Chasing Ghosts

by Dean Cole

  ‘Source, however, which is where everything originates from, is non dual. It is oneness. It can only witness, not experience. And Source is everything. It is the stars as much as it is your soul. It sends forth a part of itself in human form, remaining present as what is known as the higher self. Every time you reach a preference, Source says, ‘Ah. That’s what I am.’ Because it’s only from the human perspective that Source can see itself.

  ‘For thousands of years humans have been forgetting this part of ourselves and never more than in recent decades. We got lost in the human ego, the dark side of our nature. The wars, the millions of murders committed in the last century proves that. But these are great times. We’re being called to remember that the higher self is always with us, to remember that we are all oneness, all pure love. Your higher self is always with you, always calling you to remember what you are. Your deepest pain, your anger, hurt, hatred, jealousy — it’s an alarm bell, reminding you what you are not, that you have lost yourself. When you understand this you can see that no death is in vain. You see that every painful experience, every heartache, every tragedy, creates a desire for something better, it creates a calling back to love.

  ‘All you have to do is come back to love, to what feels good. The billions of souls currently on the planet are part of the great awakening, each and every one of us. Life as a human on our planet, from the impartial perspective of Source, is a beautiful dream. That, my friend,’ Esther said, looking at Will, ‘is how souls exist before, during and after we die. Don’t be so flippant the next time you hear a strange noise in the middle of the night. The way a small mind lashes out at what it doesn’t understand, it dismisses what it can’t see as fanciful.’

  ‘You could have just given me the abridged version,’ said Will.

  My mind swirled as it tried to make sense of Esther’s words. It was the last thing I’d expected to hear, and yet a part of me sensed I had been given an insight that felt strangely familiar.

  No one else seemed to have a response to this profound and extraordinary explanation. In fact, Esther had bewitched the occupants of the room into a stunned silence. Even the ghosts had gone quiet. As if sensing this, Giles, clearing his throat, said, ‘Well, let’s get back to a little reality, shall we?’ And I sensed that the leader of Pluckley Ghost Hunters was a much more pragmatic investigator of the metaphysical than the woman hired to assist him on this weekend.

  Norman had moved over to the rocking chair and was setting up a tripod in front of it, Annie standing over him, lighting his workspace. Giles carried a large, wooden box over to them.

  ‘We’re going to do an experiment,’ he said. ‘Inside this box is a haunted artifact, a bible owned by a priest several hundred years ago that is believed to be cursed. The haunted attachment could make it exhibit activity or trigger activity from other spirits inside the house. Whatever happens, we hope to catch it on our thermal imaging camera, which will be trained on it overnight. A warning, though. Nobody touch it. It’s believed that whoever does becomes affected by the curse.’

  And with that ominous message he opened the box. Everyone craned their necks to see what was inside. Using a grabbing device, Norman retrieved from inside the box a tome that was as thick as a house brick. Pinched between the claws of the grabber, like a bone in a dog’s mouth, the bible was guided through the air and dropped on the seat of the rocking chair.

  Everyone listened as Norman told stories of the various paranormal activity his camera had captured over the years. Everyone, even Will, listened intently, intrigued by what he was saying. Everyone, that is, except for Kat.

  Looking to my side, I spotted her missing from where she was standing moments ago. My eyes searched the gloom, landing on the door just in time to catch a glimpse of her handbag slipping out of it.

  * * * * *

  I sprinted through the front door in pursuit of her, but once outside it was obvious my chase was fruitless. Kat was gone. Not a shadow. No scent of perfume. Not a trace.

  Collecting my breath, I scanned the grounds around me. The moon had emerged out of the darkening sky, gilding the tops of the encroaching trees and casting groping shadows on the gravel drive. The storm had calmed for now, leaving a glistening lawn and earthy aroma in its wake. Hunching my shoulders against a fresh breeze, I heard footsteps behind me.

  Will was coming out of the door, a cigarette bobbing between his lips. He strolled past me, propped one foot against the wall, lit the cigarette and released a plume of smoke that blew high into the humid air. Partly silhouetted in the moonlight he resembled a film star from a bygone era, or someone equally adept at snaring your attention.

  Keen to share the high I was feeling, I pushed my shyness aside and said, ‘Wasn’t that compelling what we just heard up there?’

  Will tilted his head and regarded me for a long moment. Distrust flashed in his eyes, which wasn’t entirely surprising. Given the way he’d spoken to the ghost hunters I hadn’t expected geniality.

  ‘It was interesting, I’ll give it that,’ he replied curtly.

  ‘You sound sceptical,’ I probed.

  ‘When you’ve witnessed as many of these as I have you’re not so easily taken in by the showmanship.’

  I knitted my brow, disheartened suddenly. ‘D’you think it was a trick?’

  He shrugged, blew out more smoke through puckered lips. ‘Ask me again when the weekend’s over.’

  My shoulders sank, my enthusiasm deflating. As if on cue the rain started up again, battering the roofs of the cars parked on the drive and forcing me into the door’s recess. I scanned the manor grounds once more in a vain attempt to conjure Kat back into existence. Maybe she could offer a balanced perspective on events. Maybe she could assuage the worry now circling around my brain that the ghost hunters were taking us for fools, that spirits didn’t exist, that I really was going crazy.

  Water dripped from the trim over the door and landed on my specs. I wiped it with my sleeve and sidled closer to Will.

  ‘Are you an expert on the subject?’

  ‘Fiction writer. When I’m not doing the day job, that is.’

  A writer. So that explained the journalistic level of interest in everything. It explained the way he bordered the edges of the group with his recorder, present and yet not quite present, like a shadow, absorbing information he was sure to make a commentary on later. A member of some secret service? What the hell was I thinking?

  ‘Do you write about this stuff?’ I asked, nodding at the house as if the building itself defined the supernatural. Which, in a way, it sort of did.

  Will nodded. ‘I’m here to do some research for my work in progress. In particular, Esther Hill. I’ve been following her work for a while. Once you get past the woo-woo frills, some of the stuff she has to say on consciousness and non-duality is fascinating. She isn’t your average psychic. She’s leading the field, breaking through misconceptions, exposing our broken systems and causing one hell of a stir in the process. And people in their droves are listening to what she has to say. Her message is resonating. I was lucky to get a booking for the event at such short notice. She’s a sought after name in the new age field right now. I’m still feeling her out, though, checking if she’s the real deal before I believe what she has to say.’

  Just who did this man trust?

  ‘What about Pluckley Ghost Hunters?’ I asked.

  ‘They’ve picked up a lot of stuff from TV, those popular ghost hunting shows you see on satellite and various self publishing platforms. Oh, and that’s how they’re making their profits by the way. Expect to see yourself in a future episode.’ He sucked on his cigarette. ‘The equipment they’re using, though pricey, is easily obtainable online and isn’t scientifically proven to confirm the existence of ghosts. But then no such test exists. It’s up to us to make what we want of the phenomena. The knocking we heard earlier was compelling, if it wasn’t a stunt.’

  He spoke with the confidence of someone who knew what they were talk
ing about, not just someone who had researched the subject but someone who was genuinely interested in it. Those people who really know their stuff. His analysis of the team made my doubts about their authenticity return. I wondered what else he might know, and was just about to ask him when I noticed those blue eyes of his appraising my outfit.

  ‘Who’d you come as, anyway?’ he said.

  The comment caught me off guard. Suddenly I didn’t feel so amiable towards the straight talking northerner. There was no malice behind the words, but I was in no mood for such frivolity after the evening’s events. I felt spooked, a touch delirious and I was becoming increasingly convinced Kat had run off into the countryside and might need me to call a search party. I was also fast getting tired of people commenting on my choice of outfit, even if I wasn’t doing myself any favours by dressing like a character from one of Sir Arthur Conan Doyle’s novels.

  Looking at Will standing there, too gorgeous to be real, a grin curling a pair of very kissable lips, I felt the urge to strike him sharply on the nose. Or at least retort with some witty quip about his own outfit. But he made the clothes he wore look good, not the other way around, and that hair probably looked photoshoot ready when he rolled out of bed in the morning. Plus, I’m about as violent as a guinea pig. Instead, pathetically, I edged to the other side of the door and pressed my back against the wall, adopting a look comparable to a sulky adolescent, arms crossed and staring pointedly ahead.

  If I’d expected an apology, I certainly wasn’t going to get one. Will released a small laugh. Silence followed before he spoke again.

  ‘Want one?’

  I cast him a sideways glance under my sulky brow and saw he was proffering a half empty packet of cigarettes. Half empty because I’ve always been a half empty not a half full sort of person. I was feeling pretty pessimistic about how this interaction was developing, too.

  ‘Don’t smoke,’ I replied shortly. ‘And neither should you.’

  I hoped he hadn’t heard the crack in my voice. I might have looked defiant on the surface, but inside I was feeling deep insecurity. An insecurity that, as much as I hated to admit it, was as raw as it had been at school. Nothing helped me forget the taunts and threats from the schoolyard bullies, or the resentment I felt at myself for never fighting back. As I stood there, hunched and shivering like a defeated street dog, more water from the building’s brickwork dripping on my face, it took a well practised endurance to stop myself from bursting into pathetic sobs.

  ‘It was a joke, you know,’ said Will.

  I cast another moody glance at the floor, avoiding his gaze.

  Persistent, he said, ‘It’s the way I roll.’

  This time I did meet his eyes. But I was frowning.

  In response to this Will shook his head, looking confused that I didn’t appear to be on his wavelength. ‘You know … the way I banter. I like to joke now and again.’

  I really had been out of the social loop for too long. I began to feel conflicted, that awkward feeling where you have a loyalty to your original reaction but you’re not so sure about it anymore. ‘Well, maybe you need to find some better jokes,’ I replied, immediately cringing at how petulant I sounded.

  There was another moment of quiet, where for a second I was worried it was him contemplating acts of violence towards me. He flicked the burning tip of his cigarette into the air, which landed a few feet from Matt’s flashy sports car, scattering orange sparks across the gravel. Then he sauntered over.

  I braced as he stopped a few inches in front of my face. Rain had landed on the sticker on his chest, making the black ink streaky and illegible. He peeled it off, scrunched it in his palm and flicked that, too, into the night air. Had no one ever taught this man the etiquette of not littering?

  ‘Names, clothes and looks don’t make a person, mate. You offend me by assuming I’m shallow enough to give a shit.’

  Aftershave, spearmint gum and cigarette smoke emanated from him. Despite my aversion to the toxic cancer sticks, it made for an oddly alluring concoction. I searched his eyes, trying to read if he was being genuine or not. It was hard not to get lost in them. This close up he was impossibly handsome; the lips were full and defined, his teeth were white, clean and straight despite being a smoker; his olive skin would have made the prettiest women envious it was so smooth and unblemished.

  ‘I couldn’t care less what you’re wearing,’ he reiterated. ‘In fact, I think you look …’ he creased his brow as he searched for the right word, ‘spiffy.’

  I frowned. ‘Spiffy?’

  ‘Yeah, you look just like this old granddad I used to have.’

  The lips curled mischievously. And the anger reignited in my belly … but then dissipated. A playful glint in Will’s eyes showed the cheeky spirit lurking within his psyche. I had seen that look somewhere before. In the eyes of someone special. Someone who never would have set out to intentionally upset me. Suddenly I could see how oversensitive I was being, see the funny side of this rather unusual greeting. I could see how isolating myself, living in books and films instead of the real world, capturing life as photographs instead of friends and experiences, had kept me out of touch with the nuances of social interaction. I smiled, even if it was a wary one.

  ‘The name’s Anderson. Will Anderson.’ He proffered groomed digits for me to shake.

  I did, at least, get the James Bond reference. I shook his hand. ‘Quentin Strange.’

  ‘Strange …’

  ‘Don’t even try it,’ I said.

  This time Will smiled. He winked, said, ‘Later, squire,’ then sauntered back inside the manor, as casually as he’d drifted out of it.

  I watched him stroll across the giant hallway, whistling as he took in the scenery around him. Reaching the foot of the stairs, he stole a glance over his shoulder. I averted my eyes. But too late. Will Anderson the writer knew very well I had been watching him.

  ‘It’s like The Amityville Horror house in there, that’s bloody why!’

  Kat’s voice snatched my attention as it tore through the breezy night air. I craned my neck and saw her storming down the side of the estate, one hand pressing her phone to her ear, the other pinching a half smoked cigarette. The wind had blown her hair about her face, giving her the appearance of someone wild and disorganised, a far cry from the immaculate professional she worked so hard at portraying herself to be.

  ‘Well make sure he calls me first thing!’ she yelled into the phone, before ending the call with a firm jab of her thumb.

  She flicked the burning tip of her cigarette into a nearby bush, making a crow burst out of it with an angry squawk before taking flight. Then she was making a beeline for me, her face as thundery as the skies were moments before.

  ‘You, come with me,’ she snapped. ‘We’re finding other accommodation.’

  ‘Sorry?’

  ‘There is no way I’m sleeping in there tonight.’

  ‘What? Why?’

  ‘There are ghosts in there, Quentin. Ghosts!’

  ‘We came to a haunted house to take part in a ghost hunt. What did you expect?’

  Kat threw up her hands. ‘Frauds. Charlatans. Those crazy people off the TV with gold bouffants who pretend to be possessed or kick over a chair when the cameras aren’t looking to make it look like a ghost did it. Not that Exorcist nonsense we just saw up there.’

  ‘You don’t know it was real,’ I said, swallowing down a growing nervousness.

  ‘You’ve changed your tune!’ she barked. She eyed the house warily as if expecting to find a spectre looking down at her from one of the windows. She lowered her voice to an almost whisper. ‘No. Something isn’t right about this place, I can feel it.’

  My stomach was churning. I felt certain we’d witnessed something incredible and genuine, regardless of what Will had said. And I had a feeling Hilderley Manor had even more incredible things for us to discover if we could hold out a little while longer. I had to persuade Kat to let us stay the night.


  ‘Think about the article,’ I said. ‘Imagine how much better it’ll be coming from a more subjective angle, now you’ll be writing it from personal experience. It’ll be a much more intriguing read. You’ll probably get twice as many readers.’

  Kat contemplated my words very carefully, her wide eyes still heedful of the house, which towered over us like a forbidding spectator.

  ‘You really think that would draw more traffic to the article?’ she asked. You could see her brain ticking over, picturing the many hits her online article might accumulate.

  I nodded fervently. ‘People who like to read about the supernatural love the suspense, they love the thrill of the scare. They want you to be as fascinated and open-minded as they are. Think of yourself as the conduit through which they will experience this haunted, mysterious place standing before us.’ I adopted the tone of a mentor delivering sage advice. ‘If you be brave for your readers they’ll return the favour by giving you the hits you crave.’

  It took Kat maybe three seconds to deliberate this enticing thought. Drawing a deep breath and flicking a strand of hair from her face, she said, ‘Well, I guess if I’m going to become a serious journalist I have to get used to being in the war zone at some point.’

  She threw her shoulders back and marched through the front door like a soldier heading into battle. A second later she was back.

  ‘Oh, and thanks,’ she said, peering around the door frame. ‘I wouldn’t have thought it, but you’re actually quite persuasive. You should develop that skill more. It could come in handy if we’re still working together after the weekend’s over.’

  She disappeared again, leaving me standing alone in the drizzling rain to mull that over. I guessed it was a compliment, coming from her.

  Duper’s delight curled one corner of my mouth. So it wasn’t just taking photographs I was good at after all.