A Ghost Tale

by Chris Raven

  I wonder what kind of sick mind can tell the actual murders of three innocent children and try to mask it as a children’s book. It has to be someone from Swanton or some nearby town, someone who was aware of the story and knew the three victims. That possibility seems even sicker to me. If you knew the children, if you lived firsthand the pain of the parents and all the people, how can someone write about it so lightly? And, what’s even worse, how that one dares to use Anne’s name?

  I know I’m not going to sleep right now, so I take the book out of the backpack and, for a few seconds, I’m back to being hypnotized by its cover. In it appears a childish illustration, a kind ghost of those who wear a sheet on top, floating on a dark lake illuminated by the full moon. I know it sounds ridiculous, but that ghost’s eyes shrink my stomach. His furious gaze seems to traverse me as if it could see within my soul. I don’t want to keep looking at him, so I leave it face down on the nightstand and I get out of bed. I open the window and I turn on another cigarette.

  The moon in the last quarter shines on the sleeping city. There’s no one on the sidewalks anymore. You only hear in the distance the engine of some car and the howling of a lone dog. I feel exhausted and melancholic. I would love to be able to backtrack in time and go back to the beginning of that summer when death was something that happened to others and the monsters only lived inside the books. Since that is not possible, I would at least like to backtrack until yesterday, when all my demons slept lethargic in an isolated corner of my mind, kept under seven keys.

  It has only been necessary a disturbing dream and a children’s book for me to realize that my peace of mind was a big lie. All my fears and my traumas are as alive as when I was a 12-year-old kid. In all this time all I have learned is to deceive myself and others, to pretend that I am a normal guy who can lead a normal life, that everything that happened no longer matters, that I imagined, I dreamt, or I hallucinated, but it’s not real.

  Everything is crap and, with every puff, I’m becoming more aware of how sad I feel and how scared I am. I know what I should do, what my psychiatrist would have advised me, what my mother would tell me as she caresses my hair. Forget it, Eric. Your friends are dead. His murderer escaped, vanished like a ghost. There’s nothing you can do to fix it. If you don’t forget, if you let the past come back to mind, you’ll go crazy again. You want to be again Eric, “The Nutcase”?

  I furiously threw the cigarette butt in the garden and turned to look at my bedside. The book is still there, consistent, solid, real... how do you forget that? It is not a ghostly whisper heard in the darkness of the night, it is not a shadow caught by the corner of the eye, it is not a terrifying dream from which you wake up screaming. It is a physical object, with its name written on the cover, with its murders described in its pages. How can I pretend that it doesn’t exist, that I’ve never seen it? To deceive me like that wouldn’t be just another way to be crazy?

  I leave the window open so that the sound of the city accompanies me while I sleep. I lie down on the bed, leaving the light on the nightstand on. It gives me a bit of shame to have to sleep like a frightened kid, but I don’t feel able to face myself in the dark with my thoughts and my fears.

  I spend the next few hours in a restless toss and turn. My mind tortures me with a mixture of nightmares and memories: Anne’s body in her white coffin, Bobby’s lifeless eyes and a haunting black shadow hovering over me that whispers to me “Good morning, little Eric. What are you doing here all alone?”

  I wake up again and again with the body soaked in sweat, a wild pattern in the chest and the constant feeling of being accompanied. On each of those occasions, I sit in bed to check that I am alone, but the feeling continues there. It’s like a slight tingle at the base of the skull, as a warning from the most ancestral part of my brain that commands me to flee. Flee? Where? We’ve already fled from Swanton once and I’m checking that it didn’t do any good. You can’t run away from ghosts when you have them inside.

  I wake up an hour before the alarm clock rings, unable to stay in bed for another second. I give a shower that manages to eliminate the accumulated sweat and lessen the restlessness that overwhelms me, relaxing my muscles. I go down to have breakfast and I find my caring mother, preparing the dough of the pancakes.

  “Hello, Eric. You got a bad face today too.”

  “Yes, I haven’t slept well tonight either.”

  “You should go to the doctor.”

  “Calm down, Mom. I guess it’s the heat. It’s nothing.”

  “The truth is that this heat is not normal in July. And still there is no rain... you want juice? It will help you reinforce your defenses.”

  I smile and accept the glass of juice that she hands to me. My stomach is so contracted by the nerves that I don’t feel like having anything, but I don’t want her to worry, so I make an effort to swallow it.

  “And Brad and Lissie?”

  “It’s too early for them to get up.”

  “And dad?”

  “He was late last night. He’ll get up.”

  The kitchen sinks in an uncomfortable silence. My father has spent the night in the bar and, as always, my mother will not reproach him for anything because, since he had the accident at the factory, she let him do his will not to contradict him. I decide not to say anything. I’m not in the mood to argue today either. I drink up the juice and I pick up my backpack.

  “Are you leaving?”

  “Yes, I have to open the bookstore today.” I approach her and kiss her cheek. “See you in the afternoon.”

  I take my bike and I go across the city. It is still dawn and the mountains in the distance show a faint and yellowish glow. The air is still fresh and pleasant. I breathe deeply, trying to fill myself with energy and to eliminate any memory of last night, but it is impossible. In the backpack, I carry that damn book, which seems to weigh like a slab. That’s why I left home early. I want to get to the bookstore first and find a copy that is complete to know the end. After the night I’ve been through, I know I won’t be able to stay calm and forget it. I can't deceive myself by saying that it is but a sum of coincidence. Everything fits: the lake, the number and the names of the victims... The person who has written this knows everything about these crimes and perhaps on the missing pages there is data on the identity of the culprit. For a second, I caress the strange idea that the murderer wrote it. I remember hearing that there are assassins who bear a burden of guilt so great that they cannot live with it and leave clues to the police to be caught. What if writing this book is his way of trying to release that guilt? What if no one but me can see it? What if thanks to me the police end up catching him and I finally get justice for Anne and the others?

  I’m almost seeing myself as a hero, coming out on the front pages of every newspaper in the country, going to Swanton to be acclaimed and receive the keys to the city. Plunged into my reverie, I have come to the bookstore. I open the door, but I leave the “closed” sign. There’s an hour left for us to open to the public and I don’t want anyone to bother me.

  Without even turning on the lights, I’m heading to the children’s book section. The twins in the book I carry in the backpack rest on the shelf, waiting for future little readers to terrify. I pick one at random and I open it on the last pages. No way. They are full of horizontal lines, as in my copy. I’m taking all the books, one after the other, to check it out, but they’re all the same. I can’t believe it. The story cannot end like this.

  With the book in hand, I go to the counter at the entrance and I look upon Mr. Rutherford’s agenda the publisher’s phone. I wait patiently, listening to the ringing tones. When I’m about to hang up, sure that they haven’t opened yet, I hear the cheerful voice of a young woman on the other side of the line:

  “Rainbow Publishing House. Good morning. What can I do for you?”

  I stay a few seconds quietly, not knowing how to start the conversation. I try to calm down and order my thoughts. I feel very upset, very close t
o the nervous breakdown. I don’t want that girl to notice and that she hangs up the phone on me thinking she’s talking to an alienated guy.

  “Good morning. I’m calling from Phoenix Books in Burlington. We received yesterday several copies of a children’s book entitled The Lake Crimes. Does it ring a bell?”

  “Yes, it’s one of our novelties this quarter,” she replies, in a singing voice.

  “I think there’s a problem with those books. The story is not over. It is cut off suddenly and there are some pages with horizontal lines.”

  “There’s no mistake. The book is like that.”

  “How is it going to be like that? And the end?”

  “The end must be written by the children. They are told a story and they should write the continuation on the blank pages. That way their creativity is enhanced...”

  “But what shit are you telling me?” I regret when I have uttered those words, but I have not been able to contain myself.” I can’t believe the story ends there, that there’s nothing else. “I need to contact the author.”

  “That’s going to be impossible.” Her voice is no longer singing. She seems offended and her tone is sharp. “I’m sorry, but our company policy prevents us from providing the data from any of our authors.”

  “I don’t care about your business policy. I don’t know what kind of mentally ill man has written this hogwash, but what you present as a childish tale is the narration of three real murders.”

  “That’s not possible. It’s just fiction...”

  “It’s not fiction. I was in Swanton when those crimes happened fifteen years ago. I knew the victims, they were boys from my neighborhood. How do you think their parents are going to take to read this? How do you think Anne Austen’s parents will take it, the first victim, to know that someone has written about her murder, usurping her identity? How do you think the whole town’s going to take it?”

  “That cannot be true...”

  “Of course, it’s true. You can check it out in any newspaper in August of the year 2001. Surely you can also find information on the Internet about the murders of Swanton and the three victims: Anne, Bobby and David. If you want, you can hang up and go check it out while I talk to the city of Swanton about how to put a collective lawsuit against you. Or you can give me the author’s address and we’ll fix it with her without you being mixed up in such a dirty affair.”

  “Give me a few minutes, please. Don’t hang up.”

  The girl leaves me waiting, listening to a frightening version of “Don’t worry, be happy” interpreted with something that sounds like a xylophone. I hope, trying to calm my breath and wondering where I’ve gotten enough character to have spoken to that woman as I have. I have always been shy and insecure, I always talk to people trying to go unnoticed, moving around the world as if I apologize in advance for being annoying. I would never have imagined that I could speak with that firmness. I don’t know where I got that personality, but I’d love to get to know that guy more thoroughly. I’m still thinking about that nonsense when I hear a click on the other side of the line, followed by a man’s voice:

  “Good morning. I’m Mr. Perkins, executive director of Rainbow. Who do I have the pleasure of talking to?”

  “It doesn’t matter who I am. Right now, I speak for all the people of Swanton. I guess your receptionist has informed you of the problem...” It is incredible, but it seems that the guy with character continues to possess me.

  “Yes, she told me so. What I wanted to explain to you is that we are an on-demand editorial. The authors give us their manuscripts and we will print the copies they ask us and distribute them by a series of collaborating libraries. In no case do we have responsibility for the contents of the books...”

  “That’s going to have to be explained to the judge. If we cannot access the person who wrote that book, they are not leaving us any choice but to denounce you.”

  “Listen, we don’t want any trouble. I would be delighted to give you that information, but I don’t have it. We don’t know the author’s name or address.”

  “What do you mean, you don’t know? Are you trying to tease me? Somewhere you’ll have to send the checks for the sale of the books.”

  “Yes, that information we have, but I do not know if it will be useful. The benefits from the sale of the books are destined for the Vermont Psychiatric Care Hospital, here at Montpelier.”

  IV

  Here I am, driving on the way to Montpelier. This trip has cost me to ask a couple of favors that I will have to return. My mother lent me the car in exchange for me to scrub all week. Also, next Wednesday I will have to stay at night to do inventory in exchange for the free day that Mr. Rutherford has given me.

  Anyway, it’s worth it. I’m not going to be able to leave this thing aside. I can’t forget it and make it like this damn book has never come to my hands. I have already tried the last two days and the obsession has done nothing but increase. I have to try to get to the end of all this. If I can’t find out anything, I’ll have to learn to live with it and forget it, but I can’t just leave it. Anne’s memory deserves that at least I try to decipher it.

  The landscape between Burlington and Montpelier is monotonous: an endless succession of meadows and forests interrupted very occasionally by small villages. At least the first part of the road is full of curves and that keeps me from falling asleep at the wheel. From Bethel, there’s not even that. The road seems to extend in an infinite straight line.

  Luckily the trip is not long, a little less than two hours. The hospital is south of the city, in the suburbs. It can’t be seen from the road. The whole complex is surrounded by lush pine trees. I leave my car in the parking lot and I sit still, looking at the building with my hands still clinging to the steering wheel. The place looks bad. It is a large white building surrounded by gardens. It is not the typical madhouse of the films, dark and ominous, with its silhouette cutting off on a hill against a sky filled with lightning. It looks like a normal hospital, a quiet, even cozy place... However, I still do not dare to take a step. To know the horrors, it hides inside. Besides, there was a time when I feared I would end my days in one of these places. I don’t feel like going into such a place of my own free will. My unconscious seems to urge me to start the car and get out of here at full speed. In there they will know who I am, the things I think, the nightmares I have locked in my head... They’re pros. They will realize as soon as they see me that I am not well, that something does not work properly in my mind and I’ll be locked up for life... I hit the steering wheel with both hands to hurt myself and stop that line of thought. Then I try to breathe quietly to calm down. Inhale. One, two, three, four… Exhale. One, two, three, four…

  When I notice that I have regained control, I get out of the car and head to the reception at a fast pace, trying to run more than the fear that haunts me. Nothing’s going to happen. I’m just a person who’s interested in one of their patients. I should indeed have called before to know if they could serve me. I would have saved my trip up here, scrubbing all week and doing inventory. It doesn’t matter. I’m here and I’m going to move on. I have no choice but to end up as crazy as the occupants of this place.

  A woman with round glasses and gray hair types on the computer as hard as if the keyboard would give her money. For a moment I’m considering turning around. It looks like she’s got character. I get the impression it’s not going to be as easy to scare her as the Rainbow Books’ people. Besides, I’ve always been better off talking to people on the phone than face to face. I’m telling myself I should have called first.

  The woman looks away from the computer monitor, slides the glasses to the tip of her nose and stares at me, waiting for me to react and talk to her. I must look like a weird guy, standing in the middle of the lobby without saying anything. I forced myself to react, I force a smile and approach the counter.

  “Good morning. I’ve come to visit Mrs. Anne Austen.”

  She nods and, withou
t telling me anything, she types on the computer again. I think that I have not even been informed about visitation schedules and I feel even more foolish and out of place. A couple of minutes later, the woman looks at me frowning again.

  “Do you spell it with double n?”

  “Yes, of course.”

  “There’s no one by that name admitted here. Are you sure she’s called like that?”

  I take down my shoulder bag, I open the zipper and pull out the book. I put it on the counter and I point the author’s name on the cover.

  “I’m looking for the author of this book. In the editorial, I was told that all the benefits obtained for their sale were destined to this hospital, so I assumed it would be someone who was interned here.”

  “Who are you? A reporter? A literary critic?” The woman shakes with her head in denial, as she refocuses on her monitor. “I’m sorry, but patients can only get visits from friends and family.”

  “It is important that you talk to the person who has written this book. Really important.” Something in the tone of my voice makes the woman look at me again. “You do not understand, but in this book, are told the murders of several people who were friends of mine. Those crimes are unsolved, and I think the person who wrote this book may know something. Would it be possible to talk to her even if it was only five minutes?”

  The woman abandons her dull and professional expression and looks at me curiously. It seems that at least I have aroused her interest and now she is more willing to listen to me. She picks up the handset from the phone and dials an extension. I think I’ve managed to convey to her how important this is to me. At least I hope so because the other option is that she is calling security to get kicked out of here.

  “Doctor Atkins? There is a young man here who asks for Anne Austen and for the book she wrote... No, he’s not a journalist... He says he knew the victims that come out in the book, that everything that is told is real... Wait a minute, please.” The woman flips the handset with her hand and turns to me. “Excuse me, could you tell me your name?”