cold - a relentless headache, upset stomach, sky-high temperature. Besides, he was exhausted. He didn’t want to talk; he wanted to get out of his soaking-wet clothes, climb into bed, and sleep.

  ‘I hope you haven’t made all this up just so we could make our excuses and leave without going to the buffet,’ Sarah joked, bringing the car to a halt outside their house. Although trying to make light of the situation, she was desperately worried by his appearance. He had the look of a man who was standing on death’s doorstep waiting impatiently to be let in. Despite having swallowed double the recommended dose of Ibuprofen, his brow was still burning and he’d spent the journey home shivering uncontrollably.

  ‘Come on,’ she said, opening the car door. ‘Let’s get you inside and upstairs.’

  ‘Can’t I just stay here?’ he asked, gasping as the cold air from outside invaded the warmth of the car. ‘Just keep the engine running and turn the heating up. I don’t want to move.’

  ‘I know it’s not nice, but you’ll feel a lot better in bed.’

  ‘You’re a heartless bitch,’ he replied, struggling to maintain his composure as he almost fell out of the car and began the arduous journey to the front door.

  ‘Stop whining on like a spoilt kid,’ she said, opening the door and helping him inside. ‘Go upstairs and take your clothes off. I’ll be up in a minute. I’ll make you a hot drink and bring it up to you.’

  ‘Thanks,’ he said, placing a hand on the bannister for support and beginning the long climb up to the bedroom, pausing after every couple of steps in order to catch his breath.

  Sarah stood at the foot of the stairs until he reached the top. Satisfied that he wasn’t going to keel over and tumble back down, she took off her coat and hung it up on a hook beside the front door, before making her way along the hallway to the kitchen. As she passed by the telephone, she noticed the red message light flashing. Without giving any thought as to who it might be, she pressed the play button and set the phone to loudspeaker mode. It was Gracie, and as soon as she spoke, Sarah knew that something was wrong. The Gracie she knew was always so calm and cheerful, not serious and flustered as she sounded now. Not wishing to disturb Sam, Sarah picked up the receiver and listened.

  ‘Hello Sarah, hello Sam. I’m sorry to leave you this message, but I’m afraid it’s urgent. I called round to see you this morning, Sam, but you weren’t at home. I don’t know who will pick this message up first: if it’s you, Sarah, then it’s likely you won’t have the faintest clue what I’m talking about. Please don’t delete it – instead, you will need to fetch Sam immediately and play it to him. If it’s you, Sam, then you need to listen very closely to what I have to say. I know you don’t believe in the gift that I have, but I swear on Max’s life that what I’m about to tell you is the truth.

  ‘The man who has been coming to see me – the spirit we talked about – well, I now know for certain who he is, and I’m afraid it’s who I feared it might be. He’s been here again – twice, in fact – and I’ve spoken to him. He said to me…he said…damn, I hate these bloody machines! Look, I can’t tell you over the phone. You need to come and see me immediately. You’re in grave danger, Sam…and so is your family. I must speak to you, Sam…before it’s too late. There may be a way out of this, but only if we act now. Call me…please…as soon as you receive this message. Sarah, if you hear this first, then I’m so sorry for frightening you, but Sam will know what I mean. Sam will know. He’s in grave danger, and so are-’

  BEEP. The timer ended the message prematurely, but Sarah paid it no attention. She immediately pressed the play button again and listened once more to the message. When it finished, she placed the receiver in its cradle and sat down on a nearby stool, bewildered by what she’d just heard. She’d known Gracie for many years, and in all that time she had never once heard her raise her voice or say anything out of the ordinary. She knew about Gracie’s so-called gift, and admittedly in the early days it had slightly concerned her given the fact she looked after Max, but over time it had ceased to carry any significance. Sarah had met many of Gracie’s clients: normal, everyday people who came to her house seeking advice; people who shared in Gracie’s beliefs about life after death and the existence of some kind of spirit world. However, Gracie had never mixed that side of her life with her primary responsibility as Max’s child-minder. Max knew what she did, but having grown up with it, it didn’t bother him in the slightest. He was far more interested in her baking skills than her clairvoyant abilities.

  So to hear her now, harping on irrationally about imminent danger and finding a way out of it…well…it just didn’t add up. And what had Sam been up to? Why was he involved? He had never believed in any of that, in fact he’d always insisted it was total nonsense. And if he did have something to do with it, then why on earth hadn’t he mentioned anything? Sarah’s thoughts drifted to a brief conversation she’d had with him on the eve of Max’s skiing trip; something about no longer wanting Gracie to care for Max after school. He’d claimed that she was getting too old, but was that merely to hide the truth? Did this message have anything to do with that? What the hell was going on? There was only one way to find out. Rising to her feet, she walked back down the hallway and went upstairs to confront Sam. Ill or not, he had some explaining to do.

  Entering their bedroom, she was surprised to find him already fast asleep under the covers, open-mouthed and snoring loudly. She walked across to the bed and sat down next to him, placing her hand on his brow. ‘You’re burning up,’ she said, noticing the empty Diazepam wrapper on his bedside table. ‘Can you hear me, Sam?’ she said, knowing the answer to her question before asking it. Given his condition, not to mention the cocktail of medication he was on, it was hardly surprising to see him lying there dead to the world. She wasn’t sure if she would be able to wake him even if she wanted to, besides, what good would it do? As much as she
wanted to question him, she knew that it would be better to let him get some proper rest first. The inquisition would have to wait. She thought about Gracie’s message, the sense of urgency and panic in her voice. Like her, Gracie would have to stand in line and be patient. Whatever Gracie wanted to say to Sam would need to wait until he was awake and feeling better. The first priority was her husband’s health…nothing else mattered.

  Gracie had waited this long. What harm would another few hours do?

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  ‘What’s the matter, Scooch? Have you been filling your belly with poor little mice again?’

  Gracie’s bedraggled tabby cat took one more inquisitive sniff of its food and looked up at her as if to say why do you insist on serving me the same old shit day after day?

  Gracie smiled at her furry companion and shrugged. ‘I’m afraid it’s that or nothing,’ she said. ‘Beggars can’t be choosers.’ Scooch stared back at her, seemingly disgusted by the ultimatum. He turned his back on her and skulked away to his fireside bed with an aloofness of which only spoilt cats are capable.

  ‘Suit yourself, Mr Grumpy,’ Gracie said, placing a bundle of freshly-ironed clothes into a wicker basket and carrying it out of the kitchen and up the stairs to her bedroom. Entering the room, she placed the basket on the bed and took a seat next to it, her chest rising up and down as she caught her breath. For an eighty year old woman she wasn’t faring too badly, but she knew it was getting more and more difficult to manage her everyday chores. She’d considered selling up and downsizing to what the glossy brochures referred to as a luxury retirement village, which in essence was little more than a collection of overpriced apartments where lonely people came to while away their twilight years in the company of like-minded souls and round-the-clock warden patrols, but she wasn’t ready to throw in the towel just yet. For a start, she still had Max, and if anyone kept her feeling young and needed it was him. There were also her clients, of course, although she guessed that most of them would be willing to travel that little bit further to visit her if necessary. Actually, there was no guessing about it; she knew full well they would. They were a loyal bunch, her clients. Some of them had been coming to see her for twenty, thirty years or more. Maybe when Max no longer needed her, maybe then we she would finally bite the bullet and sell up. Until that sad day came, however, she was staying put.