by Amy Cross
“No excuses,” Doctor Carter adds, eyeing us with suspicion. It's almost as if he sees us less as students and more as unruly schoolchildren who are waiting for their first opportunity to play truant. “If anyone's late,” he continues cautiously, “they'll be left behind and I shall make sure that they never work in this field again. Reputations are everything, and I can make or break yours without breaking a sweat. Is that understood?”
“Yes, Sir,” I say quickly.
“Of course,” Josh adds. “Sir.”
Doctor Carter mutters something under his breath, and it's clear that he's not entirely convinced as he turns and makes his way back over to the bar, where he starts interrogating the landlord about various other matters.
“Yes, Sir,” Josh whispers, mimicking me. “Three bags full, Sir. Whatever you say, Sir.”
“I was just being polite,” I reply, although I'm pretty sure I'm blushing now. I quickly look down at the key in my hand. “I'm in room five,” I add. “I should probably head up there and try to get some sleep.”
“Hey,” he says, tapping my arm as I turn to leave, “I was only messing with you, Katie. You're doing great. Really. I know you don't have a lot of experience in the field, but the only way to learn is to get thrown in at the deep end. Wait, is that a mixed metaphor?”
“Thanks,” I mumble, but I quickly turn and head toward the stairs that lead up to our rooms. After all, tomorrow's the most important day of my life, so I need a good night's sleep.
Half an hour later, as I'm settling into bed, a solitary Wagon Wheel slides under my door.
III
“So on a scale of one to ten,” Josh says before taking another swig of whiskey as he sits on the desk in my room, “how big is the chip on that man's shoulder?”
“Quiet!” I hiss. “He might hear you!”
“Nah, he's at the other end of the corridor,” he points out. “Besides, he's not the eavesdropping type, you can tell. He's probably tucked up in bed, flat on his back with ear plugs in and a face mask. He's barely even aware the rest of the world exists. Apart from Doctor Alice Reynolds, of course, 'cause he blatantly hates her with a passion.”
“I'm sure he doesn't,” I reply. “It's just healthy professional rivalry.”
“As if!” He laughs. “Face it, Alice Reynolds stole the big story from under everyone else. Guys like Carter were running their small-scale investigations for years, but Reynolds was the only one who had the balls to go and dedicate a decade of her life to really looking into ghosts. Most people thought she'd gone off into la-la-land never to be heard from again, and then that press conference six months ago...”
His voice trails off, leaving his words hanging in the air.
“What's that?” he asks finally.
My laptop is playing a news feed, and the main image shows thousands of people gathering with candles outside Westminster Abbey. I've been watching the pictures with the sound off, but now I tap to unmute the feed.
“- where crowds are gathering for yet another night,” the reporter says, “to protest against the lack of guidance from church leaders. Organizers say they're particularly angry that there was no official statement following the deaths, by self-immolation, of several priests on Thursday evening.”
“The whole world's going nuts,” Josh mutters. “Look at all those idiots.”
“They're not idiots,” I reply, watching shots of people sobbing. “They're trying their best to deal with what's happening. Ghosts have suddenly been declared real. They're scared. I don't blame them.”
“Seriously?”
“The implications are staggering,” I point out. “For mankind. For how we see ourselves. For what we think of as life and death. Sometimes I think we're never prepared for this kind of knowledge. When it really sinks in, how are we going to cope?”
“Did you see those riots in Singapore?”
“It was Bangkok, not Singapore,” I reply, “and yes, I saw. I've been watching the news a lot over the past few weeks. All across the world, people of all religions are struggling with the news about ghosts being real. It's not just religious people, either. No matter where you stand on religion, spirituality, the afterlife... These past few weeks and months have been a real game-changer.”
“Not for me,” Josh says, as he pours the dregs of the crisp packet into his mouth. “I just let life wash past.”
“Then you're in denial.”
“Nope. I just don't care.”
“But now you know death isn't necessarily the end.”
“So?”
“So you don't think that'll change the way you do things?”
“I don't see why it should.”
“But there's -”
I catch myself just in time. This isn't the right moment to start getting at one another's throats, and I've already heard of people losing friends over this kind of discussion. Besides, Josh seems like he's being deliberately obtuse, as if he wants an argument. So, instead of trying to dig deeper into Josh's views, I re-mute the news feed just as a picture of Alice Reynolds comes up. She's the one who started all of this with her announcement, and I can't help wondering whether she anticipated the scale of the impact. The world is in chaos.
“I'm sure Doctor Carter's pleased for what Alice Reynolds discovered,” I suggest finally, as the picture on my laptop freezes. This happens sometimes, so I close quickly take the battery out in order to perform a reset. “If not pleased, then at least grateful. Without her work, the past six months would never have happened. The funding increases, the publicity, the need to understand. A whole new field of study has opened up and -”
Before I can finish, a flash of lightning fills the parking lot outside, accompanied by an almost instantaneous rumble of thunder. The window shudders next to me, and a moment later there's a faint, ominous creaking sound from the rafters above. I look up, but the creak has already faded. For a few seconds, I can't help but think of Lannister Hall waiting out there in the darkness.
“Do you still get scared?” Josh asks.
I turn to him.
“I mean, now we know ghosts are real,” he continues. “Now we know that they can't actually hurt us, then what's the point of being scared? It's not something that's unknown now, it's science, and science can't be scary, can it?”
“I guess not,” I reply, opening my laptop and pressing the power button again.
“Did you ever see a ghost?” he asks. “Before all the madness, I mean.”
“It's hard to say.”
“But did you ever think you saw one?”
I glance at him, and I can see from the look in his eyes that he's not going to let this go.
“I heard a few bumps,” I admit cautiously, “and I exaggerated a few stories at parties, but that was about it.”
I'm lying, but I don't think he knows that.
“I got into my studies because I wanted to know what made people believe in stuff like that,” I continue. “Six months ago, I thought I was researching the reasons why people put so much faith in something that was obviously not true.”
“And then Doctor Reynolds made her big announcement.”
“Everything changed that day,” I point out. “Overnight, the whole world was turned upside down. Funding for everything else dried up, including my subject. The only option was either to drop out or -”
“Follow the money?”
“I couldn't afford to pay for my studies,” I continue, trying not to sound too defensive, “but suddenly there were scholarships and grants all over the place for anyone who wanted to pursue Doctor Reynolds' work. I don't regret making that switch, and I'm sure you don't either. We're following the science. The science of ghosts.”
“That's a fair point,” he replies, before taking another swig of whiskey. “No need to get defensive about it.”
“I'm just saying that the world has changed so much over the past six months.”
“Tell me about it,” he says with a sigh. “My parents are wh
at you'd called deeply, deeply religious. Catholics, to be precise. Let me tell you, they hate all this proof about ghosts being real. They barely believe it.”
“I know the feeling.”
“Cheers to that,” he mutters, raising the bottle for a moment before taking yet another big mouthful. “Anything that upsets the old order is fine by me. And now we know ghosts are real, we can start looking into other things. I mean, we're only at the beginning of all this, Katie. Proving that ghosts exist isn't the end of anything, it's the start of a whole new area of study. And you know what that means, right?”
I type my password into the laptop.
“It means money,” he continues, and I turn to see that he's grinning at me. “The race is on, pal. Somebody somewhere is gonna figure out how to monetize all this stuff, and that person is going to become filthy stinking rich. You see it already with those verified haunted houses that charge people ten grand a night to stay, with the guarantee that they'll see a ghost. If you ask me, it's a miracle that Lannister Hall's been left undisturbed as long as it has. Which makes me wonder, by the way. Why has Lannister Hall not been opened up yet?”
“Doctor Carter says it's because the family -”
“The family don't want it turned into a playground,” he says, “yeah, I heard. I'm not sure that really makes sense, though. Maybe they're just trying to make more money out of it by holding back.”
“They're letting us go out there for free.”
“Which is even more suspicious. They could be charging us hundreds of thousands. Millions, even. Especially given the stories about that place.”
“Maybe they care about the science,” I point out. “Maybe they care about looking after the legacy of the house. Maybe they don't want the ghost of their descendant to be turned into some kind of tourist attraction.”
“They're good people, you mean?” He rolls his eyes. “Yeah, whatever. There's something else going on here, Katie, mark my words. We're only six months into this brave new world and it's way too soon to see how it's going to pan out. I promise you, though... Human nature's anything but benign. Sooner or later, people are going to start using these ghosts for some messed-up stuff, stuff most of us can't even imagine. When that happens, you're gonna get a really fast education about what folks are capable of.”
“I think I just need to read for a while before bed,” I reply, hoping to close down the conversation. “It's been a long day and we have to be up early.”
“Message received.”
He sighs as he hauls himself to his feet, and then he takes another sip of whiskey as he wanders to the door.
“For what it's worth,” he adds, “I really hope you're right. I hope these Lannister people are letting us go to their house because they think we can learn something. I hope ghosts don't get messed with and turned into something dark. I'm not going to bet on that, but I truly hope that you're right. See you in the morning, bright and early. Remember, don't be late or Doctor Carter'll leave you behind!”
He pauses for a moment.
“Who do you want to see?” he asks suddenly.
“At Lannister Hall? Well, I assume it'll be -”
“No, not there,” he says, cutting me off. “I mean, in general. Everyone has someone, right? A ghost they think about meeting. A friend who died. A family member. I want to talk to my grandparents, to see what life was like for them growing up. I mean, I know they say we can't communicate with the ghosts, but there's got to be a chance, right?” He pauses again. “Who do you ultimately want to see again?”
I stare at him for a few seconds.
“No-one.”
“Seriously?”
“There's no-one,” I say, forcing a smile that I hope will seem genuine. “Absolutely no-one. Sorry to be boring.”
Once he's gone, I'm left standing alone by the window. Looking out at the dark storm, as rain splatters against the window, I can't help wondering what's waiting for us out there at Lannister House. Everything I've read suggests that the place truly is haunted, which means I might be about to see my very first ghost. In real-life, I mean. Obviously I've seen plenty of verified videos over the past six months. As I feel a shudder pass through my chest, however, I realize I can hear Josh drunkenly stumbling into the next room.
The worst part is, he's right when he says some people have hidden motives when it comes to investigating ghosts. He just doesn't realize that I'm one of those people.
IV
The clock on my phone flicks over from 03:59 to 04:00.
Sitting at the desk in the corner of my cramped room, I try to stay focused. It's three hours now since I came up here, and two since I gave up trying to get to sleep. My mind is absolutely racing with thoughts about Lannister Hall, and now I'm going over all the papers I brought from the office. I need to know this entire case inside and out, and back to front, if I'm going to have any chance of impressing Doctor Carter.
I'm pretty sure he already sees me as just another disposable assistant. This time in a week, he probably won't even remember my name. Not unless he learns the truth about me.
“Catherine Lannister,” I whisper, as I turn to another page in my folder and see once again the only surviving photograph of the woman we've come to find.
Dated from some time in 1899, the photo shows a woman with dark, long hair, sitting up straight on a chair as she poses for the camera. So far we haven't been able to determine why she had her photo taken at that particular time, although Doctor Carter has speculated that it might have been an early gift to mark her birthday the following month. All we can so far certain is that – as was standard for the time – she appears to have dressed especially for the occasion, and she's eyeing the camera with a mixture of awe and suspicion. She also has that slightly rigid look about her, the same look that's characteristic of so many pictures that have survived from a time when cameras were rare.
There's something about her eyes, though. Something very deep and soulful, almost as if she's staring out at me from the photo.
Hang on a moment.
There's something about her eyes?
Almost as if she's staring out from the photo?
Sighing, I lean back in the creaking chair and take my glasses off. As I rub my eyes, I take a moment to remind myself that I need to stay focused on tangible facts here. This is not the time to start speculating about anything, or to start romanticizing the task at hand. Catherine Lannister was simply posing for a photo at a time when photos were uncommon, and she looks no more awkward than literally thousands of other subjects I've seen in pictures from the late nineteenth century. Were it not for the project this weekend, I probably wouldn't even look twice at this particular photo.
To prove my point, I set my glasses back in place and look down at the photo, while trying to remind myself that there's nothing particularly special or noteworthy here. At the same time, her eyes -
Suddenly I'm startled by the sound of a gentle knock at the door.
I turn and look, and I can see a faint shadow under the gap. I half expect to see a packed of Wagon Wheels slide through, as if maybe Josh has remembered his earlier promise, but then a moment later there's another, even more tentative knock.
“Miss Sinclair?” a voice whispers. “I'm sorry to disturb you, but are you awake in there?”
I hesitate for a moment, before realizing that I recognize the voice.
It's the landlord.
“I'm really sorry,” he continues, “but you're interested in ghosts, aren't you? And, well... I've got one you might like to see.”
***
“So when I saw that the light was on in your room,” he continues as I follow him down the stairs, “I thought maybe you wouldn't mind popping out with me for a few minutes, just to lend me the benefit of your professional expertise.”
“I'm really not sure I can be of much help,” I reply, ducking down so that I don't bang my head on a low beam. “From what you said -”
“He has no head, is the m
ain thing,” he adds, pushing open the door to the main bar area and then stepping through, before stopping to hold the door open for me. “Some people say he carries his head around with him, under his arm, but most of the witnesses say he just doesn't have a head at all. Not anywhere. Maybe he puts it down sometimes. I don't really know.”
“Right.”
“I mean, it's a bit weird to be carrying your own head, isn't it,” he continues. “Do you think the head talks? Can he see out of it? Or can't he see at all? I've been trying to work it out. I looked online, and no-one really had any suggestions. I suppose the head must be useful to him, even after it was chopped off.” He pauses, with a furrowed brow. “Or maybe it's just got sentimental value.”
As I step into the empty bar, I can't help feeling that this is a completely hopeless case. Then again, I can't deny that it feels good to get away from the paperwork. Glancing at my watch, I realize that I have to be up in less than two hours' time.
“So you said there have been reports of a ghost,” I mutter, before turning to him. “Have these reports centered on any particular part of the building?”
“Mainly in here,” he says, with a hint of excitement. “In the bar, you know? I mean, that's where people are, so I suppose it's only natural that this is where they see... it.”
“The headless man?”
He nods enthusiastically.
“Do you think people would pay to come and see it?” he asks.
“I'm sorry?”
“A headless man. Do you think it could be a draw for tourists?”
“The thing is,” I say with a sigh, “ghost detection is quite a complex process. Even with the advances we've made recently, which have been huge, there's no single magic wand that anyone can wave to make a ghost pop out of thin air.”
“Oh, I know that,” he replies. “Believe me, I've been reading up on it for the past six months. When it came on the news that the existence of ghosts had been proven beyond doubt, at first I thought it was a joke. I mean, it had to be, didn't it? The whole thing had to be just one big, crazy joke. I thought maybe it was April Fools' Day or something, but then over a few days I began to realize it was all true. And naturally that's when I started thinking about all the stories that have been told about this pub over the years.” He hesitates for a moment, as if he expects me to whip out a load of fancy equipment. “You and your friends have some gadgets with you, don't you?”
