The House on Everley Street (Death Herself Book 2) Page 7

  He waited for a reply, but he could almost hear Sarah's jaw hitting the ground on the other end.

  “Honey?” he said. “Are you still there?”

  “Okay,” she said finally, with a hint of caution in her voice, “who are you, and what have you done with my husband?”

  Chapter Ten

  Twenty years ago

  “Hey,” Alison said with a smile, as soon as John opened the door. She was wearing a cream sweater with a big ladybird on the front. “Long time, stranger.”

  Startled, he stared at her for a moment. He'd spent the morning tidying the house, lost in his own thoughts... or at least that was what he told himself. For a moment, he felt as if maybe there was something he'd forgotten, as if his mind had divided into two completely separate halves, but that sensation passed quickly enough. Instead, he focused on the surprise of seeing Alison standing in front of him. After all, she was one of his few friends, or at least she had been, back when he still had friends, back in his school days.

  “Are you gonna invite me in?” she asked, raising a skeptical eyebrow, “or do I have to force my way through the door? Which, to be fair, wouldn't be so easy after my recent op.” She looked down at his foot. “Are you limping?”

  “Oh, it's nothing,” he replied. “I just hurt my toe when...” Pausing, he realized he didn't remember how he'd hurt it. “It's nothing. Come in.”

  ***

  “Wow,” she said a few minutes later, looking out the window and watching the fuchsia plants for a moment before turning back to him, “John, I'm so sorry. I had no idea.”

  “It was a few days ago now,” he replied, well aware that he was being stiff and formal but unable to find a way to relax, “so... I mean, it's over, I guess. It's all sorted.”

  “And you're here alone?”

  “It's not so bad.”

  “Sure, but...” She paused, clearly concerned. “You're in this house all by yourself?”

  “I'm not worried about ghosts, if that's what you mean.”

  “No, but still, it doesn't seem...” She paused again. “Well, it just seems kind of morbid, that's all. What about your father?”

  “He's coming for the funeral.”

  “Oh, that's nice of him,” she said sarcastically. “Still gunning for that father of the year award, I take it.”

  “I don't need him here.” He winced a little as he felt his toe hurting again. The nail felt loose, so he figured he'd have to rip it off later. The strange thing was, he couldn't quite remember how he'd hurt it in the first place.

  “No, but you need someone. Jesus, it's a complete coincidence that I just happened to drop by today, and now I find you all alone in the house where you found a dead body just a few days ago. I mean, I know your grandmother wasn't exactly... I don't want to say bad things about dead people, but I know what it was like for you, living with her. Still, this must have been a huge shock.”

  “I -”

  Before he could finish, she stepped closer and put her arms around him, giving him a tight hug that momentarily pressed their bodies together. Her fingers pressed against the back of his t-shirt, rubbing against the burn marks from his grandmother's cigarettes, but not enough for him to flinch. Instead, he put his arms around her in return, even though he felt uncomfortable being so close.

  “Don't squeeze me too tight,” she told him. “I'm still scarred. I've only been out of hospital for a month.”

  “How did it go?”

  “Fine, can't you tell? I'm stiff as a board, can't bend at all. Turns out, screwing a metal pole into my back did help with the scoliosis.”

  “Does it hurt?”

  “Like a bitch.” Taking a step back, she turned and suddenly hoisted her shirt up, exposing the thick, fresh scar that ran all the way up her back, with stitches still holding the edges of flesh together. “A two-foot titanium pole,” she explained, “has literally been screwed to my spine. Remember last time you saw me, when I was all curled over like an old toenail. And now look at me, I've got the posture of a queen. Go on, touch it.”

  “I...” Staring at her stitches, he felt a shiver pass through his body. “No, I'm fine.”

  “Touch it,” she said again. “I'll be totally offended if you don't.”

  Realizing that had couldn't argue, he reached out and let his fingers brush against the stitches. For a moment, he was tempted to pull on them, to unravel her back and open the scar up to see her spine, but a few seconds later he was distracted as one of his fingers nudged her bare, cold flesh.

  “Everyone's mega impressed,” she continued, pulling her t-shirt down and turning to him, before pausing as she stared into his eyes. “You're not okay, John.”

  “I'm not?”

  “You can't possibly be okay,” she continued. “No-one could be okay in your situation. You don't have to believe in ghosts to find the whole thing freaky. What have you been doing the past few days?”

  “Cleaning,” he said cautiously. “Tidying.”

  “And your Dad still sends money?”

  “It's his house,” John pointed out. “He bought it for Gran and me to live in after my mother died, remember? He sends money to my account each month for living expenses. He's doing well out there, money isn't a problem.”

  “But you're not living, are you?” she replied. “Not really. I mean, hell, I can't even walk without pain, and I probably get about more than you do.” Stepping past him, she looked around the room for a moment before turning to him again. “There's a ghost in this house.”

  “There is?”

  She nodded.

  “How...” He paused. “How can you tell?”

  “It's obvious.”

  “It is?”

  She turned to him. “There's a ghost in this house and its name is John Myers.”

  He sighed. “I'm not -”

  “Let's get out of here.”

  He frowned.

  “Have you even left the house in the past few days?” she continued. “I don't mean for groceries, forget that, have you actually gone out anywhere? I know since we finished school you've been kind of spending a lot of time in your own company, developing your reputation as a hermit. Be honest, have you done anything recently? Do you even bother to keep up with the few people who're still knocking about in this dull old town?”

  He paused. “You're... Actually, you're kind of the first person I've seen since... Well, since it all happened. Apart from the guy who works in the petrol station where I buy food, but I think he's starting to think I'm weird, since I kind of go in there every night now. I like to go late when there's less chance of anyone else being there.”

  “Sounds mentally and emotionally healthy,” she replied, taking his hand and starting to lead him to the door. “Come on, it's my duty as your friend to get you out of here and remind you that the rest of the world exists. Just don't mock the way I walk. It's better than before when I was all curled up, right?”

  ***

  “So university is kind of slightly soul-destroying,” she said a little while later as they walked along the windy promenade, with a strong breeze blowing in from the sea. “The only way to get by is to drink heavily, and I mean heavily. Turns out, I have some kind of limit that keeps me from getting blind drunk, so I usually don't last the whole night. Not that it's not fun, though. You should totally apply and go next year 'cause, you know, it'd better than withering away like you're doing now.”

  “Sure.”

  “Maybe you could even come to Peterborough. Oh my God, that would be so cool, we could be housemates!”

  “Sure. Maybe.”

  “Does that mean you might actually do it?” she asked. “I know you said you were taking a gap year, but you're blatantly not planning to do anything fun. When people take a gap year, they usually go traveling or they take a job for experience, something like that. They don't just sit around the house doing nothing.” She waited for a reply. “You'll be fine, you know. Uni isn't that terrifying. You'll make friends
once you get out into the world.”

  “I have friends.”

  “You had friends. At school. And how many of them do you still see?”

  “Not many.”

  “Only the ones who really make an effort. Which probably means just me.”

  He allowed himself a faint smile. “The important ones, then.”

  “And let me guess. That old witch told you there's no point trying to make more friends, didn't she?”

  “She just said I should be realistic about my personality. I'm just not very outgoing.”

  “Rubbish.”

  “She had a point.”

  “It's a self-fulfilling prophecy. Once you start believing it, it becomes true. Fortunately, the reverse is also true. Stop believing in it, it stops becoming true.”

  “Maybe.”

  “So what are you going to do now?” She nudged his arm playfully. “Come on, dude, you're free! I know how your grandmother held you back, so what's the plan for the first day of the rest of your life?”

  “In general?” He paused, genuinely stumped by the question. “I don't know.”

  “Sit around in that house, listening to bumps in the night, rotting away?”

  He shook his head.

  “I'm scared that's exactly what you'll do,” she told him. “I remember a few years ago, you were full of ambition about becoming some big writer, and then slowly she...” She paused. “You mustn't let your grandmother ruin things for you. I know she said some pretty cruel things to you, I feel like she chipped away at your soul until there's pretty much nothing left. I mean, it's too bad you didn't rebel and fight back, but none of that matters now. You don't have an ounce of confidence, do you?”

  “It wasn't that bad,” he replied. “I can't blame her.”

  “She was wrong, you know. You totally can be a writer, you can be anything you want. You just need to find your voice, and you need to get out and actually meet people.” She nudged his arm again. “I believe in you.”

  “It's just a pipe-dream. It's not realistic or -”

  Hurrying a couple of steps ahead, she stopped, then she turned to face him and grabbed him by the shoulders. “Not another word of that,” she said firmly, albeit with a faint smile. “Jonathan Myers, you are damn well not going to let a vindictive old bitch drag you down, especially now she's out of your life. And yes, I'm aware that I just broke my own rule about nice things and dead people, but I don't care. The truth is coming. Are you ready for it?”

  “Alison -”

  “Your grandmother was a horrible, horrible woman. She was a mean, cruel, vindictive old bitch who tried to ruin your life for reasons that, frankly, we don't even need to try to understand anymore, because she's gone. And to be honest, when you told me she'd keeled over earlier, my first thought was that it's about time. You have your whole life ahead of you, John, and that's a good thing. You have to live it.”

  “I will.”

  “Uh-huh, and pigs might fly.” She stared at him for a moment, before letting go of his shoulders and starting to walk again. “Well, I'm not going to give up on you, you idiot. I'm going to badger you for as long as it takes, and then I'll badger you some more. I care about you, you bloody idiot, and I won't let you fade away like some kind of ghost.”

  Chapter Eleven

  Today

  Stopping at the front door, John took a moment to fumble through his pockets for the key. He'd been so focused on his own thoughts during the walk back to the house after leaving the book club meeting, he'd forgotten to be nervous. Now, close to midnight, he unlocked the door and stepped into the hallway, and as he did so he realized the fear had left him. The darkness of the house held no more terror, and he wasn't sure whether to feel relieved that he'd overcome it all or angry that he'd let the place dog his thoughts for so long.

  Smiling, he turned to shut the door...

  And found Hannah standing right behind him.

  “Hey,” she said cautiously.

  He stared, blinking a couple of times as if he expected her to vanish in a puff of smoke.

  “So...” She paused. “I followed you. Is that totally awful?”

  “You followed me all the way from the flat... to here?”

  She winced slightly, as if the idea was excruciatingly embarrassing, before silently mouthing the word 'Sorry'.

  “It's late,” he told her, even though he couldn't deny that her presence was... positive, in some way he didn't want to acknowledge just yet. Positive and definitely flattering for a man in his late thirties. “I'm sorry, why did you follow me?”

  “Is this the house?” she asked.

  “What house?”

  “The one you talked about. The one that's haunted.”

  “I...”

  “Or not haunted, as you actually said.” She peered past him, looking at the stairs. “It doesn't look much like a haunted house. It looks like a totally normal house.”

  “Aren't all houses normal?” he asked.

  “Oh no,” she replied, suddenly stepping inside and heading over to look up at the landing. “I've studied haunting cases online, and some houses you can just tell by looking at them, they're haunted. It's a very definite quality that some of them just exude. I know that doesn't sound very scientific, but it's true, after a while you just develop a kind of sixth sense about the whole thing. Some houses give off a clear vibe that just seems to let you know there's something dark and nasty hiding inside. This one, not so much.” She turned to him again. “It just looks so ordinary. So normal.” She paused, before frowning. “Then again, maybe that's just what the house wants us to think.”

  “I...” Pausing, with the door still open, he realized that he didn't quite have the resolve to ask her to leave, at least not yet. Besides, even though he was a married man, he told himself there was no reason why he shouldn't spend a little more time with someone who was clearly so interested in his work. Slowly, trying not to feel guilty, he pushed the door shut. “I'm afraid I don't have anything to offer you,” he told her. “No wine, no -”

  “Ta-da!” She pulled a bottle of red wine from the satchel slung over her shoulder. “It was Gary's actually, I purloined it from his flat, but he won't mind. Well, he will, but he'll get over it.”

  “Right.” He paused again, feeling a little uncomfortable. “I don't have a bottle opener or -”

  “Oh, I do,” she said quickly, interrupting him as she pulled an opener from her satchel. “I don't have glasses, but we can just drink from the bottle.” She waited for him to reply. “I know this is totally intrusive, and I can leave if you want, and I swear I'm not some kind of crazy stalker fan, I just.. You're cool. You're one of my favorite authors, and you're right here in town, in a haunted house, and I'd be crazy not to want to come and hang out. If I didn't at least try, I'd probably literally regret it for the rest of my life.” She waited for him to answer. “But I can totally leave if you're uncomfortable.”

  “Not at all,” he replied, taking a deep breath. “You... How old are you, if you don't mind me asking?”

  “Twenty-one.”

  “You seem younger.”

  “Thanks.”

  “Oh, I didn't -”

  “So you don't think this place is haunted, huh?” she continued with a smile, slipping past him and heading into the front room. Despite all her talk of being willing to leave, she seemed confident enough to take charge of the situation. “What happened? Did someone die here or something?”

  His first instinct was to not tell her any more than she already knew, but at the same time he felt moved to open up a little. “My grandmother.”

  “When?”

  “A long time ago. Back in the days when I still lived here.”

  She wedged the wine bottle under her legs and began to twist the screw into the cork. “So it might be your grandmother's spirit that's knocking about the place, huh? And from what you said earlier, I get the feeling that you're trying to prove something by staying here tonight.”

>   “I guess so.”

  “Like a personal victory, like you not only need to test to see if her ghost is here, but you also need to prove to yourself that you've got the balls.” With the bottle held firmly between her thighs, she was struggling to get the cork out.

  “You're very perceptive.”

  “So do you need to be alone for that,” she gasped, still struggling, “or is company okay?”

  He knew he should really be alone, but as Hannah pulled the cork out and almost dropped the bottle, he couldn't bring himself to ask her to leave. “I don't mind company.”

  “I spilled a little,” she pointed out, looking down at a few splashes of wine on the carpet.

  “I don't care.”

  She pulled the bottle from between her legs and took a glug, before passing it to him. “So how did she die? And where?”

  “Aneurysm, I think,” he replied, taking a sip. “And she died in one of the bedrooms upstairs.”

  “What kind of aneurysm?”

  “I... I don't remember.”

  “And you found her?”

  He nodded.

  “That must have been creepy as hell.”

  “It had its moments.”

  She took the wine bottle back and took another, longer sip, swallowing several times before handing it back to him. “Almost enough to make a guy go a little weird,” she said with a knowing smile, as a dribble of wine ran down her chin and onto her neck.

  “Almost,” he admitted.

  “And to make a guy who's already weird, go even weirder.”

  He smiled.

  “Huh,” she continued, “well, we'll get to that in a minute. Whether you're aware of it or not, you most likely have a great deal of troubled psychic energy stored up in your soul. Troubled energy isn't necessarily bad, because it can be turned into a positive force, but you have to understand its shape and form before you can start to manipulate it, otherwise it sits in your mind and rots, and then the rot spreads. That's what rot does.” She turned to look around the room, before glancing back at him. “I have experience with it comes to contacting the dead, you know.”