Eyes On You: A Ghost Story Read online

  “How you feeling?” I ask Aimee as she hobbles into the living room; still wearing her pink and flowered pyjamas and thick bed socks; her fringe damp and stuck to her forehead. “Any better?”

  All she can muster is a subtle nod as she sits next to me, collapsing into the cushions.

  “That bad is it?” I ask, stroking her leg softly.

  “I’m all right. Feel much better now. Think it was those cocktails Jackie bought. And those bloody shots of whiskey.”

  “Whiskey?” I say, shaking my head in repulse.

  “I know. Disgusting. They know how much I hate the stuff.” She gags briefly, holding a hand over her mouth. “Let’s not talk about whiskey.”

  “Okay. Fair enough,” I reply, grinning.

  “Let’s talk about how it feels,” she says, smugly.

  “How ‘what’ feels?”

  “To finally believe in something out of the ordinary.”

  “Fine,” I reply with a shrug. But it feels a million miles away from fine.

  “Look, Matt, it’s been really hard trying to convince you that we have a ghost. It made me feel so alone.”

  “I know, and I’m sorry that I ever doubted you. But it’s hard for me. Something like this has never happened to me before. I mean, you know what Mum’s basement is like—it’s creepy as fuck. And even though I used to hate going down in the dark, I never saw or heard a single thing. Probably the only real fear down there was the huge, grotesque spiders.”

  “That’s fair enough. I get why most people don’t believe…but now you do.”

  “Well…sort of.”

  “What do you mean, ‘sort of’? You just told me you believe in them.”

  “I know I did, but that doesn’t mean that I’m still not open to some other, rational explanation for what’s been happening here. Don’t you think?”

  “Not really. I know what I saw in the bathroom—and you know what you saw in the bedroom. Our flat is haunted. Face facts. And we have to live with that.”

  “Why? Can’t we just throw some holy water over everything, you know, like in The Exorcist?”

  “Well, firstly, that was a girl possessed by a demon. That’s not what’s happening here.”

  “So what is it then? A poltergeist?”

  “Maybe. I’m not sure.”

  “Maybe that’s why the last TV fell. Some evil spirit was trying to suck us in. And plus, you work with that dwarf woman. Stick a pair of glasses on her and we’ve got ourselves the real deal.”

  “Rachel’s not a dwarf. She’s just a little short.”

  “A little?” I chortle.

  “Look, forget about movies,” she says, impatiently. “Half the stuff is bullshit anyway.”

  “Yeah, but the other half isn’t. Maybe we could get some holy water from EBay, and get on YouTube for tips on exorcisms. Shit, I bet you could get some priest to Skype the ritual on the laptop, save him coming all the way from The Vatican. Christ, I bet there’s an app for it, too.”

  Shaking her head, she scowls at me. “Look, I’m not talking to you about it if you’re gonna be like this. This isn’t a joke. We’re not talking about the odd noise here; we’re talking about something nasty living in our home. What if the TV had landed on Luna? Or the boiling kettle spilled over you? Whatever’s in here clearly wants us to leave—so cut the bullshit, Matt.”

  “All right. I’m sorry,” I reply, showing her my palms in surrender. “So tell me what you think this is then. Who’s haunting us? Someone we know, like a relative? Or is it some dead previous owner with a grudge?”

  “I’m not sure. Most likely someone who lived here before us. Some pissed off ghost who wants their flat back.”

  “So what do we do now?” I ask. “Get a real expert over to check the place out?”

  Aimee nods. “Yeah. My mother knows a medium. I’ll ask her to get his number.”

  “Good idea.”

  Even through all the madness, I can feel my stomach rumble. I squeeze her thigh gently and then get up off the couch. “You hungry? You think you can keep something down?”

  Aimee ponders for a moment before answering. “Yeah, maybe some toast. Nothing too greasy. Don’t really feel like anything, but I still think I need to eat something.”

  I nod and then kiss her on the lips. “Ok, Aimee, I’ll get you some.”

  “Thanks,” Aimee replies, smiling. “I need looking after today.”

  I exit the living room and head for the kitchen. Inside, I pop the bread into the toaster and then put the kettle on. “You wanna coffee or something?” I call out to Aimee.

  “No thanks,” she replies. “Just a glass of orange juice. With ice.”

  Once the toast is ready, I bring them both to her in the living room. Aimee smiles as she takes the plate and glass from me.

  It’s almost four o clock and we haven’t moved from the couch. Aimee’s legs have been resting on my lap for so long, I’ve lost all feeling in my thighs. And my thumbs are aching from massaging her feet for a good hour. She’s felt like shit for most of the day, and I’ve felt pretty good, so it’s the least I can do.

  Every few minutes, when we’re not talking, when there’s not something interesting on screen, I can feel last night’s events worming their way into my thoughts. That thing in my bed felt so real. I know there’s a strong possibility that I was half-asleep, still drunk from the stag—but no nightmare, no trick of the eyes has ever felt so real.

  “I’m getting a coffee,” Aimee says as she swings her legs onto the floor. “You want anything from the kitchen?”

  “I’ll get it for you,” I offer, hoping she doesn’t see past my empty gesture. I half get up from the couch.

  “Don’t be silly. I’ll get my own.”

  “Are you sure? I don’t mind.”

  Holding a hand out in protest, she stands up and then makes her way towards the doorway. “I’m fine. Do you want anything?”

  “No thanks,” I say, happily sitting back down, watching her as she leaves the room. “Maybe some biscuits,” I call out to her. “Chocolate.”

  “Okay.”

  Suddenly there’s a loud cry coming from the kitchen.

  Leaping up, I sprint out of the living room, into the kitchen. Aimee is sitting on the chair, her left foot up onto her right thigh, with a large shard of broken glass sticking out of her sock. My stomach turns with the sight of so much blood; a small pool has gathered on the floor, and her thick sock is soaked through.

  “Shit,” I say, as I race over to her. “I’m so sorry. I could have sworn I got all the glass. I even vacuumed the entire floor to make sure.”

  “Don’t worry about it,” she says, her eyes watering, clearly in pain. “It was an accident.”

  “I’m really sorry. I feel terrible. Should we go to the hospital? Looks pretty deep.”

  Shaking her head, she pinches the fragment with her thumb and index finger, and then slowly pulls it out. Wincing, she puts it on the table, blood dripping from its razor-sharp edge. I carefully remove her sock and then grab a tea towel from the radiator, wrapping it around her foot. She winces again when I apply a little pressure on the cut.

  “You okay?” I ask her, already knowing the answer. “Don’t want you limping next week in the church.”

  She sighs lengthily and then puts on a brave smile. “I’m fine. It’s just a little cut.”

  “Don’t know how this could’ve happened,” I say, taking the glass over to the bin beneath the window, and then dropping it in. “I swept up and vacuumed. I swear to God. I was thorough. I mean, really thorough.”

  Aimee gets up from the chair and starts to hop towards the hallway. “Don’t worry about it, Matt. It’s not your fault. I’ve done it loads of times. Honestly, I’m fine. It’s no big deal.”

  Following her out towards the bathroom, I take her arm to steady her. She smiles at me with a look that says I’m being overprotective. But how can I not be? It was my fault. I missed the glass. Simple as that. Probably still
too hazy to see the bloody thing.

  Standing at the bathroom doorway, holding on to its frame, I watch guiltily as she takes the tea towel away from her bloodied foot to clean it. The sight makes me gag. I cover the action with my sleeve, and then go back to the living room.

  I sit back on the couch, trying desperately to be taken away by the nature show on TV. It’s about spiders.

  I hate spiders.

  It’s going on ten. Aimee’s been sleeping in bed since eight. What a shitty day she’s had. Bad enough puking and feeling like crap, but then she goes and steps on bloody glass. For Christ’s sake. How could I miss such a big piece?

  Stupid.

  Return of the Living Dead is almost finished. I’ve seen it God knows how many times. But that’s me; can’t resist a good eighties horror movie.

  Even though I can’t imagine being able to sleep tonight, my eyes are burning. Really need to go to bed but can’t be bothered. Really fancy something to eat but the kitchen seems too far. I think I’ll just stay here and fall asleep in front of the TV, like I used to do back home in Mum’s, watching rubbish until three in the morning, and then getting up for school at seven.

  Once the credits roll, I start to channel surf. There’s never anything on. All these shows, and still nothing good to watch. Too much choice. It was easier when we just had four channels. I’d sit through almost any old shit. It didn’t matter if it was a chick flick or a quiz show. As long as it was on the screen, I’d watch it.

  I mute the TV when I hear the loud knocking on the door.

  Someone’s out on the landing. Frowning, I get up from the couch, holding back the butterflies in my gut. I pretend that I’m just a little annoyed that someone has had the cheek to call ‘round so late.

  How the hell did they get up the stairs without me buzzing them in?

  Twisting the lock, I pull the door open. There’s no one out there. Just darkness. I reach into the landing and press the switch on the wall. The light comes on but the landing is deserted. Walking to the banister, I peer over, looking down at the lit up hallway and main entrance. It’s also deserted.

  “Hello,” I call out, half-whispering. “Anybody there?” I listen out for any response. There’s none, just eerie silence.

  Maybe someone’s finally moved in to the other flat. I creep downstairs, no longer able to keep the butterflies at bay. Halfway down, I can see that the flat door is shut. “Hello? Anybody down there?” Pointing my ear towards the empty flat, I listen out for a voice. But there’s still nothing. Not even a little movement. I don’t want to go all the way down and knock. I’m too tired and there’s no point.

  Of course there’s a point. Someone just knocked on the bloody door. You didn’t imagine it. You didn’t dream it. Someone’s down here.

  Sighing loudly, I quickly walk down the remaining few steps and go over to the other flat. I give a gentle tap on the door, put my ear against it to listen. I hear nothing, so tap a little harder.

  After a few more attempts, I race back up the stairs, turn the light switch off as I reach my door, and then close it behind me.

  It’s not a ghost.

  Ghosts don’t need to knock. They can move through walls. Why the hell would they knock?

  Trying to shake off this cold, creeping feeling I have over my skin, I make my way back into the living room and sit on the couch. I pick up the remote control and channel surf again.

  KNOCK! KNOCK! KNOCK!

  My body clenches in fright, but I race to the door nevertheless. Unlocking it, I swing it open wildly, hoping to catch the culprit in the act. Switching on the landing light, once again I see that it’s deserted. I go back over to the banister. “Who’s down there?” I shout, this time unconcerned with waking Aimee. “I’m calling the police.” Maybe a minute passes, waiting for a response, but there’s nothing. Just silence. My heart is pounding, and my sweaty hands are trembling. I try to disguise them by making tight fists. I walk back over to the doorway, switching off the light as I grasp the door, getting ready to close it. Scanning the landing one last time, I can feel my heart rate start to slow a little.

  KNOCK! KNOCK! KNOCK!

  “Jesus fucking Christ!” I scream when I feel the door vibrate in my hand. I slam it shut, heart thrashing even harder against my chest. And then I race back into the living room, body convulsing in terror.

  “What the fuck was that?” I mutter, trying to control my erratic breathing. Wide eyes glued on the door, body frozen, I wait for another knock.

  Nothing.

  I keep waiting.

  Perhaps five minutes pass, and I’m just about ready to move. Fuck staying in the living room alone. Not tonight anyway. I’ll feel safer in bed with Aimee—even if I can’t sleep a wink.

  Racing out of the living room, lights and TV still on, my body tightens as I slip past the flat door. Once inside the bedroom, I close the door behind me and slink in the darkness to the bed, stepping on various items of clothing on the floor. I climb under the quilt and huddle up close to Aimee, her warmth soothing the tension in my body. I close my eyes, hoping that sleep will just come instantly. I’m working at six anyway, so at least I’ll be up and out of here in a few hours. I’ll just have to ignore what happened and think of something else. The wedding maybe. My speech. No, not the speech. Too stressful. The honeymoon? Yeah, Cancun. That’s better. No, screw the holiday. I need to think about absolutely nothing. Clear my mind, otherwise I’ll never get to sleep. Think of nothing. Think of blackness. Think of emptiness. Forget about everything.

  Forget about the ghost.

  It’s not real.

  It can’t be.

  Too frightened to open my eyes, even in the darkness, I listen to the stillness of the room. I can just about make out the sound of the TV in the distance. Is that laughter I can hear? A sitcom maybe? Could be. Sounds like it. Suddenly I feel a little less terrified.

  Need to sleep.

  Things will be different in the morning. Things are always better in the light of day. Much better.

  In my head, I hear the knocking on the door. It keeps repeating over and over again.

  I ignore the horrid, gut-wrenching sound and try to sleep, holding on to Aimee’s body as if my life depended on it.

  9

  I somehow managed to get out of work on time today. Twenty past two is pretty good going these days. Aimee doesn’t even know I’m driving up to Cardiff. She thinks I’m in the flat all day. I think she’ll understand why I have to see Mum. Haven’t seen her in weeks, and she’s only been to the flat once. She’s always asking about it, always offering to come down, but we’re always too busy with something.

  The traffic is moving pretty slowly when I hit Cardiff city centre, but I don’t mind. What’s the rush?

  Dad pops up in my head just as I drive past his old office. I hate the sight of the grey-old place, bringing back those awful memories. I swallow the lump in my throat and focus on the road ahead.

  I turn the car down Lewis Road, onto Bridge Street, and then home. Well, sort of. Not anymore.

  “Oh my word,” Mum says as I get out of the car. “There’s a sight for sore eyes.” She kisses me on the cheek even before I’m out of the car. She’s clearly been waiting by the window, watching the street for me to appear, timing the journey to the nearest second.

  That’s Mum. And she’ll never change.

  “Hi Mum,” I say, hugging her. “How’ve you been?”

  I close the car door and follow her up the drive. She points to the perfectly groomed front lawn. “Just had the grass re-turfed,” she informs me, proudly. “And Lloyd from across the road—you remember Lloyd don’t you, Matt?”

  “Yeah. ‘Course I do. I haven’t been gone that long, Mum.”

  “No, I know. Well, it feels like forever. Anyway, Lloyd’s been helping me with my new flowerbed.” She points to the top of the lawn.

  “That’s nice of him,” I say. I’ve lived with this woman for practically my entire life—she knows tha
t I don’t give a shit about gardening.

  I follow Mum into the house and we sit on the couch. She picks up the remote control from the side of the leather couch and mutes the TV. It always feels strange when I’m here. Home. Even though I’d always be welcome back, I still can’t help but feel like a guest. Probably ‘cause Mum keeps changing everything ‘round. There’s guaranteed to be some piece of furniture moved, or replaced with another. The cream-coloured carpet has gone through at least two different shades in the last two years. And that black bookshelf next to the TV was definitely oak before I left. Don’t know why she bothers; the house has always been fine. Never dated. Always modern and spotless from top to bottom. Out of everyone in the family, we were the first to get a flat screen TV, and most certainly the first to get an icemaker fridge/freezer.

  “Where’s Max,” I ask, scanning the room for the dog.

  Mum’s smile suddenly vanishes. “He died.”

  My stomach flips a little when I hear her soft, morbid words. “Died? How come?” I ask, trying not to seem too upset; I can tell by Mum’s eyes that she’s been through it already.

  “Lung cancer.”

  “Really?”

  Mum nods, her eyes clearly burning with grief. I feel guilty for bringing down her chirpy mood—but how was I supposed to know?

  “Jesus,” I say, placing a hand over hers. “When did this happen?”

  “Three weeks ago.”

  “Oh, Mum, I’m so sorry. Why didn’t you say something?”

  Mum forces a smile. “What—and spoil your wedding? Don’t be so silly. He was eleven. That’s not bad for a dog. Plus, he had a good life. And at least he had you to play with.”

  “Yeah, I suppose, but, I mean…how’ve you been coping on your own?”

  “I’ve been fine, Matt. Don’t worry about me. I do have a life outside this house you know.”

  “I know you do, but…”

  “But nothing. I’ve got friends. Neighbours. My sisters. And it’s not like you’re living on the other side of the world. Swansea’s only forty minutes away.”

  “Yeah, I suppose so,” I say, ruefully, knowing damn-well that I haven’t been paying much attention to her at all, otherwise she would have told me about Max weeks ago.