Tortured Minds

by Colin Griffiths

  I decided to walk through the park, even though it was a slightly longer route. I had no other purpose except that the surroundings offered a beautiful haven in the centre of a big city. It was the only place that could make you feel you were somewhere else. I was half strolling, half daydreaming when I caught sight of Maryann. At first, I wasn’t even sure if it was really her, as I was walking along the main path and she was on the grass that lay just before the swings. As I stopped to look, I could see she was with a brunette lady who also had a toddler in a pushchair. I took a guess that perhaps this was one of Lucy’s friends looking after Maryann for the day, along with her own child. I sniggered as I thought that this was typical Lucy that she was probably still tucked up in bed, as someone else took care of her child.

  Even though I was tempted, I didn’t want to call out to Maryann. Things were still so new and I wanted to play by the rules, Lucy’s rules of course. I stood and watched them for a moment hoping Maryann would look in my direction and eventually she did. I tried to play it cool, giving her a gentle, friendly wave, with my biggest smile.

  I wasn’t sure what I was expecting in response, but knowing how my brain works, I was inwardly hoping in some pathetic way that she’d run over shouting, Daddy! Daddy! I then wondered, do ten-year-old daughters still call their fathers’, Daddy?

  Maryann, however, didn’t even know I was her father. I knew that. I felt surprised, though, as my daughter stood there staring at me with what seemed an expression on her face that I could only describe as one of distaste. I waved again, thinking she may not have recognised me. The brunette lady noticed my second wave and quickly grabbed Maryann by the hand. She gave me one hell of an evil stare, the sort you imagine parents give to suspected paedophiles and then she left in what appeared to be a rush.

  I felt my heart sink. My own daughter didn’t even recognise me and I was unable to go over to her, even if it was just to tell her how much I missed her. Deflated, I carried on walking to work through the park, some of my earlier enthusiasm now gone, but, then again, I still had another chance. Tomorrow was the day I would meet Maryann at McDonalds.

  ***

  Chapter 15 - Daniel

  Well, hell, that was about as much fun as a spirit can have, or was it? When I saw what was going to happen between Molly and Jake, I wasn’t at all surprised. I think maybe I’d been expecting it all along. A little pissed about it, yeah sure, but not surprised. Since becoming a spirit, I seem to have developed this voyeuristic streak. It felt quite natural to be standing there, at my own kitchen counter, watching my best friend and my dear wife, getting it on, big time. Molly was behaving like a slut, which shouldn’t have come as any great surprise to me. Certainly when we had first got together she displayed some very provocative tendencies. There was nothing she enjoyed more than teasing me and taunting me, especially in public. For her, it wasn’t a sexual thing, I was sure of that. It was much more about the thrill of being caught. Sometimes, I really think she did want to be caught, to become infamous. It was almost as though she had a strange, self-destructive streak running through her, wanting to show the world that she basically didn’t give a rat’s arse what people thought of her.

  Mind you, once we were married, all that sluttiness seemed to disappear overnight. Getting her to agree to have sex had been damn near impossible. I can’t say she didn’t warn me, though, but like most men, I was under this crazy delusion that everything would carry on, as before, once we were married. It most definitely did not! It was Molly’s pregnancy which had put marriage into my head. When she told me she was pregnant, it seemed that the only right and proper thing for me to do was to propose. It was, wasn’t it? Pregnant? Hmmm… had she really been pregnant?

  When she told me she had miscarried, just two weeks into our marriage, I’m a little ashamed to admit that the thought did cross my mind, briefly. Had the pregnancy just been a fabrication to trap me into marriage? I’d felt horribly ashamed of my doubts, at the time and pushed them aside to concentrate on caring for my obviously grieving wife, but every so often I found my doubts would come creeping back into my consciousness, just picking away at my mind. Of course, there had been no more pregnancies after that first scare. Christ, we didn’t have sex often enough for there to be much chance of a pregnancy. I used to joke with Jake that since I slept at his place more often than I did with Molly in our bed, that there was more chance of him getting a “bun in the oven” than there was with my own wife.

  So, there we all were in my old kitchen, Jake standing there with his rather gorgeous phallic missile aimed directly at Molly’s sweet honey-pot. I had to admit I was getting quite turned on by the whole scenario. Molly was obviously desperate for it. Her eyes were closed and she was licking her lips lasciviously. When she actually cried out, ‘Fuck Me!’ I laughed aloud. Oh yes, she was very much playing the role of the slutty vamp that evening. That was when it happened and Jake looked directly at me.

  Immediately I could tell he could see me and it gave me a sudden, warm, most alive feeling, like nothing I had felt since the moment I had died. I watched as his eyes grew wide and his dick shrivelled up to next to nothing. I couldn’t help but laugh at the complete ludicrousness of the situation. I swear he could hear me laugh as well, as his eyes grew even larger if that was possible, and his mouth opened in a silent exclamation. Staring hard at him, I did my absolute best to convince him that it was okay, that I understood and perhaps I even approved of what was happening here. But Jake he was having absolutely none of that. The terrified little bugger quickly pulled his pants up, catching his foreskin on his zipper and eliciting a small cry of pain. He was out of that door so bloody fast you would have thought the combined demons of Hell were on his tail.

  As for Molly, she was so damn hilarious, still lying on that kitchen counter waiting for her beloved Jake to fill her with his rampant tool, her eyes were still closed and her breathing coming in short pants, expectantly. Looking at her like that, I couldn’t blame Jake for wanting her. She was still the hottest, sexiest, damn woman I knew. I felt a stirring in my groin and for just the briefest of seconds, I was tempted to try to slam one up her myself. Her sweet, wet, damp, pussy was just begging me to take it.

  She seemed to dismiss Jake’s quick exit flippantly and I watched as she slid her own hand downwards, laying back on the counter-top and furiously massaging her clitoris. Shaking my head ruefully, I was determined to give her the fright of her damn life. Reaching over I grabbed her hand, pulled it away and thrust my own two fingers deep inside her.

  The result was instantaneous. Her eyes flew open and she screamed at the top of her lungs. I leant in close and whispered softly in her ear, “Do you like it, baby? This is what you’re missing out on, now that you’ve killed me... happy now bitch?” I turned and floated away from her, my mind reeling with conflicting emotions. Damn! To be honest, I was no closer to figuring out if she really had intended me to die on top of that building. What I needed was proof, something that would indicate she really had wanted me out of the way. I needed a motive.

  There was my insurance policy, of course. That had been worth half a million pounds. What she couldn’t possibly know was that I had gone to my broker just six months before my death and changed the terms of my policy. Of course, she was still a beneficiary and would receive some of the funds, but I had decided that the bulk of my estate would not be hers for the taking. I had wanted to leave a legacy to the world of Journalism and so eighty percent of all my estate was to be put into a Trust. I had decided to create a set of scholarships for deserving, low-income, students to study at the Manchester University, School of Communication and Journalism. As it happened, the remaining twenty percent of the estate would be split equally between Molly and Jake. I hadn’t told Molly of my decision and she had no way of knowing before my death. I’d kept it all very secret, telling my solicitor I didn’t want anyone to know, least of all Molly or Jake. So I knew for certain that I couldn’t rule out money as a motive for Mo
lly wanting me dead.

  I decided it was time to poke around my house a little bit, to see what Molly had been up to since my untimely passing. First, I entered our bedroom. Nothing had changed much, except now the bed was only crumpled on one side, where Molly had been sleeping all alone. I guess there was some comfort in that. I saw a book, half-opened on the bedside table. What was Molly reading these days to try to put her to sleep? The book was open and lying face-down on the bedside table. I glanced at the title. ‘Journalistic Fraud: How the New York Times Distorts the News and Why it Can No Longer be Trusted, by Bob Kohn.’ As a lecturer in journalistic ethics, I knew the book well. I’d read it many times and quoted from it in numerous lectures. I was secretly pleased Molly was reading something so useful to her career, rather than those crap, pocket-book romances she used to be so partial to.

  I wandered over to her study desk and stared at her laptop. My concentrated thoughts brought the screen to life. I loved how I could make inanimate objects obey me by just staring at them. So cool! I flicked through her latest word documents and my eyes were drawn to a document name. ‘The Death of a Husband’ . I opened the document and quickly scanned the thousand odd words she had written so far.

  Oh, my God, I thought, this story certainly had the makings of a Pulitzer Prize Winner. The stark depth of emotion Molly had managed to infuse into her opening few paragraphs was, without a doubt, the most powerful, most evocative, most emotionally charged writing I had ever seen. This story (for that is clearly what it was intended to be) would make Molly’s career. It would skyrocket her to the top of her profession. I even found myself metaphorically crying at the pain she was able to convey in those few, short paragraphs. I was stunned.

  Looking at the heading on the story it was clear she intended to publish this piece. Under the title was written: ‘ A personal narrative by the Sun-Star Daily Feature’s Correspondent: Melinda (Molly) Sampson .’ I gasped, Sampson! Fucking Melinda Sampson! Her damn name is Melinda Wilkins, not fucking Sampson! Shit, I’m not even cold yet and the bitch has gone back to her maiden name. I was bloody angry now and I slammed the laptop closed with a swift nod of my head. Part of me hoped I’d managed to crack the screen on the damn thing.

  I stood alone in the bedroom for a few minutes, trying to compose my thoughts. So, Molly was going to use my death as the vehicle to propel her into the journalistic stratosphere, was she? The book on journalistic fraud, the proposed feature article on my death, these two thoughts just kept rolling round and round in my head. Slowly, in the back of my mind, I began hearing one word, repeating itself, over and over again... softly at first, but getting louder by the second... Motive! Motive! Motive!

  Something else occurred to me and it was with some trepidation I hesitantly opened her laptop again, calling up that damning page. I really didn’t want to look, but inexorably, my eyes were drawn to the byline and to the date of the story. It was dated December the twelfth, two whole months before I died. This time, I used my mind to lift the laptop off the desk and fling it violently against the far wall of the bedroom. I felt some small tinge of satisfaction when I heard the screen shatter. Sinking down onto the floor, I just rocked back and forth softly mouthing, “Fuck! Fuck! Fuck!”

  I must have floated there, just above the floor in the bedroom, for a good ten minutes before I managed to gather my wits about me. I knew what I’d seen here this evening wasn’t in any way conclusive, but shit, it did give me some idea of Molly’s thinking and I didn’t particularly like what I’d discovered. Deep down, I know I was already thinking that maybe Molly had a hand in my falling that night, but I really didn’t have any concrete proof, just a lot of supposition and circumstantial evidence. More importantly, I had no idea if Jake was even involved in any way. I smiled wryly to myself. Ah well, buddy, I thought, one step closer to solving the mystery, I guess.

  I had to admit I was starting to worry about Jake. When he had run from Molly’s, he was obviously emotional. I mean, first, there was the whole ‘coitus interruptus’ thing. That’s sure as hell is no fun for a guy, but then he’d actually seen me, he’d stared into my eyes. I knew I had to go to him. I knew I had to find him. Pulling myself together, I rushed downstairs.

  It was almost amusing to see Molly sitting at the base of the kitchen cupboards, her knees pulled up to her chest, just gasping and crying at the same time. At least, she’d had the presence of mind to pull up her pants and make herself decent.

  Looking at her, I smiled grimly. Did you kill me, Molly? Did you sacrifice me for your own personal greed? Half of me wanted to get down on the floor with her and comfort her, yet the other half wanted nothing more than to kick the living crap out of her. Shaking my head, I realised I didn’t have time for this luxury. I needed to find Jake. He needed me more than this whimpering fraud. I did take one last opportunity to scare the shit out of her, though.

  Leaning down close to her face, I whispered, “Was it good for you honey? Did the earth move?”

  Laughing, I floated out the door, in search of Jake...

  ***

  Chapter 16 - Molly

  I’m really not sure what happened, but it scared the shit out me! I was hunched on the floor of the kitchen and I couldn’t stop my body from shaking. There were tears, tears flowing down my cheeks uncontrollably. I couldn’t grasp the sequence of events.

  Only moments earlier I had been seducing Jake, my boss, my friend, my dead husband’s best friend! We were ready to go, he wanted it, I could see it in his eyes. That hunger had been burning for years, I knew it and I was, at last, letting him have me. We had frantically torn off my panties and he, fly undone, lifted me onto the kitchen counter, where I invited him inside of me. After that, I’m not sure what really happened. I had my eyes closed, waiting expectantly, but when nothing happened I opened them briefly, to see Jake flying out of the kitchen door. The guy was strange, but why the hell would he run from me? I knew Jake was shy but he certainly wasn’t frigid!

  I was slighted, of course, but I was still incredibly turned on by the entire scenario. Deciding not to waste the moment, I lay back on the counter and closed my eyes, prepared to finish the job myself. At least this way I knew it would be good and I was assured an orgasm (or three)! I smiled as I started to pleasure myself, thinking of Jake and that moment just before he had run. I would have him, I promised myself. He would be mine, all mine!

  That’s when the strangest thing happened. Even thought I was letting my imagination roam free to quell my own desires, I know I didn’t imagine this. Something (or someone) grabbed my hand, removing it from my clitoris, and then suddenly something was inside of me. At first, I had been excited, thinking Jake had returned, but when I opened my eyes there was no one there. Whatever it was probed deep and rough. I convulsed and screamed simultaneously and as quick as that, it was gone. I searched the room but it was empty and I started to shiver, as a cold air seemed to surround me. That’s when I heard it! A voice, Daniel’s voice. “Do you like it, baby? This is what you’re missing out on, now that you’ve killed me... happy now, bitch?” I sat upright on the counter, truly frightened. It couldn’t be! I had to be imagining it! It just wasn’t possible.

  I sat there shivering, waiting for something more, but there was nothing. Whatever it was, whoever it was, had gone and the chill that surrounded me seemed to disappear. I slid off the counter, pulling on my panties and just sat on the cold floor sobbing. Daniel? I wondered. Was it really him? I had to wonder, with everything that had happened. There was the writing on the mirror, the texts to Jake and now... now I knew I was truly going crazy! Or, Daniel was back, and he wanted answers! I felt my cries get harder as I now felt really scared. If he did want answers and he got them, then what would he do? What was he capable of, if there really were such things as ghosts who could come back?

  Deciding I couldn’t sit here feeling sorry for myself, I pulled myself together, stood up and decided to throw myself into my work. Even though I wasn’t back at work, I could
still write. As I entered my bedroom (the bedroom I had shared with Daniel) I caught my breath in fear. My laptop was in pieces, on the floor, as though someone had thrown it across the room. Jake? It couldn’t have been, could it? Nothing now seemed to make sense. I wasn’t dreaming, this was real! Daniel, a ghost? That was just crazy! Well, if he was a ghost, he was playing games with the wrong woman! I thought.

  If Daniel wanted to play some kind of sick game, I could play even better. Shifting my thoughts back to Jake, I wondered if he was sitting at home regretting that he had run away from me. If it was indeed Daniel who had tried to spook me, I thought I could go one step further. He was clearly provoked by my actions with Jake. I decided a plan was needed. Jake perhaps wouldn’t be so easy to seduce, but I knew that I would have him and soon! Tomorrow morning I would surprise him with a coffee and breakfast, offer my apologies for being so blatant and blame it on the ‘grief’. Soon he would be putty in my hands. I looked at the mess in my room and decided I needed to forget what did, or didn’t happen and just focus on my plan. Knowing I wouldn’t sleep without aid, I gave myself a sleeping pill and downed it with a glass of gin and tonic. Setting my alarm for eight in the morning, I knew I had the recipe, at last, for a decent night’s sleep.