In memory of Monty
Chapter One
IT FELT SO real.
He walked towards his workplace in the lower grounds of Amiton town centre, his winklepickers tip-tapping on murky cobbles. The chill and dampness in the air left no doubt that it was early morning.
A red-headed girl spun circles near the fountain feature and fell into his path, causing him to sidestep. He apologised for the near collision. As he carried on his way, the girl scurried off to her mother, who was setting up a stall for business.
He smiled. Halloween decorations filled the shop windows: an array of ghouls, pumpkins, witches, and vampires. ‘Happy Halloween’ was found in orange, black, purple, and white, and in one gruesome display, a blood-red dripping font.
To one side, a lady was rearranging her window layout in preparation for opening. She caught his eyes and gave a friendly nod. He reciprocated, adding a wave.
The morning was as peaceful as a cat asleep.
Perched out the front of his workplace was a seagull, squatting as if waiting for the shop to open. No other birds flocked overhead.
There was nothing strange about seagulls in Amiton, of course, but this one appeared to be staring. Directly at him. The eeriness of it made his bones fidget. Stupid seagull.
The screeching of tyres came from above. He stopped. His gaze shot to the upper grounds. The seagull reacted instantly, smoothly jumping into flight as if it had known the harsh cries were coming.
There was no way to see the commotion from where he stood. The fifty-foot wall separating the upper and lower grounds had switchback stairs up the side and a low wall along the top to protect people from falling.
Echoes. The sounds of metal scraping, twisting, crunching. Police sirens wailed in the distance. He couldn’t see at this angle, but he imagined a car had crashed at high speed, flipped, and had begun to roll.
After a thud, something finally came into view. A woman. The car must have hit her hard. She was vaulted over the wall a great distance and fell to the lower grounds. She hit the cobbles.
Did he hear her skull crack open, or was that her neck breaking? Maybe both—and more.
He snapped out of it.
*
Whoa. He opened his eyes and had to blink a few times. That was too real, too disturbing. It would teach him a lesson for meditating at work. But what had he been trying to accomplish, anyway?
Usually he would visualise his dream future, attempt to meet some kind of deity, or ask his ‘higher self’ for guidance. This time his intentions had been vague, losing him in a creepily realistic daydream.
I really am screwed up, imagining a woman fall to her death, he told himself, but he didn’t truly believe it. He was just Nicolas Jack Crystan, or Nick, for short, and what could he think of his life? He was twenty-four, had no future plans, was always striving for enlightenment (whatever that was), and worked in a crystal shop.
A Crystan working in a crystal shop called Creaky Crystals, he mused with a halfhearted laugh. Then a customer startled him.
‘Excuse me …’ whined a lady with a scrunched-up face.
Nick straightened up behind the counter, then tried to portray alert-and-ready-to-serve the best he could. His workplace was in the corner of a large shopping street named The Fallend, snug against the high wall that separated the upper and lower grounds. ‘How can I help?’
‘Oh, so you are working … not just taking a nap?’ She gave a broad smile, her sarcasm potent and ugly.
‘Sorry; it’s been a quiet day. What can I do for you?’ He couldn’t help but observe her choice of clothing. She looked like a witch in a kids’ school play, minus the green face paint but plus an absurd amount of jewellery. What concerned him was the realisation that she was serious in her selection of garments.
‘Do you sell any other wands?’ Her eyes widened. ‘I don’t like the ones on display. They don’t feel right.’
‘They’re all we have in stock. Sorry.’
‘You’re not going to check out the back for me?’ She retracted her head, creating a double chin.
‘I know what stock we have, and there are no more wands.’
‘Can you go and check anyway? In case you’ve missed some.’
‘No … Sorry. I’d be wasting your time.’
‘I’m not in a hurry.’ God, this woman was relentless.
‘Trust me, there are no more wands out the back,’ he said with finality. He caught his reflection in the shop window and ruffled his brown hair, then let it settle, looking stylishly dishevelled. With an uneasy feeling, he realised he was staring at the spot where the woman in his daydream had hit the ground: directly out the front of the store.
‘Just so you know,’ the customer continued her whining, ‘the other tourist shops around here have a wider range of items. Why is your store so limited?’ She seemed to ask with genuine interest.
Please get a life. ‘I’m sorry to hear that, but my manager is happy with our range of products. If you’re not happy, then feel free to buy from those other shops you mentioned.’
The woman huffed, declaring, ‘I will shop elsewhere!’ then stormed out.
Oops—slight guilt. He hadn’t meant to upset the lady, but she was rude from the start of the conversation, and Nick was getting sick and tired of all the witch wannabes waddling around Amiton. It was something he couldn’t avoid, though, due to the history of Lansin Island and the fact that he worked in a tourist shop aimed at those interested in its dark past.
Amiton, the largest town on the island, was where all the tourists got off the ferry and did their shopping. Nick liked the customers interested in witchcraft and the island’s history, but not the witch wannabes who researched Wicca on the Internet, read an article on some naff website, then declared themselves High Priestess of this, that, and the other. Some would shove their views down his throat and threaten to hex him when his customer service skills were poor, which was most of the time.
‘Nicolas.’ Her voice was delicate yet held great authority.
Nick spun to address her. ‘Yeah, Mora?’
She was a short, plump lady in her late forties and had a calm demeanour, cropped medium-brown hair, and green eyes. Her complexion was so yellowy-white that if she were to lie down with her eyes closed, you’d think she was dead … or at least severely ill.
‘That lady didn’t seem too impressed with you.’
‘Yeah … I suggested she shop elsewhere.’
‘You sent a customer away?’
‘She was rude to me.’
‘Okay, Nicolas, but I’d prefer it if your pride didn’t affect our profits in the future.’ It was almost impossible to be offended by anything Mora said. She was a careful thinker and spoke only her mind. Nick liked that about her.
‘I forgot to mention … She didn’t like your wands and said our store is limited compared to the others in Amiton.’
Mora’s jaw dropped. After a moment spent composing herself, she came out with, ‘Stuff her, then! The grumpy sod can shop elsewhere.’
Nick laughed with his manager.
‘Nicolas …’ Mora dawdled off and stood by the table with divination and tarot cards stacked on top. ‘I think more items have been stolen.’ She shook her head, compressed her lips.
‘Really?’
‘I don’t remember selling any of these today, though I could swear there were more here this morning.’
Nick shrugged and wished he knew what to say. Mora toddled back over to him rather solemnly, then said, ‘Never mind. Will you keep an eye out for me? Look out for suspicious customers?’
‘Of course.’ He gave an enthusiastic nod.
‘You can get going if you want. It’s not so busy. I’ll lock up and get the cleaning done.’ She scanned the store, then returned her eyes to him. ‘And don’t worry; I’ll pay you for the whole shift.’ After a sweet smile, she took his place behind the glass counter.
In comparison to Mora, Nick felt like a giant. She was maybe f
ive feet tall. He noticed the height difference more when she sat down. It didn't bother him much when other staff members were about, but when it was just the two of them, he felt almost obliged to slouch.
‘Thank you. I’ll see you on Friday.’ He scuttled out the back to grab his jacket and then hurried out of the store, waving to Mora on his exit.
Two full-timers, Janet and Alan, had worked nine to five and had already left. As a part-timer, Nick was meant to work twelve to six and then help close up. He checked the time on his mobile: 5:23 p.m. Not bad. He smiled.
His black Vauxhall Corsa nearly failed to start up. With a huff, he looked at the petrol gauge, which was pointing below the ‘E’ (as it always seemed to), and estimated that he could squeeze a few more drives to work and back out of it before visiting a station.
On the way home, all he thought about was that disturbing daydream. The sound of the woman hitting the ground was embedded in his mind and seemed to be on replay.
None of his dreams had ever been so vivid. Even the few lucid ones he’d had were covered in a sense of unreality. But when he was inside of this daydream, he was really there … until he wasn’t, until he snapped back to reality … Or was that the reality?
Ughh … Headache. All he wanted right now was a hot chocolate and a decent film to watch or something.
Driving up Maw Street, he compared his house to the others. The fact that he couldn’t see it didn’t help much. The evening had begun to darken already and the bungalow he lived in was shrouded by trees. His neighbours’ houses were very presentable—well-kept front gardens, showy features, neatly gravelled driveways—and some weren’t even bungalows anymore but had been extended upwards and outwards.
Unfortunately for Nick, his dwelling was the lowest valued on the street.
‘You just have to do something about those awful trees,’ Aimee Price from number forty-two once passed by to tell him. The American lady lived alone and was a practising Wiccan. She had frowned at the prevalent weeds in the driveway and admitted that she couldn’t stand the thought of her relatives visiting and being subjected to the sight of Nick’s home on their way to hers.
To defend himself, Nick had explained that the enormous sycamores in the front garden were practically impossible to do anything with, the evergreen conifers were too tall to maintain, he couldn’t be asked to trim the shrubbery nor de-weed the drive, and it was the Council’s job to cut the grass on the front. But most importantly, it wasn’t any of her business. In his mind, he also added, For a Wiccan, you don’t seem to like trees much!
Miss Price had stalked off, mumbling, ‘I’m not the only one who thinks you need to sort it out.’
As Nick pulled into his drive now, an overhanging branch rattled and scratched against the roof of his car. Okay, maybe I should cut that one, at least.
He parked and got out of the vehicle. The front garden was carpeted with fallen leaves. At this time of day they were simply shadowy mounds, but in the sunlight the red-and-orange foliage would be gorgeously vivid. The neighbours may not have liked his trees, but Nick sure appreciated the privacy they offered. He locked his Corsa and headed inside number sixteen Maw Street.
After devouring a ready-made microwave meal, he flopped onto his bed, drained of energy. Before he knew it, it was three hours later. Ah, crap! Not only had he wasted the evening, but now he’d struggle to sleep tonight.
As he lay awake, the daydream from earlier played in his mind. In circles and circles, the red-headed girl spun. Yellow-rimmed eyes stared at him, grey wings beat into the air. Screeching and confusion. Metal scraping, twisting, crunching. A thud. A woman. The sounds of her body breaking.
Wednesday morning. Nothing could tempt him to leave his home, except that it was probably warmer outdoors than inside his bungalow. Goosebumps prickled over him. On impulse, he hurried towards the heating controls and made it to the panel before his senses returned.
I can’t afford to put the heating on whenever I like …
He went to find some layers, then decided to meditate. Once comfortably positioned in his room, he cleared his mind and began rhythmically breathing. Lately he’d become agitated by the smallest things, which he had boxed off to the corner of his mind, but now these things were demanding recognition.
When he noticed how not peaceful he felt, he grew irritated. The more he tried to find peace, the more restless he became.
He fidgeted.
Whatever position he sat in, it created uncomfortable tight areas from his clothes, or he became itchy, had to scratch.
Ignore it, it will go, clear your mind.
A noise interrupted him—the wild beeping of a car horn outside. He sighed.
He achieved a clear mind again. But then he was annoyed at himself for thinking, ‘My mind is clear.’ Surely his mind was not clear of thought if he was thinking it was clear of thought.
Why don’t I feel peaceful?
A pounding began in his head. He came over hot and flustered. Then his frustration steeped. He picked up a smiling Buddha ornament and smashed it against the wall, tore down posters of tranquil landscapes, then pushed over his open storage cabinet. DVDs clattered on the floor. Self-help books clunked alongside them. About to thump the wall, he stopped, not brave enough; he stomped instead.
He was fed up, completely and utterly. He could have seen this coming; he knew all these spiritual, religious, and self-help ideas weren’t working for him, but he’d kept on deceiving himself.
Maybe the Law of Attraction can help me, what about CBT, how about Witchcraft, EFT, Buddhism, Wicca, yoga, meditation, visualisation, affirmations, and every self-help book under the sun!
Yeah, sure, they all seemed to work for a while, but they never kept him happy for long. Bringing together the fingertips of his right hand, he used them to repeatedly tap the centre of his left palm. As he continued this, he mentally repeated, I’m calm, I’m focused, I’m calm, I’m focused.
It was something he’d been taught in therapy, and although it took a while, he eventually composed himself. He looked to his room. Ornaments he’d had for years were broken beyond repair. Regret made a sudden appearance in his stomach. He hated rash outbursts like this. It was like consequences were illusions and all that mattered was his rage getting its cupful of destruction. And in this case, its roomful.
His morose mood occupied the evening, but at least there was something to look forward to the next day. Kind of.
‘Hello, Nicolas.’ Thursday, at the local surgery, his therapist greeted him. ‘Come on in, have a seat.’
‘Thank you.’ He sat in his usual place, a bog-standard chair turned at a slight angle to his therapist’s. She closed the door and sat down. Nick envied how she never rushed about or huffed and puffed.
‘How have you been this week?’
‘Errh, okay, mostly.’ It was true; he’d felt good for a few days after seeing her last week.
‘Okay.’ She nodded gently, making it apparent that she wanted him to expand on his answer.
‘Well, I got a bit angry yesterday,’ he admitted. ‘I feel like I’m trying so hard to succeed at something, but I don’t know what I even want to succeed at. I’ve tried out so many self-help books and other new things that surely I should be happy about something. I see other people who don’t even seem to try, yet they have everything they want … and they are happier than me.’
There was no judgement here in the safe-bubble the therapist had created. It helped Nick understand himself.
‘You’re feeling lost?’
‘I am …’ He felt suddenly vulnerable. His therapist waited patiently and placed a box of tissues on the nearby desk.
The room was too clinical: a spare office in the surgery, full of doctors’ tools and posters. Cold and unwelcoming. But seeing as Nick received therapy free on the NHS, he couldn’t exactly complain.
When he’d originally been referred, he’d told the doctor, ‘I’ve been feeling upset frequently, at least once a week, for
a long time now.’ He was glad he hadn’t been officially diagnosed as depressed, but he was more pleased to have been taken seriously and sent on for therapy.
He pulled himself together, realising he’d become accustomed to showing weakness in front of his counsellor. Overall, though, he felt better nowadays. It was a steady climb.
‘I feel a bit better now. I don’t really know what else to say about it. I’ll just see how this week goes.’
Having cleared some emotional baggage, his mind went on a tangent. If his therapist were younger he would probably find her attractive—and the session so wouldn’t work. She was nearing fifty, looked fit as a fiddle, had good teeth, an excellent figure, and Nick doubted her blonde hair had even thought of greying. There was a genuine aura about her; each facial expression was puppeted by real emotions, not by a need for approval.
Her name was Caroline. Nicolas and Caroline Crystan …
‘How are things with your father?’ she asked without preamble. Nick shook away the odd thoughts.
‘Same as always. He’s barely changed for the past eight years … and it’s still awkward around him.’
‘Do you think he knows how awkward you feel?’
‘I doubt it. It’s like he’s on pause or something. It’s been so long now that I can’t imagine opening up to him.’
‘What if you did talk to him about it?’
‘I just don’t know. I don’t want to lay out my feelings if he’s never going to come out of his own little bubble. That would make it even more awkward ...’
She gave a neutral nod. ‘But is it a risk worth taking?’
Nick thought about it, remembering when his dad had been different—chatty, full of smiles, full of laughter. But that was before the disappearance of Nick’s mother eight years ago.
Nick was sixteen when it happened, his brothers only ten. Their mother simply wasn’t home when they got back from school. They waited and waited for her to return, but later found out she’d withdrawn a few thousand pounds the same day she’d vanished. Her car was missing too.
The Shadow Box: Paranormal Suspense and Dark Fantasy Thriller Novels Page 118
