Eyes On You: A Ghost Story Read online

  “I’m sorry, Aimee,” I softly say.

  “That fucking ghost did this,” she sobs, putting Luna down on the floor.

  “Look, you’re in shock,” I say, steering her away from the bedroom and into the living room. “We both are—so why don’t I just phone the police and then maybe they can get to the bottom of this.”

  She sits on the couch, weeping quietly, while I make the call. As I’m waiting to be put through, it occurs to me that nothing was taken. Well, nothing that obvious anyway. Okay, the TV was old, but they might have got a couple of hundred for it. I notice some coins on the floor, which were on the coffee table. Maybe twelve pound. It’s not much, but something at least. The dolphins were worth at least three hundred. And of course the DVD player, worth at least a hundred.

  Maybe they left in a hurry, heard a noise and got spooked.

  Probably a good idea not to mention Aimee’s ghost theory to the police. I’m guessing it might not go down all that well.

  Just a hunch.

  The police have been and gone. It took them nearly an hour and a half to get here, but fair play, they did their jobs well, dusted the place for fingerprints, asked if we had any enemies, if we’d lost a door key. You know, the usual shit. Couldn’t tell us how they broke in, though. There was no sign of any forced entry, no broken windows. They even accused us of leaving the door open. Cheeky pigs. As if I’d be dumb enough to do something like that. Although, I did have to think twice when they asked me. Once someone puts doubt in your mind, it’s hard to shake it off. But as I told the cops, I’ve got no idea how someone might have got in, or why someone would do this to us. I mean, yeah, the neighbourhood isn’t that great, but it’s not exactly The Bronx.

  I bring Aimee a cup of coffee and set it down on the kitchen table. Standing over her, I stroke her hair gently. She’s stopped crying now but she’s clearly still in a state of shock. “How you feeling?” I ask her. “Any better?”

  She nods and then sips the coffee. “I’m all right. It’s just…” She fights off another bout of tears.

  I pull out a chair and drag it next to her to sit. “Your dolphins,” I answer for her.

  She nods again. “My grandmother gave me those,” she sobs. “They meant the world to me. And now…”

  I drape my arms around her and hug her, gently shushing her like a baby. “I’m sorry, Aimee. Maybe we can fix them. Glue them back together.”

  “It’s not just the dolphins. It’s the fact that someone would pick this of all nights to do it. The most special night of my life: ruined! Whoever did this has tainted everything now.”

  “Try not to think about it.”

  “And if it was a ghost that did it,” Aimee continues, “what does it want with us? To move out?” She sniffs loudly. “You know, Matt, after everything that’s happened, selling the place doesn’t sound like a bad idea.”

  “Aimee, let’s not start this again. It was kids. Nothing else.”

  “You don’t think it was strange that there was no forced entry, nothing of value was taken, and only my stuff was broken?”

  I shake my head. “What are you talking about? It wasn’t just your stuff. The TV and the bathroom mirror were broken. Those things were mine as well.”

  “Yes, but nothing of sentimental value. Those dolphins were a personal attack.”

  I almost laugh, but refrain. Now’s not the time to make fun of her. Let her have a little fantasy. But we ain’t selling the flat, that’s for damn sure—ghost or no ghost.

  “Look, Matt, I’m scared,” she continues, “I don’t feel safe in this flat.”

  “I know,” I say with a sympathetic tone, “but you’ve got to stop torturing yourself with this kind of stuff. It’s not healthy.”

  She doesn’t retort. Is she finally seeing sense?

  “Try and focus on the positive side,” I continue. “They didn’t burn the place down, and Luna is fine.”

  Aimee nods, glancing at the cat as he sits under the kitchen table. I’d love to know what he saw tonight. At least then we could put all this haunted flat bullshit to rest. “I suppose you’re right,” she says, stroking his white fur with her fingers. “Maybe I am over-thinking it all; it probably was teenagers.”

  Hallelujah!

  “Of course it was, Aim. Just a couple of scumbags. And don’t worry about the flat; I’ll clean it up. Why don’t you go and run yourself a nice bath.”

  Aimee nods again, sniffs loudly and kisses me. “Okay, Matt. Thanks.” She gets up off the chair. “I was planning on calling my parents about the engagement.”

  “Don’t worry about your parents. They can wait ‘til tomorrow, when you’re feeling better. And anyway, it’s nearly ten. They’re probably in bed knowing them.”

  She walks over to the kitchen doorway and smiles, her lips puffy, her eyes bloodshot. “Ok. Thanks, Matt. I love you. And I’m still happy about getting married. It’s just…”

  I return a smile. “I know, Aim. I love you too. Now go,” I gesture with my hand for her to leave, “get in that bath and try not to worry.”

  Aimee disappears out onto the hallway.

  Once I can hear the bathwater running, I take a look at the mess all around me. I feel the knot in my stomach return and I sigh.

  Junkie bastards!

  There’s a small pool of bleach on the floor, next to the bottle. It’s lucky Luna didn’t lick it up. The last thing this night needs is a dead bloody cat. I screw the lid back on, and put the bottle back into the cupboard.

  I scan the kitchen. Where’s that mop got to now?

  The sound of Aimee screaming causes me to jolt in fright.

  “MATT!” she bellows from the bathroom. “COME QUICK!”

  Heart pounding, I bolt out of the kitchen. Aimee is standing naked in the bathroom, her back against the sink, her eyes enormous with terror.

  “What’s wrong?” I say, panicked, Luna suddenly by my feet.

  “I saw someone,” she blurts out; her words shaky as her body trembles.

  “Where?”

  “In the doorway,” she says, pointing at me. “Where you are now.”

  “There’s no one here.”

  “I’m telling you I saw someone. A woman. She was standing in the doorway. Staring right at me. I swear to God!”

  I hand her a towel from the radiator, and she wraps it around her body. “You need to search the flat again. There’s someone inside.”

  “Ok, Aimee. Just stay here and I’ll go check.”

  “No way! I’m not staying here on my own.”

  “So come with me then.”

  She nods and takes my arm, staying slightly behind me as I head into the bedroom. Just as before, the room is empty. I open the wardrobe just to be sure, but I know there’s no one here.

  Back out in the hallway, I open the flat door and scan the landing. Deserted. Once the living room is checked, we make our way into the kitchen. Aimee sits on a chair, nervously tugging on the ends of the towel, her face still pale with fright,

  “You all right now, Aim?” I ask, my hand gently stroking the top of her back.

  She slowly shakes her head. “No. I’m not. I saw someone standing in the doorway. Plain as you are now. I’m not making it up. I swear.”

  “I don’t think you are making it up. I just think you’re still shaken up by the breakin and you just imagined it.”

  “It’s not an ‘it’, it’s a ‘her’,” she snaps, “and I didn’t imagine anything. I know what I saw.”

  “So what did you see?” I ask, pulling a chair out from the table and sitting in front of her, my hands resting on her lap.

  “I told you, a woman. Young. Maybe in her late-teens.”

  “Yeah, okay, but what did she look like?”

  “Dark hair. Why does that matter?” she asks, throwing me a pair of angry eyes. “You don’t believe me anyway.”

  “Look, it doesn’t matter if I believe you or not. You’re my fiancée and I love you. So I need a description of he
r to tell the police.”

  “You can’t tell the police because they’ll laugh at me.”

  I let out a long, tired groan. “Let me guess—you saw a ghost?”

  “You don’t believe me, do you?” she says with a disheartened tone.

  “I believe you think you saw something.”

  “But not a ghost?” she asks, pursing her lips. It’s hard to tell if she’s livid or just disappointed. “So I suppose I’m crazy then, yeah?”

  “Look, Aimee, I don’t think you’re crazy. It’s just…”

  She looks to the floor, her eyes engulfed in tears. I quickly reach across and hug her. “I’m sorry, Aimee,” I tell her softly. “I know you’re scared. I shouldn’t have questioned you.”

  “It’s not your fault,” she sobs, sniffing loudly. “You’re right. It must have been the shock of seeing the place in such a mess. I couldn’t have seen a girl. It was just paranoia. I’m sorry for screaming like that, scaring you.”

  I kiss her head and then stroke her hair. I know she still believes she saw a ghost—Aimee would never give in so easily. “Don’t be silly. There’s nothing to be sorry for,” I reply, happy to play along to avoid another row. “Maybe we could stay in a hotel tonight. Or drive to your parents. I’m sure they won’t mind.”

  She pulls away from me, smiles, and shakes her head. “No. I’m fine here. Honestly. Thanks for the offer but I just wanna go to bed.”

  “Okay, Aim. Sounds like a plan. Everything’ll be better in the morning—you’ll see. We can tell everyone about the engagement then.”

  Aimee struggles to smile. It’s painful to see but she needs to get over this ghost-shit—it’s getting absurd.

  We get up from our chairs and leave the kitchen, hand in hand. I switch off all the lights, leaving just the bedroom one on.

  Aimee drapes the towel over the dressing-table chair, puts on a set of underwear, and then climbs into bed. I turn off the light and join her.

  We lie in silence, holding each other for maybe ten minutes. I’m exhausted but too wired to fall asleep. Can’t get the sound of Aimee screaming out of my mind. It’s unsettling. And all over a little paranoia. Nothing more. It’s fascinating how the brain works, it really is. How we can see things that just aren’t there.

  As the minutes roll by, I can see more and more of the room. My eyes have adjusted to seeing the furniture and the walls, but it’s still too dark to see the mess. Suppose that’s a good thing. And if I stare long enough, if I really focus, I can even see a person standing next to the wardrobe.

  I squeeze my eyes shut.

  It’s amazing what a little paranoia will do to you.

  7

  Finally it’s here! The most important day of anyone’s life. The day that every man prays will happen. And when it does, it must be embraced, inhaled…lived. It must be remembered for the rest of his life. Every minute should be precious. Every moment should be captured.

  And every last drop of tequila must be swallowed.

  It’s not every day someone gets married to the woman they love. So it’s my duty to get as fucked up as humanly possible.

  Ed, Paul and me are walking down towards The Lava Bar to meet some of the guys. The sun is still beaming even though it’s almost eight. I’m already tipsy after the pre-vodka-shots back at the flat. Ed had puked up and missed the kitchen sink completely. The only thing he didn’t miss was Aimee’s baking trays. Thank God she’s out on her hen party, otherwise she would’ve throttled me.

  We stumble through the pub doors, laughing about God knows what, and I spot Jones and Mark straight away. It’s not that hard; the place is deserted. The bar at the back has just two customers slumped against it, there’s maybe fifteen people, including us five, sitting around the tables and on couches. I can’t help but feel a little deflated by the lack of atmosphere.

  It’s Saturday night for Christ’s sake!

  We sit at the table. There’s already a pint of beer and a shot of something green waiting for me. I look around the room with disappointment. “What the hell’s happened to this place? It’s dead.”

  “I know,” Jones replies. “But it’s cheap.”

  “Doesn’t matter,” Ed says. “We’ll just get hammered here and then head into town about ten-ish. No one goes out ‘til then these days anyway, even on a Saturday.”

  “Yeah. Plus, we can have a proper catch up in here,” Mark offers. “It’s always too loud in town anyway. We just end up shouting in each other’s ears. It’s shit.”

  I take a swig of beer and smile. “Fuck, we sound like old men.”

  “Speak for yourself,” Ed says. “You’re the one getting married. That’s proper grown-up shit. Can’t see me ever tying the knot. It’s too much fun being single.”

  Mark sniggers. “What’re you talking about? You were heartbroken when Stacey dumped you. Crying on my shoulder. Telling me that she was the one.”

  “Yeah, so?” Ed replies. “I was drunk. That was all bullshit. Can’t even remember her surname.”

  “You’re talking ballocks,” Mark says, shaking his head, then sipping his beer. “We’ve all been in love. We’ve all been dumped, and we’ve all had nightmare ex-girlfriends.” He turns his attention back to me. “Some more than others.” I ignore the dig. I’ve heard it a million times before. “So what I’m trying to say, Matt,” he continues, putting a drunken hand on my shoulder, pulling me towards him over the table, “is that you deserve someone nice. Someone like Aimee. We all do. So, what I’m trying to say is,” he repeats, pulling me even closer, almost knocking my pint over in the process, “when are you gonna share your beautiful wife-to-be with the rest of us.”

  Everyone bursts out in laughter. I smile and pull away from him. “Piss off ya cheeky bastard,” I say, playfully.

  “I thought it was the best man’s duty to shag the bride,” Mark says. “No? Or did I get that bit wrong?”

  “Yeah, in your dreams, mate,” I reply. “She likes her men butch.”

  “Butch? You? As if.”

  “Enough of this shit,” Paul interrupts, “time to get these shots down our gullets.”

  I smile at Mark as I pick mine up. The others follow.

  “One. Two…Three!”

  The entire night is a haze to me.

  I remember leaving the flat, and The Lava Bar, and I can vaguely recall the nightclub. As each step brings me closer (or further) to home, I try desperately not to drop my cheeseburger on the pavement.

  Just a few steps away from my street, it dawns on me: where’s everyone gone? How come they let me walk home on my own…and on my stag night? I could’ve been arse-raped! Useless fucking friends. Typical. They get me drunk but get themselves even drunker in the process.

  I hope Aimee’s all right. Her friends better not have let her walk home on her own. I’ll go ape-shit. I’ve told her time and time again to take a taxi—even if it’s just a few minutes’ walk. Even if it’s still light. I mean, it’s just not worth it. Not for a woman. And definitely not to save yourself a few quid.

  I can just about make out my car, parked about a hundred metres away. Could be two hundred. Everything’s blurring into one. Feel sick. Must be the burger. Couldn’t possibly be the ten shots of tequila and eight pints of beer. I glance down at the food in repugnance, take one last bite, and then launch it into someone’s garden. Fuck it. It’s not littering if it’s food.

  At the door to my building, I look up at the flat window, nearly losing my footing as I lean back. The kitchen light is on. Aimee’s home already.

  Lightweight.

  I take out my keys, then drop them instantly onto the doorstep. Bending down to grab them, I suddenly feel lightheaded. Think I’m gonna puke. I fight off the sensation. Can’t let it beat me. Not on my stag. I haven’t puked in so long, so I ain’t gonna start tonight. I take in a few steady breaths to settle my stomach. It works for a moment but then a rush of vomit bubbles up and bursts past my throat and out of my mouth, spraying all over the flo
or and door.

  When I’m finished, I spit a few times, wipe my mouth with the sleeve of my white shirt, and then pick up the keys, which are now covered in puke. I shake them down, lumps of undigested food flick off onto the door, some on me. I don’t care. It’s too late to care. After several failed attempts, I finally locate the correct key from the bunch, and then stagger inside, slamming the door shut behind me with my foot.

  Using the banister like a crutch, I manage to scale the stairs, each step seeming mountainous. Once outside my flat door, I switch the landing light on, and then spend a minute working through the keys again. Why don’t they have clicker keys for houses like they do with cars? Just point and click. Simple. I groan because I still can’t find the gold-coloured door-key. Did I lose it in The Lava Bar? “Aimee!” I call out, knocking on the door. “Can’t find my key!” There’s no response. “Aimee!” I repeat, pounding even harder. “It’s Matt! Open the door!” Still no response. But then I spot the new, shiny silver key and remember that we had the locks changed. Eureka!

  I push the key in and then step inside.

  The flat feels cold. Too cold for June. “Aimee?” I call out again, just as I notice that the kitchen light is now off. Is she deaf or what? I switch the hallway light on and then peek into the living room and kitchen. She’s not in either room. Walking over to the bedroom, I glance inside, hoping to see her asleep. The bed is empty, still made. She’s still out drinking. Could have sworn I saw the kitchen light on.

  I make my way into the bathroom, put the light on and walk up to the sink, holding on to it for extra support. Checking my reflection, I notice my bloodshot eyes. I rub them hard with my palms, and then remember about being sick downstairs. I chuckle to myself when I think of Aimee’s expression when she sees it. Suddenly I’m glad that she’s not home yet. Wouldn’t want her to miss it.

  But what about sex? What if she’s too repulsed by the sight of it? What if she starts an argument with me? Then what happens to sex? Should I go downstairs? Maybe throw a pan of water over it? Maybe I could do it from the living-room window.

  Fuck it. She probably won’t even see it. And the pigeons will eat it by morning anyway.