Room 9 and Other Ghost Stories

by Amy Cross

  He waited, but now Tom glanced around nervously, almost as if he was worried they were being watched.

  “What's happened?” Martin asked again, taking a step closer. “Is some stupid bugger trying to stir shit up? Is someone asking about what happened to Danny?”

  Again he waited, but again Tom seemed too scared to reply.

  “Who is it and what do they want?” Martin asked. “How much do they know about what happened back then?”

  “It's worse than that,” Tom replied, his voice trembling with fear. “It's so much worse, Martin.”

  “Well spit it out, then,” Martin said, unable to hide his irritation. “Don't show up here and then get all vague, man. Tell me who's sniffing around.”

  “I saw him!”

  “You saw who?”

  “You know who!” Tom hissed.

  “No, mate, I don't.” He hesitated. “No-one else knew about what happened to Danny, did they? I certainly never told anyone so -”

  “I saw Danny!”

  “Huh?”

  “Daniel Dowd!” Tom spat. “I've been seeing him! Not just once, several times.” He glances around again, his eyes flicking constantly as if he was convinced someone else was nearby. “I swear to God, I've seen Daniel Dowd a dozen times over the past two weeks. I've seen him, Martin. He's been in lots of different places. All in London, so far, but he might have followed me here as well.”

  “You...”

  Martin's voice trailed off for a moment as he watched Tom's frantic, almost wild demeanor. And then, slowly, Martin felt a sense of relief trickling into his chest.

  “Well, bugger that,” he said with a relaxed sigh, putting a hand on Tom's shoulder, “you almost have me worried for a minute there, mate. I thought maybe something had actually happened.”

  Tom turned to him, clearly aghast at his reaction.

  “Listen,” Martin continued, “I'd invite you in for a snifter, but to be honest I don't see any point in raking through the past. It was nice to see you again, but I'm not in the mood for reunions. I hope you don't think I'm being rude. Hell, I suppose I am being rude, but we agreed a long time ago that we'd never talk about Danny again, and that we'd never cross paths either.” He paused, and now he was beginning to feel sorry for his old pal Tom Hollander, who clearly wasn't doing so well these days. “Are you still living in London?” he asked. “Still with Molly? Get back up to her and stop wasting your -”

  “I saw him!”

  Martin sighed.

  “First in the Dog and Duck,” Tom continued. “It was a busy night, and I was getting ratted as usual, and then I looked through the crowd and I saw him. At first I thought it was just someone who looked like him, but he was staring at him with this look of pure hate. I couldn't handle it, I had to leave. I told myself I'd just had a little too much to drink, but then a few nights later I saw him in the street near my flat.”

  “No, mate, you didn't.”

  “I swear it was him!”

  “And you'd been drinking that night too, had you?”

  “I didn't imagine it!”

  “Tom, old chap...”

  “He was right there, staring at me! He's coming after me! Don't you get it? It was him, and he's coming after me, and I swear to God every time I see him he's a little bit closer, like he's -”

  “Daniel Dowd is dead!” Martin said firmly, finally losing his temper and stepping closer to Tom, shoving him back against the fence. “The man is long gone, so don't come down here spouting all this bullshit. What happened was horrible and unfortunate, but we've put it in the past and nobody will gain by dredging it all up now! Do you understand?”

  “But -”

  “Nobody will gain!” Martin sneered. “You'll just be reopening old wounds! For everyone! Including Val and his kids! So if you're on some kind of righteous mission that you think will make everyone feel better, you're out of your fucking mind! Go home, mate, and get back to forgetting that any of this ever happened!” He paused for a moment, before stepping back. He felt a little breathless now. “Go home,” he said again, “and forget about it. We're both old men now, buddy, and we've kept this secret for a long time. Not much longer to go now, eh? Another ten years, we'll probably both be in our graves. Come on, let's not rock the boat now. Life's good, isn't it? Don't you feel the sun on your face? Life's too good to ruin it by getting hysterical.”

  “You haven't seen him?” Tom asked, his face white now with fear.

  “Of course I haven't bloody seen him, and neither have you. Now I meant what I said, Tom. Leave it be. Don't upset other people, including Val and the boys, just because you think it'll make you feel better about yourself. Because it won't.”

  He waited, but he was starting to think that he'd finally made his point. There was a part of him that wanted to invite Tom inside for a drink, to really hammer things home, but at the same time he really didn't want to prolong this agonizing experience any longer. Feeling rather ruffled and disrupted, he finally force a smile that even he knew was unconvincing.

  “So that's the end of it,” he said. “Goodbye, Tom. I'm sorry we can't catch up and remember old times but... Well, you understand. Best not to, eh?”

  And with that, he turned and walked to his gate, before swinging it open and then making his way to the back door of the beautiful little cottage he'd bought long ago for his retirement.

  “You'll see!” Tom called after him, his voice shaking with fear. “I'm right, I saw him! And if he's come for me, he'll come for you too!”

  “Hogwash,” Martin muttered under his breath as he slammed the door shut.

  Taking a deep breath, he stood for a moment in the silent hallway, and then he glanced back out the window. For a momen he saw only his own reflection in the brightly-lit hallway, but when he switched the lights off the house was plunged into darkness and he could finally see outside. He half expected to spot Tom storming to the door, but instead he was relieved to see that his visitor was walking away. Framed against the calm sea as he headed to his car, Tom looked like a hunched, defeated old man.

  “Good riddance,” Martin whispered, feeling increasingly angry that his retirement had – however briefly – been interrupted. His own reflection was dark, barely visible in the window'. “And fuck off.”

  III

  “Sounds like a bad night ahead,” Crabbett chuckled as Martin stepped into the pub, at the same moment that a rumble of thunder filled the air outside. “Better batten down the hatches.”

  “Hmph,” Martin muttered, already annoyed as he saw that some inconsiderate oik was sitting on his bar stool.

  The pub was almost empty. Why did some idiot have to take that particular stool?

  “Did that chap catch up to you?” Crabbett asked. “He was in here again a while ago, but he didn't ask about you this time. He just sat in the corner, nursing a drink and looking like he was absolutely bloody terrified of something.”

  “We had a brief exchange,” Martin said, finally letting the door swing shut behind him as he stepped into the pub. Glancing at the clock on the wall, he saw that it was almost 7pm. He'd been napping at home all afternoon, and he'd slept off the effects of his earlier G&Ts. Now he quite fancied another.

  “He looked like he was at death's door,” Crabbett suggested merrily. “I see your stool's been nabbed, old man. I suppose that means you'll have to sit with me.”

  “Curse the -”

  Stopping suddenly, Martin realized that he had no choice. Any other bar stool would feel wrong somehow, and he didn't want to be the kind of curmudgeonly old fart who'd chase a visitor off his preferred perch, so with a sigh he wandered to the bar, where Debbie already had his drink waiting.

  “Double?” he asked.

  “Already on the tab, darling.”

  Taking the drink back over to the table, he sat down and glanced out at the beach. Night had fallen now, and apart from the empty benches he could see nothing out there at all. He couldn't help thinking of the sea, though, and im
agining that endless darkness spreading out from the shore. After a moment he realized he could see his own reflection in the glass, and he stared at his white hair and white beard. He was still a big man, with broad shoulders, but youth had long ago left him and now – in his sixties – he didn't much like these reminders of his mortality.

  “Penny for them, old man?” Crabbett asked. “Having a dark night of the soul, are you?”

  “Like hell I am,” Martin replied, turning and taking a sip of his G&T. “And no so much of the old man talk, thanks. You're in your seventies, remember? You're the old one here.”

  “You're on edge. Did something spook you today?”

  “Of course not. Don't be stupid.”

  “Just an observation.”

  Martin took another, longer sip from his glass. He was already halfway through the drink, but he was in the mood for several more.

  “Funny-looking fellow, that chap earlier,” Crabbett mused. “I tried talking to him, but he wasn't having any of it. Seemed to want to keep himself to himself. I kept an eye on him, though. He just sat with that pint for a couple of hours, real furtive and rather suspicious. And then do you know what he did?”

  Martin glanced at him.

  “Suddenly he sprang up, like he was spooked,” Crabbett continued, with that same grin he'd had plastered on his face at lunchtime. “He mumbled something and then he hurried out, almost knocking over some chairs in the process.” He turned and nodded toward the far corner of the bar, toward the spot where the bulb had gone a few days earlier and hadn't been replaced, leaving that particular area rather dark. “He was looking over there the whole time, like he was bloody terrified. Then he bundled himself out of the place and hurried off down the road like he was properly scared. To be honest, he didn't seem quite right in the head.”

  “I suppose not,” Martin replied. He looked down at his drink for a moment, but then he glanced over at the pub's darkest corner. He could just about make out the pictures on the wall, but he couldn't help thinking that the darkness seemed somehow darker than usual.

  He waited, just in case he began to make out the shape of a man, but of course no such shape appeared.

  “Bollocks,” he murmured, before taking another sip and – to his surprise – finishing the drink in a gulp.

  “Did you say something?” Crabbett asked.

  “I said it's all bollocks,” he replied, getting to his feet and carrying his empty glass to the bar. “Everything. The whole lot. The world is full of absolute shite.”

  “Same again?” Debbie asked as he slammed the glass down. “Careful. Don't break it.”

  “Same again,” Martin said, and then he began drumming his fingers against the bar as he waited for her to get his drink ready. She was taking too long, but he didn't want to start barking orders so he resolved to be patient.

  And then, slowly, he realized he could feel someone staring at the back of his head. He told himself the sensation was nonsense, but as the seconds passed he felt more than ever that someone was definitely watching him from the far end of the room. He was not – and never had been – a superstitious man, so he told himself that he was simply letting the day's events get to him. At the same time, however, the sensation was becoming stronger and stronger, until he felt as if something was burning into the back of his neck. He told himself that the only thing behind him was the far, dark corner of the pub, that all he'd see if he turned would be a gloomy table and some empty chairs set against a pitch-black window, but the urge was growing.

  “Come on with that drink,” he murmured, although Debbie was still only pouring the gin.

  He'd been waiting seconds, that was all, even if it felt like an eternity.

  “There's nothing there,” he whispered, picturing in his mind the dark corner and the complete lack of anything that he'd see if he turned.

  And turning to look, he told himself, would be tantamount to giving in to superstition. It would be the first step on the path to turning into Tom bloody Holland, and that wouldn't do at all.

  “We're out of tonic,” Debbie said suddenly. “Hang on, I'll get some from the cellar.”

  “For Christ's sake!” he muttered as she headed through the door.

  Reaching up, he scratched the back of his neck in a vain attempt to get rid of that damnable itch. He felt he was starting to sweat now, as if the effort of not looking over his shoulder was driving him around the bend. Finally, reasoning that not looking was just as bad as looking in the circumstances, he decided to just get the situation over with.

  He turned to look at the dark, unlit corner.

  And he saw lights.

  Flashing blue and red and white lights, dancing across the smeared window.

  There was nobody sitting at the table, of course, but somewhere in the distance beyond the pub there were flashing lights on the coastal road that ran past the village.

  “I wonder what that is,” Crabbett said, evidently seeing the same thing.

  Without replying, Martin wandered over to the dark corner and stopped at the window, squinting slightly so as to better see out. Sure enough, there were a couple of police cars parked by the side of the road about two hundred feet away. Lights were flashing, and as he squinted a little more Martin realized he could just about make out another car parked on the verge.

  A battered little red thing.

  Tom Holland's car.

  “Poor bastard,” Debbie said, and Martin turned to see that she'd returned with his tonic.

  “What?” he asked, as a cold sweat rippled across his brow.

  “Didn't you hear?” she continued nonchalantly, pouring the tonic in with the gin. “Some guy was found dead in a car along the road. You didn't hear this from me, 'cause they haven't said anything officially, but I heard from Glenda that apparently the guy had gassed himself. You know, with a rubber hose fitted to the exhaust?”

  IV

  “Fucking nonsense!” Martin muttered as he stormed along the unlit shingle path that led to his cottage. “Absolute relentless bullshit of the highest order!”

  Reaching the gate, he fumbled for a moment with the latch. He'd opened that gate thousands of times before, even after a night of G&Ts, but this time the latch seemed to dance and slip away from his fingers. Eventually he managed to get it open, while muttering assorted curse words under his breath, and then he hurried along the path that led to his back door.

  “What is wrong with people these days?” he asked out loud, fishing his keys from his pocket with trembling hands. “They've all taken leave of their -”

  Before he could finish, the keys somehow bumped out of his hands and fell, jangling as they hit the path. Looking down, Martin sighed as he realized he couldn't see a damn thing, and then he crouched down next to the step and began to feel around in the dark.

  “Come on, where are you?” he hissed, annoyed by his own stupidity. He was not a man who tended to drop keys, and somehow the wretched things were now eluding his attempts to gather them back up. Try as he might, he just couldn't find where the keys had fallen.

  And then he heard the gate clink.

  “Huh?”

  Turning, he looked back along the dark path, but all he saw were the garden bushes silhouetted against the night sky. He waited a moment, but there was absolutely no way anybody could be in the garden without being seen, even though he was certain he'd heard someone just a few seconds earlier.

  He waited, and now his heart was pounding.

  “Who's there?” he called out.

  Immediately, he realized that he sounded like an absolute fool. Forcing himself to stay focused, he resumed the task of searching for his keys, and finally he found them nestled in the nook of the concrete step. With a rush of relief, he got to his feet and fumbled a little to get the main key into the lock, but eventually he was able to open the door and step into his well-lit hallway.

  Turning, he shut and locked the door, and then he tried the handle just to make doubly certain that it was
secure. Peering out, he could barely see the garden now. He could only really see his own reflection in the glass.

  Sighing, he took a step back, relieved to be back in the house but – at the same time – fully aware that there was no reason to be relieved. He was, he told himself, simply allowing himself to get spooked.

  Tom Holland was dead.

  That was the truth of the matter.

  Tom Holland, one of his oldest and dearest friends from back in the day, had apparently gassed himself to death in a car. He might not have wanted to speak to Tom earlier in the day, but Martin had fond memories of his time working on the London papers, when he and Tom had spent their days working on adjacent desks and their evenings either carousing in nearby pubs or grumbling about having to get home to their wives. They'd been tight, best friends even, and now Tom was gone. Everyone in the office had always known that Tom and Martin were an inseparable duo.

  Well, no, maybe that wasn't quite true.

  It hadn't been Tom and Martin.

  It had been Tom and Martin and Danny-boy.

  The terrible trio, they'd been affectionately dubbed. Always out drinking, getting into trouble and then somehow managing to churn out copy for the next day's issue. Those had been the great years of Martin's life, far greater than his retirement in a little seaside spot, and now he was the only one left.

  Tom and Dan were gone.

  Suddenly the silence of the cottage seemed deafening, and Martin stood in the hallway for a moment before feeling compelled to take out his phone and bring up Jane's number. His hands were still trembling, but he managed to place the call and then he waited, listening to the tone while trying to work out how he'd not sound flustered.

  “Hello darling,” Jane drawled when she picked up, her voice betrayed the fact that she was clearly drunk. “I'm afraid I can't possibly make it over to you tonight, I've had far too much to drink.”

  “That's alright,” he replied, forcing a chuckle in a desperate attempt to sound jovial. “I was actually thinking of hopping into a taxi and -”

  “Well, I'm at Emma's, you see,” she added, “in London.”