The Writer (2 page)

After pouring myself some more tea, I force myself to walk away from the window and I wander into the next room, where a huge bookcase lines one entire wall. I can’t help but smile as I find, along with all the classics and the medical reference books he uses for research, a neat collection of John’s own books. Looking at the row of titles, it’s hard to believe that the man who wrote
The Ghost’s Kiss
and
The Haunting on Winchester Road
could be a man who so adamantly refuses to believe that ghosts exist. Still, maybe that’s one of the reasons why his books sell so well. Glancing at the opposite wall, I see a framed poster for the movie adaptation of his book
The Dead Family
. Of all the titles…

Hearing a noise in the kitchen, I turn and look back at the door. For a fraction of a second, my heart leaps in my chest, as if -

“Beth?”

“In here,” I reply, feeling a strange tightening sensation in my chest.

“Why is it,” John says as he sets his coat on the hook and comes through to join me, “that whenever I leave you alone in my house for a couple of minutes, you always gravitate toward the books?”

“Did you find anything?” I ask.

“Nothing that shouldn’t be there,” he replies, with a hint of sadness in his eyes, as if he’s still worried about me. “Just a normal house full of normal things.”

“What about Hannah’s old room? Did you look in there?”

“I did.”

“And?”

“It’s exactly the way it’s always been since…” He pauses. “Well, since she died and you decided not to change anything. I can’t help wondering whether that really helps you, Beth…”

“But what about the blood?” I ask. “And did you look on the floor? There was blood, and glass…”

“There was no blood, and no glass.” Another pause. “Whatever you saw tonight, or think you saw, it wasn’t really there. You have to stay rational, Beth.”

I look down at the cup of tea in my hands. Although everything that happened seemed so real, I suddenly feel foolish. John must think I’m an idiot, that I’m cracking up, and he might be right. Still, the way David woke me up and the way Hannah reached out to me from her bed… I can’t believe that those things were just fantasies cooked up by my imagination. They were right there, in front of me.

“You can stay here tonight,” he continues. “If you don’t want to go back to your house, I mean. You know I’ve got that spare room.”

“I don’t want to put you out,” I reply, even though I’m desperate to accept. The thought of going back right now is almost too much to handle, and I figure that somehow it’ll be easier in the morning, in daylight. “You’ve already done so much for me…”

“I’ll get you some sheets and a pillow-case,” he says with a smile as he turns toward the door, gasping briefly as his aged hips creak. “Damn it, I need to take something for that,” he mutters. “It’s no fun getting old, Beth. Trust me, the number of aches and pains that start adding up, it’s unbelievable. Old age, that’s the real horror story that’s waiting for all of us.”

“Let me help you,” I tell him, standing up and following him to the door.

“No,” he says quickly, turning and putting a hand out to stop me. “I mean, just stay here and try to relax. I can get a few sheets from the cupboard, you know. I’m not some kind of invalid. Just relax. I’ll take care of you.”

“Thank you,” I reply. “I don’t… I’m sure it’ll be okay in the morning. You know how the world seems different at night? Maybe I’ll go to the doctor, too, and see if I can get something to help me sleep.”

He smiles as he heads through to the nearest bedroom, leaving me to look at the bookshelf again. Setting my cup of tea down, I slip out a copy of
The Haunting on Winchester Road
. The cover shows a spooky house with a dark figure in one of the windows, while the legend above John’s name proclaims the book to be the latest ‘hit ghost story’ from the man whose previous novel sold more than one hundred thousand copies. It’s the only one of John’s books that I haven’t read, but that’s only because I don’t feel that I can read this kind of thing anymore, not since the accident.

One day I’ll read horror novels again. Right now, however, I almost feel as if I’m living in one.

Two

“Why don’t you want anyone to know that you see me?” Doctor Ferguson asks as he watches me from behind his desk. “Are you ashamed?”

“It’s not that,” I reply, sitting on the sofa in his well-lit office. “It’s just… It’s my business. I don’t feel the need to tell everyone that I have regular sessions with a psychiatrist.”

“But you just admitted that you actively lie about it,” he continues. “You said your neighbor keeps pressing you to have sessions with a man he knows, and you flat-out tell him that you’re not interested.” He makes a note in his journal. “I’m interested in the fact that you’ve been coming to me for two years, since almost right after the accident, and yet you refuse to acknowledge this fact when you’re talking to your friends. It’s almost as if you’ve erected a barrier, and I’m worried that the barrier means you can’t carry over anything from these sessions into your everyday life.”

“I just don’t want people to think I’m…” I pause. “Mad…”

“No-one thinks you’re mad.”

“They might, if they know that I’m still struggling. It’s been two years. I should be over it by now.”

“Why should you be over it?” He waits for me to answer. “Beth, your husband and your five-year-old daughter died in a horrific car crash, and they were your only family. Do you really think you should be ‘over it’ after two years? And what does ‘over it’ mean, anyway?”

“I just want to be able to move on,” I tell him. “I don’t want it to still be haunting me.”

“That’s an interesting choice of words,” he replies, fixing me with a curious stare for a moment. “Tell me more about this latest… nocturnal encounter. You said you believed your husband and daughter were in the house again a few nights ago. How did their appearance manifest?”

“You’ll think I’m crazy.”

“You worry about that a lot, don’t you?” he asks. “People thinking you’re crazy? Why don’t you just tell me what happened the other night, from your perspective, and let’s not worry about labels such as ‘mad’ or ‘crazy’. They’re not very helpful. Nobody’s judging you here.”

“Do you believe in ghosts?” I ask.

“Do
you
?”

“I asked first.”

“I believe that other people believe in them,” he replies calmly.

“I never used to,” I tell him. “Never, ever. And then…” I pause, worried that if I tell him the truth, he’ll have me sectioned. “I keep telling myself that it’s all in my mind. My neighbor thinks it’s some kind of post-traumatic disorder, and I guess he might be right, but…” I pause, seeing the image of Hannah in her bed again. “It always feels so real, so immediate, like they’re really there.”

“You told me that your neighbor went to check the house,” he continues. “That being the case, how do you explain the fact that he found no traces of the blood you claimed was all over your daughter’s old bed?”

“I can’t,” I reply, feeling tears start to well up in my eyes. “I can’t explain that at all.”

“But you really believe that these were ghosts, rather than figments of your imagination?” He waits for me to answer. “Beth, is that what you truly believe?”

I pause for a moment, unable to answer, until finally I nod.

“I’ve seen them,” I tell him. “They were really there, right in front of me.”

***

As soon as I switch the engine off, I’m surrounded by the silence of the forest. Looking out the window, I see the tall, quiet trees that line the road.

The same trees that were the only witnesses to the accident. If they could talk, they could tell me what really happened.

Getting out of the car, I look both ways but there of course there’s no sign of life. Hell, there’s probably not another human being for miles. This road cuts straight through the heart of the forest and serves no real purpose other than to offer an alternative route out of the city. Nearby, a sign warns drivers to watch for wildlife that might wander onto the tarmac; I still remember the night when a man from the council phoned to tell me that, after careful consideration, a sign was going to be erected in an attempt to avoid a repeat of “this terrible tragedy.”

“It’s the only thing we can do at this stage,” he told me. “Unfortunately, from time to time wildlife will stray onto the road, so the onus is on drivers to be alert and ready to slow down.”

“It’s still not certain that he was speeding,” I remember saying, “or that he swerved to avoid anything.”

“It’s the most likely explanation, though,” he replied. “Isn’t it?”

“Maybe,” I told him. “I just feel like it wouldn’t have made much difference.”

That conversation was so long ago, but I still remember every word.

Finally I realize that I’m holding my breath again. Sometimes I have to actually remind myself to breathe in and out, as if my motor responses have a tendency to pause themselves. I wander away from the car, making my way toward the exact spot where the accident happened. There’s still a gap in the treeline here, although the stump of one tree remains in place to serve as a reminder of the impact. Looking down at the surface of the road beneath my feet, I squint a little as I realize I can just about make out the tire marks, even after all this time. Then again, maybe they’re just in my mind.

Maybe I really
have
begun to crack up.

“David?” I whisper.

Silence.

I turn and look back toward my car, then at the trees on the other side of the road.

“Hannah?” I add, keeping my voice low just in case someone might happen to hear me.

Silence.

“I just want to know,” I continue, turning in a full circle as I look for any sign that there might be activity nearby. “Either you can come back or you can’t, but I want to know one way or the other. It’s the uncertainty that…”

My voice trails off.

This is ridiculous.

Still, I can’t help myself.

“Give me a sign,” I add. “Just one thing. It can be something small, but…” I take a deep breath, determined to get to the truth. Deep down, however, I can’t work out whether this is a genuine stab at closure, or further evidence that I’m losing my mind. “Just one sign,” I whisper. “If you’re not still around, I can live with that, and if you are, I can live with that too, but I have to know.”

I wait.

Nothing.

“Hannah,” I continue. “If you’re around, if you can hear me at all…” I turn and look at the patch on the side of the road where, two years ago, their car was destroyed in a head-on collision with a tree. “Hannah, it’s Mummy. If you can give me any kind of a sign at all, now’s the time. Just let me know if you’re there. If you are, we can… We can work something out. You can stay in the house, we can be together again, but I need to know.”

I look down at my right hand, almost expecting to feel her touch.

Above, there’s the distant rumble of a plane passing overhead.

***

“I swear to God,” Jacqui says as she refills her wine glass, “this city is getting louder. It’s like, since I got back from Australia, I’ve barely been able to relax. I know everyone’s supposed to be super-wired by all the energy, but it’s, like, mega-tiring trying to keep up. I’m only just thirty, but I feel like this goddamn city is wearing me out.”

“Not for me, thanks,” I reply, putting a hand over my glass as she moves to refill me.

“Come on, Beth,” she says with a grin, “live a little.”

“I don’t really drink so much these days,” I tell her, hoping that she won’t push the matter.

“Seriously? Bordeaux Beth from our uni days is suddenly a teetotaler?”

“I’m not teetotal,” I reply, “I just… I stopped when I had Hannah, and I don’t really want to start again.”

“Don’t you think maybe that’s part of the problem?” she asks. “If you don’t get wasted now and then, how
do
you relax?”

“Getting drunk doesn’t relax me,” I continue, taking the wine bottle from her hand and placing it on the table between us. “Other things do. Good food. Movies. Books.”

Rolling her eyes, she looks over at the third place-setting at the table, and at the empty chair, before looking toward the door.

“So don’t think,” she adds, turning toward the back door, “that I didn’t notice
them
.”

“Notice what?” I ask.

“The keys.”

Realizing what she means, I look over at the set of car keys hanging on a hook.

“Seriously?” she continues. “Beth, why do you still have the keys to that car? It’s been two years…”

“I must have forgotten to throw them away.”

“Bull. You keep them around because… Because
what
? It makes you feel better?”

“It’s an honest mistake,” I tell her. “Seriously, not everything has to have some kind of deep meaning. If you want to know the truth, I’ve never thought twice about those keys. I’ll throw them away tonight if that makes you feel better.”

“Yeah, well…”

Before she can finish, we both hear the toilet being flushed elsewhere in the house.

“I hate to sound rude,” Jacqui continues, lowering her voice a little, “but did you really have to invite
him
tonight? I mean, Beth, what the hell?”

“What’s wrong?” I ask, slightly amused by her discomfort. “I wanted to have a couple of friends over for dinner, that’s all.”

“And you count him as a friend? Seriously? Isn’t he more like your creepy neighbor?”

“He’s not creepy,” I whisper. “If you actually got to know him -”

“He’s twice your age,” she continues, “and if you ask me, he’s got some kind of unhealthy interest in you.”

“He was there for me when I needed someone,” I tell her, “and he’s been there ever since. You know I don’t have many people around me. When the accident happened, you’d just moved to Australia, my parents had only been dead a few years… If it wasn’t for John, I’d have been completely alone. You might not like him, but I owe him a lot and -”

I force a smile as I hear the bathroom door being unlocked, and a moment later John enters the room and retakes his seat.

“Wine?” Jacqui asks him with a fake-as-hell smile plastered across her face.

“No, thank you,” he replies.

“Jesus Christ,” she mutters, “another one.”

“I was telling Jacqui about your books,” I say, hoping to turn the conversation onto a more pleasant topic. “Sorry, you’re probably bored of talking about them.”

“Here’s what I don’t get,” Jacqui continues, turning to John as she takes a sip of wine. “I’ve heard of you. John Myers, the famous horror writer. You’ve sold a ton of books, some of them have been turned into big movies, you must be loaded, so why are you living in some nondescript house in the suburbs? Couldn’t you have a mansion in Hollywood by now?”

“I prefer a simple life,” he replies, clearly a little uncomfortable with the subject. “Besides, by the time all the lawyers and agents have taken their cut, I don’t make as much money from the books as everyone thinks. Writers tend to be rather low in the food chain.”

“So you have to keep churning them out?”

“That’s the idea.”

“But you haven’t released a book for a few years now, have you?”

“I haven’t,” he replies through gritted teeth.

“Why’s that?”

“John has a mild case of writer’s block,” I say, stepping in to help him out. “Actually, I’ve been trying to help him get through it.”

“Writer’s block doesn’t exist,” Jacqui shoots back. “It’s a myth. Why do writer’s get to sit around doing nothing, claiming to be blocked, when no-one else in any other profession can do the same? I work in marketing. If I did jack-all for a few months and claimed to be blocked, I’d be fired.”

“Maybe you don’t understand the creative process,” I point out.

She rolls her eyes again.

“I’m simply struggling to find the core of my current project,” John interjects. “I’m fortunate that I can take my time, but I’m sure I’ll come up with something soon.” He glances at me. “I’m getting very close.”

“And all your books are about ghosts and stuff like that?” Jacqui asks.

“So far.”

“But you don’t actually believe in them?”

“I don’t need to believe in them,” he replies with a sigh, clearly tiring of answering the same question so many times, “to write about them. I find the subject fascinating, but I’ve never been convinced that people can come back from the dead, let alone that they might start haunting people.” He glances uneasily at me again, as if he’s worried that I might not like the way the conversation is going. “It’s a big subject,” he adds, “and maybe not one for -”

“You ever seen one?” Jacqui asks point blank.

“I…”

“
Have
you?” she adds, not even giving him time to answer. She glances at me and smiles, and it’s clear that she thinks she’s got him cornered.

“No,” he says cautiously, carefully straightening his cutlery. “I once thought I saw something unusual, something I couldn’t explain, but after a little thought I realized that it was, in fact, an illusion. I certainly felt the temptation to go for an easier answer, though. If ghosts were real, they’d represent proof of something phenomenal. We must all stay firm, however, and not -”