13 Hauntings

by Clarice Black

  “Now onto the next…” step. Before she could finish that thought, she slumped back in her chair, overcome with fatigue. Her eyelids drooped over her eyes and sent her spiralling to sleep, down the rabbit hole of dreams which she’d visited once before.

  This dream was livider and much more vivid than the one before. She was standing in a bedroom, judging by the window overlooking the creek and the forest, it seemed to be the same room as the one she had slept in: her writing room. The layout was different. There was a bed by the window. And on that bed, a man sat with a look of devastation on his face, cowering and crying. Emma knew this man too well by now. It was Edward. He was staring at where Emma was standing. She looked at herself and discovered that she was yet again in Lily’s body in astral form. Only this time, Lily’s body was that of a ghost; hollow and hovering.

  “Please! Forgive me!” the man sputtered pathetically. Emma moved closer to him, with contemptuous rage coursing through her. “Please! No more!” Before Emma, or Lily, could get any closer, a look of inspiration struck Edward.

  “You’ll never get me alive!” he screamed and jumped off his bed. He ran out of his room like a maniac and Emma followed him. Edward made his way to the kitchen from where he took a bottle of whiskey. He took a deep chug from it and staggered to the other bedroom on the ground floor: his dead wife’s room.

  “You’ll never get me alive!” he screamed at the ghost once more and grabbed the sleeping powder on the bedside table. Emma watched as the man emptied the entire bottle of powder in his mouth and chased it down with a swig from the bottle. Deliriously, he stumbled out of the room and Emma followed. The man fell to the floor and crawled with what remained of his life towards the door. He opened it with a weakened hand and staggered outside on to the porch steps. He stared the ghost in the eyes and screamed one final taunt before dying.

  “No one will ever know of you! They’ll think you took your own life! You whore! Your soul will haunt this house just as surely as the truth will never be known!”

  And with those final words reeking of hate and the stench of alcohol, he died, gagging on his own vomit.

  *****

  So that’s what it was all about, Emma thought. She was sitting at her desk at work, mindless to her surroundings. She had the manuscript in a paper bag beside her. It was addressed and sealed from all sides. Emma was waiting for the boy from the post room to make his round to her desk.

  Edward had taunted Lily before his death, denigrating her death, she carried on with her train of thought. All these hauntings were attempts to get her truth out.

  Right on cue, the boy from the post room arrived with his trolley heaped with documents. He dumped a pile of them on Emma’s desk, which snapped her out of her reverie.

  “Larry,” she said to him. “Would you mind sending this out to the post-office?” she handed him the sealed package containing the manuscript.

  “Sure,” the young kid said and winked at her. He put the package at the bottom of the trolley and went away whistling.

  Emma sighed. “Well Lily, I’ve done all I can.”

  She rose from behind her desk and went into her boss’s room. “Kendrick?”

  “Yes?” he asked her. He was buried behind a pile of his own documents, looking busy, for once.

  “Mind if I take off early today?”

  “Keep that up and you’ll be fired. Not by me, but HR is going to track your absence Ems,” he said. “But yeah. Go ahead, I’ve got your back,” he added with a smile.

  “Thanks,” she smiled back at him and returned to her desk to get her things. On her way out, she called her mother and asked her to drop Kylie back at home.

  Hopefully, all will be normal from now on, she thought and headed to the carpark, making a mental note to buy all the items on KFC’s menu. She was utterly ravenous. Pulling an all-nighter with a ghost on your back tends to do that.

  Emma drove back to her house, and for the first time noticed the beauty of the cul-de-sac. She’d taken it for granted up until now. She parked her car and just sat there, looking around and adoring everything; the lush grass that ran wild at places; the trees so exquisite, as if each one had its own personality, its own stories; the creek with crystal clear water streaming through it; the flowers that grew on either side of it and finally, her house. It was beautiful. There was no other word for it. Emma felt gratitude rising in her heart; dormant gratitude for all the things that had gone right in her life, despite the few that had gone wrong.

  All these epiphanies were the result of her Samaritanism for Lily.

  Lily, who would now be able to sleep in peace.

  *****

  The editor at Hodder publications, Lilith Simmons, a woman in her late forties, sat with her head in her hands and a troublesome thought pestering the Dickens out of her. In the publishing business were two people, two unnamed personifications of publishing failures, who were the butt of every literary joke. One was the publisher who had turned down J.K Rowling and the other, the publisher who had turned down Stephen King. The joke was on the both of them.

  Every time a new manuscript, specifically an unsolicited one, comes a publisher’s way, they are forced to ponder over the two-unnamed joke-butts of the publishing world. They’re forced to think, ‘Could this be the next bestseller which I am too in over my head to see?’ More often than not, the answer is simple. More often than not, the manuscript’s written so badly that it deserves to be only in the dustbin.

  But then there are manuscripts like the one Lilith had on her table titled, “The haunting of Shadow Creek House- A true story.” The text of the draft was rudimentary, but the diction was dripping with Victorianism. Lilith had disregarded it as being ‘just another wannabe writer’s work’ but then thought better and gave it the benefit of her doubt. And she was wrong. This was not the work of some wannabe writer. It was not even amateurish. After reading fifty pages or so, it dawned on her that the title was not lying about its authenticity. No writer, no matter how creative they claim to be, can recreate a story with such detail, with agony clinging to each word of the story. If she decided to actually go through with publishing this book, it’d annoy many people.

  But perhaps that is what King’s or Rowling’s rejecters had thought. Rowling faced heavy fire from a vast majority of Christian readers who claimed that the Harry Potter books were downright witchcraft and a bad influence for their children. And as for Stephen King’s works, well, let’s just say that he has a penchant for casually doling out disgusting racial slurs and grotesque sexual fantasies in his works, that would make the hair on your neck stand with the shock more than fear.

  But, they were widely popular and managed to click with a vaster majority of readers.

  This manuscript contained a story which, as Lilith’s gut told her, had all the makings of a bestseller, if not an all-time genre-defining classic.

  CHAPTER FORTY-THREE

  Epilogue

  Five months later

  “Mummy, Mummy! The postman is here!” Kylie came running from outside, the scruffs of her pyjamas dirty and wet. She’d been playing near the creek again. No matter how many times Emma had tried to warn her of the dangers of the creek, Kylie never understood. Kids never do.

  Emma emerged from her writing room, with a pencil stuck behind her ear and pair of spectacles resting on the tip of her nose. She made her way to the front door, scolding Kylie lightly for going in the creek again.

  The postman stood with a parcel in his hands. “Hello ma’am,” he tipped his cap at her. He handed her the parcel, asking her to sign next to her name on a sheet. She did, took the parcel, bid the postman a good day and went back inside.

  There were giant glossy letters written on the paper cover of the parcel. “Author’s copy. I guess congratulations are in order. But only those will have to suffice for the moment. Don’t expect any royalties until the next quarter of this year. XOXO”

  She held the parcel in her hands, waiting for the incredulity to
dissipate. It was finally here. In her hands. She ripped the cover apart and beheld the item inside. A paperback book with a house on the cover and the title ‘Shadow Creek House Diaries.’ She opened the first page and found another note by the editor, “I hope you don’t mind me changing the title. Can’t sell a book if the title’s too long. XOXO”

  Kylie was not in the house. She’d gone back out. Emma could her hear distant laughter as she splashed around in the water.

  “Lily,” Emma said, as faint as a whisper.

  The lights flickered, the room grew cold and the apparition appeared in front of Emma. Emma held the book up in front of her and said, “Look Lily. It’s finally happened. Your story is out there. The world will know now.”

  Lily looked at the book for what seemed an eternity. When she did look up, she met Emma’s gaze, and for the first time since Emma had known her the ghost girl smiled. Innocence emanated from her face and her tears, translucent drops of pearls, trickled down her cheeks. She could know peace now.

  “Thank you. Emma,” Lily said. Her faint figure faded with a serene look on her face. She vanished into thin air for the last time. Emma herself was crying at this supernatural farewell. She was happy that she had brought tranquillity to a restless soul. But to be honest, she was going to miss her. She was always going to wonder what Lily’s life would have been had her father not fallen ill? What would life have been like for her had she never come to Shadow Creek House.

  Despite the traumatic events that finally led up to this point in her life, Emma knew that she was always going to be thankful for coming across this house, uncovering Lily’s story and bringing it to light.

  They say that new beginnings are a fallacy; that the past is obdurate and unwilling to let go. But today Emma witnessed with her own eyes, the past letting go of its obduracy.

  The Haunting of Paignton House

  Clarice Black

  CHAPTER FORTY-FOUR

  Prologue

  26th August 1951

  Paignton House

  Clapham

  London

  So sorry for your loss

  God wills, and so it must be

  You must be strong for them

  George Paignton nodded at the well-meaning words, but he hardly heard any of the condolences. He sat slumped in a chair in his living room while his family, neighbours and friends tramped through his home for the fourth time in less than a year to mourn his never ending loss.

  By the time the last guest left it was late afternoon. Mrs. Fitts from across the street cleaned up as best she could, refrigerated the food which the people had brought, and said goodbye.

  The house was empty.

  The sun sank lower, ochre rays slanted through the two large windows, to shine upon the large family picture above the mantle. It was a memento of happier days; a picnic in the park to celebrate the bright summer day: Diana sat on the checkered sheet, her head resting on George’s shoulder, her blonde hair set carefully to look like the one she’d seen on Judy Garland in Easter Parade. Susan, the eldest, sat at Diana’s feet, her Cindy doll clutched to her thin chest, her pigtails tied with blue ribbons. Paula’s freckled face bobbed right under George’s chin, a twig still clung to her boisterous curls, her scabbed knees on proud display. Baby Chloe was the center of everyone’s attention, crawling furiously towards the camera on her chubby legs while her family laughed.

  George had been staring at the picture for a long time, his eyes dry. With a sudden, rattling sigh, he seemed to deflate in his chair. He stared up at the ceiling, his mind a whirlpool of thoughts chasing each other’s tails.

  He’d thought it a blessing when his distant relative had died and he’d inherited the large plot in Clapham. The land had been the site of a children’s clinic in the 1920’s, but after it had burned down there was nothing left but a weed-infested bramble pit. George had envisioned a house for his growing family; a safe haven after the War that had torn the world apart, unleashing the worst in people. The horrors he’d seen at the concentrations camps, where endless women, children and men had gone to die for being born a certain faith, had destroyed the little faith he had in God.

  The whole family had taken part in the designs for the new house. No one’s suggestion was ignored and the result was a mixture of French country house and Dutch townhouse, which looked decidedly like the gingerbread house from fairy tales. Diana and the girls had taken to the house immediately, decorating and making a life there.

  Then Diana had died suddenly, and his girls had soon followed.

  A low moan rose in George’s throat, his heart felt dead in his chest, and his grief lay heavy on his shoulders. He began to weep, tears trickling down the runnels of scars on his face, souvenirs of the War.

  Daddy?

  George sat up so fast he cricked his neck. He searched the room frantically for the source of the voice, ignoring the pain.

  Daddy!

  “Chloe! Suzie? Paula!”

  We’re here Daddy!

  Stop being silly.

  “Where?” George stood up and nearly lost his balance jumping back from the television which had suddenly burst to life.

  We want Muffin, Muffin the mule

  Anette Mills sang on the screen, and a tone-deaf chorus followed from the couch. George turned slowly to the empty couch, his hackles rising till he saw the faint outlines of three forms, as frail and insubstantial as smoke.

  “Girls?” George could hardly believe what he was seeing. “You’re here?”

  Of course we are, where else would we be?

  George tried to touch them, but his hands only found air. His movements become more frantic, sobs of frustration and loss filled his lungs.

  Silly George…

  George looked up. A lithe form, grey and flickering, glided into the room filling the room with the scent of lemon verbena. Longing filled George, longing to hold Diana, to kiss her lips, to drown in the sea of her hair.

  I’ve missed you, George

  Her voice was a faint echo.

  “Diana, I’m sorry.” George sobbed. “I tried to save them. I tried.”

  I know, my love, but it was futile

  “I can’t live like this.” George cried, tearing at his hair.

  Then don’t

  A deep calm stole over George. He looked at the deepening shadow that was his wife, and his daughters upturned faces. Diana had always been the practical one in the relationship.

  Join us, Daddy

  We miss you, Daddy

  George smiled. He began to chuckle and then laughed uproariously till tears leaked out of his eyes. He clapped his hands then rubbed them together in an enterprising fashion. He marched off down the hall and through the back door into the back garden. The tool shed stood at the very edge of the garden, and George disappeared inside.

  Drift roses bloomed in the hedges that Diana had planted. Paula’s red trike lay in the yellowing grass under the black cherry tree where she had left it months ago. Overripe cherries littered the ground like black snow. Weeds were creeping in unnoticed; marring the garden George had seen such happy dreams for.

  In the last rays of the dying sun George emerged from his shed with a length of rope and a small stepladder. He propped the ladder up against the tree trunk, thinking how he had planned to tie a swing with this length of rope, but had never gotten round to doing it.

  George Paignton lowered the noose around his neck and faced the back of the house. The last sunray bloomed orange against the back porch where his girls sat looking up at him approvingly. Diana nodded, giving him a special smile.

  “I’m coming!” George laughed, and kicked the ladder from under his feet.

  CHAPTER FORTY-FIVE

  The Stuff of Fairytales

  30th June 1983

  Paignton House

  Clapham

  London

  The front door burst with such violence it ricocheted off the wall and snapped shut.

  Peals of laughter filled the air
.

  “Careful, girls! Don’t break the house before we’ve done paying for it!”

  The door opened again, much more sedately than before, and three young girls, each more ginger-haired than the other, scrambled inside and up the stairs.

  “I want the biggest room!”

  “No, I saw that first!”

  “I told you not to let them choose their own rooms.” Sarah Collin frowned down at her husband’s bald spot. “There’s going to be a row, and we haven’t even been here five minutes.”

  “Oh, let them squabble.” Andrew Collins straightened up, adjusting the heavy box of books he had in his arms. “They finally have rooms to fight over.”

  Sarah tried to look stern but failed miserably. She was about to follow him inside when she stopped and looked back along the short drive.

  “Well, come along Daphne, or the little ones will take all the good rooms!”

  Daphne Collins stood just within the small iron gate, staring up at the house. She had her father’s height and lean build, and her mother’s deep red hair and porcelain complexion. Her normally rosy cheeks were pale, and her green eyes were staring transfixed at the new house she was to call home.

  Her hair stood on end.

  You’re being silly, Daphne told herself. There’s nothing wrong here. It can’t be.

  But she still took a conscious step forward, keeping her eyes and ears open. The front door was invitingly open, the small strip of potted flowers that ran underneath the bay windows at the front of the house looked cheerful under the summer sun. It looked like a gingerbread house; the stuff of fairytales.

  Yeah, and that fairytale had a witch that wanted to eat children.

  Daphne stepped into the front hall. She had been really excited about the move. She had been looking forward to finally having a room to herself, seventeen being no age to share your space with a nosy fifteen-year old sister. But now she wasn’t so sure.

  The living room was right off the main hall, a large space big enough for a family of six. There was an old moldy sofa shoved against a wall, looking conspicuous against the fresh blue wallpaper.