by Gary Fry
“You know what I mean.”
“I do. Sorry.” Eric drew breath, took another sip from his pint, and then went on. “My wife and son and I are living in this hotel at the moment. Cheryl and our seven-year-old boy won’t go back there. Something…happened recently with Gavin. I didn’t experience much of this myself, and I’ve had a hell of a time accepting it, but believe me I can’t get either of them to return. I’ve tried—but there’s no chance.”
Two aspects of this unsettled Mark: first, it hinted at some dreadful experience; and second, a seven-year-old boy and his mother were involved. It was the same situation in which Lewis and Gayle might soon find themselves. Mark must certainly learn more.
With feigned detachment, he asked, “Do you want to tell me about it? Just for marketing purposes, of course. If I’m selling the property, I ought to know what I’m dealing with.”
“I understand that, mate, and I’ll do my best.” Another pause, and then Eric simply said it. “Basically, my wife thinks the place is haunted.”
Mark tried not to react in a way that might betray more than he was willing to concede. “Go on,” he said, keeping his voice neutral, despite savage emotions threatening to mar it.
And the man did go on. “At first there were things we all experienced. Cold draughts inside the building without any obvious source. The odd shape seen in a mirror that, when we turned to look, proved to be nothing at all. Other similar stuff. You know, episodes that can easily be ascribed to faulty perception or whatever.”
“Yeah, I know the kind of thing you mean.” Mark lifted his coke again, but this time held on to it. Tightly. “But I assume more followed?”
Eric nodded and then lowered his voice in case any fellow drinkers or the barmaid overheard. “Oh yes.” He took another swig of beer before continuing. “It all began with a number of nightmares. Not mine. Cheryl’s and Gavin’s. I didn’t think much of these at the start, because we were all under a bit of stress at the time. My wife had started a new job, my son a new school, and I’ve never been the kind of person who suffers nightmares anyway. So I just put down their troubled reports each morning to life and all the usual shit involved in it. You know what I’m saying, don’t you?”
Mark nodded at once. But in the hope of encouraging the man to add more, he said nothing. And moments later, he wasn’t disappointed.
“It was when these nightmares started occurring at the same time—that is, when Cheryl and Gavin both woke complaining about them—that I began suspecting something was amiss. Of course the nature of their dreams was different. My wife’s tended to be about dead relatives, while my son’s were generally about bigger boys at school. But it was their simultaneity that disturbed me. They could go a week without disturbance, but then they’d suffer on the same night. And gradually, over a course of several months, these nightmares grew more regular, as if…as if whatever was causing them was—God, it sounds ridiculous saying it aloud—as if it was growing stronger.”
Eric paused again, drained his pint glass, and then sat back in his chair.
“That probably strikes you as being fanciful, doesn’t it? But this was how it felt to me. Anyway, at this stage I decided that what we all needed was a good holiday. So I booked us a fortnight in the Med—nice place in Crete. We had a grand old time. Went scuba diving, climbed up mountains, and hiked to several ancient ruins. Fantastic. And you know what? Neither Cheryl nor Gavin experienced a single bad dream during the whole two weeks.
“I’m a trained scientist, Mark. One of the basic principles of a sound experiment is the way you control all the variables and then remove or introduce one you’re seeking to evaluate. Do you see where I’m going with this?”
“You’d taken the house out of the picture.” Mark regretted the phrase as soon as he’d uttered it. But he also knew that the photo he’d taken of the property’s exterior was about to be alluded to. “You’re telling me that by moving away from the house, the nightmares ceased. You’re saying that you believed the building itself was causing these dreams.”
“Isn’t that what anyone in their right mind would think?”
“A father who loved his child certainly would, yes.”
“And a husband who loved his wife, of course.”
“Oh yeah, sure.” Mark bristled, drinking more of his coke. Then he tried to move on. “So what happened next?”
The man, having finished his own drink, continued talking.
“We went back home, naturally. This was about a year ago. By that time, we’d all begun seeing more of those figures loitering in dark corners, behind windows where nothing should be there. I was starting to get a little spooked, too, and could only assume—being a dry rationalist—that some of Cheryl’s and Gavin’s restlessness was transferring itself to me. Their bad dreams had also resurfaced. Not immediately…but during our first month back in the country, as we tried getting back to our normal lives, those nightmares took an even firmer grip. My wife complained of older people or at least one older person moving around the house. My son always went on about a young boy who seemed to…to have far more blood on him than was healthy.”
Mark thought again of his son. He hoped he, Gayle and Justin had come away from the house in Nester Street. After returning to his office, he’d call and tell them about the episodes experienced by the unfortunate Johnson family. These would surely put them off a purchase. But to lend such facts persuasiveness, he must have the full story. He said to the vendor, “I suspect you’re about to tell me how all this ended, about why you’ve decided to move out. Well, go ahead—I’m ready.”
Eric nodded, but then hesitated. “Hey, look, I’m letting you know all this in the interests of honesty and because I think you’ve probably guessed some of it anyway.”
How could the man know that? Again, the photo Mark had taken—the one in which his ex-wife’s parents glared out of one upstairs window—came to mind. But perhaps Eric had meant that Mark had detected his edgy behavior the day before, and that he’d realized something odd was going on, but not exactly what. Moments later, the man went on with businesslike briskness.
“About a week ago, my wife had a terrible dream in which her mother—who’s been dead for three years—was standing at the foot of our bed. The old woman told Cheryl to check on our son, because, having also experienced a ghostly visitation from something else, he was leaning out of his bedroom window. My wife awoke and rushed into Gavin’s room. And guess what? Half-asleep, the boy was hanging halfway out of his wide-open window.
“I awoke in response to crying that arose once Cheryl had pulled our son to safety. When I got there, Gavin was saying something about blood or a boy or maybe even a blood boy—his words were jumbled, but I’m sure these were the ones he used.” Eric hesitated. The color seemed to return to his ghosted face. “And that, I’m happy to say, was the end of it. We decided to move out the day after this last episode. And a few days later, I called you. The rest you know.”
This was certainly a distressing tale, not least because of the near-death experience the man’s son had suffered. Mark refused to contemplate anything like that befalling Lewis. Nevertheless, another element of the story made him feel less worried about the whole affair. The appearance of the boy’s grandma resonated with the image of Gayle’s parents in the picture Jenny had deleted at the office. But this old lady, a ghost or otherwise, had saved the lad’s life, hadn’t she?
And so were events in Nester Street evidence of a benevolent haunting?
Mark didn’t know what to believe. He’d been hooked so much by Eric Johnson’s tale that for a moment he found himself believing in spooky phenomena. But once a little time had passed and he’d got his thoughts under control, he grew sensible again. He could understand why the man and his family wanted to move away. Regardless of whether the disturbance was malevolent or otherwise, such prolonged episodes must have been terrifying.
At last Mark replied. “That’s quite a story. But tell me, do you believe w
hat your wife believes?”
“That’s beside the point, isn’t it? There’s no way I’ll get her back in that house. Or the boy.” Eric hesitated, shuffling in his chair. “But personally, I think everything I’ve told you can be ascribed to…ineffable family dynamics.”
Mark frowned. “How do you mean?”
“Well, any shrink worth his or her salt would overlook supernatural elements and delve into our relationships. Are things okay between us all? To which, I’d say yes, they are. Ah but, they’d press, how can you know for sure? And that’s true, isn’t it? We can never know everything about ourselves. There are demons everywhere. And that’s the kind of thing psychologists try to root out, the snooping sods.”
Eric laughed, well-placed comedy relief. Mark believed the man was suggesting that the house could be absolved from blame, that everything he and his family had experienced was just psychological phenomena commonly occurring within the nuclear unit of man-woman-child. But Mark knew what the vendor was really up to: he was trying to make sure his property would remain on the market with Addisons.
Mark could certainly understand that. If Eric, his wife and son were living in this hotel, they’d need to free up capital to buy a new place. Eric might be well paid, but a family needed a proper home. Indeed, witness Gayle and Justin’s latest intentions…
“Mr. Johnson, I’m grateful to you for sharing all this with me. I have to say it’s unprecedented in my experience. I’m going to have to contact my Head Office and see what the company position is regarding such matters. In the meantime…”—Mark paused to monitor his thoughts and discovered he’d already come to a decision—“…in the meantime, Addisons will keep the property on the market.”
“That’s good news,” Eric replied, his voice joyful yet tempered by relief. “That’s very reasonable of you.”
“Yes, it is,” Mark said with a cautious tone. “But I suspect anyone interested in buying the house will have to be informed of its…history.”
“I understand. And you’re quite right. To be honest, this has been on my conscience since you left yesterday. I…feel better about it now. And I’m confident you’ll handle the situation sensitively and professionally.”
“I’ll certainly try.” Mark put down his glass, stood with his briefcase, and then held out his free hand for another shake. “Goodbye. I’ll be in touch once I’ve had a word with a few people.”
“Goodbye, Mark. And thanks again.”
“You’re welcome, Eric,” he said, and then stole away, determined to do what he’d promised the man—talk about all he’d learned—but certainly not with the senior colleagues he’d mentioned moments earlier.
7
When Mark returned to Addisons, it was almost time to finish work. But he had an important telephone call to make, and for obvious reasons didn’t want anyone to overhear, including Nina back at the flat. He trusted his girlfriend implicitly, but was reluctant to trouble her with more concerns about his previous life.
After reaching the branch, he stepped inside to see Jenny hanging up her telephone. Before making his call, he’d wait until she’d left for the evening, along with Ben if he was still around. Mark made directly for his office, hoping it would be empty. Despite dwelling on nothing else during the drive back to Hantley, he needed space to think about all he’d learned at the hotel.
He’d almost succeeded in getting inside the room when Jenny halted him with a typically convivial comment.
“I think that must be a record for us. And someone close to you will be celebrating tonight.”
Mark turned around, having just hooked open the door with one taut hand. The room beyond was empty; his apprentice must be out on another valuation. And once he’d shaken off his other colleague, he’d have the solitude he required.
With mild impatience, he said, “What do you mean? Who’ll be celebrating?”
The woman pointed at her telephone. “We’ve just sold another house. In less than a day.” But then, responding to his stiff tone, she added, “Oh, sorry. I thought you were cool about it now. Maybe…you should speak to her.”
His mind was all at sea again. “Speak to whom?”
“To Gayle,” Jenny said, and that was when Mark rushed into his office, slamming the door behind him.
He picked up the phone and dialled from memory. His ex-wife still had the number they’d shared during their sham of a marriage. As the line pulsed, he tried thinking back to his discussion with Eric Johnson, but the only aspect that held his attention was the man’s desperate desire to sell his house at all costs.
And what if that involved harm to Lewis?
Before Mark could reflect on that, his call was answered. It was Gayle, and she sounded light-headed.
“Hello? Who’s that? Hello?”
I heard you the first time, you neurotic bitch, thought Mark, but then marshalled his fearful rage. “Oh hi, Gayle. It’s Mark. I…I understand you have some news.”
“Yeah, did Jenny tell you?”
“Well, n-not in so many words.” His voice had started shaking along with the rest of him. His hand struggled to keep hold of the telephone. “Why don’t you tell me?”
“What’s up, Mark? You sound…out of breath or something.”
I remember a few occasions in the past when you panted in a similar way. Was he with you, then? Him. Justin. The bastard who’s torn apart my life…
Despite his mounting tension, however, Mark controlled himself. “I’m fine. Now what’s all this about?”
Gayle paused for a second, as if to steady her voice, but when she went on, she sounded quite tipsy. “We’ve put in an offer for the house in Nester Street! The full asking price. I can’t see how the vendor can turn us down. We all loved it.”
Mark’s whole existence now felt like a property built on tenuous foundations. But it was his family life falling apart. With Gayle and Lewis still living at his previous home, some aspects of his ten years as a husband and father had survived. But this was about to be demolished.
Maybe that was why he abandoned his habitual reticence and tried persuading his ex-wife not to move away.
“No, you can’t,” he said, and thought again about the supernatural and what bunkum he’d always considered it. “And there’s a good reason why you can’t.”
Gayle, usually so acerbic and suspicious, sounded confused. “What do you mean? What reason, Mark?”
Mark pictured the faces of his ex-wife’s parents staring out of an upstairs window. Then he imagined an old woman—Eric Johnson’s late mother-in-law—standing at the foot of a double bed. Finally he saw Lewis falling from the upper level of the house in Nester Street.
Mark replied, “I…I—”
“What on earth has got into you?”
He was unable to answer. Doing so would make him look a fool, and he’d suffered quite enough humiliation at his ex-wife’s hands over the last year. In the event, he merely muttered his son’s name.
“Oh, for God’s sake,” Gayle replied, but sounded less punitive than she had more recently. Perhaps the prospect of acquiring something new—that house—had furnished her with tenderness. “Nothing will change. You’ll still be able to see him whenever you want. We’re hardly moving to another world.”
He didn’t care for her turn of phrase; it put him in mind of spectres and so much else he’d always considered nonsense…But did he believe in that kind of thing now? Perhaps Eric Johnson had been right; maybe everything Mark had experienced during the last few days was his psyche’s way of processing the loss of a past life, just as the family who owned the Nester Street house had suffered similar mental processes.
At last Mark said, “I know, I know. And I’m…sorry.”
Perhaps his ex-wife now understood his hurt. Maybe he’d hidden away his distress, and she hadn’t known how much pain she’d caused.
With what sounded like intuition, she said, “No, I’m sorry, Mark. For everything. I don’t know what went wrong between us, but�
�well, it did.” After a brief pause, she continued with a more upbeat tone. “But this is a chance for us all to move on. You and Nina. Me and…Justin. And Lewis, of course.” Then her voice grew even more vibrant. “You should have seen his face when we showed him what will soon be his new bedroom. Honestly, it was a picture!”
“I’m…sure it was.”
Gayle went quiet again, during which time Mark made no attempt to fill the silence between them. But then she said, “You sound glum, Mark. Don’t be. Please be happy for us.”
“It’s…hard.”
“It’s not been easy for any of us. These things never are.”
She sounded like an expert, as if she made a habit of destroying people’s lives. Perhaps she was about to do the same to someone else’s: their son’s. But Mark was damned if he’d let that happen. Maybe there was little he could do to prevent them moving into the house in Nester Street, but he’d keep a close eye on what happened there. Oh yes he would.
After hanging up, following muted goodbyes, he roused his snoozing PC and stared at its screen. Owing to a technical glitch, the last webpage he’d been browsing hadn’t closed down properly. It still displayed that article on the mid-twentieth-century factory pioneer George Hughes. But rather than figuring out how to tackle his problems, Mark struggled to remember where he’d heard this name, in what context, and who else had been involved…
He was still sitting there forty minutes later (having bid a terse goodnight to Jenny, who hadn’t outstayed her welcome after entering his office) when his girlfriend called and asked what had happened to the takeout he’d promised that morning.
PART TWO: SETTLING IN
“It takes hands to build a house,
but only hearts can build a home.”
—Anonymous
“If you can’t get rid of the skeleton in your closet,
you’d best teach it to dance.”
—George Bernard Shaw
