Ghostwriting (22 page)

‘Well, I ought to.' Rhea smiled to reassure him. ‘You sure pursued me long and patiently enough.'

‘Damn straight.' Phillip kissed her. ‘I'm not about to blow all that hard work. You are my greatest investment and our marriage is far and away my greatest invention.'

‘Keep talking like that and you're going to be late for work,' Rhea warned, seductively.

As Phillip opened Rhea's wraparound to expose her naked body, he sighed: ‘I do love being my own boss.'

In Rhea's opinion, sex for breakfast was a fabulous way to start the day, and as the kitchen was about the only room in the house they hadn't made love in, she was all for christening the space.

The proceedings heated up very quickly as they both knew they would have workmen on the doorstep
any second and yet that knowledge only seemed to heighten the delight of the moment. Rhea was just teetering on pure bliss when the kitchen door slammed closed, and fearing they been sprung by the hired help, they brought their encounter to a grinding halt.

‘Who's there?' Phillip zipped up his trousers and went to investigate, leaving Rhea in the kitchen grinning with unfulfilled exhilaration. ‘Damn,' she uttered. But it didn't matter that the moment had been cut short; only that she felt confident about her marriage and filled with love.

‘There's nobody here.' Phillip returned, rather annoyed by the interruption. ‘It must have been the wind.' He moved in close to Rhea.

Rhea glanced out the window at the motionless landscape, which could have been mistaken for a photograph. ‘What wind, honey?'

‘Forget the door,' Phillip insisted, drawing Rhea in for a kiss. But, with the sound of a vehicle screeching to a stop outside, they were forced to concede it just wasn't going to happen.

‘Tonight,' Rhea suggested and Phillip agreed. ‘It's high time we lit the fireplace in our bedroom … alongside which we could drink a little champagne perhaps?'

Phillip liked her thinking. ‘Picnic dinner in the bedroom sounds mighty fine.'

‘Done,' Rhea granted with a kiss.

‘I've got a shed-load of winches for ya, Mr
Garrett?' The harsh voice of one of the workmen bellowed down the hall. ‘Where do ya want 'em?'

Phillip exhaled heavily as his responsibilities called him away. ‘Today's going to seem a long day.' He winked and left Rhea to it.

‘What about breakfast?' she called after him.

‘Your love is all I need to sustain me …' Phillip popped his head back in the door to exclaim in a corny fashion and found himself wearing the tea-towel.

 

The day was long and hot. Rhea worked in the main part of the house, detailing paintwork, as the studio was just too hot to dance in.

Toward evening, when the workmen had left and Phillip had yet to show for dinner, she wandered over to the construction site to advise him to pack it in for the day.

Rhea found him in his large work shed hovering around a forty-foot trailer without the prime mover attached. ‘I see your battery has arrived.'

‘Ain't she a beaut?' Phillip stopped fiddling with the gauges and switches to kiss his wife, then turned back to admire his storage system for the energy which would be generated from the solar fields he was building.

‘It's gorgeous, hon,' Rhea replied, trying to sound as enthusiastic as Phillip obviously was, but it just
came out sounding condescending.

‘It is,' Phillip said emphatically. ‘It will be able to supply four hundred and fifteen volts, at three hundred amps per cell.'

‘God, I just love it when you talk technical,' Rhea teased, giving him a hug. She was excited for him.

‘Wait until I tell you how that translates into dollars.' Phillip hugged her back.

‘Why don't you tell me over dinner … in our room.' She jogged his memory. ‘Or have you forgotten?'

‘Not even this little baby would make that engagement slip my mind,' he assured her.

 

Phillip had managed to keep some energy in reserve and their evening by the fireplace was well spent doting upon each other.

That night, Rhea woke coughing and freezing, but it was smoke and not a chill that was irritating her throat.

The bed covers were far across the room in the smouldering embers of the fire and the fabric burst into flame before her eyes.

‘Phillip!' Rhea shook him and he woke in a panic.

‘Is there a fire?' he grumbled in jest, and then noted the smoke that was making him cough and splutter.

‘Yes.' Rhea pointed to the burning bedclothes.

‘Holy smoke!' Phillip grabbed the pitcher of water they kept by the bed and emptied the contents on to the flames, which subsequently died out. ‘How the hell did that happen?'

‘That's what I'd like to know.' Rhea flung open the windows to clear the smoke and the cold night air rushed over her already freezing form. ‘Sh … oot!'

‘Surely I couldn't have flung the covers that far in my sleep,' Phillip reasoned, before hunting down a jumper to put on.

Rhea wrapped her dressing gown tightly around her. ‘Well, if you couldn't manage it, I certainly couldn't.'

Phillip didn't like the agitated and accusing tone in his wife's voice. ‘So, it's my fault?'

‘No,' Rhea replied, realising this heated conversation was about to become a full-blown confrontation. ‘Don't twist my words, Phillip. That's not what I said.'

‘Well, if you didn't do it and I didn't do it, who did? A ghost?' Phillip suggested with a good serve of sarcasm.

A sharp ping of fear beset Rhea's body and the look on her face was enough of a response.

‘Hon, that was a joke.' Phillip, seeing her fright, approached and hugged her. ‘There is no such thing as ghosts.'

‘Sure about that, are you?' Rhea could tell by his
tone that he wanted a better explanation and could not think of one.

‘Look,' he took a deep breath and exhaled to give himself time to consider what he was about to suggest, ‘I'm sure Berrensborough has a local priest. Why don't we get him over to bless the place?'

Rhea pulled away, unable to believe her own ears. ‘Phillip,' she frowned, surprised at him.

‘Well,' he blushed, feeling silly, ‘if it will make you feel better …'

‘We are both indifferent to religion, and none of that hocus-pocus will work unless you believe in it. We are more likely to believe a television monitor than a priest.'

‘Brilliant.' Phillip smiled, thankful that his wife preferred science to superstition, just as he did.

Rhea placed her arms around her husband's neck, pleased by their amicable mood. ‘Tomorrow night we'll do a little film-making.'

4. Divine Intervention

In her studio, Rhea was taking advantage of the cool morning hours to get some work done. The electrician had yet to show his face and Phillip was threatening to rewire the house himself.

An hour into her routine, there was a distinct drop in temperature. Rhea could only conclude that there must have been a change in the weather; it
would normally be getting warmer.

He's mine now, He's mine now, He's mine now.

‘Ooooh!' Rhea felt frustrated when her CD started acting up again. But, as she approached the player, it occurred to her that it had been the drop in temperature which preceded the previous problems with her CD player.

A sudden wave of fear beset Rhea's body and she froze. She stared at the player, suddenly apprehensive of it, whereupon it switched off and startled the life out of her.

Another sound became apparent, a faint moaning. As the sound increased in volume it became obvious that this was the moan of a woman in the depths of pleasure.
Someone is getting laid.
Rhea's fear left her as she crept closer to the wall behind which the encounter was taking place.
I was under the impression we were paying those guys to work,
thought Rhea, suspecting one of the workmen of inviting his girlfriend on to the job.

‘Oh, Phillip,'
the woman was heard to moan as her pleasure overwhelmed her.

Rhea gasped, her eyes filling with tears as she ran through the house, out the front door and around the side to see with her own eyes what was happening.

Nothing was going on there. Rhea heard Phillip off in the distance, where his large prototype was under construction, yelling instructions at workmen.
‘Oh, thank God!' She turned back toward the house and was startled by a priest.

‘Apologies, Mrs Garrett, I didn't mean to give you a fright.' The young, fresh-faced man in black backed off a step. ‘You just ran straight past me. I thought you saw me.'

It wasn't his sudden appearance that had Rhea spooked; it was more that Phillip and she had spoken of the local priest just last night. Rhea looked to the heavens, wary that the divine might be eavesdropping on their private conversations. ‘I'm sorry, Father …?'

‘Chuck,' he informed her and Rhea had difficulty smothering her smirk. ‘Unfortunate, I know,' the priest admitted, ‘but my surname is Scandinavian and too complicated for everyday usage.'

‘Well, do come in Father.' Rhea decided to keep it simple and avoid the risk of bursting into laugher.

 

Rhea made some tea in a pot and arranged a variety of biscuits on a plate. These were neatly placed on a tray, with a jug of milk, the sugar bowl, teacups, saucers and spoons. Rhea had seen people entertain priests on TV and they always served tea in this fashion. ‘My husband and myself are fairly non-religious, Father. I fear your trip out here in this heat shall seem an awful waste of time.'

The priest was eyeing the large dining area and lounge room carefully, feeling a foreboding energy
emanating from the new door in the far wall of the room. ‘Welcoming such constructive people to our region is a highly enjoyable endeavour, I assure you, Mrs Garrett.'

Rhea entered the dining room carrying her tray, and noticed the look on the priest's face. ‘You'd normally just have a mug, right?' She set the tray down on the coffee table, feeling embarrassed.

‘There's nothing like tea in the pot though, is there?' he said kindly.

Rhea hated to admit it, but Chuck seemed a genuinely nice fellow. He took the liberty of pouring.

‘Welcome to Berrensborough, Mrs Garrett.' Chuck passed her a filled cup. ‘We wish your project much success.'

‘Thank you, Father.' Rhea accepted his good wishes gracefully, although she found herself shouting over a sudden round of hammering. ‘All goes splendidly with construction at present,' she assured him.

The priest noted that she frowned when she said this and waited for the hammering to stop before he spoke. ‘It's good to have scientifically-minded people take on this property. You're already dispelling that old local superstition.'

‘What superstition?' Rhea was intrigued.

‘Has no one told you this house's history?'

Rhea strained to hear Father Chuck as the hammering started up again. ‘What kind of a
history?' she shouted back, and decided she was sick of competing with the workmen, who were now using drills. ‘I'll just tell them to take a coffee break.' Rather than do any more yelling, Rhea walked out the back door and around the side to speak with the workmen in a dignified fashion.

 

Chuck was painfully aware of being alone in the house and his attention was again drawn to the new door. The forbidding presence that emanated from it seemed to double in intensity in an instant.
No,
he cautioned himself.
I've heard the story and I am giving it false power.
He breathed easy, having got a grip on his fear.

The handle on the new door turned, and slowly the door opened inward, whereupon the priest's fear began rising anew.

A cold presence swept into the lounge room. Chuck felt it rush over him and noticed that a distinct smell of the sea was left in its wake. The hairs on the back of his neck stood on end and then the hairs on his head, down his arms, his back and legs. When the items on the tray before him began to vibrate, then to jump about, Chuck decided to pray. Only moments into his recitation, the priest felt a cold entity straddle his lap and pin him to the lounge with its weight.

Your name tells me your weakness, Father,
a female voice whispered.

This startled the priest, as he heard the voice
inside his mind, but felt a cold exhalation of breath against his ear as the words were spoken.

Your problem is emotion, I feel … it's too liquid.

Chuck felt the pressure of a hand, maybe two, being placed upon his stomach region and as the pressure rose up between his ribs, Chuck felt suddenly nauseous. He was going to be violently ill.

The entity retreated and released him, whereby the priest ran out the front door and away from the house to be sick.

 

Rhea was surprised to find the lounge room empty. ‘Father?' She looked into the kitchen, before heading out front to spy the priest some distance from the house. ‘Father!' Rhea wondered why he was crouched over, but as the priest was made aware of her presence he headed straight for his car. ‘Is something amiss with you?'

He did not answer. He just started his car and tore off in a cloud of dust.

‘Was that a priest I just saw?' Phillip strode across the dirt to join Rhea on the porch.

‘It was.'

‘Is throwing up on a property considered a blessing these days?' Phillip thought the priest's behaviour rather odd. ‘What did you do to the poor fellow?'

‘I didn't realise he was being sick.' Rhea began to chuckle, she knew it was cruel but her funny bone
had been tickled. ‘Father Chuck.' She managed to squeeze out an explanation for Phillip.

Phillip smiled, amused, though surprised. ‘That's a bit cruel, hon.'

‘No!' Rhea hit Phillip for thinking she would bad-mouth someone in such a way. ‘That
is
his name.'