by Amy Cross
I'm sure it'll happen eventually.
After all, my hands are trembling, and I can't stop going over the conversation I had with Kate last night. I remember her saying she was going to take a bath, and I should have realized immediately that something was wrong. She always hated baths and said it felt like sitting in a soup of your own dirt; the fact that she suddenly wanted to see if a bath could relax her should have set off alarm bells in my head, but I guess I was too tired and perhaps a little too distracted to pay attention. Was she already planning to cut her wrists in the water, or did the idea only come to her later, while the water was running? Worse still, did she think I'd realize something was wrong and rush over to save her? The police officer said her phone was playing music, so she must have turned it back on at some point.
The worst part is, I guess I'll never know.
"Come on," I say, getting to my feet and turning to Wilbur. "We should at least try to sleep."
Once we're upstairs, I get undressed and get into bed, even though I know for a fact that I'm not remotely tired. Right now, it's hard to believe that I'll ever sleep again, and after I've turned the bedside light off, I find myself staring up at the ceiling, trying to work out what the hell I'm going to do tomorrow. Kate clearly didn't think about the people she was leaving behind, but I'm certain that when her parents and her siblings arrive, there'll be all sorts of emotional reactions: screaming and crying and arguing and fighting and long conversations that run deep into the night. I can only hope that in some way, their reactions will stir mine and I'll finally be able to mourn properly. So far, it's as if her death has turned me to stone.
Lost in my thoughts, I don't notice the distant sound at first.
I blink a couple of times, and then I realize what I just heard.
The faintest sound of a bell, somewhere nearby.
I sit bolt upright. My heart starts pounding in my chest as I listen to the silence, waiting for the sound to come again. Just as I'm starting to convince myself that it was all just part of my imagination, I hear the bell for a second time, and this time it seems to be out on the landing. I keep telling myself that this is all in my head, but it sounded so real and vivid. A few seconds later I hear it again; I get out of bed, but when I look over at Wilbur, I see that he still hasn't stirred. I always use Wilbur as a kind of litmus test; if he doesn't react, I can tell myself that nothing's wrong, but if he reacts, I no longer have that excuse.
A moment later, as I reach the door and open it to look out onto the landing, I hear the bell again, but this time I'm sufficiently awake to realize that it's coming from somewhere very close.
Oblivious, Wilbur rolls over.
The bell rings again.
With a sudden flash of realization, I lean closer to the dog and realize that I forgot to take his collar off before he got onto the bed. There's a metal tag attached to one of the rings, and every time he moves, it makes a faint ringing sound. As if to prove my point, he languidly rolls onto his back and the tag on his collar rings again.
And that's when I hear the other noise.
It's coming from the next bedroom, the one that used to belong to Ellen and Kate when they were children. This time it's not the sound of a bell ringing; it's the sound of a child, sobbing quietly as if she's trying not to be heard. I stand completely still and listen, but this time there can be no mistake. The sobbing continues, punctuated occasionally by the sound of deep, mucus-filled sniffs, plainly audible through the house's thin walls.
I stand in stunned silence. Every few minutes, Wilbur shifts position and the metal tag makes a ringing sound on his collar; and every time the sound rings out, the sobbing in the next room seems to become a little more urgent. Finally, I force myself to go over to the next door. I listen to the sound of sobbing for a moment longer, before pushing the door open.
The sobbing stops immediately, and I'm left staring at the empty room.
Part Four
The Window
Chapter One
Ellen
"I can barely hear you," I say as I sit at my desk and look out at the vastness of the Hong Kong cityscape. "Are you calling from your phone or from your laptop?"
There's a faint buzzing sound, which I guess means Kate's trying to say something. Unfortunately, all I can make out are a few scattered words, and it's pretty much impossible to work out what she means. It's almost as if she's calling from another world. Unfortunately, even though I'm in one of the densest cities in this part of the world, cellphone reception can be crazy sometimes.
"- always have to arrange things," her voice says suddenly, magically emerging from the hail of static. "Why can't someone else have an idea for once?"
"But you're actually there," I point out with a sigh. "Do we have to have this argument every few months? It's easier for you to get Dad's birthday present 'cause you live with him. I mean, you don't even have to go out of your way. You'll see him anyway!"
"But it's so hard coming up with an idea," she continues, her voice drifting close to a whine for a moment. "Can't you or John just think of something for once and then either buy it online, or email me a link and I'll buy it? I'll even pay for it and stick your names on the label, but I don't have the energy to work out what to get."
"Call John," I suggest. "He's always great at picking gifts."
"No," she sighs. "He won't be any more use than you. He'll just come up with a bunch of dumb suggestions, and I'm too tired to argue."
"What about Luke?"
"I always get him to choose," she replies. "Don't you think it's crazy that my boyfriend has to choose a birthday present for our father? Surely one of us should be able to come up with something, right?"
"What about the idea I had last year?" I ask. "Remember when I said we should get him an aquarium?"
"You're not serious," she replies. "Dad? An aquarium? Since when has he ever even hinted that he'd like one?"
"He hasn't," I reply, "but they're fun and it'd be something to keep him busy. Anyway, they're something to talk about, so it'd help with those awkward silence you're always complaining about. No matter what's going on, you can always ask him about the aquarium."
"I'm not buying him an aquarium," she says dourly.
"He likes fish," I point out.
"He likes eating fish," she adds. "That doesn't mean he wants to look after them. Quite the opposite, actually."
"Fine," I reply, "but don't take it so seriously. Just pick something and go with it."
"Sorry," she says bitterly, "I didn't mean to bring you down. I'll guess I'll just have to go and traipse around the shops until hopefully I manage to find something, and then I'll have to wrap it, and then I'll have to buy a card, but don't worry, there's no need for you to think about any of those things. I'll take care of them again. It's not like he's easy to buy for, though. You know what he's like. He just smiles, thanks us and then pretty much never uses whatever we get him. Unless it's socks. Maybe we should just get him a huge pile of socks?"
"You'll find something," I tell her. "You always do a great job every year. Get Luke to help you, I'm sure he'll have some ideas!"
Once the call is over, I lean back in the chair and stare at the papers on my desk for a moment before realizing that there's no way I can finish this marking tonight. Since I arrived in Hong Kong to teach English a few months ago, I've thrown myself into my work with more energy than I ever thought I possessed. It's as if being so far from home, so far from the house and from the family, has allowed me to get a fresh start. The whole reason for coming here was that I hoped I'd feel better, but the transformation has been amazing. For the first time in my life, I actually feel as if I belong somewhere and I have a purpose.
But tonight, I can't concentrate on marking.
It's almost midnight and I'm sitting in my small but stylish apartment near the edge of the city. I'm on the fifteenth floor of an apartment block, and the far wall of the main room is one large window that gives me a great view of the city'
s sparkling lights. Unfortunately, that view is somewhat obscured by the fact that there's another apartment block just a hundred meters away, but even that is kind of interesting; sometimes, I find myself sitting here and watching people in their apartments in the other building, and although I know it's wrong to be a voyeur, I catch myself smiling from time to time.
There's one woman in particular who's caught my attention lately. She lives alone in an apartment that seems to be directly opposite mine, and she has a desk set up facing her window. In fact, the layout of her apartment seems to exactly mirror my own, even down to the decor, and the only difference is that she looks to be in her late thirties or early forties. She always seems to be very busy with whatever she's doing at her desk, and although I've watched her many times, she's never once looked up and noticed me.
I don't even know her name.
Figuring that it's not too late to see if anyone's out, I grab my phone and text some of my friends from the language school. Sure enough, several messages soon come back, telling me that there's a small gathering in the bar a few blocks away. Grabbing my coat, I head to the door and make my way out of the apartment. Sometimes, it's hard to believe that I'm living so far from home and actually managing to survive. I never thought I'd ever be able to get away from the house where I grew up, but here I am. I'm almost scared to tempt fate, but life feels good right now.
I think I did it. I think I broke the curse.
Chapter Two
Ellen
"I remember," Tom says with a leery, beer-fueled grin. "When you arrived, you had this kinda mournful look in your eyes, like you were always thinking about something that upset you." He takes a swig. "You've really lightened up."
"I love it here," I reply with a cautious smile. "Right now, I think I could stay forever."
It's the early hours of the morning, and a bunch of us are out in one of the city's noisier bars. I only intended to come out and meet people briefly, but somehow I ended up getting dragged along to what's rapidly turning out to be some kind of major all-nighter; Tom's less drunk than the others, but it's clear that everyone's hitting the weekend as hard as possible after a difficult week teaching English to kids at the school where we all work. As someone who never drinks alcohol, I sometimes find these types of gatherings a little uncomfortable, but tonight I'm so swept up in a sense of freedom, I don't even care.
I take a sip of my soda as Tom checks his phone.
"So what was it?" he asks eventually.
"What was what?" I reply.
"Everyone here's running from something," he continues. "Normal, well-adjusted people don't move halfway around the world to teach English to a bunch of snotty-nosed kids unless they're running from something that they really don't want to deal with. It's almost a cliche, the way everyone who comes out here has got some kind of major issue with their home life, but I swear to God, it's true." He fixed me with a curious stare for a moment, as if he's trying to read my mind. "So what are you running from, Ellen Maynard?"
I open my mouth to reply, but I'm not quite sure what to say. When I arrived in Hong Kong, I made a conscious decision to not talk about all the crap in my life, and part of me thinks that it's this decision that has helped me to break free. If I start talking about it again, I might end up being pulled back into the darkness that used to consume me. I guess I'm pretty paranoid about the whole thing, but I know how easy it'd be for me to become morbid and depressed again.
"My father's an asshole," Tom says after a moment. "Major league. I don't mean he physically abused me and my brother or anything like that, but he just made our lives hell. When we were kids, he used to get angry if we left our toys out, and even my mother couldn't keep his temper under control. Later, when we were teenagers, he criticized everything we ever did or said. Like, literally, everything... Then my brother made this big life decision about wanting to come out and admit he was gay, and our father just hit the roof. He just couldn't accept that my brother wasn't going to follow in his footsteps, so he really went out of his way to make his life hell. He threw him out, and to this day I don't think they've spoken again."
"Bad parents," I mutter. "I know what that's like."
"So my brother went off to live with this cool guy in Newcastle," Tom continues, "and I just figured I wanted to get as far away as possible so I applied for this job. Best choice I ever made. Frankly, I don't think I'll ever go back, at least not until I've got enough money saved up to make sure I never have to rely on that old bastard again." He clinks his beer glass against my bottle of soda. "So why don't you drink?"
"I just never got a taste for it," I reply evasively.
"And you don't wanna try?"
"I don't see the point." I glance across the bar and spot some of my friends shouting and screaming as they play some kind of game on their phones. They look so relaxed and carefree, but I could never be quite so loud. I'm happy the way I am, and I'm convinced that if I ever got drunk, I'd probably start being really emotional and crazy. I'd rather stay in control of my emotions. It's not necessarily a bad thing.
"So I told you what I'm running from," Tom continues. "You sure you don't wanna open up?"
"It'd take all night," I reply, trying to politely rebuff him.
"I've got all night."
"It's complicated," I tell him, even though I'm feeling as if maybe I actually could tell him about it. "My family's messed up," I add. "My parents divorced years ago, and me and my sister and brother lived with our Dad in the house where we grew up, and that place... It's not good for anyone. It's just one of those houses that seem to have a really bad atmosphere all the time, and it really gets to you after a while. It's not just me, either. My sister has a really hard time there too."
"What's wrong with it?" he asks. "Haunted?"
I pause, uncertain as to how I should reply.
"Seriously?" he replies, having evidently picked up on my discomfort. "You lived in a house with ghosts and shit like that?"
I shake my head.
"Sorry," he adds. "I shouldn't make jokes about it. I guess it was kinda traumatizing, huh?"
"It's in the past," I tell him, finally feeling as if I've said too much. "I came here to get away from all that stuff, not to relive it over and over again. I barely even call home much these days."
"You've cut the cord, huh?" he asks.
I nod.
"Huh," he replies, taking another swig of beer. "Ghost stories out here are pretty freaky, anyway. In this part of Asia, they don't usually believe in the idea that a ghost haunts a building. They've got it the other way round, think a ghost haunts a person instead."
I smile politely, but this evening has suddenly taken an awkward turn and I'm starting to think about heading back to my apartment.
"It's true," Tom continues. "Back in England and most of the west, we always think of ghosts as these things that haunt specific places. You know, it's the old idea that a bunch of strangers can show up at a house and then this ghost just starts shitting with them. But in other parts of the world, like here, they think that a ghost follows a particular person and just goes where they go. Like, the ghost ignores other people 'cause it doesn't give a fuck about them, 'cause all it wants is to get at this one particular person. It's kinda crazy and pretty creepy, but it means they make some fucking awesome films. Are you into, like, Asian horror?"
"Not really," I reply, finishing my soda.
"You should come over some time and I'll show you some totally amazing stuff," he says, clearly filled with enthusiasm and oblivious to the fact that I'm not enjoying the conversation. "What about tomorrow night? My flatmates are gonna be away for the weekend, so you can come over and I'll make food and we can have some kind of crazy Asian horror movie marathon. I can show you movies that are gonna blow your mind. You ever heard of Takeshi Miike?"
I shake my head.
"Fruit Chan?"
I shake my head again.
"Sion Sono? Park Chan-wook?"
"I
really never got that much into movies," I tell him, hoping to cut him off before he can list any more names. "We just didn't watch them much when I was a kid."
"Wow," he continues. "Seriously, you're so lucky, getting to experience all these great movies for the first time. I can't even begin to tell you how intense some of these things are. So are you up for it?"
"Maybe," I reply, grabbing my coat and purse before getting to my feet. The truth is, I'm worried that Tom is starting to get romantically interested in me, and I'm desperate to make sure that I don't accidentally give him the wrong idea. He's a good friend, but nothing more. "I'll let you know, but right now I think I'm going to have to go home. I'm exhausted."
"Seriously?" He checks his watch. "It's only two."
I smile politely. "Long day. You know how it is, right? I think I'm getting old."
"Sure," he replies, "but you should definitely come and watch movies tomorrow. I'll let you go tonight, but only if you absolutely promise to come tomorrow."
"I'll let you know," I tell him, still keen not to give him the wrong idea. "Maybe you should invite some other teachers too? You could turn it into some kind of party."
"Maybe," he replies, with a faint smile that makes it hopelessly clear that he's planning a night for just the two of us.
Once I've said good night to the others, I head out of the bar and make my way along the crowded street until I reach the bus stop. For the first time since I arrived in Hong Kong, I'm feeling genuinely unsettled, and it's all down to that brief conversation with Tom. I wish he'd never started talking about ghosts, and I definitely wish I hadn't told him anything about my life, but I guess there's been no lasting harm. Tomorrow, I can spend all day exploring the city and forgetting about my old life, and then maybe later I can go and watch movies with Tom, although horror movies aren't exactly my kind of thing.
