Room 9 and Other Ghost Stories

by Amy Cross

  “You're in London?” he stammered, horrified that his chance to go over to her place for the night was ruined. “You didn't tell me you were going to London tonight.”

  “I don't tell you everything I do, darling,” she replied. “We're not married, remember?”

  He paused, his mind racing with possibilities.

  “Are you okay?” Jane asked finally. “You don't often call me on weeknights. Is anything wrong?”

  “Wrong?” He forced another laugh, this time a big, loud guffaw that he instantly realized sounded totally fake. At the same time, he glanced at a framed photo on the wall, showing him receiving a prize at his retirement dinner ten years earlier. He looked so much younger in that picture, so much stronger. Not like a scared old man having a mild panic attack. “Of course nothing's wrong. I just thought I might pop over, that's all, but it's not a big deal.”

  “Aren't you in the pub?”

  He glanced at the clock and saw that it was barely 8pm.

  “I thought I'd take an early night,” he explained, somewhat unconvincingly.

  “You're not feeling ill, are you?”

  “Have fun with Emma,” he replied. “Don't mind me. I'll see you when you get back.”

  “But -”

  “Have a glass on me.”

  With that, he cut the call. He looked down at his phone, waiting in case Jane – who'd clearly picked up on something in his voice – called back to check on him. After a minute or so, realizing that there'd be no call, he set his phone on the hall table and then looked toward the back door.

  He was being an idiot, he told himself.

  He was being like all those histrionic, uncontrolled lunatics he always detested so much.

  Still, his hands were trembling, and he realized he needed a little strengthening. Heading through to the front room, he made his way straight to the drinks cabinet and began to pour himself a double – no, triple – whiskey. Ideally he'd have preferred some ice, but on this occasion he had no time to go through to the kitchen so instead he simply downed the entire drink in one go, savoring the burning sensation at the back of his throat before setting the glass down and letting out a loud, shuddering gasp.

  “Fuck, yes!” he muttered, spotting his reflection in a glass panel on the cabinet's door. “I'm no -”

  Suddenly he saw something moving in the reflection, as if somebody was behind him on the far side of the room. He spun around instinctively, but of course there was nobody else in the room with him. Still, for a moment he stood in complete silence, struggling for a few seconds to remind himself that he was being a fool.

  There was nobody there.

  “There's nobody there,” he whispered.

  The house was silent.

  “There's nobody there,” he said again.

  The burning sensation was fading from his throat, so he turned and poured himself another – larger – whiskey. He knew he'd end up getting pretty drunk, but he supposed that passing out on the sofa for the night wouldn't be too bad, especially since he could now hear windswept rain getting blown against the window. A moment later, as if to emphasize the bad weather outside, he heard another rumble of thunder high above the cottage.

  “Some nice pathetic fallacy there,” he grumbled as he took a slow sip of the latest whiskey. “Almost too neat and convenient, really.”

  Another rumble of thunder boomed in the distance, this time causing the nearby window to rattle.

  Glancing over, Martin saw only his own reflection in the window's glass. The room was so bright, it was impossible to see the dark garden beyond, but he felt a flash of relief as he saw that he was indeed completely alone in the room. There were no nasty ghosts or ghoulies sneaking up behind him.

  He glanced once more at the framed photo.

  “That's the man I am,” he whispered, feeling a flicker of pride in his chest. “Not some pathetic, scaredy-cat little pussy.”

  He stared at the photo for a moment longer, before finishing his whiskey and turning to pour another.

  Suddenly a cracking sound rang out through the room. Startled, Martin turned and looked over his shoulder. There was no-one with him, of course, but then he looked at the photo and saw that the glass in the frame had cracked, as if something had hit it right on the section over his beaming face. The impact had left fracture lines running in all directions to the edge of the frame, like a spider's web in glass.

  “What the hell?” he muttered, taking a few steps over and then stopping to examine the damage. He reached out to touch the glass, before thinking better of risking a cut finger.

  He tilted his head slightly, peering at the cracks. He had no idea what might have caused the damage, but after a moment he spotted his own face reflected in the glass and -

  “What?” he gasped, spinning around as soon as he spotted another face in the reflection, one that seemed to be just a few steps behind him.

  He looked around the room. Again, there was no sign of anyone, but his heart was racing and he knew with absolute certainty that for a fraction of a second he had seen a second face in the glass. Not just any face, either. He'd seen...

  “Daniel,” he whispered.

  The name sent a chill down his spine.

  He'd seen Daniel. Daniel Dowd. A face he'd avoided seeing – in photographs, in any form whatsoever – had finally found him and had been standing right behind him just a moment earlier. The glimpse hadn't been blurry or muddied in any way; it had been clear and bright, and Daniel's eyes had been staring straight at him.

  And he'd been closer this time.

  Closer than when he'd seen him a few minutes earlier, as if Daniel was slowly edging up behind Martin and...

  And what? Coming for him, like in some second-rate horror story about a vengeful spirit?

  “Bullshit!” Martin sneered, still looking around the room in order to assure himself that there was nobody nearby. No matter how hard he tried to be rational, superstition and fear still fizzed in his belly, finally rising up as anger: “Fuck you, Tom Holland, for coming here and stirring all this shit up again. Fuck you for turning into a nervous wreck and trying to infect me with your madness before you went and topped yourself. Fuck you for lettings doubts into your mind.”

  He paused for a moment, but the fear was only getting stronger.

  “We didn't do anything wrong!” he shouted finally. “I told you that at the time! We were all drunk, it was just an accident! There was no point telling anyone, it wouldn't have helped! It was better to just leave it, to cover it up and...”

  His voice trailed off for a moment.

  “I know people got a little crazy about it all,” he continued. “They came up with fanciful ideas about what had happened to poor bloody Daniel. Maybe if his body had ever shown up, things would have been different. I know Val and the kids live in hope that one day he might show up, but it's not our place to interfere. It was an accident, and nobody – not even Danny himself – would thank us for stirring things up now.”

  He waited.

  Thunder rumbled again, and rain was falling harder than ever against the window.

  “We didn't do anything wrong,” he said finally. “Danny's death wasn't our fault, Tom, so fuck you for turning up here after all this time and pissing me off! And people would only ask questions, they'd think we should have done more to help him. They wouldn't understand, they...”

  He paused again, breathless this time.

  After a moment he removed his glasses and wiped a smear he'd just noticed. He was muttering under his breath now as he used the bottom of his shirt to get the glasses clean. By the time he was done, and by the time he put his glasses back on, he was edging for another whiskey.

  He turned back to the drinks cabinet.

  Suddenly something bumped behind him.

  Startled, he turned around and saw that the table next to the sofa was shaking slightly, as if it had been knocked. There was nobody nearby, of course, but he watched as the table finally came to a r
est.

  “And why would a ghost do that, huh?” he asked out loud as he continued to look around the room. “Is that your plan, Daniel? Have you come back to bump a few things, to really freak me out? Why don't you slam some doors next, or make the lights flicker, eh? Better still, rattle some fucking chains!”

  He waited, but only a fraction of a second before yelling:

  “Do something, then! If you're going to haunt me, haunt me! Just get on with it, you lazy bastard!”

  His voice really roared now. He looked up at the mini chandelier that hung directly above him. That thing had been a gift from an ex-girlfriend, and it had seemed terribly ostentatious at the time. Now, however, as Martin stared up at the chandelier he saw that it seemed to be swaying slightly. Or did it? Now it was still again, and he wasn't sure whether it had moved at all.

  “Bugger this,” he grumbled, heading to the drinks cabinet and pouring another whiskey. His hands were trembling worse than ever, but he no longer even cared.

  The neck of the bottle clanked repeatedly against the glass as he tipped out the last of contents.

  There.

  A perfectly good single malt, all used up.

  “Thanks again, Tom,” he muttered, before taking a sip. “Fucking arsehole, coming here and freaking me -”

  Suddenly somebody tapped him on the shoulder, and he spun around so fast that the glass flew from his hand and hit the wall.

  There was nobody behind him, but he reached up and touched his left shoulder in the spot where he'd felt the tapping sensation.

  The glass hit the carpet without breaking, but all the whiskey spilled out and stained the shag-pile a darker color.

  Martin waited.

  The room was bright, and wind and rain still howled outside in the dark garden.

  Martin's lips moved slightly. He almost called out, but he managed to stop himself. His heart was pounding at double, maybe even triple, time by now, and he could hear and feel a constant drumming sound in his ears.

  And the room was cold.

  He hadn't noticed until now, but the room – the house, even – was so bloody cold.

  Time for bed, he realized, although that prospect didn't exactly fill his heart with hope. He was already imagining himself flat on his back in the dark, listening to every noise in the house. Would the paranoia become worse? And even if he managed to sleep, would he only dream of Danny and of Tom, and of all their adventures when they were younger men? Worse, would he dream of that awful night when Danny had slipped and fallen into the river, when he and Tom had heard a brief, plaintive cry for help reaching up from the darkness below the railing, when finally the sound of the rushing river had left them standing all alone? Or would he dream of poor Val, Tom's wife, and her garbled, hysterical insistence at the funeral that Dan was still alive and that somehow, some day he'd show up? There was so much nightmare material in the memories Tom's visit had dredged up, and Martin had been through all those awful dreams once before.

  He didn't much fancy going through them again.

  “I'm exhausted,” he said finally, removing his glasses and trying again to get rid of the smudge. “God, I can't handle this any longer.”

  Once he was done with the glasses and had put them back on, he reached down and picked up the whiskey glass. He gasped as he felt a twinge of pain in his back, but he just about managed to stand up straight again without too much trouble. He was an old man, but not so old as to be infirm or incapable.

  Still, rather than taking the glass through to the kitchen, he set it on the mantelpiece. And as for the whiskey stain on the carpet, he supposed that would simply dry overnight and be gone by the morning.

  Everything would be alright by the morning.

  And finally, slowly, Martin Tugwell began to chuckle at the absurdity of it all.

  “You nearly got me,” he said, glancing at the room's reflection in the window. “I'm made of stronger stuff than that, but you nearly got me, old boy. You're not -”

  Then he saw the letter.

  At first he froze, staring at the reflection of the sofa and at the piece of paper that seemed to have been balanced on one of the arms. He told himself that he was wrong, that it was something else, but the more he stared the more he realized that there was a piece of paper. And when he finally turned and looked down at the sofa itself, he felt a shudder in his chest as he saw the crumpled, rain-spattered lined sheet covered in messy handwriting.

  There had been no piece of paper a few minutes ago, when he'd first come into the room.

  He looked around, once again checking for any sign of an intruder, but there was no-one to see. He could feel real fear in his heart now, but he knew he had to take a closer look so he stepped over to the sofa and – with a shaking hand – picked up the paper.

  Somehow, even after all these years, he still recognized Tom's handwriting from their days at the newspaper.

  “Fuck,” he muttered under his breath as he squinted and tried to read the scrawl. “What is this bullshit, anyway?”

  To whom it may concern,

  My name is Thomas Holland. Ten years ago, my friend Daniel Boyd died during a night out. Martin Tugwell was with us. Daniel's body was never found, and I know some people believe he might still alive, but I can't handle the guilt anymore. I have to tell the truth.

  Daniel fell into the river, at the point just past the Kipper's Head pub in Camden. It happened just before midnight. I don't know why his body was never found, but I know there are some sewage systems near that spot, so I suppose he was washed into one of those. Martin and I decided not to tell anyone, because we knew we'd be blamed. The truth is, we were partially to blame. We'd dared Daniel to climb out and retrieve his phone, which he'd dropped. We laughed and told him to stop being a pussy. So he climbed out, he slipped, and he died.

  I've lived with the guilt for the past decade, but tonight I need to put everything to rest. I'm so sorry for his family, and I don't expect to ever be forgiven. All I want now is peace, and to no longer live in fear.

  Martin read the letter again, but already he understood that this must have been written by Tom right before he switched on his car's engine and gassed himself.

  And somehow, the letter had then ended up in Martin's house.

  A trick.

  It had to be a trick.

  “Is this supposed to be funny?” he called out, looking over toward the hallway. “Is this someone's sick idea of a joke, eh? Come on, let's get this over with! Show your fucking selves!”

  He waited, but all he heard was the wind and the rain outside.

  “I've had enough,” he added with a sigh, before setting the letter down. He still had no idea how the damn thing had ended up inside the house, but he supposed Tom must have put it through the letterbox earlier in the evening, and then somehow – he had no idea exactly how – it had ended up on the sofa.

  Maybe a freak gust of wind had been responsible.

  Exhausted now, he rubbed his shoulder before heading over to switch off the light so he could retire to bed. He put his finger on the switch but then hesitated, staring out at the garden. The lounge was well lit, of course, so all he could see was the room itself reflected in the patio door, including his own face and the smile he'd finally recovered. Rain was battering the other side of the glass, and he could just about make out a few flecks dribbling down the pane as he stared at his own face and realized he was now the only survivor. Poor Danny was long gone, and now Tom was gone as well.

  And in truth, he'd always been worried about Tom, worried that he might spill the beans. So long as there was no wretched suicide note in that gas-filled car, the truth had well and truly been buried now. Only Martin remained to remember what had happened on the night when Daniel had died, and that was a secret he was going to take to his grave. For his own sake, for Daniel's sake, for the sake of Val and the kids too. For everyone.

  “Good night,” he whispered, still staring at his reflection. “God bless.”

&nbs
p; With that, he switched off the light, plunging the lounge into darkness.

  The reflection instantly changed. Instead of the room, he now saw the rain-dashed window with more rain falling all the time. He saw his own face, too, but much less clearly than before. And then, just as he was about to turn away, he saw another face right over his shoulder, staring straight at him. It was the face of Daniel Dowd, and although he tried to tell himself that he was imagining the whole thing, Martin quickly felt a hand on the back of his shoulder, and he watched the reflection with a growing sense of horror as he saw Daniel's pale, rotten face leaning closer.

  V

  “I'm just in shock,” Crabbett said the following morning, sitting at his favorite table in the pub with a cup of coffee. “He was like a bull. He seemed like the fittest man in Christendom.”

  “Did he give any indication to you, last night, that he was feeling unwell?” the police officer asked. “Anything at all?”

  “No, nothing.”

  “He didn't mention any pains or aches?”

  Crabbett shook his head.

  The officer made a note.

  “And did he say anything about a gentleman by the name of Thomas Holland?” he asked.

  “Who?”

  “Mr. Holland was an old friend of Mr. Tugwell's. He was in the area, and unfortunately he was found deceased inside a vehicle not far from here.” The officer paused. “It's probably a coincidence, but we'd like to make sure. I'm sure you'll understand.”

  “There was someone looking for Martin yesterday,” Crabbett replied. “I don't know if they ended up talking. I think they did, but I don't know what it was about. You don't think that could have anything to do with what happened to poor Martin, do you?”

  “I don't see how,” the officer replied.

  “And it was definitely a heart attack?”

  “The coroner will make a determination, but that's how it seems.”

  “No foul play, as they call it?” Crabbett asked.

  “I'm not at liberty to say, but we're not treating Mr. Tugwell's death as suspicious.”