The Ghost of Longthorn Manor and Other Stories

by Amy Cross

  “You did the right thing, Beth. Coming here, I mean.”

  Turning, I look over at the window. I can see my house from here, next to John's, and a shudder passes through my chest as I realize that the landing light is on. Did I do that? Did I turn the light on before I went to Hannah's door? Did I turn it off after? My mind is racing and I honestly don't remember anything except the horrific sight of Hannah with all that glass in her broken body. After I saw her like that, I know I ran down the stairs, and then out into the garden, but I don't remember any details. When did I turn the landing light on? And if I didn't, then who did?

  “Drink.”

  John holds a glass of whiskey out for me, but I shake my head.

  “It'll do you good,” he continues. “It'll settle your nerves.”

  I take the glass and lift it to my lips, but the whiskey smells too strong and I don't think I have the stomach. I hesitate, before setting the glass on the stand next to the chair. Maybe I'll manage a sip in a minute or two.

  “Are you sure it wasn't another dream?” John asks, before taking a sip from his own glass.

  “I woke up and I could hear her voice,” I stammer, wiping tears from my cheeks. “I could hear her as clearly as I hear you now.”

  “But if -”

  “It wasn't a dream!” I say firmly, staring up at him. “I swear!”

  “Okay,” he mutters, taking another sip of whiskey. He seems lost in thought for a moment, before finally downing the rest of the whiskey. “There's only one thing to do here, I suppose.”

  “I have to go back!” I stammer, suddenly getting to my feet as I feel a rush of panic in my chest. “I have to go to Hannah!”

  “Beth, wait!”

  I try to slip past him, but he grabs my shoulders and forces me back down into the chair.

  “What if it's her?” I gasp, as fresh tears run down my face. “What if she's come back to me?”

  “She hasn't come back to you, Beth.”

  “You don't know that!” I try to get free, but he's holding me too tight. “I ran away from her! She must think I hate her! I've got to go back and see!”

  “Beth -”

  “She's come back to me!”

  “Hannah's dead, Beth!”

  As soon as he says those words, I feel an icy shudder pass through my chest. John is still holding my arms, but I'm not struggling now.

  “Hannah's dead,” he continues. “Hannah and David are both dead. It's been six months now. Come on, you're a sensible girl. You know the truth.”

  Staring up at his wrinkled face, I see the sorrow in his eyes. Maybe even tears. After a moment, he lets go of my arms and takes a step back, and then he goes back to the cabinet and pours himself another glass of whiskey. Again, he seems lost in thought for a moment, staring down at the glass before finally tilting his head back and pouring the whiskey down his throat. It's the way people drink whiskey just before they do something unpleasant.

  “There's only one thing for it,” he mutters finally, wiping his lips as he limps past me and heads toward the door. “Wait here. I'll go and take a look.”

  “Take a look where?”

  “Where do you think?” He turns to me. “You left your back door unlocked, I assume?”

  I try to remember, and then I nod.

  “I'll just do what I did last time. I'll go to your house and take a quick look around, just to make sure there's no... Well, just to see what I can see. I'll be a minute or two at most, and then I'll come back and we can talk this over. Does that sound like a good plan?”

  “What if it's her?” I ask.

  “Your daughter is...” He hesitates for a moment. “Hannah's dead, Beth. She's not in your house. David's dead too. Let me go and take a look. Wait right here.”

  I sit in the chair and listen as John heads out of the house. Turning, I look out the window and spot his silhouette in the garden as he heads toward my back door, and finally I see him slipping inside. It takes a moment before I realize that I'm holding my breath, and then I look up toward the landing window. Sure enough, I spot John making his way toward Hannah's room. I half expect to hear my daughter cry out, but instead there's only silence. I wait for John to come back, but as the minutes tick past I realize that he seems to be spending a long time in my house. I guess he's just being thorough, making sure that there's absolutely no sign of anyone else having been in there.

  Finally I glance at the nearby bookcase and spot a row of John's novels lined up neatly. There's The Haunting of Merryfield Hall and The Ghost of Spinchester House and all the rest, and even a first edition of his biggest hit, The Beast on the Tracks. I'm so lucky that I happen to live next door to one of the world's greatest horror novelists. If it wasn't for John, I think I'd have lost my mind by now. Reaching past the untouched glass of whiskey, I slide the copy of The Beast on the Tracks from the shelf and take a look at the back, and I can't help smiling when I see the jacket photo of a much younger John, taken back in the late 70's. I know it's silly, but books always make me feel a lot calmer. Just holding any type of book in my hands makes me feel as if there's order to the world.

  “Your house is empty.”

  Startled, I look over at the doorway and see that John is back.

  “There's no-one there, Beth,” he continues, with a hint of concern in his eyes. “It must have all been in your head again.”

  Two

  “Do you know what was the first thing I saw when I came back to England after six months away?” Jacqui asks, taking another sip of wine as we sit at my dining room table. “I swear to God, I stepped out of Victoria station and I saw the biggest rat of all time! Smeared on the road next to where the buses pull in! I'm telling you, I reckon that was a sign!”

  “That you should look both ways before crossing the road?” I ask.

  “That I should have stayed in Australia.” She downs the rest of her wine and immediately reaches across the table, grabbing the bottle and pouring herself another. “What's wrong, Beth? You're not keeping up.”

  “I don't want to drink tonight.”

  She rolls her eyes. “Come on. It'll do you some good.”

  “I want to keep my head clear,” I continue, trying to sound casual about the whole thing. “Not everyone's trying to slowly pickle their internal organs.”

  “Ouch!” she says with a laugh as she sets the bottle down. Picking up her glass, she swirls the wine for a moment. “I'm trying to learn about this stuff,” she mutters. “You know, like, all the fancy knowledge and stuff like that. Frankly, though, most of it just tastes the same to me. Oak. Berries. Whatever.”

  She takes a sip.

  “Maybe I just don't have a delicate palate,” she continues, sounding a little disappointed. “Maybe all that cheap beer destroyed my taste-buds when we were teenagers. Do you remember how much we used to drink on Saturday nights at my parents' house?”

  I force a smile, but to be honest I'm finding it difficult to pay much attention. I'm so glad that Jacqui is finally back from her six-month work assignment in Melbourne, but I can't help looking toward the dining room ceiling and wondering if Hannah's room is completely empty. It's been almost a week since the last time I saw my daughter, or thought I saw her, but I feel as if she might come back again at any moment. It can't just be over so easily. I don't know what's worse: the times when she appears, or the times when I'm expecting her.

  “I'm sorry I wasn't here when you needed me,” Jacqui says suddenly.

  I turn to her.

  “Timing, huh?” she continues. “What are the odds that I stepped on that plane to Australia, just hours before the car crash?”

  “You couldn't fly all the way back from Melbourne just for me,” I point out.

  “I would have, Beth. I swear. I still don't understand what happened. I mean, I know emails go missing sometimes, and social media messages get buried, but I don't get how I could have missed hearing about the accident. It's like there was this filter keeping the news from me.”
<
br />   “I'm glad,” I reply. “I'd have hated for you to come all the way back.”

  “I should have been here,” she continues, reaching across the table and placing a hand on mine for a moment. I can't help noticing that there are tears in her eyes. “You're my best friend, Beth, and you were all alone. I'll never forgive myself for not being here to support you.” She takes a deep breath, forcing a smile. “But you're bang out of luck, 'cause I'm back from the land of Oz now and you're not getting rid of me again! I ditched my job, I ditched that rat Aussie boyfriend, and you're not getting rid of me that easily again!”

  “Sounds good,” I tell her as we clink glasses. “I wasn't completely alone after Hannah and David died, though. I had -”

  Before I can finish, there's the sound of the toilet flushing at the far end of the hallway. Glancing at the third plate on the table, I realize John has been gone for a few minutes now, but I guess he's finally coming back now.

  “Did he have to be here tonight?” Jacqui asks, making no effort to hide her disdain. “Seriously?”

  “He's just being friendly.”

  “Yeah, right.” She rolls her eyes again. “I didn't like him before I went away, and I don't like him now. This dinner was supposed to be just you and me!”

  “He happened to pop by while I was getting things set up,” I tell her, as I hear John coming back through from the bathroom. “I felt bad for him so...”

  I let my voice trail off as John returns to the table.

  “Hey Johnny,” Jacqui says, forcing a very fake smile. She knows how much he hates being called Johnny. “We were starting to worry that you'd fallen down the loo. Then again, I guess gentlemen of a certain age sometimes need to take their time. No big deal. Happens to us all eventually, I suppose.”

  John mutters something under his breath, but he doesn't seem very impressed. It's just my luck that my two best friends can't stay one another.

  “I was thinking,” John adds finally, “that perhaps -”

  “Oh, I forgot to mention!” Jacqui says suddenly, interrupting him. “Beth, guess what I've arranged? My friend Louise is going to come over on Friday evening to check your house out!”

  “Check it out... in what way?” I ask cautiously.

  “Well, you know, for that stuff you mentioned the other day.” She takes another sip of wine. “You were talking about how you'd had some uncomfortable experiences with bumps and strange events in the house, and my friend Louise just so happens to be a trained and registered psychic with a great track record when it comes to determining whether a house is haunted.”

  “Are you insane?” John snaps at her.

  “It's called helping, darling,” she tells him. “It's called actual, practical help.”

  “It's a pile of nonsense,” he mutters darkly, turning to me. “Beth, you can't seriously be thinking of letting some fantasist come into your home.”

  “Louise is a registered psychic,” Jacqui continues. “She's very well-respected among the online paranormal investigation community.”

  “Give me strength,” John says with a sigh.

  “I'm not sure I want some kind of ghost-hunter coming to the house,” I tell Jacqui cautiously. “I mean, I understand that you're trying to help, but -”

  “It's just for a consultation,” she continues, interrupting me. “No fee. No commitment. No communication with the spirits, no attempt to drive them out. It's purely so that you know whether or not there actually are dead souls co-habiting this space with you. I mean, you want to know what you're dealing with, don't you?”

  “I guess,” I mutter. “I'm still not sure, though...”

  “It's ludicrous,” John says, clearly irritated by the whole idea. “This Louise woman will just be some overblown, theatrical buffoon who makes up a lot of nonsense about ghosts.”

  “Huh,” Jacqui says with a grin, “isn't that basically the same thing that you do, mister big-shot horror author?”

  He turns and glares at her.

  “I read one of your books,” she tells him. “Well, half of it. It wasn't really my kind of thing. All those bumps in the night got kinda repetitive after a while. No wonder you've got writer's block these days.”

  “At least I am fully aware,” John replies through gritted teeth, “that the stories I tell are fiction. I certainly don't try to trick vulnerable people into believing that they're real.”

  “So you don't believe in ghosts?”

  “Of course not,” he mutters, looking back down at his food. “The whole idea is preposterous.”

  “But you still write books about them?”

  “I don't think I want to discuss my craft at this juncture,” he continues, sounding just a little snobby as he loads his fork with some pieces of asparagus. “Suffice it to say that the stories in my novels are contained within their pages. I do not prey on the pain of others in real life, and I most certainly do not approve of so-called psychics. I'm sure this Louise woman is just some bored, melodramatic charlatan.”

  “Yeah, well, it's not your decision, buddy,” Jacqui mutters, turning to me. “Friday evening, yeah? I think it'll really put your mind at rest.”

  “My book reading is on Friday,” John points out. “You promised you'd drop by, Beth. For moral support.”

  “What time does that start?” I ask.

  “Eight thirty, and -”

  “She can be a bit late,” Jacqui tells him.

  “I very seldom make public appearances,” he says with a sigh. “On these rare occasions, I'm afraid I value support from my friends a great deal.”

  “I'm not sure,” I stammer, “I really -”

  “Louise is coming at six,” Jacqui says firmly, with her usual no-nonsense tone, “and she's always very punctual. That's one of her many wonderful qualities, actually. It should take about two hours and then she'll be ready to give you a full report on the house's spectral profile. You can be a bit late for some fancy book reading.” She leans back in her chair and takes another sip of wine, and I can't help noticing that she looks rather pleased with herself as she glances at John and sees the irritation on his face. “It's good to be back,” she continues. “I feel like I've been really missed around here.”

  ***

  “Christ, I thought he'd never get the message and leave,” Jacqui mutters, before taking another puff on her cigarette as we sit on the step outside the back door. “Creepy old bastard.”

  “He's been very good to me,” I reply, watching as John disappears into his house. Once his door has swung shut, I turn and see that Jacqui is taking another swig of wine. “I know you don't get along with him, but when Hannah and David died, John was so good. He came over every day and -”

  “I bet he did.”

  “What's that supposed to mean?”

  “What do you think it means?” A faint smile crosses her lips. “How old is he? Sixty? Seventy? And he spends all his time creeping about here, helping out a newly-widowed women in her mid-thirties? I hope you've got blinds on your bedroom window, Beth, because guys like John Myers are never above trying to take a peek. And you should check to make sure he didn't hide a camera in your bathroom.”

  “He's not like that,” I tell her.

  “He's totally like that!” She takes yet another swig of wine. “I can smell creeps and weirdos a mile off. Mainly 'cause I've dated so many over the years.”

  “John is a very kind man.”

  “His books are rubbish, though,” she mutters. “At least I had a modicum of respect for him when I thought he actually believed in all that supernatural stuff. But now I know he thinks it's a load of tosh, I see him for what he really is. He's a con-man!”

  “He's really not.”

  “He's peddling ghost stories that he doesn't believe in,” she continues. “It's emotionally and intellectually dishonest.” She takes another puff on her cigarette. “I could write a better ghost story than him, any day. And do you know why? Because I actually believe in it!”

  I
can't help sighing. “Then why don't you actually put your money where your mouth is, and -”

  Before I can finish, I hear a brief bump from somewhere in the house. Turning, I look back across the kitchen toward the dark hallway, but now the house is quiet again.

  “You believe in them,” Jacqui says after a moment.

  Turning to her, I quickly realize that there's no point denying the truth. She always sees right through me, anyway.

  Reaching into her pocket, she takes out a small crucifix, and then sets it on the floor just inside the doorway.

  “What's that for?” I ask.

  “Humor me.”

  “But -”

  “Humor me!” she says again. “It's for protection. Just in case.”

  “Just in case what?”

  “I don't know. Just in case there's something bad here.”

  I can't help sighing.

  “You need to move on,” she continues. “That's the real reason I'm bringing Louise over on Friday. You need to get out of this house and start picking up the pieces of your life. Maybe Hannah and David are still here in some way, maybe they're not, but you didn't die in that car crash, Beth. You weren't with them when it happened. You're alive! You've got blood flowing through your veins! You've got a life to live!”

  Suddenly she reaches over and pinches my arm.

  “Ow!” I stammer, pulling away.

  “See?” she says with a grin. “You're still alive, and you need to start acting that way. And the first step is to make your peace with the house and then move on. Hell, maybe eventually you'll even meet a new man.”

  I shake my head.

  “Stranger things have happened,” she continues. “David wouldn't want to you to spend the rest of your life grieving.”

  She glances past me, looking toward John's house for a moment.

  “And it'd also help,” she adds finally, “if you weren't living next door to the grumpiest, creepiest horror novelist of all time.”

  Three

  Bringing the car to a halt at the side of the dark road, I switch the engine off and lean back in the seat, taking a moment to collect my thoughts in silence.