Eyes On You: A Ghost Story

by Steven Jenkins

  I’m hungry.

  Inside the kitchen, I open the fridge and scan each shelf. Can’t see anything I fancy. Maybe a ham sandwich? I kneel down to check the bottom compartment for salad ingredients. I pull out a cucumber and a bag of lettuce. Just as I’m about to stand, I notice a large shard of glass poking out from under the fridge. I pick it up and take it over to the bin. Guess I ain’t having any beetroot then.

  I prepare the sandwich, lay it on a small plate, and then carry it back into the bedroom. A small cardboard box under the desk catches my eye. I slide it out, peel off the parcel-tape from the top and then open it. I don’t remember packing this; Mum must have done it. Inside, I find a few postcards from Uncle Gary, a couple of videotapes, and a stack of photos bundled together with an elastic band. I remove the band and start to flick through. Most of them are ones of me as a kid, at the park or playing in the garden with my cousin. There’re a couple of Dad, as well. I stare a little too long at the one with him and me at the beach; his legs buried in the sand, his forehead burnt to a crisp. Happier times. My throat catches so I move on to the next photo. It’s me, mid-teens, full of zits, dressed in black, sitting on Gran’s armchair. I seem so different in this, like a stranger. I remember trying to smile that day, but it was too hard back then even to fake it.

  The next few are just random ones from parties and weddings, with some just senseless pictures of the sky. The sight of all these photos makes my skin crawl; dragging me back to that shitty time in my life.

  Some things are best left forgotten.

  I quickly get to the end of the stack, making sure that there aren’t any embarrassing ones, or photos of my ex-girlfriend. There’re none, so I drop them back into the box, push it under the desk, and then return to the computer.

  Another hour or so passes and I can feel the drowsiness start to kick in. I rub my eyes again and run my fingers through my short brown hair. Could easily have a nap right now. I lean back in my chair, yawning, just as a cold rush of air slithers behind me, blowing a few papers off the desk and onto the floor. Turning to see if the window is open, I notice Luna; he’s standing in the doorway, staring at me in silence. “Out!” I yell to him. He doesn’t move a muscle. Stupid cat. The window is closed, so I get up off the chair, gather up the papers, and then check the rest of the flat. When I see that the living room and kitchen windows are both closed, I walk over to the flat door. It’s locked. Putting it down to a hidden vent, I make my way into the bedroom. Luna is still standing in the bedroom doorway, staring at my desk—and the papers are back on the floor. Shaking my head in confusion, I nudge the cat out onto the hallway, using the side of my foot. “Where the bloody hell’s that draught coming from?” I mutter to myself, looking up at the ceiling and walls for a vent. Shrugging it off as another one of life’s great mysteries, I pick up the stray papers and return to the screen.

  Eight o’ clock approaches, and almost to the hour I hear Aimee walk through the door. Thank God for that. Need to get off this couch. I greet her in the hallway. “You’re home late, Aim,” I say, kissing her on the lips, bursting to give her the good news. “Where’ve you been?”

  She goes back outside to the landing and picks up a large, rectangular mirror, propped up against the wall. “Just picked this up,” she replies, sounding out of breath. “Thought it’d look nice in the living room above the fireplace. And look…it’s even got dolphins on the frame.”

  Shaking my head with a smile, I take the mirror from her and carry it into the living room.

  “What do you think?” she asks. “Too big?”

  Holding it up against the wall, I reply, “No. Looks good. We definitely need something in here. Looks really bare at the moment.”

  Aimee nods and then stands back, tilting her head to the side to inspect it. “Yeah. I like it. Let’s put it up.”

  I set it down against the TV stand. “What…tonight?”

  “Yeah. Why not?”

  “Well, it’s late, and I’m tired.”

  “Tired? Don’t be so lazy; you’ve been off work all day. How can you be tired?”

  “I’ve been tidying the flat.”

  Aimee looks around the living room, spotting the three large boxes still in the corner. “Tidying? Really?”

  “Well I did set up the computer and printer. That took me ages.”

  Aimee rolls her eyes. “Look, the sooner we get this mirror up the better. Otherwise it’ll be sitting on the floor for the next three weeks—like those bloody boxes.”

  “So you don’t want to hear my good news then,” I say with a smug grin.

  “What good news?” Aimee asks, a confused frown across her brow. But then it suddenly disappears and her face lights up. “You got an interview!”

  I nod. “Yep. My boss put a good word in for me. They want me to come in next week.”

  “That’s great, Matt!” she says with excitement, hugging me tightly. “I’m so proud of you.”

  “I haven’t got the job yet,” I say, coming out of the hug, “and there’re six other candidates competing.”

  “Forget about them—you’ll smash it. I have total faith in you. So how much responsibility will they give you?”

  “I’ll be working directly under the head of the audiology department, helping her with patient referrals, setting up meetings, admin; that kind of stuff. It’s not exactly brain-surgery, but it’s much more money—and it’s a step up from pushing beds and emptying bins.”

  “Of course it is. And who knows where this could lead.” She kisses me on the lips. “We need to celebrate. How about we watch a film with a few beers?”

  “Perfect!”

  “But first,” Aimee says with a cheeky grin, pointing to the new mirror. “Will you put that up for me.”

  I sigh loudly. “Fine. I’ll get the drill out.”

  “Where are you going?” Aimee asks as I get up off the couch.

  “Getting another beer,” I reply. “Want one?”

  She pauses the film with the remote and shakes her head. “No thanks. Is there any chocolate left?”

  I continue into the kitchen. “No, we had the last the other night,” I say, pulling out a bottle of beer from the fridge. “Do you want me to nip out to get some?”

  “No, it’s okay,” she replies with a groan. “I suppose I’ll survive.”

  Sitting back down on the couch, I notice that Aimee has changed the channel to a cooking show. “What’s this shit?”

  “Masterchef—semi-finals. It’s nearly finished. Just want to see which one goes through.”

  “What about the film?”

  “Honestly, there’s about two minutes left. Just hang on. The film isn’t going anywhere. And it’s crap anyway.”

  I shake my head in disbelief, and then sit back on the couch and take a sip of beer. “Well you picked it.”

  She shushes me. “Just two minutes.”

  I take another sip of beer. “Okay, but after this—”

  The room suddenly fills with a loud cracking sound.

  My heart jolts in fright. Aimee grabs my arm, her nails digging into my flesh. “What the fuck was that?” I blurt out, nearly spilling my drink.

  “Jesus Christ!” Aimee cries. “Look at the mirror!”

  My eyes widen in shock when I see the huge crack running across the glass, as though someone just took a hammer to it. “How the hell did that happen?”

  We get up off the couch to examine it. Aimee prods the glass with a finger. “I don’t know. Never seen something like this happen before. It must have been flawed. Or maybe already broken in the shop and we didn’t notice… Or maybe an earthquake.”

  “An earthquake? We live in bloody Wales, Aimee. It’s not exactly China.”

  “Well, whatever the cause…I think I just shit myself.”

  I start to peel the shards of glass from the mirror and place them on the floor.

  “Don’t put them on the floor,” Aimee tells me, and then runs out into the kitchen. “I’ll get you
a plastic bag.”

  She returns immediately with the bag, so I drop the pieces in, until all that’s left of the mirror is an empty frame. “Maybe you should take it back to the shop. Get your money back. We could’ve got hurt.”

  Aimee carries the bag of glass into the kitchen. “I’m not sure. What if they think I’ve just dropped it on the way home? How can I prove it? They’ll never believe that it just cracked on its own.”

  Sitting back down on the couch, I take another swig of beer, finishing off the bottle. “Well, it’s up to you, Aimee. But I would if I were you. Do you want me to come with you? I don’t mind arguing with them.”

  Sitting down next to me, she shakes her head. “No, it’s all right. I’ll phone them tomorrow and explain.” She glances at the TV. “Shit. Masterchef is over. I don’t know who went through. Bloody hell!”

  I hand her the remote. “Just rewind it back.”

  “All right,” she replies. “But you do it.”

  “Why can’t you do it?”

  “No. I’ll have to close my eyes in case I see who went through. Don’t want to spoil it.”

  I chortle as I point the remote at the TV. “There’s something wrong with you.”

  Lying in bed, I listen to Aimee as she sleeps beside me, her breathing soft and hypnotic. I wish I could sleep as well as she does. She can just drop off in seconds. How does she do it so easily? Probably doesn’t have as much on her mind. Women never do. All she worries about is what colour to paint the living room, and if Friends is recorded.

  Although, I couldn’t think of anything worse than watching that shit.

  Even with the central heating on, I suddenly feel an ice-cool breeze wash over me; my arms plastered in goosebumps.

  Please tell me I haven’t left a window open. Not tonight. Don’t make me get out of bed.

  After a minute or so, I sigh, and reluctantly climb out of bed. The bedroom window is definitely closed, so I venture out into the dark hallway to inspect the rest of the flat. I hit the light switch. Nothing happens. Shit! Bulb’s gone. Already? I’ll change it tomorrow. Walking in complete darkness, I reach the doorway to the living room. I feel for the light switch. Nothing happens again. I try the one in the kitchen. Still no light. Bloody fuse is blown—just what I need.

  Completely blind, I head towards the kitchen window. I don’t feel any breeze, so I’m pretty sure the window is shut. Reaching it, I touch the glass. It’s closed. As I walk, barefoot, across the cold floor, I can’t help but worry about any stray pieces of glass still lurking. I still haven’t got ‘round to vacuuming. Need to do it tomorrow. Don’t fancy stepping on one, those glass pieces can get everywhere.

  Inside the living room, it seems even darker. Reaching the window, I find it locked as well, so I make my way out.

  I freeze at the doorway when I hear something. Droning. Like the sound of a radio programme turned down almost to silent. Pulse elevated, my eyes go straight to the stereo and TV. The power is off. Strange. Frowning in confusion, I quickly exit the living room.

  Pull yourself together! It’s the draught.

  Just before I step inside the bedroom, I hear a hissing sound in my ear.

  Almost words.

  My body floods with dread and I sprint across the room and leap into bed, yanking the quilt around me.

  I hear Aimee begin to stir beside me, so I cuddle up to her.

  The hissing repeats in my head—over and over again. Did I just imagine it? Was it just the pipes? The sound travelling from next door?

  Those weren’t real words. They couldn’t have been.

  I stare with wide eyes at the dark hallway, wishing that I’d closed the bedroom door.

  Nobody spoke to me. It’s impossible.

  I didn’t hear: ‘I see you.’

  Just a draught.

  3

  I haven’t worn a suit in years. It feels so alien. Adjusting my tie, I notice the time on the wall: 8:10 a.m. I best get a move on.

  In the mirror, I check my hair and teeth and then slip my jacket on. Stomach filled with crazed-butterflies, I grab my car keys and leave the flat.

  Climbing into my car, I take a moment to settle my nerves. You can do this, Matt. It’s just an interview. I take a deep breath and think about Aimee. She’ll be so happy if I get this job. With the extra money, maybe she can quit hers, do something she really loves instead, or at the very least be able to refuse all those weekend shifts. Four years she’s been stuck behind that desk answering phone calls. Four bloody years. I don’t know how she’s managed it without losing the will to live. Those lawyers couldn’t do jack shit without her help. Just because she hasn’t got a law degree, doesn’t make her any less integral to running that place.

  I take another deep breath, crack my knuckles, and then push the key into the ignition and twist it.

  Nothing happens. Dead. Not even a wheezing sound.

  Scowling in puzzlement, I try again. Still nothing.

  “Shit!” I cry, hitting the steering wheel with the side of my fist. “Don’t do this to me now!”

  I try the ignition a few more times, but it’s no use. It’s got to be the battery.

  “Shit!”

  Patting the sweat that’s collecting on my brow, I try to think of a solution.

  Taxi.

  I pull out my phone and dial the number.

  Engaged.

  I try another and the call connects straightaway. “Hello, Mastercabs speaking,” a woman says. “How can I help you?”

  “Oh, hi. I need a cab from Dale Street to the hospital ASAP.”

  “I’m afraid the next available cab is 9:15 a.m. Would you like me to book that for you?”

  My muscles tighten with frustration. “No. Thanks anyway.”

  I hang up the phone and try another.

  “Good morning. Arthur’s Taxis,” a man says.

  “Oh, hi,” I reply, my voice laced with desperation. “I need a cab from Dale Street to the hospital ASAP.”

  “I’ve got nothing until after nine, sorry. Rush hour.”

  I end the call without even saying thank you, resisting the urge to throw the phone out the window.

  Frustrated, I drop my head back against the seat, and close my eyes. Think!

  Call Aimee?

  No, she’d never be able to get here in time. And those arseholes wouldn’t let her leave anyway. My stomach starts to tighten with panic. Maybe call one of the boys? There’s no bloody time.

  Think, Matt! For Christ’s sake!

  “Useless bloody car!” I scream, opening my eyes and hitting the steering wheel again.

  Come on—think!

  Exhaling slowly, I try to calm myself down. I could catch the 8:45 train. It’ll be tight, but I might just about make it if I sprint.

  No—I’m not getting the train.

  Sighing, I start to run my fingers through my hair, but then stop suddenly when I realise that I’m messing up the style. I move my head across to check my hair in the rear-view mirror.

  “Oh fuck!” I shout when I see someone sitting in the back seat.

  Heart pounding, I quickly turn my head to see behind me.

  There’s no one there.

  Jesus, Matt. Sort your bloody head out. You’re seeing things.

  Skin crawling, I climb out of the car, struggling to shake off the scare. It’s at least an hour’s walk. I think. Maybe I can make it if I run all the way.

  “Why does this shit always happen to me?” I say as I dart along the pavement, sweat already pouring down my face, the skin under my shirt clammy.

  Forget about your suit and hair. Just keep moving.

  Don’t stop for anything.

  At the end of the street, just before the turning for the park, I glance back at the car, to the empty back seat. The memory of the figure invades my head. I saw a mop of black hair. Was it a woman? Might have been a man. Too quick to make a real description.

  Description? Why? It was just my eyes playing tricks, the glare of the
sun in the mirror. Stress. That’s all. It wouldn’t be the first time it’s happened.

  I cross the road and head towards the park gates, praying to God that I haven’t already blown this interview.

  I’ve been staring at the clock for the past hour dreading Aimee’s arrival home.

  I did think about calling her at the office, let her know that I screwed things up—but that would only have ruined her day as well. Bad news is bad news. What’s the rush?

  The door opens and she walks in, greeting me in the living room, eyes wide with excitement. “Well, how did it go?”

  I pick up the remote, pause the movie, and then shake my head.

  Her eyes shrink back down as she sits next to me, her hand on my thigh. “Doesn’t matter. There’ll be other interviews.”

  “It’s not that. I didn’t make it—my car wouldn’t start.”

  “Really? What was wrong with it?”

  I shrug. “God knows. Battery maybe?”

  “That’s strange,” she says, a hint of suspicion in her voice, “it only had a service last month.”

  “I know. And I tried to get a taxi, but they were all booked up, so I ended up running all the way. By the time I got there it was 9:20.”

  “Didn’t they still let you do the interview?”

  “Yeah, they did,” I reply, “but I messed it up. I was so flustered, so sweaty, so bloody exhausted that none of my words came out right. I just stuttered my way through the entire thing.”

  “When will you know if you got it or not?” she asks, stroking my leg gently.

  “My boss called me earlier with the bad news.”

  Aimee sighs, and then kisses me on the cheek. “Don’t worry about it, Matt. It wasn’t your fault.”

  “No?”

  “These things happen. Cars break down all the time.”

  I shake my head and lean back on the couch. “It’s typical though. It’s always something with me.”

  “What are you talking about?” she asks, taking hold of my hand.

  “Well, what about our first date?” I reply. “I almost missed that as well.”

  “You were late—so what? Everyone loses their car keys. It’s no big deal.”

  “It is a big deal when it’s something important,” I point out. “What about our so-called trip to Paris? I screwed that up too, didn’t I?”