Fourteen Days

by Steven Jenkins

  “Yes, for most of us there is a light—but for some, like your ghost, she’s turned her back on it, or has chosen not to believe it. Who knows?”

  “So how the hell do I get rid of her? I’ve already asked her to leave and that didn’t work. Don’t think I can take much more of her. She’s driving me nuts.”

  “Well, I have been thinking about your problem, and I’ve had a chat with one of my clients about you. She knows a lot more about the spirit world than I do. She suggested trying to make contact with the spirit and finding out what she wants. It might be something simple.”

  Frowning, he asked, “How am I supposed to do that?”

  “Well, the next time something happens, or you see her, ask her what she wants. She may not answer at first; some spirits choose to ignore the living, while others exist side by side. She may not need anything, and in that case you just have to ask her to leave again.”

  Richard sat, still battling with the absurdity of the whole situation. To him it all seemed so unbelievable, so surreal, yet something was happening to him. Something extraordinary. Something he thought he would never have to deal with.

  “This all may take time,” she said. “It won’t happen overnight. Spirits are just like us, they need time to learn things. It may have taken her months, maybe even years, to move Nicky’s car keys, or to make the smoke alarm go off. Everything in life is a learnisng curve—including the afterlife.”

  “Why me? How come I’m the one who keeps seeing her? Why not Nicky? She’s spent more time in this house alone than me.”

  “Because Nicky refuses to believe in anything ‘supernatural’. She’s a total skeptic. Spirits are usually attracted to people with open minds, like children, the elderly, even animals. So for whatever reason—whether it’s the fact that you’re stuck all alone in the house or that the stress from work has done something to you—your mind was open to seeing her. And now she feels a connection to you. And the fact that she’s made contact with you through your dreams suggests that she’s found a way to speak to you. Perhaps next time she’ll be able to communicate more clearly, instead of in riddles. To her, maybe speaking to you is like trying to speak to an animal or even a baby—near impossible. Does that make sense at all?”

  “Yes. At least I think it does. I just wait for her to make the next move. And then see what she wants from me.”

  “That’s right. Keep it simple. And try to stay calm. She may be just as afraid as you.”

  He shook his head. “Yeah, right. I doubt that very much.”

  Getting up from the couch, Karen exhaled. “Right. I best get off now. Got a client in town in half an hour.” Richard also got up. “Are you going to be all right on your own?”

  He nodded. “Yeah, of course. I feel much better now. This helped a lot. It’s a weird feeling thinking about the afterlife.” He smiled. “It’s nice—reassuring.” He followed her out into the hallway. “Just hope I don’t end up like Mrs. Rees.”

  “Don’t worry, you won’t. I’m sure of it.”

  Handing back her damp coat, he led her to the front door. “Thanks for everything, Karen.”

  “Don’t worry about it,” she reassured him, standing in the doorway. “If there’s anything else you need, don’t be afraid to call me. Any time. All right?”

  “Are you sure you don’t mind? I feel a bit bad taking up your time.”

  She smiled. “Are you kidding me? I love talking about ghosts. I thrive on it. You can ask me anything. Nicky isn’t going to help you, is she?”

  “No, not one bit,” he replied.

  Karen stepped back out into the pouring rain and left, leaving him alone to deal with his problem.

  He closed the front door. He felt a lot better about his situation. Karen had eased some of the stress that was plaguing him. Richard now had an ally, someone who believed him, who understood what he was going through. Having someone to talk to was enough to alleviate some of the tension. Some of the fear. When it came to TSH, Richard always liked to find solutions to problems, refusing to brush difficulties under the carpet. And right now he had a big problem. Karen was the help he desperately needed. Maybe she didn’t have all the answers, a fixed solution as such, but she certainly had a plan of attack.

  A way to actively get this unwanted guest out of his house.

  But then the loneliness of the house began to creep in again as the silence echoed along the hallway.

  And there was the kitchen, directly in front of him—his Everest, waiting to be climbed.

  He couldn’t live like this. He had to put an end to her reign over the house. His house. Going back to work next week was only going to temporarily solve the problem. He would still have something not-of-this-world dwelling in his house, waiting for him to come home, waiting for him to be alone. No, it was time he sent Mrs. Rees packing. She had her time on earth and now it was his. Simple as that.

  He marched down the hallway and into the kitchen. Standing next to the counter, he gazed intensely at the dreaded chair, feeling like an animal fixed on its prey, fists clenched tightly. “Come on, Mrs. Rees,” he muttered, “come out and show yourself. I’m not afraid of you.” He waited for some kind of response, deep down knowing that it was never going to be that easy. He could feel his heart pound against his chest as he struggled to hold back his heavy, terrified breathing. “Where are you Mrs. Rees? I just want to talk to you.”

  He stood in the silence, listening to the clock on the wall ticking louder and louder, and the rain striking the window like machine-gun fire. He fought hard to stay strong and focused, but the fear was winning, infecting him like a virus. The house was once again a breeding ground for darkness and isolation. And the idea of summoning a spirit to his kitchen seemed preposterous. But not the actual concept, merely the stupidity of forcing something so terrifying out into the open. Richard had still not been able to overcome his phobia of spiders, despite countless attempts by his wife. And right now, standing in his kitchen, potentially about to come face-to-face with the ghost of a former occupant—he would gladly trade it for a spider any day of the week.

  “Come on, Mrs. Rees, tell me what you want from me?” he asked. “Don’t be afraid.” The very thought of her being fearful of him seemed absurd. But nevertheless he had to take Karen’s advice. He didn’t have any ideas of his own to bring to the table. “Maybe I can help you? But I need to know what you want.”

  With no response after almost five minutes, his muscles started to relax. His fists opened and his body straightened. She isn’t coming, he thought. Suddenly the room seemed a different world, like a great shadow had been lifted. Thoughts of seeing her faded, so he shook his head and left, relieved yet disappointed.

  Stupid idea.

  Why would a bloody ghost listen to me? God! What’s the matter with me? This is idiotic. If my friends could see me now. They’d laugh their asses off. This can’t be real. There can’t be a ghost in my house. Jesus Christ, Rich! What are you doing to yourself? You’re letting a couple of tricks of the eyes drive you mad. There’s nothing here. No woman in your kitchen. It’s all just mumbo-jumbo. Pull yourself together. Focus!

  He left the kitchen and headed toward the living room door.

  The shrieking of the smoke detector painfully filled his eardrums.

  Richard’s body jolted with gut-wrenching terror. “Bloody hell!” His body spasmed with shock. Covering his ears, he climbed the first few steps of the stairs so he could reach the noisy device. He unscrewed it, his face scrunched up in repulsion, and then frantically removed the battery, his hands sweaty, trembling.

  The noise stopped dead.

  He set the plastic device down on one of the steps, and then leaned against the banister, taking a moment to calm down. “Bloody hell,” he repeated, holding a hand to his thumping heart.

  Slightly calmer, he started to descend the stairs.

  Just as his foot touched the hallway floor, the piercing sound of the smoke detector returned.

 
He recoiled in fright again. Frowning, he opened his hand to see the battery in his palm. He froze in fear, unable to explain how the device could still be screaming without power. Impossible.

  Racing upstairs, he slipped the battery into his pocket as he climbed. Reaching the top, the sound became louder—it was coming from the other detector, located on the ceiling between the bathroom and the two spare rooms. Panicked, he hurried into the office room and wheeled out the computer chair. He positioned it under the squealing device, climbed up, and using the wall for support unscrewed it in a frenzy, also removing the battery.

  The sound stopped dead.

  His eardrums throbbed and rang as he jumped from the unstable chair. He slipped the battery into his pocket and wheeled the chair back into the office, his heart slamming against his chest, his hands shaking, sweat pouring down his face.

  But before he even had the chance to calm down, the house came alive again with the sound of the smoke detector, this time coming from the kitchen.

  “Bloody hell!”

  He sprinted down the stairs, missing the last few steps completely. Storming into the kitchen as if his house was ablaze, he pulled out one of the chairs from under the table and climbed up, disconnecting the last remaining detector.

  He stood in the kitchen, exhausted, shaking from head to toe, unable to comprehend what had just occurred. And then he remembered the dreaded chair. He took one look at it and left, still clenching the battery in his sweaty palm. Reaching into his pocket, he pulled out the other two. Shaking his head in mystification, he glared down at the batteries. “Bloody hell,” he said, for the fourth time.

  He walked into the living room and collapsed onto the couch. His ears still rang loudly, so he picked up the remote control and switched on the TV, turning the volume up almost to the top. He ran his hand over his sweat-soaked face and sat back, eyes wide open.

  He didn’t care what was on.

  Anything would do.

  Anything to take his mind off what he had just been put through.

  Drained and exhausted, Richard had passed out on the couch, only to be woken by the TV being turned off. As his eyes opened he saw Nicky standing over him, holding the remote control. “Are you deaf or what?” she asked, still wearing her coat, her face filled with annoyance.

  Sitting up on the couch, he rubbed his tired eyes. “What?”

  “The TV—the volume was on full-blast.”

  “Sorry, I didn’t realize,” he replied.

  “And why is the smoke alarm on the stairs? You haven’t unplugged it just in case your ghost sets it off, have you?” she asked, half-teasing, half-irritated.

  He didn’t answer. How could he? He could never make her understand what had happened, make her believe. He was having enough trouble understanding it, believing it himself.

  “What’s the matter with you?” she asked, sounding concerned. “I was only teasing.”

  “There’s no point,” he said.

  “No point in what?”

  He shook his head. “No point telling you why the smoke detectors are disconnected.”

  She scowled at him. “Have you been drinking, or have I missed something?”

  He got up and walked to the door.

  Standing baffled, she asked, “Where are you going now?”

  He left the living room and stepped out into the hallway. “Look!”

  Still grimacing hard, she followed him out. “What?” she asked. He pointed up at the ceiling where the detector had been removed. “I know it’s gone. I’ve already told you.”

  He marched past her and made his way into the kitchen, and then pointed up at the ceiling. Nicky hesitated for a second, and then followed him in.

  “What the hell are you doing, Rich? You’re being really bloody weird.” She glanced up at the ceiling, only to find another missing smoke detector. “You’ve pulled that one down as well. Is there something wrong with you?”

  He pointed past her, in the direction of upstairs. “And the one on the landing is gone too.”

  Frowning, she looked in the direction his finger was pointing. “Have you lost the plot or something? Why would you do that? What if there was a fire?”

  “I pulled them down because they were all going off—one after the other.”

  She gave him a doubtful look. “One after the other? That’s impossible. Are you sure?”

  His body filled with rage. “Of course I’m sure! I’m not bloody nuts! The one on the stairs went off. I pulled it down and took out the battery. Then a second later the one on the landing went off. And then a second after that,” he pointed to the ceiling, “this one went off. I’m telling you the truth.”

  She looked up at the ceiling, her face puzzled. “Calm down, Rich. I believe you. I know you’re not a liar, and I admit it’s strange, but—”

  “But what? What else could it possibly be? When are you going to accept that, just maybe, our house is haunted by Mrs. Rees?”

  She chuckled. “Who?”

  “Mrs. Rees,” he snapped, irritated by her amusement and lack of empathy. “She used to live here and now she’s dead.”

  Shaking her head, she hesitated, clearly trying to find something appropriate to say. “Look, you’re never going to convince me that ghosts exist, no matter what happens.”

  “Then how do you explain this? A coincidence?”

  “Yes, I do think it’s a coincidence. Probably an electrical surge. The weather’s been bad lately.”

  Laughing in anger, he shook his head. “How could an electrical surge do this? They’re battery operated! Are you stupid, or what?”

  “Don’t talk to me like that,” she snapped. “I’m not stupid. Just because I can’t think of a logical explanation doesn’t mean there isn’t one. You of all people should know that.” She stormed out of the kitchen and headed for the stairs.

  “Where are you going now?” he shouted.

  “Away from you!”

  “Don’t be like that,” he said, walking over to the stairs. “This is serious!”

  She vanished from his sight.

  “And you better put those smoke alarms back up!” he heard her shout from the landing.

  Too proud and upset to follow, he remained in the hallway, leaning against the banister for several minutes before retreating back to the living room, slamming the door hard behind him.

  “Women,” he said through his teeth. Then he turned on the TV, still fuming as he sat back on the couch.

  Chapter 9

  Day 9: Wednesday

  Richard had stayed downstairs all yesterday evening. His neck and back ached from sleeping on the couch. “Are you talking to me yet?” he asked, eating his corn flakes on the couch as Nicky ironed a shirt.

  She didn’t look up. “Of course I am,” she replied.

  “Then say something,” he said, unsure if the knot in his stomach was from the fight or Mrs. Rees.

  Most likely Mrs. Rees.

  She continued to iron. “I just did, didn’t I?”

  Getting up, he placed his bowl on the coffee table, and then walked over to her. “Look, I’m sorry I got mad yesterday, I was just…”

  Her ironing became faster and harder. “It doesn’t matter now.”

  “Yes it does matter,” he said, putting a hand on her arm to stroke it. “I hate when we’re like this.”

  She rested the iron facing upwards. “Look, I’m sorry too. I just don’t like it when you call me stupid. It’s not nice, Rich. And all this ghost business is doing my head in. It’s got to stop.”

  “I’m sorry I called you stupid; I didn’t mean it. But I didn’t ask for any of this to happen. I’ve seriously been finding the last week unbearable. I saw something in the kitchen and in the bathroom. And the smoke detectors did all go off yesterday. I understand that it’s hard to accept that our house is haunted, but that’s what happened—like it or not. And when I told you about the smoke detector the other day, you told me that it’s probably faulty, and that it woul
d only be weird if all three went off. Well, now all three have gone off.”

  She gave a subtle nod. “Yes, I know I said that, but I take it back. I’ve lived in this house just as long as you have, and I’ve spent much more time alone here than you, and I haven’t so much as heard a creaky floorboard, let alone seen a bloody ghost. So don’t be too surprised if I have some trouble believing you.” She put her hand up, as if to stop him from talking. “And before you say anything—I’m not accusing you of lying, I just think that there’s a logical explanation. All right?”

  “I told Karen the same thing yesterday, and she said that it’s because your mind isn’t open, and that—”

  “Karen was here yesterday? At the house?”

  “Yeah. I asked her ’round for some advice.”

  “Was this before or after the smoke alarms went off?” she asked, slipping her freshly ironed shirt on.

  “Before—why?”

  She started to fold up the ironing board. “Because she’s been filling your head up with all this nonsense, that’s why.” She put the ironing board into the cupboard. “Look, I love Karen to bits, but all the paranormal, supernatural crap she talks about is a load of rubbish.”

  “It’s not rubbish. The only reason I asked for her advice was because I saw something. And what, you’re telling me that just because I had a chat with her she somehow made me believe that the bloody smoke detectors all went off at the same time? How do you work that one out, Nic?”

  She moved past him, toward the door. “I don’t know, but it’s probably not best if you let her fill your head up with that stuff. It’s only going to make matters worse. And I’m getting sick of it.”

  In astonishment, he watched her leave the room. “You’re the one who told her about the ghost in the first place!” he said as she disappeared from his sight.