Dark Terrors 5 - The Gollancz Book of Horror - [Anthology]

by Edited By Stephen Jones

  ‘There isn’t any tradition here, yet,’ I pointed out. ‘We didn’t know what to expect. So our minds were free to make their own connections. For Greg, obviously, grey ghosts have got to be monks.’

  ‘Whereas for you and Hutch, it’s the sexier option of a dead woman,’ Luke said.

  I made a disgusted face at him. ‘Dead women are sexy?’

  ‘Hey, not to me. But according to Edgar Allan Poe and everybody else who follows that route.’

  ‘I don’t think somebody who saw an animal ghost should talk about sexy.’

  Hutch ignored us. ‘I’d like to interview more people about their experience in the west wing,’ he told Greg. ‘See if some kind of consensus starts to emerge. Maybe at the party.’

  ‘Yeah, okay,’ said Greg. ‘But try not to get too heavy. Remember, they’re my guests, not your experimental subjects.’

  ‘Well, hey. I wouldn’t have to bother anybody at the party if I could run an experiment beforehand. If I could bring some people out here, you know, and then ask them to describe their experience.’

  ‘Mi casa es su casa,’ Greg agreed. ‘I’ll get another set of keys cut for you. There’ll be decorators and such-like coming and going for the next few weeks - that won’t bother you? Good.’

  ‘You don’t mind if I camp out here for a night or two? I’d really like to find out what happens on repeat visits; you know, does the whole thing cycle through again? Do you get habituated to it, more or less sensitive? All sorts of questions.’

  Greg nodded, looking admiring, looking, maybe, a bit envious. ‘I might join you,’ he said. It was as if he’d forgotten this was his house - his ghost. But this was how it had been in high school, when Hutch always had the best ideas - or, at least, the ability to convince us they were his.

  Later, at the airport, Hutch asked me if I could sketch a portrait of the ghostly woman I’d thought I’d seen.

  ‘Oh, I don’t know, Hutch - it was only a glimpse - I’m really not sure. Maybe, if I see her again—’

  ‘We don’t know that you’ll see the same apparition twice. I need some hard evidence. God knows, most people are completely incapable of describing what they’ve seen in any kind of detail ... I don’t want to rely on what people think they remember. You have a talent, Beck. You can draw. Your portraits are really good.’ He turned to Luke. ‘My mom framed the portrait Becky did of me in high school. She’s still got it on the living room wall, says it’s more like me than any photograph!’

  I felt myself blushing, both pleased and embarrassed. I’d given up any serious attempts at drawing while in college. The art teachers there did not admire my work. It lacked flair and individuality. I could copy - but computers could do that sort of thing so much better.

  I bought pencils and a pad of paper in the airport shop, and while Hutch, Greg and Luke drank coffee at the next table, I struggled to produce an image of the woman I’d imagined I’d seen. Her figure - coat open over a loose dress - and posture, cowering fearfully against the wall, were what I remembered best about her, and were the easiest to capture. It was her face that was difficult. I did the best I could to sketch the features I thought I remembered, while not making them too individual. Result: generic pretty young woman backed up against the wall by (unseen) threat.

  Hutch grinned broadly. ‘That’s her! That’s what I saw!’

  ‘You know, I think I saw her too,’ Luke drawled. ‘On the cover of a book in the newsstand over there where Becky bought her paper.’

  Luke’s sarcasm didn’t register on Hutch. ‘May I keep it?’ he asked.

  I nodded. Of course, what else, I had drawn it for him. But I suddenly wished I hadn’t.

  * * * *

  The Hallowe’en party was supposed to be the main event, but for me it turned into something less than a sideshow.

  Things hadn’t been going well between me and Luke, and for some stupid reason we ended up sniping at each other nearly the whole of the drive from Galveston to Austin. At the party I spent about ten minutes talking to John Wayne, who was in a snit because Hutch didn’t appreciate what he’d done to the west wing - he just flat didn’t like it, if you please, because it distracted the visitors from what John Wayne called ‘Hutch’s special effects’.

  I went down to the west wing to see for myself, but there was such a long line of people waiting to get in that I gave up. I meant to go back later, but that never happened. I never even saw Hutch that night. Instead, I found Luke, and the tension which had been building between us suddenly exploded. We left the party to have our fight in private, and we thoroughly demolished the relationship. By the time Hallowe’en had given way to All Saint’s Day, our engagement was off, and we never wanted to see each other again. I made him drop me off at the bus station because I couldn’t bear another four hours of his company on the drive home.

  * * * *

  I e-mailed Greg and Linda to apologise for walking out on their party and to explain about the break-up. I sent a similar note, only more grovelling, to Hutch. Knowing how proud and possessive he was of ‘his’ haunting, I figured he’d be furious that I’d disappeared.

  Greg’s reply was practically instantaneous, concerned about my emotional state, offering me the lakehouse as a retreat if I wanted to get away from Galveston for a while. From Hutch, nothing. After a week, I e-mailed him again, this time quizzing him about the results of his ‘experiment’.

  I’d chosen the right topic. He couldn’t resist a reply.

  I’m going to write it all up and submit it as an article somewhere. Till I manage that, here’s a quick breakdown of my findings: Roughly 60 per cent thought they saw some sort of human figure; another 10 per cent saw ‘something moving’ which they thought might have been an animal or a person; 5 per cent thought they just glimpsed something but couldn’t say anything positive about it at all, another 5 per cent ‘heard’, or ‘sensed’ something they couldn’t see; and 20 per cent experienced no ghostly or inexplicable manifestations at all.

  Of the (most interesting) 60 per cent, slightly more than half described the figure as female, usually as wearing a long gown, but otherwise their descriptions varied widely. Of those who saw a male figure nearly half described the figure as a monk or a priest! (The long gown again?)

  Guess I’ll have to try to make sense of the data, draw some kind of conclusion. Might be good to have your input on that; how would you feel about collaborating?

  Nobody else saw our woman.

  Our woman. The phrase sent a thrill through me. I was warmed by it, and felt closer to Hutch than I had in years. And he wanted to collaborate! I replied right away, letting him know I was eager and willing to help.

  * * * *

  But I didn’t hear from him again for a couple of weeks. It was early December when he phoned and asked if I could come and meet him in Houston.

  He didn’t sound like himself. There was something in his voice I’d never heard before. ‘What’s up?’

  ‘I’ve found our ghost,’ he said.

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘Come and see for yourself.’

  I met him in Houston the next day. It was the middle of the week and should have been a working day for both of us, but there we were, playing truant. He’d given me explicit directions for how to find a restaurant called The Black-Eyed Pea, where he would be waiting for me.

  I couldn’t figure it out. The scenario I imagined centred around old newspaper clippings, maybe the story of a murder in Travis County, maybe the discovery of a young woman’s body in the lake. I surely wasn’t expecting Hutch to greet me, when I joined him in his booth beside a window, by pointing out at a high-rise bank building across the street and saying, ‘She works there. She’ll be coming out of the building for her lunch break in about. . .’ he checked his watch, ‘thirty-five minutes. You should get a good view of her then.’

  I looked at him. He didn’t look well. I could tell he wasn’t sleeping, or eating right, and he was drinking too much coff
ee. ‘Who are you talking about?’ I asked, although I already knew.

  He waited for the waitress to take my order, and then he told me. ‘Her name is Melanie Caron. She’s twenty-six, single, works for First City National over there and lives by herself in a townhouse in a little subdivision off the Gulf Freeway. Not a rental; I think her parents bought it for her - there’s money in the background, I think.’ He paused, seeming to lose track of what he was saying, and ran a hand over his face.

  ‘But why?’

  ‘Oh, the car she drives, the townhouse—’

  ‘No, I don’t mean the money! I mean, why her, why are you so interested?’

  ‘Wait’ll you see her.’

  ‘No. I don’t remember what I saw. Not well enough to be sure.’

  He slammed his hand down on the table, making the silverware judder. ‘Don’t say that! You drew her picture!’

  ‘It’s a drawing. I’m not a camera.’

  ‘I know it’s her,’ he said quietly. ‘The second I saw her - sitting at a table just over there,’ he canted his head. ‘As soon as I set eyes on her it was like little things just crawling all over me...the creepiest sensation. I knew it was her.’ He raised his haunted eyes to mine. ‘I don’t know why. I don’t know what it means. But I saw her ghost. It has to mean something.’

  ‘Why? Why does it have to mean anything?’ This was his line when I’d tried, in my clumsy way, to argue for the existence of God, an afterlife, or even the significance of coincidence.

  ‘Don’t be an asshole, Becky,’ he said irritably.

  ‘Don’t you. You want to know what it means? Okay, I’ll tell you: you don’t want to know. It’s a warning.’

  He became more alert. ‘You really think so? I need to tell her?’

  ‘No. You need to keep the hell away from her.’ The way he looked when I said that told me everything. My heart sank. ‘You’ve told her?’

  ‘Not about the ghost, no, not about seeing her - but you could. Maybe she’d believe you.’

  ‘And she wouldn’t believe you, because why?’ He didn’t answer; he didn’t have to. ‘Because you came on to her, and she didn’t want to know. And instead of letting it drop you’ve been following her around, spying on her.’ I turned to gaze out the window at the bank where this unknown woman worked. I felt a horrible, cold dread filling me up from my feet to my head. ‘Oh, lordy. You’re stalking her.’

  ‘Becky, come on!’ He gazed at me, anguished. ‘I thought you’d understand! It’s not like that. If you’d help me...’

  I prayed that I could.

  ‘Look, Hutch,’ I said gently. ‘Think about the ghost. Think about how she looked. I don’t just mean her face, I mean her, whaddayacallit - her affect.’

  He frowned at me. I spelled it out. ‘She was terrified. Somebody was after her. Maybe you?’

  ‘I wouldn’t hurt her.’

  ‘So how’s she supposed to know that? Telepathy?’

  Just then the waitress arrived with the food I no longer wanted to eat.

  ‘Would you like to order now, sir?’ she asked him, but Hutch shook his head. ‘Just some more coffee, please.’

  He turned his attention back to me as soon as the waitress had gone. ‘You could tell her the truth. You could just recognise her and go up to her, tell her about the ghost. I bet she’d believe you. Why shouldn’t she? And I bet she’s heard of Greg. If he invites her to a party she’d probably be thrilled.’

  ‘What if she’s not? What if she doesn’t believe me? What if—’

  He held up his hand to stop me. ‘Quit borrowing trouble. We can deal with any problems when—’

  ‘No.’

  He blinked at me in disbelief. ‘You won’t help me?’

  I was trembling, but determined. ‘I’m trying to, believe me. This is insane, Hutch. Look at what you’re doing - try to look at it from her point of view—’

  ‘But she doesn’t know about the ghost!’

  ‘What difference does that make?’

  He sighed and shook his head. ‘Becky, it’s the whole point! I’m not trying to woo this woman - I’m not in love with her; she’s a mystery I’m trying to solve!’

  I swallowed hard. ‘The mystery is all in your head.’

  ‘And yours,’ he shot back. ‘You saw her too - don’t you care why?’

  Before I could begin to answer, he froze. His head came up like a hunting dog’s and he stared through the window. ‘Here she comes.’

  I followed his gaze across the street. But he must have sensed her before she appeared because all I could see were a couple of grey-suited men just emerging from the building. Behind them, a second later, a slim blonde woman in a salmon-pink suit came pushing through the heavy glass doors.

  ‘See? It’s her.’

  ‘She’s not wearing a grey hooded coat—’

  ‘Look at her face.’

  I tried, but from that distance she was just a generic pretty young businesswoman. I’d already made up my mind how to play it, though, so I said, definitely, ‘That’s not who I saw.’

  ‘What! You’re lying!’

  ‘I am not. That’s not who I saw.’

  ‘Wait. Maybe she’ll come in here for her lunch, and you can see her close up.’

  For a minute it did look like that was her plan. She crossed at the light and seemed headed straight for the restaurant. But as she came nearer, she looked nervous. I saw her eyes flickering across the cars in the parking lot, and over the big window where we sat, watching.

  I think she caught a glimpse of Hutch, and that decided her. Because instead of approaching the entrance she turned abruptly and walked past.

  I spent the next half-hour doing my best to argue him out of his obsession, then pointing out how dangerous it was. But he was no more convinced by my attempts at putting forward the rational viewpoint than he’d ever been by my emotion. Even the irony of our reversed positions was, I think, lost on him.

  * * * *

  Well, you know the rest of the story. Nothing, not my refusal to help, nor my attempts to make him see reason could stop what was to come.

  Hutch became ever more obsessed with Melanie Caron. When charm, reason and persistence all failed, he finally just went after her, to take her by force. His gun wasn’t loaded - after all, he didn’t want to hurt her, only to make her go with him - but she didn’t know that. He didn’t know she had her own gun, that she’d started carrying it with her always, against the threat he posed. But, of course, he didn’t think he was a threat. Even after she’d shot him, as she believed, in self-defence, even as he was dying, did he understand what he had become?

  Yet wasn’t he still the same Hutch I’d known and loved?

  Everyone else seems to think he’d changed, become a monster, monstrously pursuing the object of his desire.

  Even Greg, even his parents, seem to have written him off, sadly, as mad.

  Yet if he was mad, it was with the same madness which had always driven him: that of the single-minded scientist, the engineer in pursuit of a practical solution to some material problem. He wasn’t ‘in love’ with Melanie Caron in the sick, obsessive way of stalkers; he just wanted to know what she meant.

  And so did I.

  After his death, seeing the image of Melanie Caron on TV and in the papers, I became convinced that she was ‘our ghost’. I felt awful because I could never tell Hutch I’d been wrong, could never apologise ... I’d completely screwed up the real chance I’d had of helping him.

  I felt horribly guilty. Of course, I’d thought I was doing the best, by warning him away from her - and Ihad been right about the danger. But I should have known he wouldn’t listen to me. He couldn’t walk away from an unsolved problem; it just wasn’t in him. I should have known that, and tried to avert this horror in some other way. Maybe, if I’d done what he’d asked, and approached Melanie myself, I could have talked her around, reached some peaceful accommodation. Would it have hurt her to spend a little time with him, with us? To he
lp us solve the mystery of her haunting?

  The mystery remained, and, after all, it was our mystery. Solving it felt like one last thing I could do for Hutch.

  Although my intuition that the ghost had been a warning to stay away from Melanie Caron turned out to be horribly right, that didn’t solve the mystery. The logic was circular, like a time paradox: the ghost we saw was a clip from the future, when Melanie had cowered in fear from her stalker - but that future could never have come into being if Hutch hadn’t first seen her cowering in fear. I couldn’t accept the idea of a totally predetermined universe, that our fates were scripts written before our births, so that brought me back to Hutch’s original question. Why her?