The Spirit Behind You - Preview
A warped bedroom door crashed back against cheap wallpaper in a dimly-lit hallway. Tearing out of the room, a woman ran for her life. Arjana’s face was screwed tight into a rictus of fear. She could have been in her early forties, but her terror made her appear much older. She was attractive and what some might consider slightly plump. Though she was of African descent, her skin was drained of color, making her caramel complexion a washed-out brown smudged with gray blotches. Her clothes were bright, a gay orange dye over black fabric that seemed out of place in urban Donborough. The cut was expensive, despite the worn carpet beneath her leather loafers and the ingrained stains that ran down the walls.
She raced through the door as if Lucifer was on her heels and, with a look of pure terror, hurtled down the hallway.
“Run, Arjana, run,” a man screamed from within the room.
Arjana turned, perhaps to see if he followed, but her eyes were inadvertently drawn to a large framed photo hung with pride on the wall. A sob escaped her and she paused, momentarily fixated on the image of a previous life. The picture depicted her standing in a smart beige dress in front of an impressive house situated in the African bush. To her right was a cute girl, maybe all of six years old, with curly hair and a dark face brought to life by her luminous smile. To her left, a boy of nine was trying to be serious; his hair was cut short and a tie hung loosely around his neck. Behind them was a tall, distinguished African man, his arms proudly wrapped around his family. There was a smattering of grey at his temples, but he was clearly in his prime and the epitome of success.
A grey shadow flitted across the glass and a scream was torn from Arjana’s throat. She spun uncontrollably, like a ballet dancer, then jerked as if pulled backward by her neck. A chunk of flesh was torn from her jugular, the skin around it blackened as if burnt and grey lines traced away from the wound. Blood gushed like a red fountain, raining down onto her hands.
Those hands flapped at her attacker but there was nothing there. Nothing that could explain the gaping wound that scarred her throat and leaked her lifeblood onto the dirty, threadbare carpet. She tried to grab at something, then shoved as if to thrust it away from her, but there was nothing to see, nothing to touch.
Arjana’s eyes were so wide and terrified that they almost popped from their sockets. She was losing hope as she flailed at nothing … her arms thrashed helplessly without connecting to any type of solid mass.
Another wound appeared on her cheek, as if she had been burned, and it left a jagged tooth scald as her skin faded and became even greyer.
Stumbling forward down the hallway, she approached a large ornate mirror. The opulent gold frame was bordering on gauche. In the circular glass, she could see the evil that stalked her.
A faint man was reflected behind her. With long black hair that almost hid his face, he stared at her in the reflection. His skin compared to the grey of fathomless depths, the grey of something long dead and buried, and his eyes were the black of hell. There was something translucent about him and she could see the faint impression of the hallway through his grey clothing.
In a heartbeat, his spindly arms reached out to her. Long black nails ripped through the bright clothing and rent into Arjana’s flesh, leaving wounds that wept blood to mingle with that from the gash at her throat. Wherever he touched her skin, it burned like meat left open in a freezer.
“No!” The cry came from behind her as the distinguished man appeared, carrying a brightly-colored blanket.
Racing down the corridor, the man was no longer proud, just afraid, as he watched his wife sink to her knees. Slowing to a halt, he looked around, desperate to help but not knowing where the danger lay.
Without the help of the mirror, the creature couldn’t be seen, but the damage, the destruction he had caused, was plain to the man’s eyes. Plain to his heart which was wailing and screaming out the unfairness of it all.
Arjana fell to the floor, her arms waving above her. Desperately fighting her unseen attacker. “Nuru, help me,” she screamed.
Frozen on the spot, Nuru watched as his Arjana, his paradise, writhed on the floor. Brown eyes found his and pleaded for help, for salvation. That look from his love freed his legs and, forgetting his fear, he did the only thing a man could do. He ran to her.
Nuru sprinted to his wife and sagged forward, dropping to the floor. An authentic African blanket, dyed in red, yellow, and black, fell before him and he pushed it away, as if he wondered how it had gotten there.
Grabbing hold of Arjana’s hand, he bowed down and screamed out his rage, his impotence, and his grief. The emotions wanted to consume him but by the way she moved, he knew she was still under attack.
Her eyes were weaker now, her skin greyer, and she appeared to be fading before him as her movements became slower. Though he wanted to just hold her, to hug her and tell her all was fine, he couldn’t. With a heroic effort, he pushed himself to his knees and then to his feet.
Lashing out and punching at the air did no good; there was nothing to make contact with. And yet, she still flopped on the floor like a fish out of water.
Arjana,” he screamed “What can I do?”
Then it came to him and he ran forward and grabbed the three-foot, round, ornate mirror from the wall. It was cumbersome, but he was strong and fueled with adrenaline, fear, and anger. Rushing back to the now-still form of his beautiful wife, Nuru let out a roar of pain. It was too late, but this would never happen to another. At least he could stop that.
Placing one edge of the mirror on the floor, he held it so it reflected the body of his dying love.
“No!” He let out another roar.
It was there! In the reflection he could see the translucent grey man, the spirit, as its black maw of a mouth sucked greedily at the wound on Arjana’s throat.
Holding his breath, Nuru kept the mirror still and reached around.
Where was it?
Trying to be as still as he could, he searched the threadbare carpet with his fingers until he found the blanket. The material was soft, woven with love and care.
Could he do this?
Carefully, he spread out the blanket while holding the mirror. Then he moved around so he was facing the mirror.
The spirit hadn’t seen him. He was too busy.
Arjana’s eyes fluttered and she moved her hand. Nuru nodded and gave her a smile as his heart broke. As she became fainter, the spirit became more substantial. It was as if he was sucking the life from her, draining her life force and replacing his own.
Gently, Nuru took his time, fighting down his panic as he made sure, and then he threw the blanket over the mirror, trapping the reflection beneath its heavy and colorful thread. For a moment, the blanket rose and he feared the spirit would escape … and then it dropped down once more and was still.
He wrapped the blanket over the mirror again and again and then sank down, letting it drop to the floor at his side as he grasped Arjana’s hand.
The fingers in his squeezed slightly and her mouth twitched into the semblance of a smile.
“I’m sorry,” he managed, just before the light left her eyes.
Two hours later
Nuru had written detailed instructions about how his family was to be honored. He had cleaned their bodies and covered them with a favorite blanket. Making sure that his children had their special toys to hand. Now there was nothing left. Nothing more to do. It was time to let go.
Though he knew what would be said about him, he hadn’t tried to explain. Hadn’t told the authorities about the mirror, about the evil spirit it contained.
Slowly, he walked past the sign that said “Home Sweet Home” … for it wasn’t … not anymore.
This house had only been a home when it was filled with laughter, with love, and now it was time to let it go, to join his family.
Earlier, he had bundled the mirror in the thick African blanket and carried it to the dining room. It was a pretty room, th
e nicest in the house, and the walls were freshly decorated. The wallpaper was light and dotted with small pink roses.
Arjana had said it was very British and made her feel like she was in a country garden.
The only furniture in the room was an ornate table and chairs.
Arjana had loved that table. They’d bought it at a second-hand shop. It was scratched in places, but still beautiful, and it reminded her of home.
Nuru had covered the table with blankets and pulled the curtains closed. The room was safe. There were no reflections. Then he had carried the wrapped mirror to the room. There, in safety, he had partially unwrapped it. Beneath the blanket, he had painted over the glass in big, angry gestures. The white paint coated the mirror’s surface and stopped any chance of a reflection. Then Nuru had rewrapped it in the blanket and then covered that with roll after roll of tape. Around and around, he had wrapped the tape in a frenzy to seal the creature inside. Once finished, he had been exhausted but he had to get away. The urge to open the parcel and to end things that way had been strong, so he’d walked out and left it there.
That was when he had dealt with his family, and now there was nothing left. Now he had to deal with the spirit, to make sure it was gone forever.
His hand rested on the door to the room and he remembered the laughter and good times around that table. The memory of the children giggling and the looks of love from their mother brought tears to Nuru’s eyes. It was all gone, over; he would never see any of them again … not in this life … and yet, soon, they would be together.
Gulping, he fought back tears and entered the room once more.
The dingy curtains were drawn tightly over the windows, but they allowed in enough light for him to see.
There on the table was a three-foot round parcel, the size of the mirror, wrapped in the red, yellow, and black blanket and covered in tape. Nuru pulled a pen from his pocket and wrote in Swahili: NEVER OPEN! BURY THIS DEEP FOR MY FAMILY – LET THEIR DEATHS NOT BE IN VAIN.
The pen dropped from his hand and rolled onto the table, coming to rest against a snub-nosed revolver.
His job was done and he couldn’t bear to go on without his family. Part of him wanted to fight on, to make sure no one else had to live through this, but he couldn’t face the world alone.
The parcel drew his eyes once more. Maybe he should do this himself … but he couldn’t bear to touch it. Though the urge to rip off the packing and fight the spirit was strong, he mustn’t. If he did, he wouldn’t get revenge; he would lose, and the spirit, the evil, would be free to kill again.
So, Nuru had arranged for a firm to come in and clean out the house. They would get here tomorrow and had instructions that everything was to be dumped. To be buried at the tip. It was all he could do, all he had the strength for.
Though he knew it wouldn’t be that easy—the police would be called first—Nuru still believed this was the way to rid the world of the evil … it was what he had to do.
He took one last look around the room and, deep within his eyes, was the shadow of the horrors he had seen.
Slowly, he picked up the Smith and Wesson and placed the barrel in his mouth. It tasted of cordite and copper which mixed with the salty tears streaming down his cheeks.
Before he could change his mind, he pulled the trigger. Crimson splatters blended with the pink roses behind him.
99
A pristine black pickup truck turned onto a quiet street. Joe Modine sat behind the wheel as it rumbled down the road. It was that empty hour, the one where everyone was home from work, eating their meals and reconnecting with family. It always made Joe sad, so he would often work late, keeping his mind off the empty house that awaited him and the guilt that came with it. However, tonight he had a different problem. It was three days until his sister Lara’s birthday and so far, he had nothing for her.
All the trips shopping and asking the lads what to get had been hopeless; their ideas about perfume, jewelry, and even one cheeky sod’s suggestion of kitchen appliances, just wouldn’t do.
Overhead, the sodium streetlights spluttered to life, casting ghostly orange shadows on the gleaming paintwork as the truck drove past. He raised a hand to his hair and teased his wayward locks into shape. It had been a long day and he needed a shower, but he had to make a decision about Lara. He had wondered whether to take her to Florida to swim with the dolphins. She loved dolphins almost as much as she loved that useless mutt Talon, the Staffordshire bull terrier who was her best friend.
Yes, he would do that, and sod the fact that she would be angry with him for spending money he didn’t have. He eased his foot down on the accelerator and cursed as he missed his normal turnoff. That would teach him to daydream at the wheel. Ignoring how angry he knew his sister would be, he accelerated and headed to the next street to cut through back to his normal route. As he turned, his eyebrows rose with interest and he peered forward at a skip situated in front of a terrace house before him.
There was nothing he loved more than dumpster diving. Over the last couple of years, he had found some amazing things that with his skills, plus time and patience, meant he was gradually fixing up his new place with little or no budget.
Damn, Lara would be furious if he took out a loan to pay for the trip. Still, it would be worth it for the smile on her face when she was able to kiss a dolphin for the first time. As he approached the skip, he could see some good-sized chunks of timber along with a package covered in tape. It amazed him what people threw away and, with a touch of excitement, he pulled the truck to the side of the road.
An idea formed in his mind. Yes! He had found it. Lara’s present would be out of this world and no need for any big blowups with his hothead of a sister. With a quick look in the truck’s mirror, Joe checked his hair and rubbed a hand across the stubble that would never quit his chin. He looked okay—not too shabby. At six-foot-two, he made even the big truck look small. His long legs were clad in faded denim and topped by an old black Motorhead T-shirt.
With a grin at his reflection, he stepped from the car. Feeling excited, he strode up to the skip, his eyes devouring the contents. There were some great chunks of wood. He ran a hand across a beech board that was just perfect. Just over four-foot square, it was exactly what he needed and the quality caused his grin to widen. He pulled at a package that was wrapped in tape. It was torn in places and brightly-colored material shone through. There were flashes of orange, yellow, and black and, as he ran his hands over it, he could feel something hard and yet slippery … was this a mirror?
A new thought crossed his mind. His excitement was building; this was going to be epic!
Turning the package over, Joe could see some faded writing scribbled on the tape, but it was in some strange language he couldn’t comprehend.
Pulling the package toward him, he peeled off some of the tape and revealed that the mirror, if that’s what it was, was wrapped in a brightly-colored blanket. It looked African and felt soft to the touch.
He imagined that blanket thrown across his hideous pink sofa, hiding the eyesore while making his room look a bit less like a boudoir.
Feeling the package, he checked to see if it was broken. Nothing moved and it was solid to the touch. The more he looked at the circular package, the more an idea formed in his mind.
A laugh broke from him. Maybe fate had brought him here. If he hadn’t been thinking about Lara’s birthday, he wouldn’t have missed the turn and wouldn’t have found a skip with all the ingredients to make her something truly awesome.
Pulling the package to the side, he continued around the skip and passed a For Sale sign. Knowing he wanted to take a few pieces, he opened a rusty gate and walked toward the house.
The red brick of the mid-terrace property stood about fifty feet back from the road. Lawns to either side of the path seemed in need of a good cut and the few flowers in the border were spindly specimens, uncared for and unloved.
A splash of red in the long grass caught his ey
e. What was it? Peering through, he saw a tricycle discarded within the weeds. It seemed so sad.
Approaching the white door, he shook off the thought and ran different possibilities through his head. His creative brain always visualized other uses for ordinary items and he couldn’t keep the excitement from his face.
Joe rapped his knuckles tentatively on the white door and clicked his fingers. The rush to get to work on the wood was making him anxious. He raised his hand to knock again when a voice behind him sent his heart into his throat and kicked his pulse into overdrive.
“There’s no one there. A real tragedy it was.” A soft-looking man, with a round face and thinning hair, leaned on the fence.
Joe took in a breath and smiled. The last thing he needed was a chatty neighbor, but he knew the routine. “Really? What happened?”
The man waved a trowel at him and beckoned him across to the fence. Joe checked his watch – he had a few hours left to get working if he grabbed the wood now. He stayed at the door with his feet planted firmly.
“You may well ask,” his new friend said with a conspiratorial smile.
Joe looked at his watch again and fidgeted from foot to foot. The man was obviously going to play this out. With a sigh, Joe headed to the fence. Listening to his tale would be worth it for the wood. Calculations ran through his mind. Could he get this done for Lara’s birthday? A smile crossed his face and he relaxed when he realized he still had some time.
The man’s face beamed, knowing he had Joe’s full attention. He dropped his eyes. “Sorry, man, the wife’s away and it does me good to chat.”
Joe nodded and felt a sickness slide across his stomach at the mention of the word wife.
“Maybe you saw it in the papers,” he continued, without giving Joe time to answer. “The husband was some bigwig from Africa. He had fallen on hard times and ended up here. They say the stress sent him doolally and he killed his whole family, then shot himself. The police said he ripped them to shreds before sticking a gun in his mouth and …” The man made a finger gun and pulled an imaginary trigger.
The Ghosts of RedRise House Page 53
