Eleven New Ghost Stories

by David Paul Nixon

  “That’s why she goes out in the storms,” I said. “That’s why she goes out walking. She’s trying to find her. She thinks she’s going to find Chloe out in the storm.”

  “But that doesn’t make sense.”

  “None of this makes sense! But when I saw the girl, it was raining. And she, I mean Rose, she’d just bought that umbrella…”

  “Look, I don’t know what crazy stuff you’re getting into your head, but you need to leave this woman alone. She already attacked you once. And you heard what Alice said about her husband. Never seen again. He could be under the patio for all you know.”

  She was right. I had to put aside my Florence Nightingale tendencies and stay well away from this. 26 years Rose had been searching for Chloe. No wonder she was angry with me. She goes rambling across hills and fields and I stumble across her in a back-alley by accident.

  Why had she appeared to me? Because of my loss? No, I scattered what was left of Adrian across Richmond Park where we used to walk together. More than likely she appeared to people all the time. Who was going to remember a little girl from 26 years ago except her mother?

  I dropped Joyce off and continued on back home. It had a certain gothic poetry to it. The woman who chased storms… trudged through the mud every time the rain fell. And for what? A glimpse of her child, a chance to spend time with her? Or in the vain hope that somehow, someday, the storm might return her to her, having once so cruelly taken her away?

  I laughed at myself for getting so melodramatic. As I drove back to my house it started to rain, only very slightly. But as I stepped out of the car and felt the cold rain land on my face, drip slowly down my back, I was suddenly overcome with a feeling of horror. 26 years… walking alone through the cold… the rain… the mud… chasing a dream, a fantasy. Praying for rain, despairing when the sun shone. A life in darkness, grey and cold. Never ending, never changing. A life of loss and futile hope.

  I went in and poured myself a large glass of wine. Christ, and I thought I had problems. I thought I could take my mind off it by watching the telly. Even the latest tensions between Israel and Palestine were starting to seem like a pleasant alternative.

  But just as I thought I might be taking my mind off it, the weather came on and the girl warned that more bad weather was coming. And not just any bad weather: the tail-end of a South-American hurricane. We should expect bad storms come the weekend. And gale-force winds.

  My blood ran cold. Would that make her happy? A weekend of heavy stormy weather? Would she prepare? Get her best Wellington boots ready? Her rain-mac, umbrella?

  Then another unpleasant idea came into my head: what if she wanted to die too? What if she wanted the storm to take her like it had taken her child? What if every time she went into the storm, she hoped that she might die too?

  I didn’t sleep well. In fact, I even dreamt about it. That day in the playground…

  The sky was grey, a hint of drizzle falling. The children were leaving the school building – it was small, only large enough for two classrooms. The children were all dressed in their raincoats, with scarves, wellies, gloves, bobble hats or hoods. They carried lunch boxes, rucksacks, some had little umbrellas – all small, tiny and adorable.

  The parents were waiting on the periphery. Some of the children ran to them, others walked, some skipped. Friends waved each other goodbye, brothers and sisters squabbled. Teachers oversaw from the double-doored entrance, trading a few words while they did the last of their daily duties.

  Chloe was still by the school doors. She scanned the hedges, then the front fence, furtively looking for her mother. There was a rumble in the sky.

  I was Rose. I waved enthusiastically to her. She jumped a little off the ground and waved happily to me. She wore an expression of undiluted, untainted pure affection. Sheer joy just at seeing me. I walked a little into the playground, across a faded hopscotch game. She ran towards me, arms outstretched. I leant down to catch her and hoist her up. She giggled and laughed as she sped towards me.

  A stream of white fell from the sky. There was no warning, not even a second, a moment to see or comprehend the impending terror. She crashed into the crack of light and the world was torn in two.

  I gave up on sleeping after that. I washed off a layer of sweat in the shower and then took to the sofa in my duvet and watched whatever dross the television had to offer.

  At some point I drifted over to the 24-hour news channel. The weather report told once more of the impending storm. Gale-force winds expected. I changed the channel; there would be no more Florence Nightingale. I had had my fill of getting involved in other people’s problems. That’s why I moved up here – to get away from everything.

  But I hadn’t, had I? The postman would be here with letters from the solicitors this morning. What a joke. The only reason I’d come out here, decided to hole myself up in this obscure nowhere in the highlands was that Adrian used to tell me about it. He’d come to _____ once with his grandparents and found the place so peaceful, so… absent, of anything. He said it was the vaguest place in the world. Towns, cities, had personality, character – ______ had nothing. It was just houses together, people walking in and out of dream. A human purgatory.

  And he was right, wasn’t he? I was here running away from my problems, Rose was chasing her past. Even Joyce, bright bubbly Joyce, she was living in her Grandma’s cottage with her mystery woman, living their life of secrets away from prying eyes. That day in the 80s when Chloe died, that was probably the last time the world even noticed _____. One brief mention in the paper and it vanished once again.

  Adrian came here to reset – to really get away from it all. To try and derail his episodes. And now I had come here too, to get away from it all. I’d come to my dead husband’s purgatory, where his presence lingered around every corner.

  I laughed at myself. What a stupid fool I was.

  Tired and unwell, but at least avoiding a full-on depressive stupor, I pulled myself away from the house. I wasn’t due in the charity shop that day, but I went anyway. Stephanie, a stick-thin, easily flustered woman was looking after things; it was Joyce’s day off. I lied about Joyce asking me to come in. No it wasn’t because Joyce didn’t think she was up to it; it was because there was always supposed to be two people working there and now that we had enough people we should follow the rules to avoid trouble.

  I just didn’t want to be alone. I knew the lawyer’s papers were just going to upset me. And I didn’t want to get involved in that other thing either. The radio in the shop kept reminding me of the impending storm expected this weekend. I wanted to turn it off.

  When I drove home, I deliberately avoided driving by Rose’s house, which would’ve been on my usual route. My days of martyrdom were over. When I got home, I couldn’t look at those papers, which were waiting ominously on the doormat. Even looking at that first page made me start to cry. I was in such a mess. How long could I carry on like this? Trapped in purgatory with nowhere to turn except the past.

  Thursday turned to Friday. The weather warnings escalated in their severity. Flood warnings had now been issued, people shouldn’t travel unless absolutely necessary. Joyce said she’d play it by ear, but would probably keep the shop shut.

  The clouds darkened. The wind grew strong – the whole landscape felt on the brink of a full on tempest. Streets emptied; children left school early. The local news stoked the fire – “This could be the worst storm for more than a decade”. I saw sandbags in driveways; surely we were too high up here to be put at risk from the river flooding? Perhaps the rain water could run down the streets as it came down through the hills?

  What the hell did I know? My landlady had not thought to give me any instruction. Let the rain waters come. They were the least of my problems. Maybe I’d even enjoy some new problems.

  But my new found taste for alcoholism was my first concern. If I was going to get through those papers I was going to need a stiff drink or two. And as the heavens had yet to o
pen, there was still time to visit the Co-op for some booze.

  The shelves were half empty; people had been preparing for the worst. I took the best of what was still there and started back for home.

  It was on the way back that I saw her; climbing clumsily over a stile onto a public footpath. Yes, she was on her way. She had to be, didn’t she?

  I almost said no. I almost convinced myself that I didn’t care. That I could just say “To hell with her” and just drive away. But I couldn’t, could I?

  And even as I got out of the car I knew I wouldn’t be able to convince her. That she would just throw abuse at me and carry on, despite the risks. But not try? That’s not that kind of person I could be.

  “Rose, for God’s sake!” I cried. “You can’t go out there, you’ll get yourself killed.”

  “Don’t you worry about me,” she said, barely even turning to look at me.

  The wind was already strong; I could barely hear her as it roared past my ears. I didn’t know what I was saying; how do you get someone chasing a ghost to see sense?

  I improvised as best I could: “You can’t bring her back Rose,” I yelled. “She’s gone.”

  “She’s not gone,” Rose turned to me in anger. “She’s always with me. She’s all I’ve got!”

  “But it’s not safe; she doesn’t want you to get yourself killed.”

  “It’s the only time I’m with her,” tears were running down her cheeks. “It’s the only time I see my little girl, the only time I can find her. I need her and she needs me. She’s my baby!” She turned back to the hills, staring out into the grey wild.

  There was a rumble of thunder from far away. Rose turned her head, scanning the landscape slowly. “I’m coming my love,” she shouted. “Don’t run; I’m coming.”

  “Rose!” I yelled. She didn’t hear me, or didn’t want to. I climbed over the stile to go after her, but I just wasn’t dressed for it. My heel sunk straight into the mud and I almost fell over backwards. I just managed to grab hold of the fence to stop myself.

  My hair was blowing in front of my face. Rose marched determinedly into the distance. I couldn’t stop her; probably nothing could.

  I pulled myself out of the mud and climbed back over the fence. I’d done my part, done my best. You can only do so much. If they’re that fixated on the abyss, you can’t keep them out of it. Some people are just too determined to tie their own rope.

  I stumbled back to my car, my ankle twisted and aching, and drove back home. The gale blew all afternoon and into the evening. The rain came down around 6 o’clock; it came down heavy but for not as long as they’d predicted. It was running in streams down the gutters and down the sides of the street.

  It fell harder further north. _____ was not so badly flooded; the banks of the river held.

  But many of the roads into town were flooded; that’s why the shop shelves were so empty. This wasn’t a hurricane, but the country roads flooded so easily. The town could so easily be cut off.

  I watched things progress on the news between soaps, sitcom repeats and predictable detective shows. Of course, if this had been the Home Counties there would be hours of coverage. But as this was the highlands, bad weather wasn’t big news. The local news was of course more keyed-in. There were road accidents, real flooding in other areas; some rural communities stranded. All train services had been cancelled past Edinburgh and Glasgow. A caravan had blown down a hillside at a campsite 50 miles away, killing a man and his two children.

  From my window I watched wheelie bins get blown down the street. The rain wasn’t coming down heavily by night time, but a fierce drizzle spat against the windows.

  I drank heavily; my mind was on Rose – that stupid woman. Would she have the good sense to go home? Would she stay out all night in the cold and wet? If she didn’t get herself killed, she’d probably die from the cold.

  I tried my best to put my mind on other things, but the only other things I had to focus on were legal matters. I’d barely looked at the legal papers; a mixture of accusations, insinuations and gossip – they made me sick to my stomach.

  I couldn’t sleep. The roaring sound of the wind created an uneasy atmosphere. I tossed and turned beneath the sheets. When I closed my eyes I felt like I could see the storm in my mind – the wind rushing through trees, the rain hitting the puddles in the street, the people on the street struggling to get to shelter.

  Then I imagined myself chasing Rose through the fields, arguing with her, pleading with her to come back home.

  And little Chloe. She was with me, mocking me. “She’s not listening to you,” she would say with glee and a jolly little skip. “She doesn’t have to do a thing you say. She’s my mum. She doesn’t have to do what she’s told by you.”

  She laughed at me. I told her to go away. I told her she was dead; she kicked mud at me: “No – you’re dead!”

  I woke up with a start. There was a large crash outside. I listened cautiously for a time, hearing sounds of panic in the street. I went to the window and pulled aside the curtain.

  Just up the street, a few houses away – the wind had blown down a chimney. Bricks were lying across the garden. The family were in a panic, the neighbours were out in the street with them.I couldn’t see much from my window and after a short while I pulled the curtains closed. A bit cold of me, but there wasn’t much I could do for them. The arrival of the fire brigade a short while later made sure that I didn’t get back to sleep that night.

  I had breakfast early – the legal papers sitting on the end of the table, taunting me as I ate. I had no plans for the day. I took to staring at the wall in silence. I thought about doing many different things, reading, writing, listening to music, watching the television – but all of them seemed like too much hard work.

  I got a call after nine from Joyce. Stick-thin Stephanie was in trouble. Part of her garage roof had caved in, and she needed help shifting everything out of there before it soaked with water.

  It wasn’t far for me to go, so I walked there. By the time I arrived, quite a band had formed. Various people’s nephews, sons, brothers, cousins… all Stephanie’s friends were old, so they had sent a variety of relatives to help. Her children were abroad, which is how all their furniture had come to be stacked up in her garage. A neighbour had kindly offered some garage space to store some of it for the time being, and Joyce said we could fit some in the back of the shop. I took the keys and supervised things at that end, making room amongst the assorted bric-a-brac in the stock room.

  I had to wait quite some time while it was decided what should go in the back of the shop. No one had a large van, so things came in the backs of cars or in a mini-bus in one case. It was heartening to see so many people banding together to help out.

  The shop got a dining room set and several boxes of plates and assorted bits and pieces. One of the guys – a nephew or cousin or friend’s son – quite young, did his best to flirt with me and got me to make him a cup of tea. It was kind of nice, and he was good-looking. But I just couldn’t imagine myself spending that kind of time with anyone.

  Things were finished by just after lunchtime. I locked up and took the car the long way around to get back home. Deliberately I drove past Rose’s, just looking for some sign that she had returned.

  I don’t know what I was expecting to see. Her house looked like any other house when you drove past. Unless there’s anyone standing right by the window, you can’t really see anything.

  The legal papers went untouched for another night. I just couldn’t face them. They’d be chasing me for them soon – nothing on the answerphone yet.

  Another night of television and drinking followed. I was determined to go out on the Sunday – not just wallow indoors and drive myself crazy. The roads had mostly cleared and I drove out to a remote inn for Sunday lunch and ate it in near silence as everyone else seemed to be keeping away. And I so wanted distractions; any conversation, any overheard morsel.

  There was no escaping
my troubles. The only thing keeping my mind off Adrian’s venomous relatives was Rose, and I feared for her safety. I should’ve done more to stop her, she could be dead already.

  I cursed myself for driving away and enjoying lunch. Someone’s life could be hanging in the balance and I was here stuffing my face. What was wrong with me? I fretted myself into a sweat and panic and rapidly paid for my meal and drove back to ______. I ran up to her doorway and knocked loudly. I knocked three, four times. No answer.

  I peered into the windows, searched to see if there was a back alley to her back garden – there wasn’t.

  I waited outside, keeping vigil in my car. I sat there for four, maybe five hours. I fell asleep at one point, against my steering wheel – I had to explain to a concerned neighbour that I was fine and was just waiting for someone.

  The sun started to set and Rose was nowhere to be seen. I thought about calling the police – but what was I to tell them? Some crazy woman who chased ghosts wasn’t at home when I called?

  I had no way of knowing where she was. I only thought – I only knew – that she had been out on the hills, chasing God knows what. But she could be somewhere else now; I didn’t know what else she did during the day. I knew nothing about her. It was only a morbid instinct that told me something was wrong.

  I drove home after it went dark. I got my senses back; she wasn’t my responsibility and she wasn’t my problem. I’d tried after all; what was I supposed to do?

  Joyce was ill the next day, so I looked after the shop alone. It was quiet, the rain stayed away but the sky stayed grey. I thought about putting the radio on, or putting on some music – but nothing seemed to fit my glum, foreboding mood.

  The hours passed slowly. I made less than £50 for the whole day. I tried to read a book, but I couldn’t get into it. It was some detective novel. I went around the shop looking for old stock to reduce as time slouched into the afternoon. Around about two o’clock, I was reducing some glasses that had been over-priced (they were chipped), when I caught a glimpse, the barest of glimpses, of a blue coat – a small girl – skipping past the shop window. Putting a glass down so carelessly that it fell off the shelf and broke, I raced towards the door, pulled it open, and found the street outside completely deserted.