Fourteen Days

by Steven Jenkins

  He made his way back inside the house carrying his empty glass and plate.

  In the utility room, the freezer door was hanging wide open. He stopped for a moment and frowned, trying to recall whether or not he had already closed it from earlier. Unable to remember, he shrugged off the doubt and pushed the door shut with his heel. Listening to it shut, he continued on through to the kitchen.

  Still hungry. Maybe I’ll fry up some chicken nuggets. And some chips. Could even have a beer. Why not? I’m meant to be relaxing after all. Doctor’s orders.

  As he entered the kitchen he saw a woman.

  She was sitting on the far corner kitchen chair. Her dress was white, covered in stains, her face a mask of torture, and her brown, sweat-soaked hair in disarray.

  “Fuck me!” he screamed, dropping both the plate and the glass, smashing them. Shards scattered across the tiled floor.

  And then she was gone.

  Almost hyperventilating, his skin crawling with goosebumps, Richard held a trembling hand over his pounding heart. Was it just a trick of the eyes, a flash of light from something outside? Or had he just seen a ghost in his kitchen? Impossible, his rational mind said, as he tried to slow his racing heartbeat. It was just the heat, and the boredom, and the light. Ghosts aren’t real. Don’t be so bloody stupid, Rich. What’s the matter with you?

  But she seemed so real. So vivid to him.

  No. It was just his imagination. He was certain of that. He didn’t believe in ghosts. Not really anyway.

  So why did the empty kitchen chair fill him with such dread?

  Calming down, still undecided of what he saw, he got a small dustpan and brush from the cupboard underneath the sink, and began to clear the broken pieces off the floor. “Jesus Christ,” he muttered, still shaking as he gathered up the mess. “I’m losing it. I must be.”

  He tipped the pieces into the bin and turned to look again at the table. A thin layer of sweat had formed on his brow, a combination of the heat and fright. He wiped it off with his wrist and shook his head, still not over the shock. What’s wrong with me? His eyes were still fixed on the chair.

  Unable to think of anything other than the mysterious woman, he remained in the kitchen for several minutes—forgetting about the urge to urinate.

  “I’ve tried dropping hints, but it’s no good,” Nicky said, sitting on the couch next to Richard. “Even Lucy’s started to notice.”

  “Why doesn’t your boss say something to her?” Richard asked half-heartedly, his focus split between his wife’s office politics and the woman from his kitchen.

  “Because everyone’s afraid of her. But I’m not. I came so close to telling her today.”

  “And what stopped you?” he asked, trying to throw the woman’s tortured face to the back of his mind.

  She shrugged. “I don’t know. It’s not worth it—especially when your boss doesn’t back you up. It’s all right for you, you’re a manager—people listen to you. But no one gives a crap about what I say.”

  “That’s not true,” he said, rubbing a sympathetic hand across her leg. “Everyone listens to you.”

  Chuckling through her nostrils, she replied, “If only that were true.”

  “Well, I care about what you have to say.”

  Smirking, she turned to him. “Are you sure about that?”

  “What d’ya mean?”

  Her eyebrows rose. “Didn’t I ask you to do the dishes this morning?”

  He bit his bottom lip like a naughty child. “Sorry, forgot.” He paused for a second, and then added, “Didn’t you tell me to take it easy?”

  “I think you can manage a few dishes. Which reminds me: some of the spoons are missing from the cutlery drawer. Have you left any in work?”

  “I was going to ask you the same thing.”

  “Well, I haven’t taken them. Are you sure you haven’t? They were a wedding present from your auntie and uncle.”

  Frowning, he shook his head. “Of course I’m sure. Why would I take them to work? You’re the one who takes salads and cereal to work. I only eat sandwiches and junk food.”

  She pondered for a moment. “That’s odd.”

  Picking up the remote control, she pushed the standby button. The half-lit room became illuminated as the television powered up.

  “Listen, I wasn’t going to say anything, but—” Richard said, his words laced with severity.

  She turned to him with a concerned look on her face. “What’s wrong?”

  Holding back his words, he exhaled as if to prepare. “Well, it’s just—”

  “Hang on for a second.” She pushed the standby button again and the television died. “Go on—what’s up? It sounds serious.”

  “This afternoon, I saw something. At least I think I did. I’m not sure.”

  Intrigued, she leaned in close. “Saw what?”

  “A woman. In our kitchen.”

  “What, a burglar?”

  He shook his head. “Not exactly.”

  “Then what?” she asked, grimacing.

  He braced. “Well, I’m not saying it was a ghost, but…”

  Moving away from him, his wife gave out a loud cry of laughter. “A ghost? Is there something wrong with you? How old are you?”

  “Look, I said it wasn’t a ghost. I’m just saying I saw something, all right. Probably just my eyes playing tricks. That’s all.”

  “And what did this woman look like?” she said, clearly humoring him. “Was she pretty? Or was she one of those zombie ghosts, all rotten with worms coming out of her face?

  “Grow up, Nic!” he snapped. “I’m trying to be serious.”

  “I’m teasing. Come on—tell me, what did she look like?”

  He took a minute to answer, shaking his head as he stared at her. “She was mid-thirtyish, long brown hair. But I know she wasn’t real.”

  “And what was she wearing?” she asked, trying to appear convinced.

  “Why does that matter? She’s not even real.”

  “Come on. Tell me what she was wearing.”

  He sighed. “She had a white dress on. Like a summer dress. You know—loose-fitted. Like the ones you wear.”

  Pondering for a moment, she put a hand on his leg. “You know what—come to think of it, one of my summer dresses has gone missing. I think the bitch must have pinched it.”

  Fake-smiling, he removed her hand from his leg. “Very funny. Look, if you’re going to be like that, then…”

  “Oh, I’m sorry, babe. I’m teasing you. Come on, I am interested. Really.”

  “Look, I know it wasn’t a ghost, I don’t believe in them, but it was just weird. It gave me such a bloody fright. I even dropped my plate and glass.”

  “Maybe it was a ghost.”

  “Shut up, Nic. Don’t make fun.”

  “Maybe we need someone to communicate with it.”

  “Nic, you’re not funny.”

  “I think I’ve got Whoopi Goldberg’s number somewhere.”

  Richard sighed. “Don’t know why I tell you anything.”

  “Don’t go in a mood,” she said, placing her hand on his leg again. “I’m only having a laugh. You saw something ’cause you’re bored out of your mind being stuck in the house all day. You’re not used to it. You’ve been working pretty much every day for the past three years, so I’m not surprised you’re having trouble adjusting. Give it a few more days and you’ll be back to your old self.”

  “I haven’t been working every day.”

  “Yes you have. Why do you think I got rid of the laptop?”

  “That’s not just for work. We both use it.”

  Nicky chuckled. “Yeah, right. If I can ever pry you away from it.”

  “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  “Well, surfing the Internet on your days off is one thing, but you spend most of the time checking work stuff and finishing off reports. And e-mailing Leah.”

  “That’s not true.” But he knew it was. And being cut off from his co
mputer highlighted how much.

  “Look, let’s not get into an argument now,” she said. “I’m sorry I brought it up and I’m sorry I teased you.”

  He paused for a moment, and then placed his hand over hers. “I’m sorry too. Let’s just—”

  The room filled with the deafening sound of the TV, with the volume to its maximum. They both jumped up in fright, covering their ears to block out the piercing noise.

  “Turn it down!” he called out.

  Grabbing the remote, she frantically pushed the volume control button and the sound vanished.

  “What the hell,” he said. “That was weird.”

  “Yeah, that was weird.”

  “You must have sat on the remote or something.”

  “Yeah. Or the button wasn’t pushed in.”

  Richard turned to Nicky and smirked. “You shit yourself then. I bet you thought it was a ghost. Didn’t you? Admit it.”

  “Don’t be stupid. It just made me jump a little.”

  “Don’t lie,” he mocked, squeezing her leg. “You thought it was that ghost in the TV from Poltergeist, didn’t you?”

  She shook her head. “Grow up, Rich—you’re the one afraid of ghosts.”

  “Don’t like it when the shoe’s on the other foot, do you?”

  “You’re being childish now.”

  Richard got up from the couch. “You can dish it out, babe, but you can’t receive it, can you?”

  Clearly irritated, she turned the TV volume up to a normal level.

  Richard gave one last gloating smile and said, “Right, I’m off to bed—unless you need me to protect you?”

  She grimaced. It seemed her patience was wearing thin. “Why? It’s still early. Don’t you want to watch that film?”

  He shrugged. “No. I’m a bit tired.”

  She pushed a button on the remote, and the TV screen faded. “All right. I’m ready for bed too.”

  Richard turned off the living room lights as they left.

  Nicky was sitting up in bed, reading her book, while Richard lay next to her, deep in thought.

  She turned to him. “You all right?”

  “Yeah, fine. Why?”

  “You just seem quiet. Is there something on your mind?”

  He shook his head. “No, nothing—everything’s fine.”

  “You sure?”

  He forced a smile. “I’m fine, honestly. It’s just work and stuff. The usual.”

  “Well, you have to try and block it out of your mind.”

  “I know. But it’s hard. So many things to do when I get back.”

  “Isn’t there something else you can focus on? Like seeing your friends or something? Or what you’re going to get me for Christmas?”

  “It’s the middle of spring, babe. It’s a bit early to be dropping hints, don’t you think?”

  She patted him on the chest, and then went back to her book. “It’s never too early to drop hints—especially when men are concerned.”

  Rolling his eyes, he turned onto his side to go to sleep.

  But as he listened to the scraping noise Nicky’s book made each time she turned a page, he knew that any hope of sleep was futile. The idea of having a stack of problems waiting for him when he returned was sure to keep him up for the next ten days.

  And now he was seeing things in his kitchen.

  Maybe I’m losing it…

  The clock turned over to 4:08 a.m.

  Richard witnessed it, just like he’d witnessed every other minute for the past four hours. He couldn’t remember the last time he had such a problem with insomnia. And then he did. It reminded him of the time back in college when Gary spiked his lager with amphetamines. He spent the entire night sitting up in bed, watching a Simpsons marathon, wondering why he couldn’t keep still, and why on earth his teeth were grinding together.

  And then he smiled.

  Good times.

  Nicky began to stir next to him, so he froze, trying not to make any unnecessary movements. But now he wasn’t even close to being relaxed, which made sleep even more unfeasible.

  God, I’m tired. What’s wrong with me?

  Frustrated, he shuffled to find a more comfortable position, risking disturbing Nicky. He closed his eyes and swore to himself that he wouldn’t open them again until morning.

  After perhaps twenty minutes, he slipped into a trance. Thoughts of work, and Nicky, and college flooded his mind. Then he imagined being back in Worcester, Nicky in her little side office again, smiling at him as he clocked in. As more and more images filled his head, they became more vague and illogical. A mess of thoughts that only a madman could decipher.

  Sleep was coming.

  The sounds of the night were now lost in his trance. He could feel the events of the day fading into nothingness as he slipped deeper and deeper toward sleep.

  It felt good. Such a relief.

  A screeching police siren filled his dreams. Or was it an ambulance? He could never tell the difference.

  But the shriek was still with him in the bedroom when he opened his tired eyes. Nicky sat up in a flash, her eyes wide with panic.

  It was the smoke detector.

  Richard leaped out of bed, almost tripping on the overhanging quilt.

  “What the hell’s that noise?” Nicky said, covering her ears with her palms.

  “It’s the smoke alarm,” he said as he dashed out onto the dark landing to find the culprit.

  It was the same one from yesterday. And the day before.

  Racing down the stairs, he reached up at the device. Just as his fingers touched the plastic body, the sound vanished.

  “I changed you already, you cheap piece of crap.” He reached over the banister and managed to switch on the hallway light to see into the kitchen. “Where’s the fire? Piece of junk.”

  As he scanned the kitchen for smoke, he caught a glimpse of the kitchen chair. That feeling of dread he had experienced at lunchtime returned. He tried to shake it off but couldn’t. So he decided to do the one sensible thing he could think of. He reached over the banister again, turned off the hallway light, and ran as fast as he could up the stairs and back into the bedroom, closing the door behind him.

  “Is everything all right?” Nicky asked, half asleep. “Any fire?”

  “Everything’s fine,” he whispered, as he crept back over to his side of the bed. “No fire. Go back to sleep.”

  “Then why did it go off?”

  He climbed back into bed. “Good question.”

  “Must be the battery. You should change it.”

  “I did.”

  “Good thinking, babe.” Her voice was now faint and her eyes were closed.

  “Yesterday.”

  “What was yesterday?”

  “The battery. I changed it yesterday.”

  “Why?”

  “Because it went off yesterday—and the day before.”

  “Oh, right.” She pulled the quilt up to her neck. “Good night, babe. See you in the morning.”

  Leaning on his elbow, Richard peered over her. “You don’t think that’s a little strange?”

  “What’s strange?”

  “That it went off three times without any smoke—and with a brand new battery?”

  She opened her eyes and scowled. “Babe, I’m trying to sleep. I’ve got to be up in the morning.”

  “Sorry, Nic. I think it’s weird, that’s all.”

  “Look, I know what you’re thinking.”

  He frowned. “What am I thinking?”

  “You think it’s a bloody ghost doing it, don’t you?”

  He shook his head. “No. It’s just a mystery.”

  “Look, was it the same smoke alarm all three times?”

  “Yeah, so?”

  “Well then.” She turned to face the other way. “We’ve got two others. So it’s just faulty. It’s only weird if one of the other ones went off as well. Now go to sleep. There’s no such thing as ghosts—good night.”

  Richar
d put his head against the pillow, staring up at the ceiling. I didn’t say it was a ghost, he thought. I don’t even believe in ghosts. It’s just weird, that’s all. A mystery. I’m not scared of anything. Especially not bloody ghosts. And nothing under my roof.

  Now he was wide awake and in desperate need to urinate. He could feel his bladder ache as he stared at the darkened landing through the bedroom door that was ajar.

  Dying for a piss.

  I think I’ll hold it.

  Best not disturb Nicky.

  Chapter 5

  Day 5: Saturday

  Saturday arrived at last, but to Richard it was just another day not at the office. He watched the rain hit the road as he waved Nicky goodbye. Her younger sister had walked out on her husband again, so Nicky had decided to pay her a visit in Worcester.

  He hadn’t slept a wink the entire night. His eyes stung and his head ached. Stupid smoke alarm.

  Closing the front door, he stepped back into the silent house. The quietness filled him with dread—so much so he almost trembled. But this time it wasn’t just the dread of solitude, it was something else, something that he had not felt in years. And it was barely something he could even admit to himself. The feeling of terror as a child. Believing, without a shadow of doubt, that something horrible lived under his bed. And no matter how many times his father would check, try to reassure him, nothing would douse those awful feelings of vulnerability.

  Shaking off the sensation like a cold shiver, he walked into the kitchen.

  He stood next to the fridge and glared over at the kitchen chair. The hairs on his forearms began to rise as he pictured seeing the mysterious woman again. He rubbed each arm to flatten the hairs. Grow up, Gardener. What’s wrong with you? She’s not real. There’s no such thing as ghosts.

  Turning away in protest, he opened the fridge, reached in, and pulled out a bottle of lager. Unscrewing the bottle cap, he flicked it into the garbage, then walked past the table. Halfway past, he picked up the pace, almost running out of the kitchen into the hallway, humming an unrecognizable tune.

  Entering the living room, he sat on the couch, sinking deep into the cushions, sipping his lager. The TV was already on so he scanned the channels, hoping to find something to take his mind off the woman. His search came to an end when he found a topical debate program called Say you, Say me. The subject was religion in schools.