by Stan Mason
Title Page
Myriad of Corridors
by
Stan Mason
Publisher Information
Myriad of Corridors published in 2014 by
Andrews UK Limited
www.andrewsuk.com
The right of Stan Mason to be identified as the Author of this Work has been asserted by him in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1998
Copyright © 2014 Stan Mason
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means without the prior written permission of the publisher, nor be otherwise circulated in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser. Any person who does so may be liable to criminal prosecution and civil claims for damages.
1
It was the time of year when darkness fell early like a great blanket blotting out the light. The cold weather was in evidence and the weather forecasters predicted that snow was about to arrive. Hunter started to clear his desk at the office and sat still in his executive chair for a moment reflecting the events of the day. At breakfast, that morning, he had read his horoscope in the national newspaper which told him that his stars were in the wrong places and that he would face incidents that were not going to please him. It was true in every respect for it was his destiny to experience them, First of all, his car wouldn’t start because the battery was flat so he was late for work which didn’t go down well with his senior manager. Then he accidentally spilled a cup of coffee on his desk which ran out over his trousers. After that, he was forced to fire a member of staff under orders from his boss, on the grounds that the woman was incompetent, forcing her to leave by the end of the week. And lastly, he had to deal with a case of theft by a member of staff who fervently denied the crime.
He left the office under a cloud and arrived home a short while later. He was puzzled to note that none of the lights had been switched on. His wife, Ruth, should have been cooking the evening mean but she couldn’t do it in the dark. They had been married for seven years and were without children mainly because Ruth had a problem conceiving and the IVF treatment hadn’t worked. Nonetheless, they carried on regardless although their attitudes towards each other had begun to change and, over the past year. The marriage had started to founder. Hunter had arranged for them to go on a holiday abroad in an effort to change their environment so that they might be able to restore the situation. Relationships were such a delicate thing to handle and it was common knowledge that after a number of years of marriage many people began to feel differently about each other. The Hunters were no different!
He opened the front door and called out her name but there was no reply as he switched on the lights. Moving into the kitchen, he was surprised to find that no one was there and after going into the lounge he went upstairs to the bedrooms. Where was she? All the lights were out and his wife wasn’t there. He returned to the lounge and sat on the settee trying to think whether she had told him that she was going somewhere but he had forgotten, but nothing came to mind. It had turned out to be one of those bad days in his life... a dark evil day. In due course he went to the kitchen to make himself a meal and then saw an envelope resting on the table. He opened it to read a ‘Dear John’ letter. She told him that she was bored with her life and wanted time to herself. There was no one else in her life but she was leaving him for good to do something exciting and romantic. She would come and see the children in due course but their marriage was at an end.
He read the letter twice and was devastated. Although things hadn’t been right with them for some time, this was a bolt from the blue. He returned to the lounge and reflected the situation. It was true that he had been unfaithful with a female client, Arabella, and had spent some nights with her, having told his wife that he had to visit a client in the north for the company. It had been quite clear to him that Arabella only had the affair with him to obtain a lucrative contract but he had taken advantage of the situation. It was then that news came to shake him even further.
The doorbell rang and he faced two plain-clothed policemen who showed him their warrant cards.
‘I’m afraid we have some bad news, Mr. Hunter,’ stated the first officer. ‘We’re sorry to have to tell you that your wife has been killed in a hit-and-run accident about half a mile away from here. We’d like you to come to the morgue tomorrow to identify the body,’
Hunter stood there in a state of shock. Ruth dead! He couldn’t believe it. He had a sinking feeling about the fate of his wife at that moment because throughout his life, death had followed him closely albeit he was given a reprieve on each occasion. In truth, he was often aware of the score before the deathly event actually happened. It began when his sister died of leukaemia at the age of six. His mother was distraught at the loss. However less than three months later she stepped off the kerb on a zebra crossing without looking and was knocked down by a passing vehicle. Then there was the case of him and two friends, Jake and Henry, going down to the local lake for a swim when he was fifteen years of age. They spent an hour in the water enjoying themselves when Henry made the poor decision to go to the edge of the bay and dive below the water. Unfortunately, he went too far down too swiftly to strike his head on a rock. When his body surfaced he was dead. Five years later, Hunter went on a climbing trip with three other experienced mountaineers. Foolishly, it was their intention to climb the north face of the Eiger in a very swift time so that they could have their names published in the Guinness Book of Records. The journey was progressing well on the difficult snow-covered slopes when a piton wrenched itself loose and one of the men left the side of the mountain to hover over dangerous jagged rocks over a thousand feet below. The force of the fall caused the rope to rub and fray against the rocks. Within a few minutes, the strands gradually tore themselves apart and the rope snapped causing the mountaineer to fall to an untimely death. To prove that the Grim Reaper followed him everywhere, there was another event when he and two others flew in a Cessna aeroplane one weekend to travel to Lyons in France. They cleared the English Channel and continued across the French countryside until they came to the Massif Central. At that point the engine cut out and it became necessary for the aircraft to make a crash landing. The pilot lost control of the plane which had the misfortune to hit a cottage in a clearing. Hunter emerge from the wreckage with a cut on his forehead and a few sore ribs but the pilot sitting beside him died of serious head wounds. And so it was with his wife, Ruth. The death syndrome had overwhelmed her as a result of his closeness to her. It was quite clear to him that anyone who befriended him made a date with death.
He stood looking out of the bedroom window of his house convincing himself that he was a fool... a complete and utter fool. He considered that it was a punishment for his affair with Arabella. Her unsolicited visit to his office had been made in the hope of winning a substantial contract to decorate his office building. As a professional commercial decorator she was not indifferent to cold calling. However, in truth, she was a femme fatale! He had been strongly attracted to her from the moment he had cast his eyes on her. After all, she was a very beautiful woman, who could easily have passed for a fashion model, wearing a smart low-cut light grey dress which displayed a large cleft of a full-blown bosom and ending high above her long lovely stylish knees. He had stared at her gorgeous face, her sensuous lips, her beautiful large dark eyes and, within seconds, he became so overwhelmed by her presence that he began to experience strong feelings of sexual emotion rising within him. It had never happened to him so strongly before but suddenly he began to t
hrow caution to the winds in a moment of lust. Hunter knew the danger of breaking his vows but Arabella was so different to any woman he had ever seen before that he became overwhelmed by her. As far as she was concerned, as a professional woman, she cared little what she did as long as she won a contract. When she saw the look of lust in Hunter’s eyes, she knew immediately that her battle had been won. Without wasting any time, the dialogue between them advanced at a rate of knots and he took her on a number of occasions to a hotel booking in with the name of Mr. & Mrs. Smith. It had all happened so quickly that it took his breath away. Each time, they made passionate love in bed together. The architect had given way to his lust and was on the way to destroy his marriage; for Arabella it was simply a means of concluding the contract. However, as the great poet Robbie Burns once said, ‘the best laid plans of mice and men gang aft agley’ After the policemen had gone, he became very angry. A hit-and-run driver had killed his wife and driven off without even stopping to see whether she needed help. How reprehensible! How callous! How thoughtless and unfeeling!
He turned up at the morgue on the following morning to identify his wife’s body and then went home covered with guilt at his affair with Arabella. He leaned against the door of the kitchen and began to sob heartily at his loss. Ruth had been a good wife... honest in everything she did... so beautiful. Only now, when it was too late, did he realise how much he had lost. How could he have betrayed her in such a fashion for a woman he hardly knew... someone who had seduced him to win a contract to decorate his office? He poured himself a drink from a bottle of whisky and swallowed it quickly, replenishing the glass without delay. The only alternative he had was to drink himself stupid to take the pain away. He felt so guilty... totally responsible for her death, even though he was not.
Guilt is a remorseful awareness of having done something wrong and the personal blame for his illicit affair wore very heavily on the architect. Despite all his efforts, he was unable to erase it from his mind and insomnia became a normal aspect of life because the arms of Morpheus did not embrace him at night... he failed to be able to get to sleep. Food was no longer a necessity for his appetite was lost to him. To compensate, he took to drinking almost a bottle of whisky every day to ease the pain that tortured him throughout the day and night. Nothing material seemed to matter to him any more. The faster he drank, the easier it became to handle the guilt. It was not surprising that his health began to deteriorate after three weeks of self-pity and personal punishment. He had lost a stone in weight and the fact that he was drinking heavily and not eating started to affect both his mind and his body. Occasionally, during the daytime, he would cry out in a long mournful manner like a wounded wolf in the woods in an attempt to ease his frustration but it failed to ease his conscience. At other times, he would sit solemnly in an armchair with a bottle of whisky in his hand staring vacantly at one of the walls in the lounge. All reason had left him... he considered that his life was over. This pattern continued for a period of three weeks and it seemed that it would go on indefinitely until he died of starvation or eventually went insane. After hearing the news of his wife’s death, Hunter imprisoned himself in his house, refusing to go to his place of employment. He was an architect working in the City of London employed by a large building company and, as a result of Ruth’s demise, they granted him compassionate leave for as long as he desired. It was his own idea to spend his days getting drunk and lounging about the house half dressed, immersing himself in guilt as he continually rued the fate of his beautiful wife. How much people tended to take life for granted! The blind would die to see a gorgeous sunset in the countryside; the deaf would pay dearly to hear music again; those with terminal illnesses would give their souls to recover their health. On reflection, he missed Ruth far more than he could ever have imagined. She would soothe the pain of work from his mind each evening when he returned tiredly from the City, cook him his meals, make love to him in their bed, and satisfy all his needs. Why did he ever get mixed up with a voluptuous whore who bounded into his office that day holding a book containing photographs of decor? It was beyond all reason; beyond all logic. Why had he done such a foolish idiotic thing? He continued drinking heavily, looking more like a hobo with his unshaven face, uncombed tousled hair, and wearing the old dressing-gown which had become stained with liquor that had dribbled from his lips. He hadn’t eaten for three weeks but it made no difference to him. He wanted to die while the guilt he suffered was partially expunged by the whisky that he drank. He was quickly poisoning himself to death. There had once been a rumour that drinking a bottle of whisky each day acted in the same way as poison and would damage the body’s organs in a short space of time. Well he hoped that the Grim Reaper would speed up the process to visit him and relieve him of the torture he was going through.
One night after he had gone to bed, he fell asleep and dreamed of his wife his wife being struck down by a hit-and-run driver. It wasn’t the first time he had experienced the same dream but each time it advanced to the next stage. What would the next dream show him? Would he see the remains of his dead wife... with her bones being broken as she was hit... and the car driver fleeing in the distance? It was too horrifying to imagine! Then the dream changed dramatically much to his concern. He found himself spinning dizzily in a vortex with no means of escape. Round and round he spun until the action became too much to bear. At that point he opened his eyes to wake himself from the slumber hearing a strange sound which echoed throughout the bedroom... a sound he had never heard before. In his drunken state, he sat up in bed and stared around the room bleakly. He reckoned that he must have heard the noise in his dream when suddenly the apparition of his wife appeared at the foot of the bed. There she was wearing the floral dress she had liked so much, staring directly at him although her image was wispy and hazy almost like the mist which appears at dawn over a marsh. He shook his head and closed his eyes to erase the image from his mind but when he opened them again she was still there.
‘Ruth,’ he managed to say, believing that the whisky he had imbibed over the past three weeks was causing him to suffer delirium tremens. The exception was that instead of seeing ants, mice, spiders and pink elephants he was staring at the apparition of his dead wife.
‘You deceived me!’ she accused in a low moaning tone that sent a shiver running down his spine. ‘You were unfaithful!’
‘I’m so sorry, Ruth,’ he apologised profusely, clutching at the bedclothes. ‘I never intended to hurt you, my love. I was weak and stupid. I gave in to my inner feelings. I’m sorry... so sorry!’
‘Your regret is of no concern to me,’ she responded sharply in the same tone of voice.
‘You have to forgive me,’ he went on with a miserable expression on his face. ‘You have to!’
‘Forgiveness is an emotion not open to me any more. I am dead.’
Intrepidly, he rose from the bed and walked towards her. As he reached her, the vision vanished like a whisper in the night. His hands groped the place where she had stood as his bleary eyes opened widely with amazement. He pinched himself to prove that he wasn’t dreaming. No... he wasn’t. He was well and truly awake, convinced that Ruth had been there to visit him from beyond the grave. A host of thoughts passed quickly through his tired mind. How was it possible and what did she want? Was she going to come back to haunt him for the rest of his life? He shook his head sadly and turned to the bottle of whisky which he had left on the side-table beside the bed. He opened the screw top and was about to put it to his lips when he stopped. No... this was not the way forward! He needed to pull himself together. Ruth might return and he felt that he had to look decent if she did. Consequently, the vision of her standing at the end of his bed became the catalyst to help him bring his life back to normality. Her spirit was alive to say the least and he was positive that she would return. It was absolutely essential for him to be compos mentis for the next time she came to speak with him. Drunkenness was no longer an opt
ion and his well-being became the most important thing in his life. In his dull dreary mind, he considered that her visit was something unprecedented in the world of the paranormal. It was up to him to make the most of it.
The following morning he examined the spot where she had stood but he could find no evidence of her presence. He then went to the bathroom, shaved, washed, combed his hair, and dressed. Her visit had changed his life which was now more meaningful but he was determined to gain her forgiveness even though she had told him it wasn’t in her power to grant it. However, that particular mercy meant so much to him. He returned to work and applied himself to his professional tasks although he was unable to take his mind off his dead wife and his infidelity. His change of attitude didn’t mean that he had expunged the guilt from his mind but passing time seemed to have eased the strain on his conscience.
One week later, after a hard day’s work, he arrived home extremely tired and fell asleep in an armchair in the lounge. A range of images passed through his mind during his slumber until suddenly he found himself spinning faster and faster down the same vortex, twisting and turning in agony until waking up sharply when it became too hard to bear. Looking up, in the privacy of his lounge, he faced the vision of his dead wife again, who appeared in the same misty form as before.
‘My spirit cannot stay long with you,’ she told him in vaguely whispered tones as he stared at her wide-eyed. ‘Listen to me carefully!’
His mouth seemed to be filled with cotton wool but he managed to speak. ‘I’m listening.’ he responded weakly.
‘My way forward in this world is impeded by another spirit who was known as Amy Chester when she was alive,’ continued the ghost formally.
‘Amy Chester,’ Hunter managed to say briefly.
