The Ghost Who Fed Them Bones

The Ghost Who Fed Them Bones

by

Tim Roux

ISBN 1468127128

EAN 978-1468127126

Al rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the copyright owner.

'The Ghost Who Fed Them Bones' is published by Taylor Street Publishing LLC, who can be contacted at: http://www.taylorstreetbooks.com

http://ninwriters.ning.com

'The Ghost Who Fed Them Bones' is the copyright of the author, Tim Roux, 2009. Al rights are reserved.

Al characters are fictional, and any resemblance to anyone living or dead is accidental.

Immediately I enter the house, I sense it.

I nearly turn and run straight out again.

But that would be gay and make me look stupid.

So, instead, I continue as my hair fol icles prickle to attention in a Mexican wave, my skin tingles, my spine chil s, my mouth dries, and my ears hiss.

Shit!

I know what it is, but where is it?

This is a vicious one. I can feel it building up its attack. It is getting louder, deeper.

As our shoes clack on the stone floor, I can hear it humming. My crown is tautening and a surge jolts my spine, ending in an overwhelming rol ing shudder between my shoulder blades.

Is someone stepping on my grave or am I stepping on theirs?

Where the hell are you?

In the fireplace?

Beyond the tapestry on the far wal ?

Behind the Madonna and Child in the nook?

In the six corners of the ceiling?

In a chip or crack somewhere?

Lurking in the shadowed corridor leading off to the left?

Oh for fuck’s sake, show yourself! Get it over with!

Whatever it is that is announcing itself to me is wafting plasma clouds around the room in sombre colours – drab, ochre, sienna, umber, grey, lots of grey, nearly black - a maudlin rainbow swirling through the air.

OK, what am I dealing with here – violence, hostility, threat, anger, revenge, fear?

That is always where I start. Even if I guess it completely wrong, I need to get some fix on its intentions before I can work out a strategy. The paranormal often strikes out of nowhere. When I am confronted with the more violent ones, we inevitably end up circling each other like at a shoot-out .

Have you gone again?

This one is not giving anything away. It is not backing off but it is not coming at me either. Yet. Often they feign retreat, only to lunge at me when they think I am off-guard.

Hang on, I can see whatever it is – some kind of cupboard – vibrating rhythmical y and I can hear the plates inside it clattering and the glasses chiming. There is an old gilt mirror next to it. A shadowy face wil appear there in a minute. They love to pul off that one to scare at least a fart and a burp out of me.

Actual y, there's not a lot they can do to me beyond scare me, but I don’t stick my fingers into electric sockets for the sake of it either.

John motions me to a chair and offers me a coffee. It is as if we are standing in two entirely different worlds.

He hasn’t noticed a thing.

I'm not going sit down – I'm not al owing myself to be cornered - so I loiter on shifting feet.

John remains total y oblivious. It is as if he is immune, protected. In its presence we cannot understand each other. If I col apse, he wil reckon that I am epileptic or mental y unbalanced, or something. He'l sooner or later tel my brother Mike about it, and Mike wil say, “Oh yeah, Paul thinks he sees ghosts. Just ignore him,” and they wil al laugh nervously and slap me in a box marked ‘weird’ from which I wil never escape.

So I had better stay standing, whatever the provocation from this uneasy spirit, whatever shock tactics it gets up to.

Social stigma is much more bruising in the long run than the paranormal.

My ears continue to hiss, my head feels like it is being shoved forwards from the neck.

I make an effort and shield myself momentarily from the insistent sensation of menace in order to scan the room.

Beyond this disturbing atmosphere and the swirly mists, there is an elegant, sparsely-furnished room with grey flagged floors, whitewashed rough-plastered stone wal s, and cast iron furniture, softened by geometric, pristine white cushions.

“What do you think of the house, Paul?” John enquires, clearly expecting me to confirm how much I like it, which I probably would without the special effects.

“Yeah, it’s great,” I reply.

“Isn’t it? I couldn’t believe it when I first arrived. I wasn't expecting anything like this.”

“You took a flyer on it, did you?”

John shakes his head dismissively. “It wasn’t like that.”

“OK.”

“Anyway, it was a most wonderful surprise. How do you take your coffee, Paul?”

“Black, please.”

“Do you like it strong? I can always make it stronger.”

I smile reassuringly. “I am sure it wil be fine. We make it the English way at home.”

John hesitates. “Are you sure?”

“Yeah, I’m sure.”

After passing me my coffee, John flops down in a chair and expels a restrained, satisfied sigh. “These chairs are so comfortable, surprisingly. Sit yourself down.”

Where are you? Are you still loitering?
I don't need icy fingers gripping my shoulders and cold breath down my neck.

I cannot feel it any more. Has it dissipated, lost interest, got distracted?

Reluctantly, I take the seat but remain firmly on my guard. My eyes continue to swivel out there in the back of my head. I am stil expecting it to try to creep up on me.

“So how do you know the Marchingtons?” John quizzes me.

“I don’t real y,” I reply, drumming my legs on the floor to let it know that I am on its case, whatever the appearance. “We met John in the market at Gignac a month or so ago, and we had coffee together, he, Peter, Mike and I, then he invited us over for lunch. We said that we were meant to be going back to Valflaunès for lunch with our parents, and he insisted that we invite them too. I asked whether an extra four people wouldn’t be a pain, and he said not in the least – the family always likes fresh faces - so that was that. We seem to get on, wel enough anyway, and they keep inviting us over. We try to get them to come to Valflaunès, but they aren’t interested. And you?”

“Much the same story, except that it was Fiona I bumped into in Pézenas and, like you, we got talking, and she said that they were planning a party – al English people from the area – and would I be wil ing to join in? I thought that it was rather extraordinary that a lone, unaccompanied woman should be so forward. I even wondered for a moment what I was getting myself into, then she handed me a formal y printed card with the Marchington family name and crest, and the artist’s impression of the Château here at Freyrargues,” he laughs self-deprecatingly, “so I reckoned it must be safe after al .”

(Erm). “Had you heard of them before?”

“Never, but there again I am new to the region. I have only been here a few days – wel , ten, eleven.”

“The name ‘Harding’ didn’t do anything for you?”

“That, yes. I fol owed the case at the time. How could I not? I couldn’t remember how it came out, though, whether the wife was returned unharmed or not and, of course, she hasn’t been here at the Château, so there was no immediate clue. I had forgotten that the daughter, Sarah, had been taken as wel .”

“She doesn’t trust me an inch. She tenses up the minute she looks at me.”

John smiles. “That does not necessarily mean that she doesn’t trust you. It may be rather that she doesn’t trust herself.”

“With what?”

“Paul, I am sure that you are never short of girls who are interested in you, and Mike neither.”

I do not respond to this observation. There is nothing to say or to do with it. “So you are a policeman, are you John?”

“I was. I have just retired after forty years of dogged service.”

“How is it going?”

“It’s a blessed relief, seeing as you ask. I don’t miss it in the least. I am even thinking of settling out here, in fact. I am sure that if I return home I shal soon find myself at a loss. What can you do in the pouring rain al day? Here is like being on holiday.”

“You are on holiday.”

“Yes, but I have a feeling that if I were to settle here, it would always feel a bit like being on holiday. I would have to find myself a little house around here somewhere; nothing as fancy as this. I couldn’t afford these prices. I might try somewhere further inland, look for something that needs a bit of doing up which would mean that I could afford it and that I would always have something to do to keep me busy.”

“Do you have anyone back in England?”

“No, I am al on my own. Nobody to miss. I can make a new start.”

“You must have some friends.”

“Yes, I have a few friends but I am sure that they wil come and visit me from time to time, with al the Ryanair airports around here and the cheap wine. Most coppers are great boozers, you know, at least the ones I have worked with for the last forty years.”

“It must be the pressure of the job.”

“Maybe.”

We continue along this strained track of conversation for about another quarter of an hour before I decide that it is probably time for me to head back to Valflaunès. After al , John and I real y don’t have anything in common. He wanted to show me where he was hanging out as a gesture of friendship, and I agreed to come – that is al . I think we may have used up al of our conversation, for this session at least, and I wil be glad to be out of here before misery guts gets me.

Whatever it is that is lurking here, I real y want nothing to do with it. Patience has never been a virtue of mine. That is the trouble with being psychic. Al sorts of intuitions impose themselves unbidden upon me. I just hope that John is safe here. I have considered warning him, but then everyone just thinks you are mad, so I can’t be bothered. He’l be al right. He is clearly not picking up anything threatening in the atmosphere, so it wil probably leave him wel alone, whatever it is. Let’s hope so, anyway.

“Wel , thanks for showing me where you are staying, John,” I say, getting up.

“Thanks for coming. Any time. I just wanted to prove that I wasn’t a homeless vagrant.”

(Know the feeling). “The Marchingtons make you feel that way, don’t they?”

“Wel , I suppose that if you have resided in country piles for hundreds of years, everything else does rather look like a hovel. I am sure that they do not mean anything il by it. It is simply a reflex.”

“Come to Valflaunès sometime.” (Genuine offer, surprisingly. Wel , somebody should come and see us).

“I would like to. Thanks.”

I lead the way to the hired Renault and get in. “Bye, John,” I cal as I complete my three-pointish turn and pul away. “See ya soon.”

John waves, fol ows my departure with his eyes, and turns back towards his haunted house as I disappear from view.

Bye, Sucker! (Not you, John).

* * *

In class, I was always the one who appeared to be conversing with the ceiling – “off with the fairies”. Every teacher I ever had commented on this, on my need to escape my reality, which was a statement fuel ed by a misconception. I wasn’t escaping reality, I was embracing it. And I was with the fairies, wel not fairies exactly, with the spirits that live around us and that everyone refuses to acknowledge. I find it hard to believe that everybody is that thick, so I assume that it is a wilful blindness you cloak yourselves in, afraid to peep out and recognise your true world in its entirety.

If it does not come natural y to you, or if you have deliberately closed yourself off, you wil have to train yourself to become receptive but, in the right frame of mind, if you raise your head for ten seconds, you wil see al the spirits circulating around us. Most of them are harmless – they don’t even seem to notice us much either. They are like people passing us in the street; they are as real as people. Some are entities from other dimensions – Quantum Conquistadors, I cal them - escapees from harsher places come to conquer our world, except that they cannot actual y conquer it. They can fit in around us, they can lodge inside us, but they cannot take us over.