The Ghosts of RedRise House

by Caroline Clark

  It came on halfway through the weather and she clicked across to a different channel. It was showing an advert about perfume. It was so flippant and inane that she couldn’t watch it and clicked back to the previous channel. The news was just starting. At first it was politics. Some European was spouting doom and gloom. Her mind wasn't listening. It was searching, trying to remember, trying to access Matron's memories without waking her. Then she heard the words she had been dreading to hear.

  There had been another murder. This time a man of 62 had been killed as he walked home from the pub. There were no witnesses but the police were appealing for information. They showed a picture of a scruffy looking man with a permanent scowl and a scar over his right eye. His name was Geoffrey and he left behind a wife and two grown children.

  Tears were running down Rosie’s face and she knew that she was weeping. Only, it was as if it was happening to someone else.

  Was she losing control again?

  Then her eyes were dragged back to the television. The killer had made a mistake. They had left a necklace. The police described it as a silver chain with a pink crystal rose. They said it was most distinctive and probably very rare and asked that if anyone had any information about such an item that they call a number. The number appeared across the bottom of the screen.

  Panic reared in Rosie's chest and her hand flew to her neck. The necklace had been a gift from Amy. Instinctively, she already knew it was missing. It hadn't been there when she showered. Maybe she took it off the night before. Even before she knew she was moving, she was racing toward the stairs. Her feet pounded almost as fast as her heart as she took the stairs two at a time.

  If she had taken the necklace off it would be on her dressing table. She searched through her jewelry, searched all the little places she kept her trinkets, but it wasn't there. There was no sign of the necklace and now she knew. Last night she had killed again, only this time she hadn't even known it happened. What could she do? Maybe she should call the police? Maybe she should hand herself in?

  In her mind, Matron laughed. Jail will not keep me. In jail I will have plenty of people to kill, people who can't escape me. I will gain power and then I will simply possess someone else, someone who can free me.

  Rosie had an idea. She stood and opened the door. Through it she could see the hallway. It was clear and bare except for a small table and a vase of everlasting flowers. They looked dusty and faded and she had the urge to throw them down the stairs. Pulling her mind back to the present, she looked at the wall at the other end of the corridor. Was it far enough? Could she get up enough speed?

  She kicked off as fast as she could with the intention of smashing her head into that wall. If she went fast enough, then maybe she would die. That way, she would kill herself and Matron would be trapped here.

  Before she could get more than a few steps, a vision appeared in her mind. She was dead on the floor. Amy found her. Matron possessed Amy and she was laughing as she left the house.

  There was no way out, no way to win.

  Her feet slowed and she slumped to the floor in front of the wall. She had lost and there was nothing she could do. This time there was no room for tears, so she just shut down and retreated back into her vault.

  Amy pushed a piece of toast around her plate before picking it up and taking a bite. It was cold and hard, and felt like a rock as it hit her stomach. On the table at her side, her mobile phone sat quiet and innocent and yet it called to her. The pink cover was so bright and she loved it, but today she wished it was something more mundane. Something easier to ignore. The more she thought about the notice in the post office the more ridiculous it seemed, and yet what other explanation was there? Her hand moved toward the phone. She could just look up the leaflet she had taken a picture of and call them to see what they said. Only that just sounded crazy.

  All night she had tossed and turned and gone over what had happened. Had she seen something? Could it just have been a cloud passing across the sun and creating shadows in Rosie's house? That was the logical answer, but it didn't seem right. The temperature had dropped, dramatically. It had dropped so low that her breath had misted before her. Was that even possible in a house?

  In the corner the radio was playing but she wasn't really listening until the news came on and a murder in Leeds was mentioned.

  Her breath caught in her throat and she turned to listen. The more she heard the more terrified she became. A man had been killed. Slaughtered in cold blood, and left on the street. She recognized the area. It was just five minutes’ walk from Rosie's house and yet, that could not be.

  Then the police were asking for witnesses and asking for information. Amy's blood ran cold as they described an item that had been left near the body. It was a silver chain with a pink crystal rose. She remembered seeing Rosie admire the item and then buying it on the spur of the moment when she found out that Clive was in jail.

  The policeman's voice brought her back to the present before she could remember fastening it around Rosie's neck.

  The necklace had been found on the body of the victim and the police believed it had been left by the murderer. They didn't understand the meaning of it, and Amy could tell by what they were saying that they didn't think the killer was a woman. They didn't think the killer had lost the necklace but that this necklace had some significance between the killer and his victim. Once more, the man made an appeal for information.

  Fear ran through her and she shut out the news bulletin and reached for her phone. Was Rosie killed too? Was she lying somewhere and the police simply hadn't found her yet. Dialing Rosie's number, she waited with her heart pounding. Please Rosie, please be there, please answer.

  "Hello," Rosie's voice was flat and disinterested.

  "Rosie, I thought you might be..." A cold hand of dread slipped inside her guts and clutched onto her intestines. Something made her stop what she was about to say. She knew she had to be careful, that she had to be clever if she was to survive. Even that thought was crazy, but she changed what she was going to say. "I thought I'd check to see how you were feeling this morning. If you were any better."

  "I'm fine, just a bit of a headache so if you don't mind, I want to lie down."

  Rosie hung up and Amy let out a groan. There was only one other explanation for the necklace being at the scene. Rosie had been there, Rosie was the killer.

  How could she even contemplate that her friend was killing? Rosie couldn't kill a man. It just didn't make sense. It was foolish to think that she had been the only one to buy that necklace. She listened to the news once more and noted down the number to call. Should she ring? Even if only to clear Rosie from the investigation. Surely if she didn't ring, then the shop would. But, she had paid cash, so they have no way of finding her.

  It was all too much and she knew that she needed air. Maybe a walk would clear her head and give her time to think. Maybe then she would know what to do. Grabbing her bag, she left the house.

  35

  Rosie sat for a long time in the hallway. Nothing mattered, nothing. Not food, or water or anything. It was over three hours later when she eventually got up to use the bathroom. As she did, she saw her laptop and the thought of writing pulled her. It had always been her therapy. Her way of working things out. A coarse laugh rattled around the room and startled her before she realized that she had made it.

  So she picked up the laptop and went to the table in the kitchen. Automatically, she set water in the kettle to boil and was soon sat down with a cup of tea. Hunger gnawed at her stomach and she could feel Matron prodding, enquiring what the pain was. She shut it down. Hunger was nothing, she would ignore it.

  She opened up her story and began to write. At first it was good to lose her mind in the fictional world. To become her characters and forget everything. Maybe this way she could work out what to do? Maybe she could use her characters to find a way out of this.

  Don’t be so silly, Matron said inside her head. There is no way
out of this.

  “Shut up,” she shouted, and she shut off that part of her mind that held Matron, but it was not easy. Soon, sweat was coursing down her forehead and running down her back. Her arm muscles ached and she looked down to see her fists clenched. Relaxing them, she took in a breath and turned back to her book. Opening a new document, she began to write what had happened as a story.

  R was a woman possessed.

  M was the antagonist, the evil witch who she needed to defeat.

  When plotting, she would then look to see what she could use to solve the problem. What assets did she have, what could she use to win this fight?

  For a while, she just let her mind free-write. Usually this was easy for her and lots of thoughts would appear on the screen almost as if by magic. Today, she had hardly anything. The list read:

  Amy

  Fight

  The book

  The leaflet

  Hunger

  Go somewhere remote

  Give in, give in, give in, give in, give in, give in, give in, give in, give in, give in give in, give in, give in, give in, give in, give in, give in, give in, give in, give in, give in, give in, give in, give in, give in, give in, give in, give in, give in, give in, give in.

  Before she could stop herself, three whole pages were filled with those two dreadful words. She slammed the laptop cover down and bit her bottom lip. For a moment, the pain cleared her head and the voice in her mind faded.

  It would not last. What could she do?

  She reached for her phone and opened a browser. Clicking the microphone, she spoke into the phone, “Find a physic investigator near me.”

  “The closest physic investigator is The Spirit Guide.”

  The phone shook in her hand as she squeezed it so tightly her fingers ached. Then she threw it across the room.

  You will not be rid of me. Go to sleep.

  Rosie felt Matron swarm into her mind and fill her world with pain. She gritted her teeth and bit her lip until blood ran down her chin, but it was no good. She was shaking, convulsing with the effort. As she shook, the chair bounced on the kitchen floor, scraping on the tiles, and then there was just blackness and she was falling. “No, I won’t let go,” she whispered, just as the world faded from her.

  Amy stepped out of the door and was confronted with her Cayenne black Nissan Juke. Seeing the car tore at her heart as she heard Rosie's voice in her head. Heard her laughing as she described the car as an ugly black frog.

  It was one of the things they always joked about, one of the things that was always fun between them and she knew Rosie really liked the car, after all they had chosen it together.

  Nothing made sense. This couldn't be Rosie; it couldn't. There was no way she would believe that her friend had killed someone. Even contemplating it was ludicrous. Maybe if she walked for a while and thought this through then it would all begin to make sense?

  Decision made, she walked toward the town. She could stop and have a coffee and a muffin for breakfast. Not exactly healthy, but a blood sugar high would probably make it easier to think. Besides, it might just wake her up.

  So she cleared her mind and started to walk briskly. Soon the houses gave way to shops and the street grew more crowded. Catching her reflection in a shop window, she ran a hand through her dirty blonde hair. It didn't take long to tease it into the style she liked and it made her feel a little more real, a little more together. Maybe this was just shock and fatigue and she was seeing things that weren't there.

  It was just a short walk to the coffee shop but she knew it would be busy this morning. Maybe if she grabbed a paper she could let things go and let her mind work out what was bugging her.

  Crossing the busy street, she stepped into the paper shop and picked up the local rag. That was a mistake. The headline spoke of a serial killer in the city and that bloody handprint on Rosie's wall haunted her vision.

  "Do you want anything else, miss?" the young man behind the counter asked.

  Rosie shook her head and handed over a fiver, waiting for the change. She didn't trust her voice, not at the moment.

  Back on the street, she turned to her right and there was the post office. Though she wanted to walk straight past, she was pulled to the noticeboard. It was gone. The card she had seen and taken a picture of last night was no longer there.

  Was that a sign?

  She couldn't stop a laugh that sounded a little hysterical. Here she was, the most unlikely person to believe in signs, ghosts, messages from beyond, most definitely UFOs, and she was jumping at the slightest little thing. While she stared at the window, a hand reached in and placed another card.

  She wanted to turn and walk away and to not look at it, but she couldn't. It was as if she was rooted to the spot. Her hands were sweating, her fingers shaking, and she was breathing so fast she was close to hyperventilating. How could she even contemplate this ridiculous idea?

  The hand pulled away and she read the card.

  Do you have something strange and unusual in your life?

  Something so bizarre that it doesn't seem real?

  You are not alone, we can help.

  Contact Jesse and Gail at The Spirt Guide

  Your local supernatural and paranormal detective agency.

  With shaking fingers, she pulled out her phone and snapped a picture of the card. Then suddenly angry, she turned and stormed away. This just didn't make sense. It couldn't be a ghost, it just couldn't. Such things didn't exist and even if they did, why would they go after poor Rosie. It was a much more sensible conclusion that her friend had suffered a nervous breakdown. Maybe Amy should call the doctor, or the police. Once more her hands were in her hair, only this time they weren't smoothing it. She had the urge to yank it out and scream at the unfairness of the situation.

  Taking a deep breath, she walked into the coffee shop and joined the queue.

  It took a good 10 minutes to get served and by then Amy was hungry, grumpy, and so ambivalent about what to do that she was rocking from one extreme to the other. One moment she wanted to ring that number and demand to see them now. Then she wanted to call the police and tell them about the necklace. But, what would that do to Rosie, especially if she was innocent? It didn't bear thinking about.

  At last a woman handed over her coffee, which had taken over three minutes to make and tasted exactly the same as the one out of the instant machine. Grabbing her tray, she surveyed the café. It was busy, but right along the back corner there were a couple of small tables free. Heading over to one of them, she sat down and took a big sip of the hot, strong brew.

  It warmed her gullet and chased away some of the chill she was still feeling. It warmed up the cold empty spot inside that knew something was terribly wrong. Though she brought the paper, she couldn't bear to look at it, and folded it over so only the sports pages were showing.

  Then she went through everything that had happened... one by one. From picking Rosie up at RedRise House, she had immediately known something was wrong. Rosie had looked terrible and she had smelt even worse. It was as if she hadn't bathed in days, and that was not like her. Amy put it down to stress and maybe the possibility that the house had no facilities. Maybe that's why she had left so suddenly.

  Or had something happened there? Had that been the start of all of this?

  Then she remembered how cold Rosie was when she took her home. How she snapped all the time and didn't want to talk, and then how she almost pushed her out of her house. Next, she had heard her talking to herself and talking about killing. The two different voices, the blood on the wall. The superior demeanor she had developed, and then the two most terrible pieces of evidence. The first was the shadow she had seen twice. Was there any way she could have imagined that? No matter how she tried to believe she hadn’t really seen something, she couldn’t forget it and how it made her feel. Something had been in the kitchen… something cold, something wrong, something dark.

  The second and worst piece of evidence
was the necklace. She knew if she went to see Rosie that she wouldn't be wearing it. One way or another, the necklace she had bought her friend had been found on a murder victim.

  The muffin sat untouched in front of her but she picked up the coffee and took a long drink. It helped, even if only a little. She had to do this, so she picked up the phone and dialed a number.

  "Hello, Jesse speaking."

  At first, Amy froze. She didn't know why she had rung and she didn't know what she was going to say. For a moment she almost hung up.

  "I understand that you are confused and scared," a soft male voice came over the phone. "We can help you. But even if we can't, what have you got to lose?”

  Silence ticked down the line, but she didn’t hang up.

  “I'm not saying whatever you're going through is supernatural; it might not be. That is a big part of our job, sorting out what is supernatural and explaining what isn't. Why not let us come and talk to you and listen to what is happening? We will give you impartial advice and we can help you."

  "My name is Amy and I’m at the coffee shop on the High Street. When can you come to see me?"

  "Hi, Amy. We can set off straight away and be with you within the hour. How would I recognize you?"

  "I... I don't know whether this is such a good idea."

  "We will come along and just have a chat. If you don't like what we say, then that's no problem. Maybe just talking to someone else will help you think things through and put them into perspective. My name is Jesse and I’ve got short brown hair my wife's Gail; she has a brunette bob. Whereabouts are you seated and what do you look like?"

  His voice was so gentle and so ordinary. He seemed to be saying that this was not supernatural and that he could tell her what was happening. Before she knew it, she was describing herself and telling him where she was sitting, and then before he could say another word, she hung up.