Enter the Dead: A Supernatural Thriller (12 page)

Sam
awoke five hours later to find his wife sitting in the chair by his bed. She flinched
when she noticed him staring at her, almost dropping the book she was reading.
Sam smiled, pleased that he’d taken her by surprise. He still had the headache
from hell, but seeing Sarah helped ease the pain. In spite of everything, it
was so good to see her. Even though he was surrounded by professionals whose
job it was to look after him, he’d been desperate for some
real
company.
Someone who wasn’t there because they were being paid to be.

‘Hello, Mr Sleepyhead,’
she said, closing her book and placing it on the bedside table. ‘How are you
feeling? Can I get you anything? Something to eat, perhaps?’

‘I’m fine, thanks. I
wouldn’t mind some help sitting up.’

‘Of course,’ she said,
jumping to her feet, pleased to have something to make her feel useful. ‘You
know,’ she said, placing her hands under his arms and hoisting him into an
upright position, ‘when I walked in here and the nurse showed me to your bed, I
had to check the nameplate twice to be sure she hadn’t made a mistake. Have you
seen what they’ve done to your face?’

‘Thanks. With that
bedside manner, you should have been a doctor.’

‘I’m sorry, but you
look awful. You look so different.’

‘Well, I’m afraid it’s
me. Could you pass me some water, please?’

‘Sure. Here you go,’
she said, handing him a cup.

‘Thanks.’

‘I got here as soon as
I could. When they told me what happened…I…’ She took a Kleenex from the box by
his bed and wiped her eyes. Sam smiled and gently placed a hand on hers. It was
good to know she still cared for him. He could have taken the opportunity to
rub salt into the wound by blaming her for everything that had happened to him,
but he didn’t want to. He wasn’t angry or bitter. He was just glad to see her.

‘I’m fine, honestly,’
he said, feeling anything but. It wasn’t so much the bruising: sure, he was sore
all over, but the Tramadol was doing a decent job of numbing the pain. More
than anything else, it was the throbbing and stabbing inside his head that
troubled him. It was like he was suffering from the world’s worst hangover.

‘Have they told you how
long they expect you to stay in here?’

‘No. It all depends on
my progress.’

‘Okay.’

‘Where’s Max?’

‘He’s staying with
Gracie. From what the nurse told me over the phone, I thought it probably best
that he didn’t come with me. I hope you don’t mind?’

‘No, you did the right
thing. Is he alright?’

‘He’s okay,
considering.’

‘Have you told him
about us? About why I went to see my mother?’

‘Not yet, no. I wanted
to talk to you first.’

‘Come up with a plan of
action, you mean.’

‘Something like that.’

‘Why did you do it,
Sarah? Why d-’

‘Not now, Sam, please?
Not here. You need to focus on getting better. Believe me, I’ve been desperate
to talk to you ever since you left, but I think we should wait until we’re
alone, don’t you?’

Sam sighed. ‘Fair
enough. But there’s one question that can’t wait.’

‘What is it?’

‘I need to know if
you’re in love with Tom.’

Sarah looked at him and
nodded. It was a fair question, and had the shoe been on the other foot, it
would have been the first question she too would have asked.
Love
…that
intangible emotion that trumps all others.

‘No,’ she said, keeping
her eyes fixed on his as she spoke. ‘I don’t love Tom. I never have. There were
times when I thought my heart might have been heading that way, but love? No, I
never loved Tom the way I loved you. The way I
love
you.’

Sam closed his eyes and
fought back the tears. He held out a hand towards her, which she took in her
own before moving closer and gently resting her head on his chest. ‘I can hear
your heart beating,’ she whispered, squeezing his hand.

Sam moaned, pain
coursing through his head. With his free hand, he ran his fingers through her
hair. ‘It’s beating for you,’ he said, no longer able to hold back the tears.
‘It always has.’

‘How’s
that apple pie going down?’

‘Awesome,’ Max replied,
shovelling another giant spoonful into his mouth.

‘Good,’ Gracie said,
enjoying seeing him appreciate her baking. She rarely had a chance to cook for
anyone these days; her late husband, Ted, used to joke that a man should marry
a woman not for her looks but for her skills in the kitchen. She’d respond by
clipping him around the back of the head with a towel or a cushion or whatever
else happened to be close at hand, but his sexist wit hadn’t stopped her from
churning out dish after dish of delectable home cooking during their forty-seven
years of marriage. Old Ted had died with a smile on his face and a belly like a
huge oak barrel.

When Sarah had phoned Gracie
to ask if she would look after Max for a couple of days while she travelled up
north to see Sam, Gracie had immediately sensed that something was amiss. Later
that evening, when Sarah had called by to drop Max off on her way to the train
station, she’d refrained from going into the details of what had happened.
Instead, she’d muttered something about Sam having had an accident; that it was
nothing serious, but that all the same she needed to see him and make sure he
was alright. Gracie had known she was lying but hadn’t pushed for the truth. It
would come out in the end. It always did.

‘Aunt Gracie?’ Max
said, licking the last drop of cream from his spoon.

‘Before you ask, you’re
not having any more. I’m not having your mum and dad come back here to find you
in bed with an upset stomach.’

‘It’s not that,’ he
said. ‘Anyway, I’m stuffed.’

 ‘Good. So what’s on
your mind?’

‘Is there something
wrong? I mean…something wrong with mum and dad?’

‘Why do you ask?’

‘I dunno really. I
guess I’m just worried about them. I heard mum crying in her room the other
night. She probably thought I was asleep, but I wasn’t. She seemed really sad.’

‘Did you ask her why
she was crying?’

‘No. I didn’t want to. But
now she’s gone to see dad without me and I don’t know why. You don’t think
dad’s in trouble, do you?’

Gracie sat down
opposite him and smiled. She held out her hands, which he automatically took in
his own. ‘Oh, I don’t think you need worry yourself too much,’ she said,
circling the palm of his left hand with her thumb. ‘You’re mum and dad are
going to be fine.’

‘How do you know?’

‘I don’t know,’ she said,
‘at least not for sure. But I do know that your parents love each other very
much, and that counts for an awful lot. You’re a very lucky boy to have two
such loving parents. I never did.’

‘Really?’

‘Really. My father was
killed during World War Two; he was a Flight Lieutenant for the Royal Air
Force. He was shot down on September 13
^th
, 1943, while flying over
Germany in a Lancaster Bomber. I was eight years old at the time and had been
sent to live with a family on a farm in the Cotswolds until the war was over.
My mother, who was still living in London, sent the family with whom I was
living a telegram. She couldn’t afford the train fare from London. Nobody had
any money in those days. It was Mr Cransworth, the farmer, who broke the news to
me. I remember it so vividly: it was a warm, sunny afternoon; I was playing
outside with a couple of the other children when I heard my name being called
from the farmhouse. As soon as I walked into the house I knew what had
happened…I could tell by the look on Mr Cransworth’s face that my father was
dead. Imagine that: you’re eight years old, away from home, away from your
mother, and some strange man is telling you that your father has been shot down
and killed in a foreign land.’

‘That must have been terrible.’

‘Believe me, Max, it
was. The worst part, apart from my father dying, was that I couldn’t even speak
to my mother. Neither she nor my surrogate family owned a phone. It was another
three months before she had the money to come and see me. Three long months
without being able to hold her or have her tell me how much she loved me. The
family did as best they could, but I was one of eight other children living on
the farm, so it couldn’t have been easy for them.’

‘What did you do? How
did you cope?’

‘I didn’t, at least not
to begin with. When it became apparent that my mother wasn’t planning on coming
to see me until after Christmas, I withdrew into my shell and kept myself to
myself. And that’s when I saw him.’

Max’s eyes widened. ‘Who?’

Gracie smiled, trying
not to frighten him. ‘My father.’

‘But…I thought you said
he was killed in Germany?’

‘He was.’

‘I don’t understand.’

‘Okay,’ she said,
dropping her smile and pushing aside the empty bowl that stood between them on
the table. ‘I think you’re old enough to hear this.’ She coughed, clearing her
throat. ‘You do know why people come to see me, don’t you? Clients, I mean.’

‘I think so. They come
to you with their problems and you try to help them. You use tarot cards and
rune stones and stuff like that.’

‘That’s more or less
it. While some people like to focus and dwell on the past – on what might have
been – I think it’s fair to say that most of us are looking to the future and
are more concerned with what might be waiting for us further down the road than
what’s already been and gone.’

‘And that’s where you
come in. You can see the future.’

‘Not all of it, but
parts of it, yes. Parts that might be important to people. And for most of my
clients, a little bit of guidance is enough to send them away happy and more
confident about what actions they should take. But once in a while, someone
comes to see me because they want to speak to a loved one who has passed away –
a parent, or sibling, or maybe even a child - and that just happens to be
something I can help with too.’

‘You mean the spirits.’

‘Yes, the spirits.’

‘My dad doesn’t believe
in any of that. He says you’re just making it up to earn some extra cash.’

‘I know, and he’s
certainly not the only one. It’s very easy to be sceptical about such things,
especially nowadays when it’s far trendier to believe in a scientific,
evidence-based approach to solving life’s conundrums. I suppose you can’t
really blame people for thinking that way; if I were like them, I’d probably feel
the same. But, for whatever reason, I’m afraid I’m
not
like them.’

‘Because you can see dead
people.’

Gracie laughed and
playfully squeezed his hands. ‘You’re very direct, aren’t you? Not that there’s
anything wrong with that. Anyway,’ she said, her eyes narrowing. ‘I think it’s
about time I came to the point, don’t you?’

Max nodded.

‘It all started with my
father,’ she said. ‘Around six weeks after Mr Cransworth told me about his
death, something strange happened. It was a cold, dark evening on the farm, and
the entire family was gathered in the front room. You might find this difficult
to believe, but back in those days not every house had central heating or even
electricity, so to keep warm in the colder months you needed to huddle round
the nearest fire. The first thing you would do in the morning was light a stove,
and usually somebody would keep it going right throughout the day until it was
time to go to bed. So we were all in the front room, reading or sewing or drawing,
the only sounds coming from the crackling logs and Mr Cransworth snoring in his
old armchair. And that’s when I saw him; as clearly as I see you sitting there
in front of me now.’

‘Your father?’

‘Yes. I remember that I
was reading a book on fairies that one of Mr Cransworth’s daughters had kindly
lent me to try and cheer me up, when suddenly a little voice inside my head
told me to look up, so I did, only to find my father standing in full military
uniform next to the fire. He was looking directly at me, smiling. He was so
dashing. So handsome.’

‘Weren’t you scared?’

‘No, I wasn’t. That
sounds strange, doesn’t it? I wasn’t at all scared, quite the opposite. Seeing my
father standing there felt so natural, so real, but although I was only eight,
I knew that this wasn’t
actually
him. I knew I couldn’t touch him or run
over and try to cuddle him. That’s the peculiar thing about spirits: people
like me - people who have the rare ability to see them - can somehow
instinctively tell that they’re not real, even though they might appear to be.
Nor do we tend to be frightened by them, which I believe is one of the reasons
they choose to reveal themselves to us. I’ve come to the conclusion that people
don’t see ghosts unless they’re
ready
to see them.’

‘Did your father say
anything to you?’

‘He didn’t need to. His
eyes told me everything I needed to know: that I wasn’t to worry, that he was
in a better place and that one day I would be with him again, and that he loved
mummy and I very much. That’s why he came to me; because he knew how upset and
alone I was feeling. He wanted to tell me that everything was going to work out
fine. And you know what? He was right. I’ll never forget that moment for as
long as I live. It was beautiful.’

‘Did you see him
again?’

‘No, that was the first
and last time, but once was enough. I soon started seeing other spirits,
though. Lots of them. Despite what I said earlier about not being frightened,
there were one or two to begin with who did scare me. Fortunately that didn’t
last very long. I soon realised that they only revealed themselves to me
because they wanted me to pass on a message to someone they knew. As with my
father, a lot of the time they wanted a family member to know that everything
was going to be alright and that there was no need to worry, but sometimes the
message could be more specific, such as where the spare house key was kept or
which so-called friend they shouldn’t trust. One thing is certain, however:
they always want me to pass on a message to someone. Always. Apart from one.’

‘Who?’

Gracie smiled, deciding
it was time to end the conversation. Max was only twelve; he didn’t need to
know any more.

Since seeing him for
the first time a few days ago, the figure in the shabby grey suit and brown
fedora had become a frequent visitor to Gracie’s house. Every time he came, the
mist that surrounded his face grew gradually thinner. She remained unable to
make out any identifiable features, but she knew it wouldn’t be long until he revealed
himself. He refused to state his reason for being there, no matter how often
she asked him, and this frightened her. It frightened her because they always
had a message. All he kept saying was:
You’ll see
. He was hiding
something from her, playing with her, biding his time. She only hoped her hunch
that he had something to do with Max or Sam was wide of the mark. She prayed
that he wasn’t there for them.

Because if he was, she
had a feeling that they could be in serious danger.