Eleven New Ghost Stories (4 page)

I didn’t feel like being in the
house alone that night. Milly, my housemate, was out touring Faust
with her opera company, so it felt uncomfortably quiet. I put on a
series of the Sopranos and started on some red wine to help myself
relax.

I fell asleep at some point; I
don’t know what time. I woke up with a start at around 3:30 am; the
TV had turned itself off, but my mobile was still on and it was
vibrating its way towards the edge of the coffee table. I picked it
up – it was Craig.

“Hello,” I groaned.

“I’m coming over!”

“What?”

“It’s gone fucking mental!” He
was out of breath.

“What?”

“It’s gone mental; I think it’s
going to kill me!”

“Craig, are you running?”

“I’ll be there in a minute… I
need somewhere to stay. I can’t go back there.”

He was on my doorstep dripping
wet with rain and sweat just minutes later. He could barely talk;
he was struggling so hard to catch his breath. I took his coat, but
had no dry clothes to give him. He was wearing slippers; he must’ve
just thrown on whatever came to hand. I put his slippers and coat
in the dryer. I gave him a towel for his face and hair and sat him
next to a fan heater in the kitchen while I put on the kettle.

“It went beserk!” he said,
shivering.

“What do you mean, beserk?” I
asked with a lump in my throat.

“I set up three cameras; one in
the hall, one in my bedroom and one in the living room. Just
cameras on tripods, nothing special, set to record for as long as
they could.”

“You wanted it on video – for
fame and glory purposes?”

“I wanted proof! You don’t
understand; I went online, I looked around. People, nutters, they
say stuff like this all the time. No one takes you seriously unless
you’ve got video or the word of an expert; and any expert requires
that you get cleared by a psychiatrist first before they’ll even
consider anything you say to be true. Catching it on tape would’ve
shown anyone that I wasn’t lying!”

His eyes were red and his face
pale – he looked desperate and terrified.

“I went to sleep. Nothing was
happening, I just dozed off. Slept for a couple of hours and then
BANG! I don’t know what it was, but it was loud, like someone
hitting a steel container with a hammer. I jumped out of bed and
then it started. Rhythm of six: Tap-t-t-t-tap tap, faster and
faster, louder and louder until the floor started to shake. The
doors rattled on their hinges. The pictures began to fall to the
floor.”

“It was insane; I couldn’t take
it, so I screamed: Stop it! Stop it! Please stop it! And it did.
Just for a moment there was no sound. Nothing at all. I walked out
into the hall. All the lights were on – you know what I’m like; I
never forget stuff like that.”

“So I’m seriously freaked out.
I’m thinking, what the hell’s going on? I looked at the camera, set
up on the landing and suddenly it leaps three feet in the air, like
someone just kicked it. And then it happens behind me to the one in
the bedroom. And then the lights go out – they blow out one by
one.”

“I run back into my bedroom. God
knows why, I swear to you, like a child, I tried to hide under the
bed. I don’t know why there; I just wanted to take cover. But then
everything was quiet again for a moment. Just a moment, before it
started up again: tap-t-t-t-tap tap, tap-t-t-t-tap tap.”

“It was hurting my head. The
sound of it! But then after a moment, I realised something. That it
hurt my head because it was in my head. The rhythm of six was in my
head, beating away like a headache, throbbing in my mind. It wasn’t
in the flat any more, it was in my brain. I swear to God it was in
my head.”

“I believe you…”

“I couldn’t tell where it was
coming from – because it was in my mind.”

“Craig, I believe you – you’re
doing it now!”

His left hand was on the kitchen
table; while he was speaking he’d started to tap against it.
Without even thinking, his hand had been tapping away:
tap-t-t-t-tap tap.

He lifted his left hand straight
away and put it in his right hand to examine it, almost as if it
was something foreign.

“I was, wasn’t I?” He put both
hands over his mouth. “Jesus Christ, it’s in me. It’s inside of
me!”

I went to him and put my hands
on his shoulders. “It’s all right, it’s all right. You can’t hear
it now can you?”

“No, my head’s clear,” he was
almost in tears.

The kettle had boiled. I walked
over to it and tried to think rationally.

“What am I going to do? What am
I going to do?”

“You can’t go back there. You
just can’t.” I made his tea and brought it over to him. He took it
with his hands shivering, like he’d been out in the cold for
hours.

“We need to get you a
doctor.”

“I’m not mad!”

“You’re hearing things in your
head, never mind the state this has got you in. See a doctor; I
don’t think you’re crazy, but you’re not well are you?”

After a moment’s silence, he
said: “Fine”. I don’t think he had the will to argue.

I sat with him for half an hour
but I was keen to get him to sleep. He needed it and we needed to
calm down and think more sensibly about the problem. You have a
home you can’t go back to, what would you do? Assuming it was a
normal problem and not a fucking ghost.

I put him to bed on the sofa,
next to a hot chocolate. I took the duvet from Milly’s room; she
wouldn’t like him sleeping in there, but probably wouldn’t mind him
using the duvet. Despite the stress he seemed to fall asleep quite
quickly – far quicker than I did. I remembered going to see him
part way through the night, just as the dark was starting to
brighten. He was sleeping but not soundly; he was wriggling and
shuffling.

As I went to the bathroom I even
heard him mutter something, something unintelligible. I wondered if
it really was in there with him? Something supernatural, something
rotten and cruel.

I watched him for a little while
after. He was unsettled, but he didn’t seem to be distressed or
having a nightmare, at least not that I could tell.

I fell asleep not that long
after climbing back into bed. I slept soundly till about
ten-thirty, when I shuffled myself out from under the sheets and
went to check on Craig.

To my horror, he was gone. The
duvet was lying on the floor; his coat and slippers were gone. I
shouted for him, but there was no answer. I tried his mobile –
again, no answer.

I suddenly felt an overwhelming
feeling of dread – he’d gone back, hadn’t he? Why? For some of his
things, or worse? If this thing was in his head, had it made him go
back? Forced him?

I didn’t know, but I knew I had
to get over there. I threw on some clothes, grabbed my keys and
phone, and made a run for it. The air outside was damp and muggy; I
was dripping sweat by the time I reached the end of the road. The
distance to his had never seemed so long before, and every part of
the journey conspired to make it take longer: roadworks, traffic
lights, old people, no one stopping at the zebra crossing – I just
ran out and took my chances. I had to get to Craig’s.

As I reached his street, I knew
something had gone badly wrong. As I ran towards his doorway, I
could see it hanging open. I ran into the inside hallway, where I
found Craig slumped against the door frame at the bottom of the
stairs.

“Craig!” I screamed.

To my relief he heard me; his
eyes arose slowly and he tried to shuffle into a seated
position.

“What happened?”

“I tried to leave,” he said
weakly. “I tried to leave and it wouldn’t let me!” A tear fell
across his cheek. “It’s in my heart!”

“We’ve got to get you out of
here.”

“No, don’t, don’t!” he cried.
“It’s in my heart Laura. I tried to leave and it stopped my heart.
And then all I could feel in my chest was the rhythm of six; I
couldn’t walk, I couldn’t breathe!”

“I’m calling an ambulance.”

“No, I’ll be fine. I just have
to get back inside.”

“Stay there!”

“He won’t hurt me if I go back
inside.”

I dialled 999 hurriedly, walking
outside to get out of the cramped hallway.

“Hello, this is emergency
services. What service do you require?”

“Ambulance, now please.”

“And what is the nature of the
emergency?”

“My friend, his heart’s failed
or something. He collapsed, and now he can barely breathe, says
it’s his heart.”

“Ok, I’m going to need your name
and address?”

“My name is Laura ______. I’m
at…” I had to look at the door. “45 _________, Clapham South.”

“Ok Laura, and what’s the name
of your friend?”

“It’s Craig, Craig ______.
Please hurry, he’s – Craig!”

He’d moved. He wasn’t at the
bottom of the stairs, but had started to crawl his way up
again.

“Craig, come back!”

“It’s all right,” he said, while
pulling himself to his feet by gripping the bannister. “I’m going
to be ok.”

“Get back down here right now.”
I ran into his flat and up the stairs without thinking – without
seeing.

When I reached the top, I threw
out my arms to grab him. But something swept me aside; a great arm
came from nowhere. I’m not even sure I even really saw it, or
whether I just imagined I had.

It struck me in the chest and
sent my head back and my feet forward. I went head over heels down
the stairs, tumbled all the way down.

My world went spinning; I hit
the door as I smacked against the floor at the bottom, pushing it
closed. I landed leaning against it, my head just about propped
up.

I tried to lift myself up, but I
was too dizzy; I felt part of me was still turning.

My vision was distorted,
blurred, but I could see Craig; he was on his knees.

“Please!” he wailed. A figure
was stood before him, grey and long, arch-backed. Its long-fingered
hand grabbed him by the shirt collar and forced him flat on the
ground as it bent down over him. With the other hand, it stroked
its fingers across his cheek.

I can still remember the shape
of its face, grinning, stretched and narrow; its broken and brittle
teeth like shards of glass. It wrapped its arms around him in a
disgusting embrace and lay down on top of him.

That’s when I passed out.

A broken wrist and a sprained
ankle – all things considered, I got off lucky. I woke up probably
just a few minutes later, as they were pushing me on a gurney into
an ambulance. I cried out for Craig, but they didn’t want to tell
me anything at the time. It was an hour or so later when I learned
that he was dead.

I didn’t know what to tell the
police. Of course they were called; his flat smashed up, all the
bulbs broken. I couldn’t tell them the truth, the truth was
ridiculous. I edited it down to say that last night he had come to
mine complaining of words in his head. And that then I had found
him at his home in a state. They didn’t believe me, but it didn’t
matter since heart failure is considered a natural death; it’s only
suspicious in men of his age. Apparently his heart just
stopped.

I felt terrible about not
telling the truth, especially to his parents. But what good would
this story do them? That’s why I’ve put it all down in writing, so
that I can tell the truth, just once. Tell it just how it was,
without a single lie.

But now I think this will have
to be my epitaph too. I can hear him. Hear him in the walls tapping
away, playing his little game. You see, I know what he is now –
he’s a hunter. A man who likes to stalk and torment his prey,
before making his move, springing his trap.

It started straight after the
funeral, just a little tapping in the distance. Barely noticeable,
but noticed. He likes to play games. I’m going to have to try and
out-run him. He’s not in my head yet. I’m going to leave here and
see how fast he can travel, how far he can go.

I feel bad for Milly. Maybe
he’ll wait here for her. But I don’t think so. I think once he’s
found his mark, I don’t think he lets go.

Then I’ll be number eight. You
see, I know exactly how many he’s killed. Because now he makes a
rhythm of seven, instead of six.

KNOCK DOWN GINGER

Nan was a difficult person;
always complaining, always moaning. I’ll be honest and say that I
never really liked her very much. That might sound harsh, and I
wouldn’t want to speak ill of the dead, but Dad would probably
agree. He was upset when she died, but he was relieved too. I
remember her being awkward and uptight growing up, but since
Grandpa died, she’d gotten worse.

On the night before her funeral,
Dad was telling me how he thought she had gone mad. She hadn’t
changed her life at all after Grandpa died. She did all the things
that she’d done when he was alive, she didn’t make any changes.
Sometimes she’d even wait or call for him, forgetting that he was
gone. But if you asked her about it, she’d deny having done it.

She just got more difficult;
becoming more obsessive about her routines and insisting everything
be done just right or else she’d complain, shout, grumble, get
angry… Nothing was allowed to disrupt her routines.

That was why I hardly ever saw
her in those last few years. It was difficult to talk to her; she
never had the time. If you called her, you were always interrupting
her. She couldn’t cope with spontaneity. If you phoned her, out of
the blue… She couldn’t understand that impulse. She’d always ask
“What have you called for?”; you couldn’t just feel like it, there
had to be a reason why you were interrupting her precious routine.
She wouldn’t talk to you then, she’d tell you that she was too busy
to talk and get all agitated, tell you to call back later but she
wouldn’t be any more welcoming then either. She just didn’t have
time for anyone else; you were always in the way.