‘Same as everyone else, I imagine. I didn’t pay much attention at the time because I was a teenager and more interested in hanging out with my mates and meeting girls, but my mum told me some things based on what she’d heard from friends and neighbours, the rest I read about afterwards.’
‘Where did your family live at the time?’
‘Right across the other side of Heldean,’ he says.
Word of Limey Stan really did spread far that summer, I realise. No wonder the press later accused me of trying to hoax the entire town.
‘Did you really hear “Limey Stan” being said aloud?’ he asks, aping my airborne speech marks.
‘Yes. I’ll never forget what night it was either because earlier that day we’d been to the funfair and I went on the waltzers for the first time.’ Leonard smiles, as do I. ‘It’s funny how things like that stick in your mind,’ I say. ‘Anyhow, it was gone two in the morning, I’d been woken up again and was listening on the landing and I heard a voice in the hallway downstairs say very clearly “Limey Stan”. Except it was more like a low growl and not really human.’
This time he does react and the corners of his lips tug upwards.
‘I know what you’re thinking,’ I grin back. ‘It does sound crazy. And, believe me, I’ve gone over it a million times since, thinking I must’ve imagined it. But how else would I have come up with such a distinctive name if I hadn’t heard it? I was a clever kid, but not that clever.’
‘But a ghost hurting a child … I mean, come on.’
I’m not offended by the way Leonard says it, because I’m sure it’s how I would react if our roles were reversed.
‘I know what you mean, but what other explanation is there? I know I didn’t kill my brother, whatever anyone else thinks.’
He looks uncomfortable and shifts in his chair. ‘I’m not saying you did, Ms Marshall. I’m sorry if I gave you that impression.’
‘It’s fine,’ I say, batting away his apology. ‘And, please, call me Cara. More wine?’
He shakes his head. ‘I should get going. I’ve got an early start. Saturday is our busiest day for viewings.’
He gets on his phone to summon an Uber as I continue to sip my drink.
‘One should be outside in four minutes,’ he announces. He gets to his feet and slips on his jacket, then pats down the pockets as though he’s looking for something. ‘The contract,’ he exclaims.
I quickly extricate it from the envelope and sign it after checking it is the same version I was sent via email.
‘Thanks for the drink,’ says Leonard, taking the contract from me.
‘You’re welcome. It was nice to talk to someone friendly for a change. I haven’t exactly been welcomed with open arms since I returned.’
He nods. ‘Are you going to be okay?’
‘I’ll be fine, thank you.’ I show him to the door and we shake hands.
‘Actually, I have a confession to make before I leave,’ he says, shifting awkwardly on the spot. I tense, fearful of what’s coming next. ‘The reason I brought up what your aunt said about the lights was because I thought there was a problem with the electrics that might affect the sale …’
I’m still laughing as his taxi pulls away.
Chapter Thirty-Seven
Cara
Most likely it was the combination of medication and alcohol knocking me out, but that night I sleep soundlessly for almost ten hours. Saturday and Sunday are the same, although I drink less both evenings because I no longer feel the need to wipe myself out. The conversation with Ian Leonard has shifted my perspective a bit: there are people out there who are willing to believe that I was not responsible for Matty dying. That matters to me hugely.
There have been no further disturbances either. No footsteps in the hallway, no tables upturned, no toys from Matty’s room being rearranged across my bed. I wonder how Leonard would’ve reacted had I told him about those bizarre, unfathomable incidents – he might not have been as confident about selling the house if he knew.
Jason the gardener did not work over the weekend, but he’s back this morning. He estimates it will take him at least another eight days to finish clearing the garden, lay new turf, weed the beds and replant them, paint the fences and prune back bushes, before it will be presentable enough for the marketing pictures to be taken. I tell him not to worry about rushing it.
Mid-morning, I ring Jeannie in the office to update her on my return to work. I hold my breath, hoping it’s not Donna who answers because I don’t fancy the interrogation that will inevitably follow, but thankfully it’s Leo, the junior, who picks up.
‘Jeannie’s not in today, but I’ll leave a message saying you called,’ he says. ‘Or you could just email her. She’s checking her emails at home.’
‘I’ll do that.’
I end the call before he has a chance to question me about when I’m coming back. The truth is, I don’t know when that will be. I’m hoping Jeannie will give me three weeks off unpaid, then I’ll see after that.
But before I draft and send the email, I make another call, one that I’ve been putting off for days.
Anne answers after only two rings.
‘Oh kiddo, I’m so pleased you’ve called,’ she says.
‘I’m sorry I haven’t before now.’ I mean it too. I’m so happy to hear her voice, I tear up. ‘I should’ve rung you sooner.’
‘It doesn’t matter. What’s important is that you’ve called now,’ she says, and I can hear the vibration of unshed tears in her voice too. ‘What happened at the cemetery—’
I cut her off. ‘Let’s not talk about it. I don’t want another argument.’
‘No, we need to discuss it. I want to explain. You thought I reacted because I didn’t believe you about Limey Stan, but that wasn’t it. I was scared.’
‘Scared? Of what?’
‘Of you having another episode.’
My stomach somersaults as she says that. ‘What do you mean?’ I splutter.
‘You know what I mean, Cara,’ she says gently. ‘The obsessive behaviour that flares up whenever you become fixated on Limey Stan, when you stop eating, start drinking too much and stay up all night rereading all the press cuttings. When I saw your reaction to what that man said at the cemetery, I feared the worst.’
‘I was upset because he was rude,’ I correct her, but her words strike a chord. I have gone through stages in the past where I have been preoccupied thinking about Limey Stan and what happened to me and I’ve obsessed about it, but I’m better at stopping myself now, hence me drawing up a list of people who could’ve overturned the table and moved Matty’s toys and not immediately assuming it was him.
‘I know he was rude, but the look on your face when you were shouting about Limey Stan … I’m just worried about you, Cara. I wish you’d come and stay with us for a bit. We can look after you.’
‘I don’t need looking after – what I need is answers.’ Suddenly I have an idea and I don’t know why I didn’t think of it sooner. ‘Do you still have all my stuff in your loft?’
‘Cara, have you listened to a word I’ve said? It’s reading those books and cuttings that makes you ill.’
‘I don’t want the books – I want my medical file from the Peachick.’ Anne and John took it back to Morecambe when they packed up all the paranormal-related material, out of concern it too was fuelling my spiralling mood. ‘I want to read my discharge report, the one which said I was well enough to leave.’
‘Why do you want to read it now?’
There’s a lull as I decide how to frame my next sentence, knowing what Anne’s probable reaction will be. ‘I want to make sure they really did think I was better.’
She gasps. ‘But of course you were!’
‘Sometimes I’m scared they got it wrong,’ I say, and I mean it. Taking my pills again fills me with concern that my disorder never really went away.
‘Cara, why would you say that? Has something happened?’
&nb
sp; I think about the coffee table and Matty’s toys and I know I can’t tell her about them, because she already sounds worried enough. Even if I said I’m convinced an actual person was responsible, she’s still going to assume I secretly think it was Limey Stan.
‘No, everything’s fine,’ I lie. ‘It’s just being back in this house – it’s brought up loads of unanswered questions that I’m trying to make sense of and I guess I’m looking for reassurance.’
‘What else is bothering you?’
‘Well, one question I keep asking myself is why did I end up being fostered in Morecambe and not somewhere closer to Heldean? Whose decision was it to place me so far away from home?’
‘It was your social worker’s suggestion, actually. Marie trained in this area before she moved down south and we’d worked with her on a number of previous cases. She knew we specialised in long-term placements for adolescent girls so she contacted us to see if we’d be willing to foster you. So it was nothing to do with Morecambe as such, but rather what John and I could offer you.’
‘Long-term? You mean from the outset it was decided I would be with you for a while?’ I ask, perturbed.
‘I suppose so, yes. And we were happy to have you, Cara.’
‘Did my parents know that’s why I was fostered by you?’
Anne hesitates. ‘I imagine they did. Parents are usually informed.’
I am distraught. I thought I was sent to Morecambe because it was a decent distance from Heldean, not because it had been decided even before I arrived that I’d stay there for years.
‘I don’t understand how my parents could’ve agreed to that,’ I say. ‘It’s like they knew I was never going to return to them.’
‘I imagine they thought it was the best thing for you at the time. Securing a long-term foster placement gives children a sense of continuity and security they’ve been lacking in their home lives.’
‘But I wasn’t lacking either of those things,’ I protest. ‘Up until Matty died, our home life was happy.’ The conversation is making me tense and I feel a stab of pain in the side of my head that marks the beginnings of a headache. I need to get off the phone. ‘Look, can you please just send me my medical file? I can cover the postage if you let me know how much it is.’
‘If you’re absolutely sure you want it, yes, I’ll get John to fetch it down from the loft. He might not be able to get up there until tomorrow though – his back is giving him gyp. He strained it getting the Christmas decorations down yesterday.’
With a pang, I realise I’ve been so wrapped up in myself and how I’m feeling that I haven’t asked Anne how either of them are. ‘I don’t want him hurting himself,’ I say. ‘It can wait until his back is better. There’s no rush.’
I wrap up the call by promising I will definitely be at theirs for Christmas. From Anne’s joyous reaction, I can tell she’s been fretting that our row in the cemetery would deter me going this year.
‘That’s marvellous news, I’m so pleased and John will be too. In the meantime, try not to let yourself become overwhelmed while you’re sorting out your mum’s house. I know that’s easier said than done, but you’ve got to take care of yourself.’
But it’s too late for that. I am already overwhelmed and finding out that my parents agreed to me being fostered long-term while I was still in the Peachick tips me over the edge. Call ended, I sink to the floor, my phone still in hand, and begin to cry.
Jason is spreading sand on the ground where he’s removed the old turf, ready to lay the new. He’s brought a radio with him today that’s turned up high and he doesn’t hear me calling his name over the music until I’m standing a metre away. My presence, when he does notice it, makes him jump and he drops the rake.
‘Sorry, I didn’t mean to startle you.’
He trots over to the radio and clicks it off. ‘Didn’t realise I had it on so loud.’
‘It’s not a problem.’
His face scrunches as he peers at me, the sun-scored wrinkles around his eyes become even more pronounced. ‘Are you okay?’
My face feels puffy from crying, I haven’t showered yet and my hair is flattened with grease. I must look a state.
‘I’m not feeling very well,’ I fib. ‘Would you mind finishing up today and coming back in the morning?’
He checks his watch. ‘It’s not even lunchtime.’
‘I know.’
‘Is it the music bothering you? I can turn it down …’
‘It’s not that. I think I’m coming down with a virus and I need to sleep it off, but I want to lock the door if I’m upstairs, so you won’t be able to come in to use the tap or the toilet.’
He nods slowly. I am probably coming across as a bit odd, but I don’t care. I want him to leave so I can lock myself away.
‘You reckon you’ll be okay tomorrow?’ he asks.
‘I’m sure I will be.’ I force a smile. ‘You’re doing a great job, it’s going to look terrific when it’s done.’
The praise pleases him and as I retreat inside, he is whistling to himself as he gathers up his tools. I lock the back door and make sure the front is secure too, then I head upstairs to the bathroom.
I spend a long time standing beneath the showerhead over the bath, letting the force and the heat of the spray persuade my muscles to unclench. Eventually, I turn off the water and reach out from behind the shower curtain to grab my towel from the rail. My prolonged shower has caused a warm, clammy fog to envelop the room and the mirror above the sink has misted over. I am about to climb out of the tub when something on the mirror catches my attention. I double take. Then I freeze.
Written in the steam, in thick, plain lettering, are the words I AM LIMEY STAN. I AM HERE.
Chapter Thirty-Eight
https://theheldeanhaunting/blog
16 PARSONS CLOSE UP FOR SALE
1 December 2019
Comments [22]
How would you like to own Heldean’s famous haunted house? Yes, you read that correctly! I have it on very good authority that Cara Belling has instructed Leonard Estate Agents to begin the process of selling 16 Parsons Close. While a part of me wishes Ms Belling would keep the property, as she is as much a part of its legend as Limey Stan is, I do respect her wishes to move on following her mother’s death. Plus, the prospect of a new owner experiencing the same paranormal phenomenon is too exciting to disregard!
My most favoured outcome, however, and I’m sure avid readers of this blog will agree with me, is for Heldean Historical Society to purchase the property and preserve it for the benefit of the townspeople. It is a property of worldwide renown, and Heldean could benefit enormously from the many visitors it would attract. Needless to say, I have already contacted the HHS to put my suggestion to them and I shall report back when they reply.
In the meantime, I would like to answer a question sent in to me by a reader. They didn’t give their name, but I shall refer to them as ‘Pixie’ in a nod to their email address. Pixie asked ‘How can a ghost kill when it is not of physical substance?’ Well, the answer is quite easy, Pixie. Copious paranormal investigations over many years have proved that poltergeists, of which Limey Stan is one, have the capability to move objects using invisible force. Therefore, while a ghost won’t be able to touch you with its bare hands, so to speak, it can and will pervade items to use as weapons – in the case of Matty Belling, the curtain used to smother him. If you want to find out more about how Limey Stan was able to kill, read my investigative account of the Heldean Haunting – available to download as a 99p ebook if you click here.
Timothy Pitt, paranormal investigator
Chapter Thirty-Nine
Cara
I stumble forward, banging both shins on the side of the bath in my haste to get out. Without bothering to towel myself dry, I struggle back into the same clothes I had on earlier and throw open the bathroom door. I am dangerously breathless again, my chest burning with pain as I heave to take in more air against my lungs’ will. But
it is a battle I must force my body to win because I need to remain conscious and get as far from the house as I can run.
By the time I reach the front door, though, I’m already seeing stars. I force myself to take shorter gulps to squeeze in some air and it works and I’m able to unlock the front door. Down the driveway I run, my feet bare, and as I hit the street, my breathing begins to steady – but my terror remains sky-high.
Who can help me?
I pause for a millisecond, then pelt along the path towards Tishk’s. He had texted to say he was going away for the weekend to visit his parents, but he should be back by now. Yet as I near his house, I cannot see his car parked outside and I falter, at a loss what to do next. The words on the mirror swim before my eyes.
Limey Stan was there, in the room with me.
My lungs leap into panic mode again and this time I cannot force them to stay operable. I drop to the ground, barely registering the sting of bone against concrete as my knees crunch heavily against the pavement, and I’m crying and gulping and I don’t think I can stay upright––
Suddenly, hands grip my upper arms, pulling me up.
‘It’s okay, we’ve got you.’
Then a whisper that’s loud enough for me to hear.
‘It’s her.’
My sight’s blurred and I can’t make out who is supporting me on either side, but I feel their solidness and let them take my weight as they lead me over to the patch of grass outside Tishk’s house and sit me down.
‘It looks like a panic attack. Has anyone got a paper bag for her to breathe into?’ I hear a woman’s voice ask.
There’s low murmuring and then an empty brown paper McDonald’s bag is thrust into my hands. I gratefully wrap it over my nose and mouth and begin to take deep breaths, finding comfort in the scent of the few random fries still in the bottom.
My sight clears as my panic subsides and I look up to see a disparate group of people watching me keenly. Four are elderly, a man and three women, and standing next to them is a young woman all dressed in black, and behind her is an overweight man wearing a Beano T-shirt beneath a brown leather jacket with a sheepskin collar. Last in line, I am surprised to see, is my neighbour Heather. Although, when she talks, it becomes apparent she’s not with the group, just standing with them.
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