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  “I'm sure it's nothing,” I mutter.

  “What if she's traumatized? Mike, maybe we should take her to see a therapist. Just to be sure.”

  “Our daughter does not need to get her head examined.”

  “But if -”

  “She's fine!” I continue, turning to her. “Seriously, let's just try to avoid turning this into a big thing. All kids get weird ideas in their heads, it doesn't mean anything's wrong with her. I'm not going to be one of those parents who takes a perfectly normal kid and messes her up by getting her analyzed all the time. That'd just be setting her up for a lifetime of therapy bills.” Pausing, I can't help realizing that I've allowed myself to become a little agitated. “I'm tired,” I continue, “and -”

  “Wait!”

  Suddenly sounding worried, Louisa looks toward the bedroom door.

  “Did you hear something?” she asks after a moment, sitting up straight.

  “Not you too,” I sigh.

  “I thought I heard footsteps on the stairs.”

  “You didn't hear footsteps on the stairs.”

  “I swear I heard someone!”

  Looking at the door, which we left slightly open in case Alex called for us, I see nothing except the dark hallway. I listen for a moment, but the house is completely silent and I'm starting to think that my daughter's paranoia must have been contagious. When I turn back to Louisa, however, I swear she looks a little scared as she continues to stare across the room.

  “There's nothing there,” I tell her.

  I wait for her to admit as much, for her to laugh at her own nervousness, but instead she continues to look toward the open door. As the seconds tick past, I'm starting to feel more and more frustrated that she and Alex are managing – between them – to make me feel deeply uncomfortable in my own home. I want to tell Louisa to stop overreacting and to calm down, but at the same time I'm worried that by doing so I'd only end up feeding into the madness. The more I protest, the more she'll insist that something's wrong.

  Finally, thankfully, she leans back down.

  “Sorry,” she says with a sigh, “I think it's all the craziness getting to me. You can understand that, right?”

  I watch the doorway for a moment longer, before turning to her.

  “Louisa, I just -”

  Suddenly I freeze. Out of the corner of my eye, I just saw something move past the bedroom door, heading toward the stairs.

  My mind is racing and I'm already telling myself that I have to be wrong, but in my mind's eye I'm replaying the sight over and over again.

  “Honey?” Louisa says, reaching out and placing a hand on my arm. “What's up?”

  I turn to her for a moment, before turning and looking over at the door. There's no sign of anyone now, but I swear that just a moment ago I saw Alex being led along the landing by another little girl.

  “Alex -”

  Clambering out of bed, I hurry across the room. There's no sign of anyone on the landing, so as I head to Alex's door I'm already starting to convince myself that I was wrong, that I let Louisa's fears influence my thoughts. And then, as I reach the door and look into the next room, I see that Alex's sheets are on the floor, and that her bed is empty.

  “Alex!” I yell, turning and running to the stairs, then clattering down two-at-a-time until I reach the hallway. “Alex, where are you?”

  The front door is still locked, so I race to the kitchen. A cold breeze immediately rushes past me, and I see to my horror that Alex is standing alone on the porch, still holding her hand out as if she was led this far.

  “Alex!”

  I run out and grab her, hauling her up into my arms. As I turn her around and look at her face, I see that her eyes are only just starting to blink open, as if she was sleep-walking.

  “Are you okay?” I stammer. “Alex, what -”

  Before I can finish, I feel her right hand brush against my arm, and I realize that her fingers are icy cold.

  “Daddy?” she whispers sleepily. “What's wrong? Why am I outside?”

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Alex Roberts

  Today

  “Alex! Alex, wait!”

  Opening my eyes, I suddenly feel very dizzy. I take a step back, bumping against something next to my leg, and then I turn to find that I'm outside in pitch darkness. There are lights in the distance, but when I look down I'm surprised to see an old, cracked gravestone.

  “Alex!”

  I turn again, just as Brad reaches me.

  “Do you have any idea how worried I've been?” he continues, stopping next to me and leaning over for a moment to get his breath back. “I almost called the cops! What the hell are you doing here?”

  “I...”

  Looking around, I realize that I'm in the cemetery over on the far side of town. A cold breeze ruffles my night shirt, and I realize that I seem to be dressed for bed. The last thing I remember is being in the wine bar with Sabrina, trying not to make it too obvious that I wasn't drinking much, and then...

  And then what?

  Feeling something damp against my feet, I glance down and see that I'm not wearing any socks or shoes.

  “You must be freezing,” Brad continues, taking off his jacket and placing it over my shoulders. “So what is this, huh? Have you decided to take up sleepwalking?”

  “I don't sleepwalk,” I reply, before remembering the other incident a few nights ago, when I ended up outside the bedroom.

  “Alex -”

  “I don't sleepwalk!” I tell him, trying but failing to keep from sounding annoyed.

  “Then why didn't you react when I was calling your name?”

  “Where's Sabrina?”

  “Sabrina?”

  “I was at the bar with Sabrina.”

  “Honey, that was hours ago.” He checks his watch. “It's five in the morning. You got back from the wine bar around midnight and came to bed. Then I woke up and you were gone.”

  “No,” I reply, convinced that somehow he has to be wrong. “I'd remember that.”

  “How much wine did you have again?”

  “Almost nothing,” I mutter, taking a step back before bumping against another gravestone. “About two sips. Sabrina made fun of me for that.”

  Turning, I look around and see hundreds of other stones, and I can't deny that somehow I've ended up in the cemetery several miles from our house. For a few seconds, I genuinely can't work out what's happening, even if I'm certain that there has to be a rational explanation. And then, glancing into the distance, I spot the farthest end of the cemetery. Somewhere up there, my father's body is resting in an unmarked grave while his soul burns in hell.

  “Alex,” Brad says suddenly, sounding worried, “is this why you came here?”

  Turning, I see that he's looking at one particular gravestone. When I follow his gaze, I see a familiar name inscribed:

  Maureen 'Mo' Garvey

  Beloved daughter

  September 1st 1990 to August 23rd 1997

  Gone to play with the angels

  I read the inscription a couple more times, and I have to admit that the name Mo Garvey sends a shiver up my spine. I know there's no way I'd have wandered all the way out here, just to look at this particular grave, but at the same time I can't deny that this is where I'm standing. It's almost as if somebody led me here.

  “Honey,” Brad says cautiously, “do you want to talk about this?”

  I stare at the stone for a moment longer before turning to him.

  “About what?” I ask.

  “About this,” he continues, with a hint of exasperation. “About all the stuff you've insisted you don't want to talk about ever since we came to Railham.”

  “I don't want to talk about any of it.”

  “Sure. You keep saying that. And then you show up a couple of miles from our house, standing next to Mo Garvey's grave. Do you not think that maybe your subconscious mind has different ideas?”

  “It's just a coincidence,” I stam
mer, although I know full well that those words are utterly ridiculous. “It doesn't mean anything.”

  “I'm worried about you, Alex.”

  “There's no need.”

  “You don't even remember coming out here, do you?”

  “Obviously I just...”

  My voice trails off, and once again I can't help staring at the gravestone. I know what my father did to Mo Garvey, but it's still humbling to be standing here now, seeing her actual grave for the first time.

  “I know what you're thinking,” I say finally, turning to Brad, “but this isn't some kind of cry for help, and I didn't come back to Railham because I secretly wanted to dig into my father's story. When I told you I wanted to come so I could get on with my life, I meant every word. So please, please don't read too much into the fact that I wandered out here tonight. It won't happen again.”

  I wait for him to reply, but he's eyeing me with a skeptical expression.

  “Did you bring the car,” I add, “or do we have to walk home?”

  As I say those words, I spot his car parked at the side of the road, so I step past him and start making my way along the path that winds between the graves.

  “I'm cold,” I tell him, “and I have my first day at work tomorrow, and -”

  “Who were you talking to?”

  I turn to him.

  “When I arrived just now,” he continues, “I saw you in the distance and you were talking to someone. Then I called out your name again and you finally snapped out of your daze and acknowledged me, but until that moment you were definitely talking to someone. I didn't see them, but you seemed convinced that someone was here with you.”

  “I was not!”

  “You were, Alex. I swear to God, I wouldn't lie about something like this.”

  I try to think back, but the first thing I remember about being in this cemetery is the moment when I heard Brad calling my name. Feeling a shiver pass through my chest, I look around, but of course there's no sign of anyone else nearby. No-one's standing near any of the other graves, and no-one's watching us from the far end of the cemetery. Finally, I turn back to Brad.

  “You know what?” I tell him. “I lied. I had more than a glass of wine. I think I had, like, five or six. So there you go, I'm a little tipsy. So can we please go home?”

  I can tell that he doesn't believe me, that he knows I'm just pretending I got drunk, but instead of challenging me he sighs and joins me on the walk back along the path. We drive home in silence, although I can't help thinking back to the sight of Mo Garvey's grave. I might not want to admit this to Brad, but I'm starting to worry that my subconscious mind really is trying to dredge up some memories about my father. I won't surrender to that, though. I'll fight it every step of the way. Remembering my childhood doesn't mean remembering my father. I can pick and choose.

  And then, as we pull up outside the house, I see to my horror that someone has spray-painted a message on our front door.

  “Alex Blaine get out of Railham,” I read, before opening the passenger-side door and stepping out of the car. “Subtle.”

  “I'll clean it off in the morning,” Brad says, sounding tired. “I'll -”

  “Go to hell!” I shout, looking around at the darkness. “I know you can hear me! Whoever you are, either come and say these things to my face, or go to hell and rot!”

  “Alex, stop!” Brad hisses.

  “I mean it!” I sob, as tears start streaming down my face. Lights flicker on in some of the nearby houses. “I won't be bullied by some anonymous coward! People can say what they want to my face, but I will not be chased out of my own hometown!”

  “Alex -”

  As soon as he touches my shoulder, I turn and put my arms around him, and for a moment I feel as if I'm about to burst into tears all over again. Somehow, however, I manage to hold back, and slowly a sense of realization starts creeping into my thoughts. If people are going to attack me because of who my father was, then maybe I need to make sure I can defend myself. For that to happen, however, I'm going to have to do the one thing I swore I'd avoid at all costs. I'm going to have to accept that his history is part of my history. And maybe that means going to see the one living person I've been avoiding for so long.

  “Where are you going?” Brad asks as I pull away from him and head toward the garage.

  “Where do you think?” I ask, glancing toward the painted message on the door. “I need soap, hot water and a bucket.”

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Sheriff Michael Blaine

  20 years ago

  The band strikes up another tune in the middle of the town square, as flags flutter in a morning breeze. Standing outside the station, watching the annual Railham festival kicking into gear, I can't help wondering whether things might finally be getting back to normal.

  “Alex is playing with some friends,” Louisa says as she comes over to join me. “She seems fine. I don't think that spot of sleepwalking did her any lasting harm.”

  I watch the growing crowd for a moment longer, before feeling her nudge my arm.

  “What's the matter, Mr. Grumpy?” she asks with a smile. “Still not feeling the party spirit?”

  “Technically I'm on duty,” I point out.

  “Then technically,” she replies, “I shouldn't distract you.”

  With that, she leans closer and kisses me on the cheek.

  “We're getting back to normal, aren't we?” she whispers. “Please, Mike, tell me we're getting back to normal.”

  I hesitate for a moment, before nodding.

  “Do you promise?” she asks.

  “I can't deny what's right in front of me,” I reply, still watching the sun-drenched scene. People seem really happy, as if the horror of the past week has finally given way to a palpable sense of relief. There's a part of me that wants to run out there and scream at them, but there's another part that thinks maybe they've got things right after all.

  Maybe it's time we started looking to the future. Maybe nobody needs to know the truth, so long as life is good again.

  “Everything's going to be fine,” I hear myself saying, almost on autopilot. Reaching over to Louisa, I put an arm around her waist and feel myself starting to relax.

  “Boss, are you there?” Harry's voice crackles suddenly over my radio.

  I take the radio from my chest. “I'm here, Harry. What's up?”

  “You'd better get out to the forest,” he replies. “We're near Chesil Point. And tell Doc Milton to come too. We've got another body.”

  ***

  “She died alone,” Harry says as he watches the dead woman being loaded into an ambulance. “That always seems like the saddest way to go. At least she probably didn't know what was happening. Doc Milford reckons she must've passed out after drinking another bottle of gin. I guess no-one could have helped her. We're just lucky there was no other traffic around at the time.”

  I open my mouth to reply, but instead all I can manage is to stare at the ambulance as its doors are slammed shut. Rosemary Loach was a fixture in this town, and she was still popular despite her well-chronicled and very open struggle with alcohol. I guess I always thought she'd pull through and be okay, but there's no chance of that happening now. Not after her car veered off the road at the edge of town and slammed head-first into a tree.

  On way out here, I assumed it was Neil Bloom's body that had turned up. I was wrong.

  “At least this one'll be an easy case,” Harry continues dolefully. “I just wish someone could have done something to look after her. I know she didn't have any family, but she still -”

  “No-one could have stopped this,” I reply, interrupting him as the ambulance starts driving away. “She made her own decisions.”

  My voice trails off as I remember my most recent encounter with Rosemary. Loach. She was drunk, as usual, and she was driving erratically – again, as usual. I've lost track of the number of times I had to take her car keys away, but I always gave them back once she w
as sober. I always believed her when she said she'd be fine, and when she told me I was fussing over nothing, and to be fair she never hurt anyone. I guess I got suckered into thinking that somehow she'd manage to look after herself and that she'd be able to avoid disaster.

  “Kinda of puts a downer on the festival, huh?” Harry points out.

  “Let's not tell people just yet,” I reply. “Let them have a fun day first.”

  “But -”

  “Trust me,” I add, patting him on the shoulder before turning to head back to my patrol car. “Today's the last day people want to be hearing bad news.”

  “What about the Mo Garvey case?” he asks.

  I glance back at him.

  “Did you look at the folder I gave you?” he continues, and now his voice is trembling slightly. “I mean, did you get a chance to consider whether...”

  I wait for him to continue, but deep down I know exactly what he's suggesting.

  “The time-stamps on the pictures were off,” I tell him, hoping to shut down any more questions. “As far as I can tell, that drifter could have robbed the pharmacy and then made it to Railham in time to abduct Mo Garvey.” I pause for a moment, and I can see the doubt in his eyes, almost as if he's not sure whether to believe what I'm telling him. “You did a fine job, Harry,” I continue. “It's good to ask questions. The pharmacy incident was worth bringing to my attention, so thank you for that.”

  “Right,” he replies, “but...”

  His voice trails off. Harry has never really stood his ground on anything before, so I'm confident he'll buckle. Still, for a few seconds, it's almost as if he's going to challenge me.

  “I guess that's that, then,” he says finally. “I should get back to the wreck and finish up a few things.”

  “You should,” I tell him. “And then I'll see you back in town, at the festival.”

  He mutters something under his breath as he turns and heads over to the smashed car. I want to call out to him, to tell him again that he was right to ask questions, but I don't really like the thought of having to lie to him again. I used my authority to shut him down, and that leaves a bad taste in my mouth.