Fourteen Days

by Steven Jenkins

  After he had finished his drink, he pondered whether or not to get another from the kitchen. Better not have too many. Especially this early in the morning. But despite his reasoning, he knew that his real motive for not having another had nothing to do with drunkenness, or even health.

  Staring at the empty bottle, he longed for another. After a few minutes, his craving got the better of him. He got up and marched into the kitchen, repressing his fears. Opening the fridge, he grabbed a bottle. Just as the fridge door closed, he caught a glimpse of the kitchen table. Even though the chair was unoccupied, he could feel a cold, unnerving sensation creep over his skin—so he opened the fridge again and secured as many bottles as he could carry, then raced past the table, trying not to drop any bottles in the process.

  Relief washed over him as he collapsed on the couch, holding six bottles of lager. What the hell is going on? I’m not afraid of anything. Jesus.

  Opening a bottle, he took a huge swig. It must be just the loneliness. And boredom. And work stuff. Yeah, that’s it. Nothing else. This house isn’t going to feature on Most Haunted. It’s a mid-terrace house in the middle of Bristol City—it’s not a bloody medieval dungeon.

  He took another big swig of lager and swallowed hard. But I did see something. And she did seem so real. Maybe I saw her on TV and dreamed her. After all, she was the same woman from my dream. Maybe I was half-watching something on TV when I dropped off to sleep. And then, for some reason saw her again on the kitchen chair. That makes sense. Perfect sense. He took an even bigger swig and managed to finish the bottle. Yeah, it makes more sense than thinking a dead woman was sitting in my kitchen.

  Stupid ghosts—as if.

  He opened another bottle and sank back deep into the couch. And I ain’t moving from this spot all day. If she wants me, she can come and get me.

  Please don’t come and get me.

  Richard walked across a muddy field carrying a large plastic water container, heading toward a tap next to a farm gate. The sky was cloudy and the air winter-cold. It reminded him of caravanning with his parents as a child. The smell of fresh-cut grass mixed with a pungent scent of manure. In the distance he could see the old disused tractors and the loose barbed-wire fencing.

  Bliss.

  At the tap he saw Nicky wearing a white dress, sitting on a large rock. “What are you doing here?” she asked. “Why aren’t you out with your friends?”

  “I’ve got to fill the water tank for the caravan.”

  Nicky smiled. “That’s good. Always so organized.”

  “I try my best. But I hate filling up the water. It’s always so heavy.”

  “Tell me, Richard—”

  “Yeah. What’s up?”

  “Have you seen my baby?”

  Puzzled, he asked, “What baby?”

  “My baby.”

  Shaking his head, he moved closer to her. “But you don’t have a baby.”

  “Please, Richard—have you seen my baby?”

  Shaking his head again, he looked down at the rock where she was sitting and noticed a dark patch. “What’s that you’re sitting on, Nic?”

  She looked down at the dark patch, frowning, and then replied, “I don’t know. It wasn’t there a minute ago.” She stood to inspect it further. As she did the sky darkened and the air began to mist. “It looks like blood. But it’s not mine. It can’t be mine.”

  Blood dripped down her legs and stained through the bottom of her dress. “You’re bleeding,” he said. “I’ll go get help. Mum will know what to do.” He turned away, but something blocked his path.

  A woman.

  The lower half of her white dress was stained with thick blood. In fright, he fell backwards onto the muddy grass, screaming for help. The woman walked toward him, blood still seeping from her dress, down over her legs. She held out a hand. Cowering in terror, he continued to call out to his mother, until his cries managed to cross over into his living room, where he found himself lying on the couch, covered in sweat, and trembling.

  “Fuck,” he said in an exhausted breath.

  Still disoriented, he rubbed his tired face, trying to wake up and shake off the effects of the dream. He couldn’t remember falling asleep.

  He picked up the empty bottles and carried them into the kitchen. Dropping them into the bin, he stared at the dreaded kitchen chair, still terrified. “What’s wrong with you, Rich? There’s nothing there. It was just a stupid dream. Get a grip—for God’s sake.”

  With his eyes fixed on the chair, he felt his heart race as the fear took over. The dreaded chair was now filled with visions of the woman, her eyes of sadness and desperation, her look of helplessness. He could no longer move his legs.

  There’s nothing there. You’re being ridiculous. She isn’t real. Come on now—focus.

  As the seconds rolled by, turning into minutes, his mind was still gripped with trepidation. He waited for the feeling to pass. Slow, deep breaths began ease his racing heart—but not by much. His body was sticky with sweat and his hands still trembled.

  The sound of the front door opening sent him even further down into a pit of terror. Turning his head to see, he clenched his fists when he heard footsteps. He focused on the banister in the hallway, too afraid to look back at the table. The muscles in his legs tightened as he attempted to move. Just as they began to loosen so he could walk, the sound of Nicky’s voice made him feel like a weight had been lifted from his entire body.

  Exhaling in relief, he watched her walk toward him, smiling, yet clearly exhausted.

  “Hi, babe,” she asked, greeting him with a kiss. “What are you doing in here?”

  Beaming, he shook his head. “Nothing—just waiting for you to get home.”

  Scrunching her face up in repulsion, she pulled away from him. “Have you been drinking?”

  “Yeah. I had a couple of bottles. So?”

  “You had more than a couple, your breath stinks of lager. How many have you had?”

  “Nice to see you too,” he said.

  She dropped her handbag onto the table, then sat heavily in one of the chairs, putting her feet up on the dreaded chair. “I’m worn out. I’ve had such a lousy day.”

  “How come? Is your sister all right?” he asked, eyes locked on the dreaded chair.

  “Well, she’s gone back to him now. I’m not surprised though.”

  “Already? How long for this time?”

  “Exactly. And my mum’s been doing my head in—fussing over her too much. I’m just glad to be home. So what’ve you been up to today—apart from getting drunk?”

  He managed to shift his attention away from the chair. “I’m not drunk. I had one or two.”

  “I’m teasing. I don’t care what you do, as long as you take it easy.” She got up from the chair as if she weighed a ton, and moved over to the fridge. “See any ghosts today?” she asked, using a quivery voice.

  “Very funny.”

  “So your fancy-woman hasn’t come back for revenge then?”

  Fake-smiling, he left the kitchen. “Why, jealous or something?”

  “Yeah, right—in your dreams,” she retorted, chuckling as she pulled out a large bowl of stew from the fridge.

  Richard entered the living room and sat back on the couch, relieved that his wife was home. All of a sudden the house wasn’t such a cold and frightening place.

  But what had changed? Why did his house feel so different? And why did he need his wife home to feel safe? Was it the smoke detector going off for a third time? No. It was faulty. It must have been. Maybe it was the TV coming on like that—after all, it even gave Nicky a scare. Maybe his lack of sleep? And he hadn’t so much as heard, let alone seen, the woman in the white dress again. His dreams didn’t count.

  But he was safe again. Safe from his fears. Safe from his wandering mind, his vast imagination. Safe from irrational thoughts… for now at least.

  Richard came down from the bedroom to see who the female voice belonged to. Opening the living ro
om door, he saw his wife sitting on the couch next to one of her friends, Karen Leigh. She was a short, thin massage therapist, with long brown hair down past her shoulders. She seemed at ease, as if without a care in the world as she sat smiling, sipping a cup of tea.

  Nicky’s face lit up when she clapped eyes on him. “There he is, Karen.”

  “All right, Karen. How’s things?” he asked, regretting coming down.

  “Good, thanks,” she replied in a soothing tone.

  “I was just telling Karen about your little ghost problem.”

  Frowning, he shook his head. “Babe, why did you have to go and tell the world? It’s embarrassing. And for the last time: we don’t have a ghost problem.”

  “I’m sorry, it just came up. Karen’s into ghosts and witchcraft and all that stuff, too.”

  Karen turned to her. “Witchcraft? You make me sound like a devil-worshiper or something.”

  “You know what I mean.”

  “If you mean the spirit world, then yes, I am into it.” She redirected the conversation to Richard. “So tell me, what’s been happening?”

  “Look,” he said, watching Nicky hold back her laughter. “I’m not going to say anything in front of you. You’ll make fun of me again.”

  Nicky put her hands up as if to surrender. “Okay, okay. I’m leaving. I’ve got some washing to do. So I’ll leave you two ghostbusters alone.” She stood to leave. “Have fun!”

  Rolling his eyes in annoyance, he sat on the single sofa chair. “Sorry about her. She just loves teasing me.”

  “Don’t worry about Nicky. I know how closed her mind is. She gives me a hard time too.” She took a sip of tea. “So, Nicky’s been telling me that you think you saw a ghost.”

  “Don’t listen to her, Karen. I didn’t say that I saw a ghost. She’s just making fun. I said that I think I saw someone. A woman. In the kitchen.”

  “What did she look like?”

  “Does it matter? She’s not even real. I don’t believe in ghosts.”

  Karen smiled. “Well, they believe in you.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I’m saying that they do exist. They’re all around us. But that’s not to say that every strange thing we see is something paranormal. But sometimes…”

  “Look, there are a million reasons to explain why I saw her.”

  “Such as?”

  He shrugged. “Like a trick of the eyes. Or the glare from the sunlight. Or stress from work. It could be anything.”

  “Describe her, Rich. Her clothes. Her hair. How old did she look?”

  “She looked about thirty-odd, and she had long, brown hair, all wet and greasy as if she was dripping in sweat.”

  “And what was she wearing?”

  “She had a white dress on. Like a summer dress. Like the ones Nic wears sometimes. But it was dirty, covered in stains.”

  Karen fell silent for a moment as she processed the information. “That doesn’t sound like a trick of the eyes to me.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because you described her so well.”

  “So? She still could be a hallucination. It doesn’t mean there’s a ghost in my kitchen.”

  “You’re right. I’m not saying that you saw a spirit, but there is a possibility.” She took another sip of her tea. “Has anything else been happening around here?”

  “Well, the smoke detector’s been going off on its own for the past couple of days, even after I changed the battery. But I suppose it could be faulty.”

  “It could be faulty. Anything else?”

  “I’ve been having weird dreams about the woman.” He thought for a second. “Oh, and Nicky’s keys went missing. The TV came on on its own with the volume all the way up. I mean, that was strange. Really strange.”

  “And has Nicky witnessed any of this?”

  He shook his head. “No—apart from the smoke alarm and the TV. Nothing else. It’s just always when I’m home alone in the day.”

  Karen sat back on the couch, chewing on this information. “This woman—did you recognize her? Maybe from work, or…”

  He shook his head again. “No. I’ve never seen her before.”

  “And you’re positive?”

  “Yes. One hundred percent. I’ve never seen her before in my life. That’s what’s so weird.”

  “Well, if that’s the case, then there’s a good chance that you did see someone in your kitchen. And that someone could well be trying to get a message across to you.”

  Frowning, he shuffled on the couch, half-hoping that she was talking complete nonsense. “Look, if I did see something—and I’m not saying I did—but if I did, then what might she want from me?”

  Karen shrugged. “Who knows? In a lot of cases it’s the previous owner of the house. Do you know anything about them?”

  “I think the house is about fifteen, or maybe even twenty years old. And the last owner was a man.”

  “How many other owners have there been? Maybe it was a woman that died before him.”

  He shrugged. “I’m not sure. My neighbour Ilene will know—she’s lived here for years.”

  “Ask her.”

  Richard chuckled. “Not a chance.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because it’s ridiculous. I can’t go ’round her house and ask her about a bloody ghost. She’ll think there’s something wrong with me. Plus, I haven’t been ’round in ages. And she’s old and lonely. She’ll make me feel guilty for not making more of an effort.”

  Karen grinned. “Well that’s perfect then. You’ve got an excuse to go and see her. You can have a cup of tea and a chat, and then you can just drop it into the conversation. You don’t even have to mention the ghost. Just pick her brain about the previous owners. She’ll probably be grateful for the visit.”

  Mulling over the idea, he sat back. But then he shook his head. “No. It’s not happening. It’s stupid. I don’t believe in ghosts.”

  “Are you sure about that? Sounds to me that you’re in denial, that you’re afraid to admit it.”

  “Look, I admit that I almost wet my pants when I saw her—it. And I admit that things have been a little strange around here. But the idea of having a real-life ghost in my house is too laughable. I mean, come on, Karen, things like this don’t happen. Not to me. And not in my house.”

  Karen finished her tea and set the cup down on the floor. “Look, whether you believe it or not, you just need to know that if it is a ghost, she probably doesn’t mean you any harm. You could always ask her what she wants, or even ask her to leave.”

  He sniggered. “Ask her to leave? Yeah, I’m sure she’ll listen.”

  “Just try it if anything else happens here. What have you got to lose?”

  “My dignity for one. I’d look like a complete dick asking a ghost to leave my house.”

  “No one’s going to hear.”

  “I’ll hear though.” He got up from the couch and walked toward the door. “Look, Karen, I know you’re trying to help, but I’m fine. I’m just tired. It’ll pass in a few days. And I’ll be back to work in no time. Then I can put all this stupidity behind me.”

  “All right, Rich. But remember what I said. And you can call me if you want to ask something. Oh, and give Nic a shout for me. She’s probably outside the door listening.”

  “You mean laughing.”

  He opened the door to find the hallway empty. “Nicky!” he called out. “I’m done. You can have your friend back now!”

  Richard was lying in bed as his wife slept next to him. The dread he felt earlier had subsided. He wasn’t sure whether it was the presence of Nicky, or in fact his conversation with Karen. Either way he felt a lot better.

  It’s all bogus nonsense, he thought as he stared up at the glass light fixture. Of course she’s going to say that my house is haunted—she’s a bloody hippy-witch. Yeah, some of what she said seemed plausible, but going over to Ilene’s to investigate a dead woman—no freaking chance. No, it’s just
sheer boredom and coincidence. Nothing else. No ghosts. No demons. And no strange goings-on. Just an ordinary house in Bristol.

  Time to focus my energy on normal things. Important things.

  He turned to face Nicky. He listened to the sound of her gentle breath as she lay facing him. It made him happy. Then the feelings of guilt he had experienced on Friday resurfaced. How could he spend so much time away from home, away from her? What could she have thought of him? Did she think that he didn’t love her, that he would rather spend his time slaving away at the office? Or what if she thought he was sleeping with one of his work colleagues? Maybe even Leah? After all, she did blame Leah for all the long hours, even though it was his persistence that kept him working overtime.

  Turning to her, he smiled. I’m going to make it up to her. When I’m back on my feet, things are gonna change. I promise. No more long hours. I’ll be a new man. A better man. He reached forward and placed his hand on her lower back. But as he made contact, she mumbled something inaudible in her sleep, making him smile again, pushing away his guilty conscience. Trying to make out what she was saying, he leaned in close. Her words were nothing but gibberish, so he gave up and moved away. But as he did, he could faintly hear a sentence form.

  “Have you seen my baby?”

  His heart almost stopped with fear. Leaning in close once again, he waited for her to say something else. “Nicky?” he whispered. “Are you awake?” With no reply he turned and lay on his back. How could she know about my dream? Did I tell her? Or Karen? No, I didn’t. I’m sure of it. Could it just be a bizarre coincidence?

  Frowning, he glanced over at his wife again. She was still fast asleep. He shook his head in disbelief. I’ll ask her tomorrow. See what she says. It can’t be a coincidence. Impossible. But what’s the alternative? An actual ghost? In my house?

  He groaned. More stress.

  This is the last thing I need.

  Chapter 6

  Day 6: Sunday