Eleven New Ghost Stories

by David Paul Nixon

  We went down to the beach late afternoon, just as it was becoming quiet and the tourists were going home. We changed under our towels and made another slow walk out into the waves. We progressed slowly, walking with our feet on the ground, swimming a little, and then gradually moving deeper until she could no longer feel the sand and seaweed beneath her soles.

  She was scared but excited. Her breathing was fast, I splashed her in the face playfully to distract and relax her. She splashed me back and we laughed together.

  We kissed, kicking gently to keep ourselves afloat.

  As we swam a little further, untroubled by the mild waves, I dared her to stick her head under the water. It was a big step for her, more of step than I realised as I jokily dipped my head beneath the surface. As I saw her hesitance, I said she didn’t have to and she smiled a little. Then she looked down to the water, pinched her nose and just dipped a little beneath the water.

  She popped her head back out just a few moments later, taking a deep breath and smiling. There was nothing to fear in the ocean, in the water.

  I said we should try midnight swimming, and always the romantic, that appealed to her greatly. We would have to sneak out though, her father would not care for her being out so late, even though we were both a matter of weeks from turning 16.

  Despite her age, she’d never actually snuck out before. Neither of us had. We felt too old to being doing it; we weren’t kids any more, but the little thrill made the trip that bit more special.

  We went down to the sea front, the waves were a little more rough, but the air was calm and the steady roar was invigorating and exciting without being fearsome or frightening.

  We bought our swimming kits but decided, spur of the moment, to go out naked. Skinny dipping. The beach was deserted; there was no one to see us.

  We didn’t mean to go too far out, just a little. We bobbed and flowed with the waves, kissed under the moonlight. I told her I loved her; she kissed me and said she loved me too.

  I teased her, said she was much too slow, and would have to work hard to ever get as good at swimming as me. She said she had a swimming pool and she’d get loads of practice in.

  We splashed each other playfully. A big wave roared over us, a bigger wave than we’d expected. I broke through to the other side, wiped the water out of my eyes and saw she was not there with me. For a moment I worried, said her name nervously, until she appeared again above the surface.

  I smiled, relieved. “That was a bigger one than I expected,” I said.

  She nodded: “For a second there…” she began, but then she bobbed back beneath the water.

  I swam closer, right to where she was. She came above the water again: “I’m caught on something,” she said. “Something’s pulling me.” And down she went again. Her face, looking upward, barely broke the surface of the water. Water poured into her mouth as she cried “Help!”

  I reached in and tried to grab hold of her body, but it was already slipping through my hands. I managed to grab hold of one of her arms and found myself pulled beneath the surface. I pulled back and she came towards me. But then she was tugged back again, her arm almost slipping from my grip.

  We sank deeper into the water. She wasn’t just caught on something, something was dragging her down. It was dark; opening my eyes, I could barely see anything in the water except the white of Lily’s skin. I couldn’t see or tell what was pulling her.

  I kicked with my feet, giving it everything I’d got. But I could barely pull her back at all. I could see bubbles escaping from Lily’s lips; I too could barely hold my breath.

  Then for a moment, I thought I’d won. Whatever it was that held her seemed to have slipped. I could feel her coming towards me; she was safe. I was going to rescue her.

  But as I looked again to her pale body in the dark ocean, I saw another figure there with us in water. Within just a heartbeat this creature swept a great arm in front of Lily’s face, locking its elbow around her neck.

  Before I could tell what was happening, its other arm appeared, sweeping towards me, swiping at me. A sharp claw cut into my forehead. I felt its nails move into my flesh and in the moment of shock…

  …I let go…

  I couldn’t help it. And in that moment, not only did I let go, but instinctively, I went up for air.

  I gasped, drawing in oxygen desperately. I noticed red water dripping over my eye – I was bleeding. I didn’t worry about that; I dived again beneath the water. But in the dark, amongst the waves, I could see nothing.

  I swam deep; I swam in circles. I came up for air and I shouted: “Lily! Lily!” I went down again and swam. I swam and I swam, but there was nothing. She was nowhere. There was no sign of her, no sound. I kept swimming, kept diving, but in even my desperation I quickly realised that it was hopeless. That I couldn’t find her, that I couldn’t see her.

  I looked out across the ocean. There was no one. Who could’ve pulled her under, there was no one there! There was no one there for miles!

  I swam back to the beach; I could do nothing else. It was deserted and so was the road. Unable to find help, I went to a call box and called 999. In tears I told them my girlfriend had been washed out to sea and I could not find her.

  They responded quickly. A helicopter swept its light across the bay, police and coastguard combed the beach for more than half a mile trying to find a trace of her. They found nothing.

  Oh God, when her father came down to the beach… He was inconsolable; he went for me again. He was restrained by the police, but by then I was so far gone that I would’ve let him do it. The only good thing in my life, the best thing in my whole life was gone and it was my fault. If I’d never taken her into the water…

  My parents tried to console me, to protect me, but there was nothing they could say or do. They tried to feebly comfort me by saying that they would find her, but I knew they wouldn’t.

  I was arrested. They might’ve assumed an accident, if it was not for the cuts across my forehead. Four cuts, the mark of fingernails, long and vicious. An injury caused in self-defense?

  And no, they didn’t believe my story. How could someone else have been there in the ocean, unseen by either of us? I was at the police station until the following morning. I was not ultimately charged, but that was more for a lack of evidence, perhaps my age too. The scars across my forehead were not enough to convict me, but they all thought I was responsible.

  I gave evidence at the inquest. Death by misadventure was the ultimate verdict, but the scars, still prominent, were an uncomfortable sticking point.

  Those days were a blur. I was in such a deep depression that I didn’t seem to know night from day or one day from another. I know after the accident, we stayed in Morecambe for a few days to help the police, staying at a different hotel. I never went back to The Bay Star again.

  Her father didn’t come to the inquest. I never saw him again. He, like me, knew what had really happened. It was as if he’d known all along, had a fear or premonition. I kept thinking back to what he’d said at the pool that day I let her fall in; that she’d never have her…

  What guilt he must have carried all his life. But by then all kinds of questions were lingering in my mind; those times when she seemed to be half in her own world. The way she used to stare out over the sea. Could there have been something, something always there hanging over them, threatening to take her away? I’d say that was pretty far-fetched, if I’d not seen what I’d seen. If I’d not seen her snatched from my arms…

  On that day of the inquest, back in Morecambe: her father wasn’t there, but her grandmother was. I remember seeing her leave the hall; she stopped to look at me as I was leaving. I thought for a moment that she was going to come over to me. But instead she turned and left. Did she believe in this… supernatural force? Or did she think what everyone else was thinking? That I was a rapist and that I had drowned her granddaughter…

  To this day I’m not sure what my parents thought. It’s always
hung over me the thought that maybe they might think I did it. They said they believed me, but then this look of doubt would wash over their faces. How could what I have said been true?

  What’s worse is that it seems like all trace of Lily has slowly disappeared. The letters she wrote to me were destroyed during a flood at my parents’ house, soaked through and destroyed. What photos I had of her seem to have vanished; my parents never took many anyway, but Lily doesn’t seem to be in any of them.

  The Bay Star is gone now. Luxury flats were being built when I, during one lonely summer afternoon, decided to visit Morecambe. The place is looking a little fresher now, some of the peeling paint has gone, the wrecked pier demolished, the shops open again.

  I don’t know what happened to Lily’s family, I never heard from them of course. Maybe her father is still with us. It’s possible, but I don’t know. The only thing l have left of Lily is my memories, it’s as if everything else has been erased.

  She was the greatest love of my life. Crazy thing is, I only knew her for about 24 weeks, over a period of eight years. Less than half a year accumulatively of my whole life. But she changed everything. She’s an ideal I can’t put behind me; none of my other relationships, my other girlfriends, they’ve never lived up to her.

  Her body never washed up on the beach. Like her mother, she’s forever lost amongst the waves. I’ve never been visited by her ghost, but she’s haunted me my whole life. A dream that’s too good to be true.

  Actually, I lied – I do have one thing to remember her by. I’ve still got the scars; they’re here, just under my fringe. That’s why I have my hair like this. So I don’t have to look at them too often.

  ON THE SHOULDER

  They told you to be careful coming over to me didn’t they? Don’t creep up behind him and whatever you do, don’t touch him on the shoulder…

  Well, yeah, I got a story to tell you; yeah record it if you want. I don’t give a fuck what they think and I don’t care what you think either.

  No offence.

  I suppose you’ll want it from the beginning? Started in a place like this, only worse. The Crown & Anchor – that was boozer with character; you came off into the street smelling of it. Stained carpets, stink of fags, last year’s flies still in the window – the only air that got let in there was when someone’s head got put through the window.

  Sounds like a shithole, and it was. But it was our shithole. The crew in there, we was close, real close. You didn’t get strangers in there, at least not for very long. Used to call it the turning point, the spot on the doormat where, after getting a good look at the place, they’d turn around and go back.

  There was a good crowd in there, mostly. There was a time when it were just us City fans. But then the landlord, can’t remember his name, fucking gambler, fat bastard; he had to sell up half the place for his debts and then his brother in law takes over. He’s a fucking Vale fan, so suddenly the place gets cleaned up and we get this other crowd in. I mean they’re fine for a while, but you can’t talk about the game anymore, ‘cos after nine o’clock when everyone’s had a few, it kicks-off.

  There were punch-ups and the old bill started getting involved. The new landlord got a warning or some shit. He started having to bar and report folk who got in scraps. So we was all on our best behaviour for a while, but by then some of the Vale lot had already got scared off, so that helped.

  But there was this one fucker. Terry his name was, Terry Coles. Fucking mouth-on-legs. Everyone knew Terry Coles, mostly ‘cos he could never shut the fuck up. You didn’t want to know him, he just started going on at you. On and on. And he used to like winding folk up too. Really funny guy, real funny piss-taker. Worse than that, he was a fucking United fan too.

  He used to like needling me, cos I got bit of a rough streak in me. Can’t help it, always been like that. You’d think that’d make him leave well alone, but no, it becomes like a bloody challenge. Can you wind Carl up tonight? Can you make him see red? It was like he had a death wish.

  So we used to get leery over the matches and the like. It wasn’t just that though, he’d always have something fucking funny to say about your clothes and shoes and stuff. It was like he was trying to prove something. You’d come in and he’d take the piss out of your jacket, you’d tell him to piss off, and then he’d have a go because you weren’t over the moon that he was taking the piss.

  So this one time I just hit him. Smacked him clean off his feet; he wasn’t expecting that. Yeah, I could get lairy, but I didn’t normally just lash out like that. Course, that put a chip on his shoulder because he couldn’t get back at me. My mates and his, if you could call them mates - they probably couldn’t fucking stand him either – they got in the way and stopped him from taking a swing back at me.

  But I was already in trouble with new landlord over a fight a few weeks back. I didn’t get in fights often, not like me to just lash out, like I said. But these fucking students had decided to come in, probably just for a laugh and those poncy fucks can rub a man the wrong way with their pants hanging out their trousers and their “We’re the fucking bees-knees” future of mankind bloody smugness. I’d had one too many and they’d gotten too fucking noisy, so I told ‘em where to go and they got mouthy with me so I lamp one of them. New landlord’s son – how was I supposed to know?

  So I was about to get barred, when his brother, old landlord and still half-owner – what was his name… He comes and stands up for me; bless him, he’s known me for years. Sure I’ve got a temper, but mostly I keeps to myself, don’t cause trouble. So I’m getting my last warning now, do it again and you’re out…

  I don’t want to find myself another local; I don’t want to lose me mates. Not over a prick like Terry Coles. He makes a big deal about shaking hands and “forgiving me”, and biting my tongue I just goes along with it. But he still knows I can’t stand his guts, so that’s not the end. Like everyone else, I got to sing his tune and he has to have me licking his boots and hanging on his every stupid word.

  I tries to avoid to him, whenever he’s there. And he always gives me this look, like “here comes trouble”, here comes a headache... I ain’t doing nothing, just keeping to myself, enjoying a pint, chatting to me mates. But no, he still has to have his pops and jokes and what else. Can’t leave me be.

  Well this one night, he went too far. I just had this big fucking row with my lad and I’m in there blowing off steam. I walk in with my face red and he gives me that glance of his and I just shout “What? What’s your problem?” He makes out all innocent like he doesn’t know what he’s doing.

  My mates though, they know what it’s about so they give me a wide berth. Keep the conversation light. But this tosser Terry, he keeps trying to start with me. Results are on the telly, he’s making cracks about City and he’s looking at me while he makes them, I know he is.

  Then somebody tells him. I don’t know who, but somebody tells him my boy’s a queer. We’ve been rowing all afternoon, that’s why I’m in a fucking mood. I don’t like it and I’ve never fucking liked it; he’s supposed to be a man. But now that he knows, he’s got to come over and say something.

  So he walks right up to me, while I’m sat at the bar. He slaps his hand on my shoulder and he says to me “Mate, I just heard your son’s a poof. Fuck, I wouldn’t have that in my family. If my lad turned out to be a batty boy I’d fucking chuck that kid out on the street.”

  I’ve had about eight pints and I just fucking lose it. Whatever my son is, he’s still my lad and I just couldn’t take anybody saying any of that shit about him.

  So I pick up my pint and I glass him, smash it right in his fucking face. He goes down and I give him a good fucking kicking, as much as I can before they stop me. He doesn’t get back up and the landlord tells me I’m barred so I tell him to fuck off and storm out the place.

  Then I goes home and fall asleep in front of the telly. Then about two hours later I get a knock on the door, a loud banging. I wake up and s
ee out the window that it’s the fucking filth. I open the door and they tell me that I haven’t just glassed Terry Coles, that I’ve fucking killed him. A shard of glass went straight under his eyelid and pierced his brain.

  I’m pissed off my head and I say: “Well that wouldn’t do much, cos he ain’t got a fucking brain.” I know I said that, cos they said it back to me at the trial. I’m pissed out of my head, I didn’t know what I was saying, but they still used it against me.

  I mean, look, I didn’t like the guy. I hated his guts. But I wouldn’t have killed him on-purpose. I’m no murderer. But the police have got it in for me and I go down for it, 18 months for manslaughter. Although they let me out after 12. Lucky, lucky me.

  They say prison’s too soft these days, like a fucking Butlin’s holiday camp. But I’m cooped up there with these same tossers for 12 months, nowhere to go, nothing to drink. Can’t even watch the game. I make the best of it, read a bit – yeah, I do know how to read.

  But Jesus Christ that place did my head in. It was enough to drive me over, but I ain’t no coward. No coward’s way out for me, even if I did think about it. Thought about it real fucking hard.

  So I lose me place and have to move in with my sister and her husband, who’s a slimey prick, but I takes it ’cos Lisa’s a good girl and she doesn’t have to take in an old tosser like me. I gets back on my feet soon enough; if these haulage companies turned their nose up at thugs and hooligans like me they’d have no one bloody working for them. Not that they don’t take advantage and cut your pay for it.

  Getting me life back on track wasn’t the big problem though. I mean, my lad, he ain’t talking to me, but there was nowt unusual about that. No, the problem was Terry fucking Coles.

  Yeah, I know he’s dead. I fucking killed him. But that ain’t stopped him from making my life miserable. That ain’t stopped him from coming after me…