Sceptic

by Lilliana Rose

  Bertie is out cold from old fashion means.

  I’m a ghost.

  I don’t belong here.

  Worse, I have no idea what the hell I should do.

  And what does it mean if a person can walk through me? That I can’t be seen?

  This whole experience has left me in a mess on the floor scared shitless of myself.

  I’m not sure what I expected the after-life to be like. I had been trying to keep an open mind, on account there wasn’t much the literature could actually tell me, but I know I wasn’t expecting this.

  Bertie whimpers in his sleep. A wave of sympathy washes over me. He doesn’t deserve to be strapped to the bed like that. His nose stops bleeding. Blood congeals on the base of his neck. He tries to turn over, to curl up facing the wall. The leather straps pull him back. He doesn’t wake. At least he doesn’t open his eyes. I don’t know if I want him to or not. Guess it wouldn’t matter, it’s not like he can see me.

  I don’t know why I don’t go to Bertie and try to loosen the straps and free him. That would be the respectable thing to do. Based on the fact I can’t get through the door, I assume it would be a waste of time.

  I’m more curious about the door. That is my way out of here. A slither of light comes in between the bottom of the door giving the room a greyness, but it doesn’t penetrate far, only gives a glimpse of what perhaps might be on the other side. I have to get out of this small room. I can’t stay here indefinitely. I’ll go insane.

  I crawl to the door. There are two holes, one is low at about knee height and the other higher at eye level.

  I move to the lower peephole and look out into a dimly lit area. I see a door opposite, another, and part of another. I can see big locks, the heavy sort to keep people inside, and I can see the two peepholes like in my door. There’s a wide corridor in between where I am and the other door. Opposite is a communal-like bathroom, I’m partly guessing, from the glimpse and the smell I detect of human waste.

  Desperate to see more, I quickly stand and look through the higher peephole. I don’t see any more than I already have. I can fill in the blanks. There are more closed doors, either side, facing each other along the corridor. They’re holding people inside of them. I’m sure. I listen. A muffled voice babbling. Some moans. I can hear footsteps on the wooden floor. I always liked that sound, but now I don’t.

  ‘Lights out.’

  My view is gone. Blacked out. I step back from the door. Horror seeps into me. Is this what my life has been reduced to? Two peepholes to view the world through? I’m becoming more aware that this is quite possibly a world that I don’t want to see. Not even with my attraction to darkness.

  I turn back to the cell. It’s the only world available to me. I should explore it. Not my style but there’s nothing else for me to do, so why not?

  Bluish moonlight is coming through the top half of the window, the part that isn’t covered with metal. I step closer. The top part of the metal comes level with my head. I’m not tall enough to see above it, and for me to widen my horizons beyond this cell. Not even if I stand on tippy toes, and when I jump, I only get a glimpse of darkness stretching out past the multi-panelled glass. I don’t touch the window. I’m not comfortable seeing my hands disappear into the metal, which is entirely unnatural, like my ghostly form, like me being here stuck in this cell. All completely fucked up.

  I jump giving it all my effort and land heavily. My knees bend a little to take the impact. I glance down. My boots disappear slightly into the floor. The reverberations ripple up my legs. An equal force in the opposite direction pushes me up, and I’m back standing on the floor.

  Fuck.

  I’m not sure why I haven’t fallen through the floor. I’m not sure why I even think to jump again, but I do. I have to make sure what I’m seeing is correct. I don’t really want to trust my eyesight. I just keep having this thought that things aren’t what they seem. I need to be careful, but I’m a ghost in a cell with a man strapped to the bed. I’m not sure exactly how things could get worse for me.

  The tops of my boots disappear. This time I feel a little amused. Who knows where I could end up? Maybe down in hell where I belong? So I try again, jumping with more force. I want to get to hell. This could be the only way. I will myself to move downwards. It doesn’t work.

  Jumping makes me tired. I’m not sure how to explain it. I expect I won’t have to sleep, and I won’t ever get tired now that I’m a ghost, but things aren’t what they seem.

  I look at Bertie. I could have fun. Scare him or something. I don’t want fun. Good thing he can’t see me then. He’s still out cold and he’s not going anywhere. A chill quivers through me every time I look at him, and I don’t want to get any closer to him just yet.

  There’s only one thing left for me to investigate and it scares me.

  Myself. I’ve never been the embodied sort of person. I’ve never really looked in the mirror. No point since I never liked what I saw anyway. The only time I ever checked the mirror was when I did my hair, and even then I would squint my eyes, so I didn’t see my features clearly. I’ve been blessed with great eyesight, so it was almost a novelty to look at my blurred reflection. It also meant that I needed to be quick. Otherwise, I’ll cope an eyeful of my high cheekbones, boring nose, and thin lips, and eyes that were my window to my soul and I sure as hell didn’t want to look through there.

  I don’t squint my eyes as I raise my hand in front of my face. Odd. I can’t see through my hand. I’d expect that in my ghostly form. I turn my hand. To me, it looks normal. Maybe a little greyish in colour. Feeling a little more confident, I look up my arm. I see the buckled skin where I’d carved myself before. My shirt is rolled up to my elbow where I’d put it before I started to cut myself. The fresh mark on my skin looks innocent almost barely a scratch. I run my thumb over the wound. I don’t feel anything. At least that hasn’t changed.

  I pull the sleeve down, button the cuff. I don’t need to see my failed attempt at leaving the world. Because standing here in this cell with a living person next to me, I haven’t left this world at all.

  To me, I look normal. The alive-sort-of-normal. I can’t help but think I’m seeing myself the only way I ever knew like I was when alive. Surely I can’t look like this. Especially when I can’t be seen. I shake my head. Things really aren’t making sense in this… where am I exactly? I wonder if I could come up with a name for it? I’m not feeling creative.

  Bertie stirs.

  I should move closer and scrutinise him further. Let’s be honest, I haven’t investigated very well, on account that my hands pass through solid objects, and I don’t really like how that feels or looks. It’s very unhinging. I never really knew what that word meant until now.

  I tentatively step towards the bed. A cold stillness settles inside of me.

  I look down at Bertie. The blood’s now dry, making a mess of his, can I say it, somewhat handsome face. I’m not feeling anything sexual towards him, just want to make that clear. But I know a good-looking face when I see one, without the blood, of course. He’s clean shaven, light brown hair is cut short, now messy from the tussle with the orderlies earlier. His eyes are a little sunken, and there are rings under them from a lack of sleep.

  I can tell he’s young. Older than me. Maybe he’s twenty. He looks at peace, eyes closed, breathing slow and rhythmic, but there are shadows there, entities clinging around him, not that I see them, I feel them. I miss them for they’re no longer attached to me, my tether to the darkness, to death is gone. I can’t hear Frank. I’ve been let loose, a lost kite in the sky, tumbling in the wind about to be snagged in a tree, or crash land on the ground. Maybe the cell is my tree?

  I focus back on Bertie. He’s slim, his cheeks are hollow, and I don’t think he’s eaten a decent meal for a while.

  He sees a lot. He sees what I do. Feels like me. Feels too much and so doesn’t want to feel anything. I can tell. Without a doubt. I don’t know what the fuck is going on
around me—why I’m here, why I’m not roaming around hell—but I know the mental state of this man. Of Bertie. I immediately feel connected. More so than I’ve managed to connect with people before. Not even with my parents, or Ashla, or Bree, or even the dog Tippy. Though this is different. I connect to him with pity. I’ve never pitied anything or anyone in my life. Not even myself. Least that’s the story I’m telling, and I’m sticking to it.

  His boots are still on. I move to take them off.

  My hands disappear into his feet.

  I jump back.

  His warmth vibrates in my fingers and up my hand and arm. I shake my arm not wanting to feel him. I don’t want the connection with him to be any stronger, but now I feel a part of him pulses in me.

  I need to be careful what I touch. I’m vulnerable. Open to feeling in a whole different way. This is much more dangerous than living.

  I back away until I bump into the window, then I slide down, crumbling to the floor. I can still feel Bertie’s warmth in me. I’m learning things about him from that simple touch. I don’t want to know these things about him. I don’t want a connection to be made. His memories move quickly, rolling out in movie form, but they’re fragmented and come in snatches which are out of order, and they don’t make a whole lot of sense. But they tell me enough about him to know he experiences life like me, and he yearns for a way out, to end things once and for all.

  Bertie’s method is rope. Hanging. Suffocating. He’s tried a few times. I just don’t get why he’s here locked up in this room. I can only assume it’s the doctor’s way of helping him. From his images, I’ve further confirmed that I’m not in my timeline. I’m not sure how far back I’ve gone, the Victorian era is around the late 1800s, though we didn’t have a strong influence like that in Australia. I can only guess it’s about 1880 or something, give or take ten years either side.

  Trying to work out the date is keeping me occupied. It doesn’t last long. I don’t want to think of Bertie and his ability to make a noose, but there’s nothing else for me to do, other than to punch things and watch as my limbs disappear into physical objects. And that’s not attractive.

  I’m done exploring. Bit pathetic of me, but there’s only so much one can do in a cell. And no matter what, I don’t want to touch Bertie again. I do want to unbuckle the leather straps holding his wrists to the bed, and around his waist, and one on each ankle, but I’m still having glimpses of him looking at his feet swinging above the ground, and it’s giving me vertigo.

  I sit on the floor tapping my feet together. My mind is blank. I’ve come to terms with being here. I don’t want to think about the whys anymore. I can’t even be bothered to think of how to get out. I’ve resigned myself to this fate which is beyond my control. At least when I was alive, I had the option of death. I’m not sure what option is available for a ghost. Guess I could unravel. Least it would be moving on from this state, and that’s what I want. To move on. I don’t want to be around Bertie anymore.

  I can feel a connection extending from my heart space to Bertie. An invisible thread of delicate silver chain, similar to a necklace, and it ends entering his chest. Connecting our hearts. Our souls. Our minds. It’s more than I can handle. When I move the chain rattles, a faint sound reminds me that we’re joined. I tug hard, pulling it towards me, but it doesn’t come out from Bertie. I try pulling the chain from me, but it holds tight. At least I can hold on to the chain without it passing through me. If I change my perspective, I don’t see it. Thank goodness. So I do that, and try to forget about it. With my mind churning over my current state, cycling through the same thoughts over and over, it’s easy enough to do. It’s getting somewhat tedious.

  Boredom is beginning to sink into my being. The shock of what I’ve been through dissipating. I’m not bothered that I’d taken something sharp to my skin again, but I’m starting to get a little pissed off that some god-like being had decided this cell is a good place for me. Unless this was an accident. A cock-up from management. Mum was always complaining about shit like that. Surely they would’ve figured out this mistake by now. A chill runs through me. Errors aren’t always found quickly.

  I could be here for a long time.

  I rush to the door. Ignoring how they slightly disappear, I bang my fists into the wood.

  ‘Let me out!’ I yell over and over and over. I make as much noise as I can. My fists go numb. I keep thumping them into the door. As panic takes hold of my mind, I scream the words out. I even kick the door repeatedly. The only thing that happens is I end up collapsing on the floor exhausted.

  I turn my hands over. They’re greyish in tone, the skin looks rough like there’s blood where I’ve been hitting the door. Not possible. But everything about this adventure isn’t fucking possible. Maybe it’s time I start believing in the impossible. I’m not ready to. There has to be a way out.

  I hear footsteps coming along the corridor outside the cell. My heart, well the memory of my heart beating, increases in speed. Maybe they heard me. I shiver. A mix of excitement and fear flows down my back in a snake-like movement. If the bald man is coming back, I’ll be ready to kick him in the balls if he tries to restrain me.

  I hurry to stand, leaning forward to look through the peephole. It’s dark. I can’t see anything, but I wait. My eyes adjust. A fleeting thought sweeps through my mind of how much I still act and think like I have a physical body, but I guess I don’t know how else to think. Yet. If I stay in ghost form long enough then I could change. Then again maybe this is what it’s like to be dead. I shake my head. I was dead enough when I was topside, walking around breathing, eating and shitting. No. It doesn’t feel right. I’m not sure how I know, but I do from the swirl of my gas-like energy in my belly. Something weird is going on, and whether an accident or not I’m caught up in it.

  I can see some light coming in from the right. I move to see more. I can’t see anything, so I look to my left. There are three large arch windows, the middle one reaches a little higher than the others. The windows end well above the floor, so I, or anyone else no matter how tall they are, can’t reach them to escape. They are long, designed to only let light in. They can’t be opened.

  Someone gave thought to the design of the building. A sick joke perhaps? There are too many details in the architecture that speak of keeping people in. But the designer wasn’t completely heartless. They made sure light could come in. Moonlight spills out onto the wooden floor, the glass panels making an even pattern.

  The steps sound louder, closer. They are uneven as if the person has a bad knee. I look the other way.

  A gaslight glows, a beacon in the darkness. It hurts my eyes a little, but I make myself keep looking. I need to know where I am. I have to learn about the building and the people here. If I want to escape. I want to make it to hell. That’s where I still want to go. I’ve often daydreamed it was an accident, and I wasn’t meant to have been released from hell in the first place. I certainly didn’t feel at home around people.

  A shadow moves. Tall and thin and human in shape blocks enough of the light for me to experience a burst of fear.

  I pull away from the peephole. Close my eyes and pause. I have to learn to change my way of thinking. I’m a ghost, surely I can’t be hurt? There’s doubt in my mind. Things aren’t like I’d read about. Though what would people know about ghosts other than perhaps what people have made up? I’ve never been interested in them. They always seemed a passive monster, restricted. Plus, I wasn’t a believer then. I wasn’t about to believe in the retellings from people who had ghostly experiences. I just considered such things examples of active imaginations. Whenever I was in a curious state of mind, it was still on the dark side, and there are other beings much more interesting to read about, in books, poems, online. Pennywise the Dancing Clown. Scylla. The Balrog. One of my other favourites is the Jabberwocky.

  Forcing myself, I lean forward, my left eye closed, my right open, and I look through the peephole once more.

 
I see an eye looking at me. For one second I see the brown iris, the redness in the whites with a hint of yellow, long dark lashes surrounded by wrinkly skin. In that short time, I see more than I would like into this person’s soul, or mind, or whatever the fuck I’m looking into. I’ve read enough poetry, heard enough sayings over the years that the eyes are the windows into a person’s soul. I didn’t care. I never looked anyone in the eye. It was just how I was. I never put the obvious two and two together that perhaps I didn’t want to look into someone’s eyes was because I saw too much. Like now. The only people I could manage was with Mum and Dad, Ashla, and Bree. I knew them anyway. I could feel my parents’ worry and disappointment without looking in their eyes, so it didn’t matter if I did have the occasional connection with them.

  This is bad.

  I pull away. k•1•2

  My hands stay frozen either side of the peephole. I can see glimpses of his eye. His soul, unaware, speaks to my mind with a series of images. I brace myself, unable to even come up with a way to severe whatever link is between us. Overwhelmed by the glimpses, little short movies shutter through me, and all I can do is watch.

  A long knife. Butchers knife. Used every day on sheep, and cattle. But today slices the throat of a woman he’s used and doesn’t want anyone to find out about. His shameful secret. A shovel stands, dirty and bloodied. Six-foot hole in the ground. Night time echoes with sounds that should never be heard.

  ‘What’s all this noise in here?’ he grumbles.

  The sound of his voice stops the images and releases me. I hold my breath. That’s how scared I am. I can’t breathe, and yet, I’m holding a breath I don’t have.

  I wait for the door to be unlocked. I can’t even step out of the way, but all he does is stand at the other side. There’s no noise of keys. He doesn’t even walk with a light. His eyes see in the dark.

  ‘Keep it quiet. You don’t want me coming back a second time.’