Chasing Ghosts

by Dean Cole

  ‘Quentin, dear,’ she said, clutching her chest. ‘Do forgive me. But this place has put me right on edge since last night.’

  ‘You won’t believe it,’ I said, eager to tell her about the afternoon’s events.

  ‘Can’t talk now, sweetheart.’ Smelling like a perfumery, she brushed me out of the way. ‘The team want me ready in the next hour and there’s a lot of preparation to be done before tonight’s escapades.’

  ‘But I wanted to tell you that you were right. Elliot did have a message to give me. It’s why I’ve been dreaming about him. He’s trying to help me.’

  Esther halted near a gilded picture frame homing a landscape oil painting. She turned around. But the enthusiasm I expected to see mirrored on her beautified face was not there. Instead her lips were pressed together in a look of pity. ‘Messages from the other side aren’t something you can guess, dear. They are given in due time, usually when we stop longing so hard to hear them.’

  ‘But you don’t understand. I saw a vision. It was a message because —’

  Esther was shaking her head. ‘You’re not listening for the message, Quentin. You’re hoping it’s the thing you want to hear. What is it that you are really seeking? You never needed me or this place to prove to you that ghosts existed, you already know they do. You will get the answers you’re looking for when the time is right, but sometimes the answers aren’t always what we hoped they would be.’

  With a ghost of a smile, Esther turned and carried on her way. Confused, I stood at the threshold of the bathroom and watched her go.

  I was still pondering the ambiguous words after I finished in the bathroom and returned to the room to continue my search for Kat. I peeked my head inside, seeing she wasn’t there. Her belongings, however, were, letting me know she was around somewhere.

  Hearing footsteps in the corridor, I stepped backwards, peering around the door frame. The person walking down the corridor with their back to me was not my partner. It was a young man wearing a flat cap and a tan-coloured shirt, y-shaped braces clipped to his brown trousers.

  An ajar door midway down the corridor showed me where he had just appeared from. I continued to watch him as he walked. The gait was unusual, a sort of lame shuffle, as if he didn’t have complete feeling in his right leg and had to drag it along the ground. It was a slight impairment, but noticeable nonetheless. I might not have thought more about him if I hadn’t spotted the piece of paper that floated like a feather before alighting on the carpet runner. Had he dropped it?

  ‘Excuse me!’ I called out, but he didn’t turn around, continuing to walk. ‘Hello? I think you’ve dropped something!’

  I rushed over to the piece of paper and bent down to pick it up. It was folded in half, concealing what was on the other side. I opened it and saw what looked like a child’s drawing: stick figures, green grass, a yellow sun. ‘Excuse me!’

  He reached one of the doors at the end of the corridor, opened it and vanished from sight. I scowled, annoyed at being ignored. Until it crossed my mind that he could be deaf. I glanced at the door to my side where he’d appeared from. I walked over and pulled it wider, spying a staircase that led to another door at the top. The door was open. I was looking at the entrance to the house’s attic.

  A creak on the boards made me freeze. Then a face peeked around the door frame. A middle-aged bearded guy wearing a tool belt and a flannel shirt with the sleeves rolled to the elbows stuck up his thumb. ‘Window repair,’ he said in a cheery Lancashire accent. ‘Just mending a couple of cracked panes.’

  My body relaxed. I considered asking him if the young man was with him or not, but not wanting to disturb a working man going about his duties decided against it. Instead I began towards the room at end of the corridor, the piece of paper pinched between my fingers.

  I reached the door and rapped three times. I waited a second. No answer. I knocked again, glanced back down the corridor. Other than the gurgle of the hot water in the radiators, the banging of a hammer up in the attic, all was quiet.

  ‘Hello?’ I called out, making sure my voice was loud enough to be heard from the other side. When there was no response this time, I opened the door and peered inside.

  I was looking at another guest room. This one didn’t have a fourposter, but a king size half-poster that dominated one wall. There was other furniture, too. A chest of drawers, a chaise longue, a Queen Anne tea table — and absolutely no sign of the young man.

  I blinked, an instinctive reaction to make sure my eyes weren’t deceiving me. A very uneasy feeling crept over me. I glanced down the corridor. Looked at the empty room again. But no matter how many times I tried to conjure him back into existence, the young man had vanished like a ghost.

  My heart picked up a pace, the same fear I felt in that dank cellar returning. I reimagined that face, the one that looked so much like mine. Did it also belong to the young man who had just vanished into thin air? I glanced down at my clothes. The clothes he was wearing were not my own. But they were similar. Clothes that Kat would have banished to a bygone era. The next thought that occurred was too chilling to comprehend. Was I … no I couldn’t be … looking at my own ghost?

  I recoiled from the room and shut the door, hard. Fear became anger. This blimming place was messing with my head. My own ghost. What a ridiculous thought.

  But then my thoughts took me back to last night’s nightmare. The young man in that dream had looked very much like me from behind. Whether his face looked like mine before it had been destroyed, however, I would never know. But it was easy to see what could have caused such destruction. A weapon being fired at close range. A weapon such as a shotgun.

  Keen to get the hell away from this corridor, I stuffed the piece of paper with the drawing on it in my pocket and took off, throwing the room a very nervous parting glance as I descended the staircase.

  Spooked by yet another encounter with one of Hilderley Manor’s incorporeal residents, I was relieved when I found Kat in the lounge moments later. But what I hadn’t expected to find was … was she … yes, she was … having a conversation with the stag’s head that was surmounted above the fireplace.

  Hearing me enter, she stopped talking and turned around. A glass flute of something clear and sparkling waved precariously in her hand. ‘Quentin! Oh, I’ve missed you.’

  Missed me? Was this some kind of joke? What had she missed? Berating me? I eyed her suspiciously. Could I, perhaps, not be looking at Katrina Brannigan, journalist for The Cricklewood Gazette, but at her doppelgänger? Whatever it was, I think I was about to find out, because she was heading towards me, glass flute held high between thumb and forefinger, her legs bending as they struggled to stay upright on the heels of her boots.

  I’d barely had chance to brace when her arm wrapped around my neck. She squeezed me so tightly I could have sworn I heard my vertebrae crunch. After what felt like an eternity, because she was strangling my windpipe, she released me and her face swam into view amid a hundred tiny stars.

  ‘There he is, my handsome photographer,’ she cooed.

  OK, something was definitely wrong.

  She cupped my face with one hand. Her eyes were glassy, with heavy lids and dilated pupils. They were staring not at my eyes, but at the bridge of my nose. They finally found my eyes and her mouth widened into a smile. The fumes on her breath would have made me tipsy if I’d breathed them in long enough.

  ‘You’re …’

  ‘A little tipsy, that’s all,’ she slurred.

  She giggled, turned around and staggered towards the refreshments table, bumping into one of the chairs and causing the glasses and bowls to rattle. ‘Oops. Now, what was I after …’ She seized an already opened bottle of champagne and started refilling her glass, the stream of bubbly stuff missing the rim and splashing the tablecloth.

  ‘I, erm, came to see how you are,’ I said, rubbing my neck. ‘You seemed scared earlier.’

  Kat swerved as she carried her refilled glass over to the an
tique furniture, the drink sloshing against the sides of the glass as it threatened to drench the rug on the hardwood flooring. When she reached the sofa, she turned, lagging for a second as her eyes tried to find me. ‘Scared? Me? I’m not scared. I’m fearless!’

  She dropped onto the sofa, giggling over her rear hitting the cushion harder than she’d expected. More champagne sloshed over the chest of her silken blouse, but she just wiped at the stains sloppily. She patted the empty space beside her. ‘Come and sit with me.’

  I debated. I didn’t know if I felt safer down here or upstairs with my own doppelgänger. I ventured over and sat gingerly on the aged upholstery. I began to wonder where the ghosts hunters were, praying they’d interrupt us and rescue me from whatever was about to take place.

  ‘Don’t look so confused, pumpkin,’ slurred Kat.

  ‘Well, it’s just that you were so alarmed by the photographs, by what I was telling you about the vision. And now—’

  ‘Pfft.’ She waved the air, almost taking my eye out with one of her manicured talons. ‘I’m fine! As a matter of fact, I feel quite the lionheart. Watch …’ Struggling to keep her eyelids fully open, she sat forward and looked around the room as if she was about to address a small audience. ‘Ghosts! Come out, come out, wherever you are.’ She exploded into a fit of giggles. ‘No?’ she called. ‘Suit yourselves, then!’ She sat back and sipped more champagne, chuckling some more.

  ‘Kat, maybe you’ve had enough —’

  ‘No, Quentin, I haven’t. And do you know why?’

  I blinked, inching back at the sudden fire in her voice.

  ‘I’ve been working my pretty arse off solidly for the last twelve months and haven’t had a single day off, let alone a night out, a chance to let my hair down, god forbid have some of that elusive bloody thing called fun! Do you know what that does to a young, beautiful woman like me?’

  I stared at her, wide-eyed and unblinking.

  ‘It turns her into an irritable, bad-tempered bitch. That’s what.’

  She lunged at me and seized the lapel of my blazer. My jaw clamped shut and I’m sure I peed a little.

  ‘Tell me I’m a bitch!’ she demanded.

  When I said nothing, she shook me vigorously until I came to a stop with my glasses askew. ‘Tell me!’

  ‘You’re … not that bad.’

  ‘Pfft.’ She let me go, shaking her head glumly. ‘You’re too kind to say it. But the truth is I’m awful, Quentin. And we both know it.’

  I brushed the creases out of my blazer, watching her heedfully. She sipped more champagne, her lips pouty against the rim of the glass.

  Staring at Kat in that moment, I was reminded of one of the many reasons I was afraid to drink. The stuff had made her as unpredictable as the British weather. And then came another sudden change of character. The glum pout turned into a contemplative slant of the lips as a thought appeared to occur to her.

  ‘I wasn’t always this way. I used to be shy, really respectful. I was head prefect at secondary two years in a row, you know. Always was a natural leader.’ Gazing into midair, her glassy eyes and the Gucci watch catching the light from the crackling fire, she smiled proudly. But then the smile faded. ‘When you’re a person who follows rules, though, when you’re willing to do hard work when everyone else isn’t, people think you’re a pushover. They take advantage of you. It’s human nature, the predator and the prey. A perfect match.’

  Sipping from the glass this time, there was a bitterness in the way she slugged it back. Against the crackle of the hearth fire, I chose to listen and stay mute, hoping it would save me from getting shaken again.

  ‘And ambition isn’t a bad thing,’ she went on. ‘It’s just that everyone wants to be noticed today. They want to be great at something, but for the sake of being great not what they get out of it. And do you know, Quentin, not everyone can be great. Greatness wouldn’t exist if we all were, it’s dependent on someone else being inferior.’ She released a weary sigh followed by a small burp.

  I wondered where this was going. Fearing it turning into drunken rambling I was about to brave it and interrupt her, but she started speaking again.

  ‘Do you know what happened to me when my first ever article was published? A girl I’d had a feud with at college, Amber Simpson, spread it around social media that I’d plagiarised her college assignment when I hadn’t. Do you know how painful that was, Quentin? To love something so much you spend years devoting every spare minute you have to becoming great at it. And when you finally achieve your dream, someone pisses all over it.’

  The corner of Kat’s long-lashed eyes glistened with the beginning of tears. For the first time I felt sympathy for my partner. There was vulnerability behind the sharp tongue, wounds beneath the tough exterior.

  ‘I could prove it was original, thanks to my diligence in taking notes, in crediting all my sources. But mud sticks, and she knew it. Do you know what’s the most screwed up thing about it, though?’

  Still wary, I shook my head.

  ‘The only reason she did it was because I stood up for myself. I exposed her for the bitch she was. Amber was a bully, a cheat, a manipulator and a liar. And when she’d destroyed every friendship I had, diminished every achievement I was praised for, I finally snapped and told people what she was like.’ The glass flute almost slipping through her fingers, Kat turned a disenchanted expression on me. ‘For some people it’s the worst thing you can do, expose them for who they really are. They work so hard at creating a false self. Because if people knew who they really were they’d never be able to get the things they want. She waited all those years to get her revenge. And she finally got her wish, to have the world see me as a fraud, the very thing she is and always will be.’

  A tear rolled down Kat’s cheek. She wiped it away, causing her mascara to smudge. Her eyelids were still heavy. The glass of champagne listed precariously in her hand. But despite her intoxication, this had been no drunken ramble. Kat was recalling an event from her past that had deeply affected and shaped her.

  ‘That’s why I insist everyone calls me Kat,’ she said. ‘Katrina died years ago. She was too innocent for this world. Kat knows everyone plays a game. She knows people aren’t who they say they are. She stays one step ahead so people can’t manipulate, use and double-cross her. With people like Amber Simpson in the world, Quentin, I know which girl I’d rather be.’

  I felt my body tensing, my upper lip flattening and my jaw tightening. Kat’s story was filling me with anger. I had a new respect for my partner. My heart went out to her. She was beautiful, young, smart, shrewd, driven and confident. All the traits you need to be successful. All the traits I am not. But all that was tainted by a distrust of other people and an ugly outlook of the world because of the acts of this one person. ‘Fuck Amber Simpson!’ I said.

  Kat spun her head, stunned by the uncharacteristic expletive. But then her face melted into a look of appreciation. ‘That’s the sweetest thing anyone’s ever said to me.’

  ‘Come on,’ I said, spotting her tired red eyes, her mascara streaked cheeks. ‘Let’s get you upstairs to bed.’

  Getting Kat up the stairs was a bigger challenge than anticipated. She stumbled and wobbled a lot, almost toppling back down them at one point. By the time we’d reached the first floor I’d worked up a small sweat.

  Dusk was falling rapidly outside the window at the end of the corridor. The ghost hunters would soon be calling for us to join them on the final night’s hunt. But Kat was in no state for such happenings. And, according to the plan Will had given me a brief rundown of on the roof terrace — “you get into bed, I hide in the shadows, we wait for the old man to show up with the shotgun, and before he has chance to kill you, bam, I leap out and floor the fucker” — Kat would only be getting in the way of things if I were to take her back to our room on the second floor. There was only one other option.

  We had just reached Will’s room when the sconces on the walls began to flicker on and of
f. I halted, causing Kat to loll in my arms like a stringless puppet. A bad power connection? Pretty unlikely since the lights weren’t even switched on. They flickered again. My eyes darted up and down the corridor, expecting to see some phantom in the shadows. I had been here before. The incident with the exploding bulb was fresh on my mind and would be for a long time. And I was right to be worried. It was here again.

  The air felt cold suddenly. Then colder. Breath misted from my mouth. I could sense the thing moving towards me. Then, as if it was passing right through me, my whole body became ice. I let go of Kat and she fell to the floor with a heavy thump. The cold moved through my body, shocking me into a statue. Then I felt myself getting warmer. Warmer. The thing was moving away. And then it was gone.

  I stood stock still, my chest rising and falling from my panicked breath. I thought I registered the sound of tiny feet trotting up behind me, but still in shock I remained too frozen to turn around and see what it was. The lights flickered a couple more times and I finally felt safe to move again.

  A groan issued from the floor. I looked down and saw Kat lying there, her hair curtaining half her face. She blinked up at me through her heavy lids. ‘Did I fall?’

  But whether she had fallen or not was about to be the least of her worries. Cottonball trotted out from behind my legs, stopped when he reached Kat’s face, then cocked his leg and proceeded to urinate all over her fancy hair and makeup.

  ‘Jesus!’ I bent down to stop the pooch, but was startled by a loud shriek that reverberated through the corridor.

  Ash had appeared from one of the rooms in her bra and knickers, wearing a look of alarm on her face. ‘Cottonball! No!’

  She ran towards us, her painted feet padding down the runner, her jewel-adorned hands covering her underwear. She reached Cottonball just as he was finishing his business and shaking off. She snatched the fluff ball off the floor. ‘Naughty boy, Cottonball! You know you have to wait for mummy to take you outside before you go pee pee.’