Haunted II - An Example of My Work

Stephen Fry loved, and hated that photo. It was a photo that showed him everything he had had, and everything he had lost.   

The effervescent Mrs. Fry, a Hollywood glimpse of white teeth gleaming at the camera, her laugh partially captured; limbs smothered by his arms.  He looked handsome in that photo; strands of afro brown hair flopping over his eyes, their legs intertwined, a moment of togetherness captured in a two dimensional square, now treasured on a marble mantelpiece over a worn out fireplace.

Julia had been dead for nine months, three days, 11 hours and 53 minutes. 

His hair was no longer brown; since Julia’s passing, greyness had stealthily crept like a disease through wisps of his stubbly beard and rooted itself in the ends of his eyebrows. 

Stephen sighed. People had suggested he find someone to talk to following his wife’s unexpected death, but he did not need a shrink to tell him what he already knew.  Loneliness scavenged away at his life.  It hung heavy in his stomach, fattening out his paunch and deepening the lines encasing his face.  Everything had changed since she had gone.

Movement at the end of the kitchen caught his attention.

‘Come on then, Duke.’

Slinking along the table, Duke gently head-butted Stephen’s cheek, and his tail brushed against the gold gilded photo frame.

‘At least I’ve still got you, Duke.’

Stephen wiped away a stray tabby-brown cat hair from the glass covering Julia’s face.  He watched as the tip of his thumb blotted out her smile.

A chime interrupted his thoughts.

‘Six o’clock already, Duke.’

With his thumbnail, Stephen scraped at a groove in the oak kitchen table.  He thought of the old oak tree he had chopped down last year and how he had admired the dendrochronology within the trunk.  That tree had been in his garden for generations, yet here was his old oak table which had been around for a lot less, but which he treasured so much more.  His Julia used to lean against it, sipping coffee every morning.

‘Perhaps you left me some DNA before you died, Julia.’

Or perhaps despite not being able to see her, he just had to believe that she was there.  

His nail snagged a piece of wood, and he stopped his scratching. The old boiler pipes creaked and groaned, as if the stone encasing them had become too heavy.   

Pushing his chair against the floor, Stephen steadied himself.  He stared at his whiskey glass.  

Empty.

‘I’m out, Duke.  Some more?’

The cat gave him a look that only other cats knew how to interpret.

‘That’s a yes then,’ he said, softly, reaching into the cupboard next to the fireplace.

Pouring whiskey into his crystal cut glass, he did not bother to admire the golden jewelled liquid.  Gold suggested wealth and prosperity – and despite whiskey always being in plentiful supply in his house, he had long ago accepted it had become a consolation prize for living.

His chair squeaked as he returned to his sitting position, as if giving a voice to the pain in his lower back.  No amount of alcohol could hide the aging brittleness of his bones, and the inability to stay seated in the same place for more than a few hours.

Trying not to make eye contact with Duke’s watchful eyes, Stephen moaned as he stood.  He lifted his arms in the air.

‘Ahhh, that’s better, Duke.’

Patting the table for his drink, his fingertips located the whiskey and with one hand reaching ahead, he took a lunge through the kitchen door and into the main hall.

The grandeur of the main hall had long ago been forgotten by Stephen.  It was only when a passing salesman or Jehovah’s Witness came calling, did he get reminded of how impressive Droylsden Manor appeared to others.  On the rare occasions when he could be bothered to answer the door to strangers, he often found distracted gasps of awe when they saw the grand stone fireplace surrounded by intricately carved pairs of animals in wood careening toward the ceiling.  They inevitably wanted to come inside to see more; the curved rich mahogany staircase glided up one side of the wall, luxurious heavy red rugs decked out the stone floor, and portraits of his ancestors hung on the dark wood panelled walls.

He never let anyone inside now.  The Manor had been in his family for generations, but now it was just him.  Everyone who got a glimpse inside never saw the things he did.  The crumbling walls, the leaky roof, the mishmash of history muddled together and caught somewhere between medieval and religious stories from long ago.

The visitors that really amused him were the film directors, always wanting a new location for their next horror film. 

Oooh, just imagine Mr. Fry, your house could be next on the big screen, imagine what it would do for the property value if some big Hollywood star worked here for a few weeks!

Stephen always shut the door in their faces. 

The funny thing is, all the talk of ghosts and ghouls in a haunted house was supposed to be fictitious.  

These film directors who came by wanting to use his house had absolutely no idea about the rumours.  It had been a secret in his family for generations. 

Stephen had never told anyone the truth.  No one had ever stayed in the house on All Hallow’s Eve. No one. No one had dared.  It was one of those family secrets which had been passed down until no one could remember who had said it in the first place, but then no one wanted to test the theory.  His Grandfather had once told him about an Uncle going mad after staying in the house one Halloween, but he suspected this was a story made up to frighten a schoolboy.  There was no evidence of such an Uncle – he knew – he had checked all the medical records. 

But he had never stayed in the house on Halloween before.  He had never tested the theory that the house came alive on 31^st October.

True, there had been a time as a boy when his parents had tried to take him on a visit to family in Whitby but he had forgotten his new remote controlled helicopter. Despite his parents’ protestations he had run out of the car and back into the house. It was the coldness that had struck him first, but before he had had a chance to look, his Dad had literally dragged him by the neck and marched him back to the car.  At first he told himself that maybe the heating had been switched off, but it had been the look on his Dad’s face that told him everything he needed to know.  That was the day he had seen fear.

But that was then and this was now and he no longer had anyone.  All he had, or did have, was his Julia.  With Julia gone, perhaps his only way to combat this unhappiness was to see her one last time.  To ask her why she left; and why she had to go. To get closure.

Stephen took a glimpse through the window.  Dusk had reclaimed the outside, stealing away the remnants of the day.  The lights inside the house gleamed brightly, shining truth into any hidden corner, or darkened cubbyhole.  He had already moved most of the furniture against the walls, there was no hiding here.  Even a power cut would not stop the light; he had two torches as back up, although he had resisted lighting candles as he found them too eerie. 

He had checked both torches multiple times but still could not resist the urge to check again.

‘On off. On off.’

The old Grandfather clock chimed a tuneless half note – six thirty. 

Stephen walked toward the window overlooking the drive.  Leaning against the wall, he stared out into the oncoming night, ignoring his reflection in the window panes.  He tried not to look too close – he knew all about faces appearing in the reflection of window panes in horror movies, and he was not going to be caught out by that. 

He could almost sense his ancestors screaming at him to get out the house.  He sipped at his whiskey and tried to take pleasure in surveying his grounds.  It had started to snow.  Wisps of whiteness glided from the darkness, alighting on his concrete driveway.  Illuminating the ground, the flakes folded crumpled and in unison, taking away the minute detail of his outdoor flowerbeds into something more subtle and mono.

A flicker in the distance grabbed his attention.

‘Trick or treaters.’

Stephen smiled to himself.  The kids in the neighbourhood always dared each other to come up the driveway to his house.  The rumours about the grand mansion were well known and it was considered a rite of passage into adulthood if you were able to walk the driveway and ring the front doorbell on Halloween.  He had stopped putting signs up years ago warning them to stay away.  It just made their challenge all the more exciting.    

A cool draft rattled the windowpane and Stephen took a step back.  He didn’t want to be seen by the outside world tonight. 

Nevertheless, he could see the torchlights congregating at the bottom of his driveway.  That was the problem with having all the lights on inside the house; everyone knew he was home. 

The Grandfather clock chimed seven o’clock.

He looked at his glass, it was nearly empty.

‘Best get a top up before the kids arrive…’

Sighing, he started to make his way toward the kitchen, but the shrill ring of his doorbell stopped him.

Perhaps it was best to get rid of them.

The heavy oak door seemed to shudder with age under his grip.  The brass door knob was always cold, but tonight it seemed colder.

‘Look kids…’

There was no one there.

‘Hello?’

Stephen peered around the concrete pillars on the forecourt of his porch. 

There was definitely no one there.

The snow had started to fall a little heavier, and Stephen ventured out.

Gosh it was cold.

Wrapping his arms into his chest, his hunched up body strode along the porch toward the driveway.  

Stephen squinted at his gated entrance.

He thought he spotted something moving near the bottom of the drive. 

Cool air stung his lungs. 

There were footsteps on the driveway.

Fresh impressions, side by side, trailed next to his frozen flowers.  What was not so clear was where they had come from.  The prints seemed to have appeared from the middle of his driveway, etching black grooves into the snow.

Stephen’s eyes followed the trail. 

Sweat settled above his top lip. Both pairs of footsteps stopped on the bottom of his porch. 

They had stopped, at the entrance to his house. 

‘Hello?’

His voice sounded dry.

‘Hello?  Is anybody there?’

Venturing back toward his front door, he could see the soft furnishings of his red armchairs against the walls inside the main entrance hall.  Taking a few tentative steps, he spotted the familiar portraits of his parents pinned to the wall.  Everything was bathed in an orange glow. 

His fingers tingled.  He longed for the warmth.  But more importantly, he longed to see Julia.

‘Come on, Stephen, get a grip.  Probably just some kids messing you about.’

He looked at the footprints again.  They had nearly disappeared.  

Entering the house, he did a quick survey.  Nothing seemed amiss.

With his back to the door, he nudged the door closed with his right foot. He listened for the click confirming the shut door.

And then everything went black.

‘CHRIST!’

Flinging his body against the door, Stephen’s spine moulded itself against the wood. But his legs trembled so much so, that he slid to the floor. He could hear his breaths, one after the other, in quick succession. 

‘Calm down calm down calm down calm down calm down…’

Perhaps this was not such a good idea after all.  Why had he decided to do this?  Everyone knew it was forbidden.  From a young age it had been ingrained into him – you hold someone’s hand when crossing the road, you don’t talk to strangers, and you definitely do not stay at Droylsden Manor on All Hallow’s Eve.

He allowed his hand to venture out into the darkness.  His fingers crawled along the grooves of the door, and he reached for the door knob.  He had to get out.

‘Damn damn damn damn damn…’

Grabbing the metal, he tried to yank it open but before he could even register this fact, blinding pain shot down his arm.

Stephen sucked in his bottom lip in an attempt not to cry out.

A freezing imprint of ribbed iron had been left on the palm of his hand, the smooth burn taut and shiny on his skin.

‘Okay okay okay… so you’re not getting out of this just yet…’

His breathing told him he was terrified.

‘Stay calm stay calm… come on Stephen, calm it down…’

He tried hard to think.  His mind blurred by alcohol, he forced his mind to remember where he had left his torch.

On the table by the front door. On the table by the front door! Yes!

Slowly, he moved from his crouched position and with his hands held out in front of him, he stretched into the darkness.

Within seconds, he had located the table.

‘Oh thank you God, thank you thank you…’

His face fell as his injured hand brushed against the plastic tubular torch.

It clattered to the pine flooring.

The noise seemed to echo through every door in the building.  Stephen could have sworn that the walls vibrated.  Could he have been any louder?

Dropping to the floor, he reached under the table, allowing his injured hand to pat in a wide circular motion.

Success!

He did not care how much it hurt to hold onto the torch with his burned hand; all he cared was that he had the thing, and that it was not broken.

But then something touched his leg.

His scream lasted perhaps two seconds. 

He could not move.  Fear had paralysed him.  His arms clung around his leg.  Something had touched his calf.  Something solid.  He felt like crying.  He knew his eyes were wide open.  All the courage gained from the alcohol seemed to have left his body. Sweat slid down the back of his neck. 

He wanted to put the light on, but he was too scared of what he might see.

Aware that his breathing seemed so loud in the emptiness of the blackness he placed his forehead on his knees.  The table leg dug into his back, but he did not care.  He had to calm down, or he feared passing out.

Tears brimmed on his eyelashes. At first he thought the growling sound was coming from him, but then he realised it wasn’t.

His breathing stopped.  He strained to hear. 

The low rumble sounded some distance away, and he was thankful for that.  The rumble grew into more of a cry, and then he smiled.  He recognised that sound!

‘Duke!’

Perhaps it had been Duke who had touched him!

With shaking hands, he fumbled for the torch.  He had to see. 

The brightness cut into the blackness.

‘Duke, it’s okay…’

He could hear his cat hissing inbetween guttural growls.  Venturing from under the table, Stephen tried to steady the torch light.

There he was. By the fireplace.

Pinpointing the light onto his cat, he clung to the torch. 

Duke was terrified.  His claws dug into the pine flooring, and the fur on his back was so high it looked like pin pricks.  Bushy-tailed, Duke bared his fangs, hissing and growling.  But what scared Stephen was the fact that Duke’s eyes were wide and fixated on empty space ahead of him.  There was nothing there. 

‘Duke!’

Stephen tried to gain his companion’s attention, but Duke paid him no attention.  Stephen watched transfixed as Duke retreated backwards, as if he was being forced to move by some unseen force. 

Stephen jumped.  With a howl, Duke scarpered.

‘Duke, DUKE!’ Stephen whispered, his voice sounding harsh.

Sweeping the torchlight across the entrance hall, Stephen looked worriedly for his feline friend.  There was no sign of him.  He checked the corners of the room with the beam, even the inside of the fireplace, and then finally, the stairs.

There was someone standing on the staircase.

Stephen switched off the torch.  His fear was now complete.  There was someone standing on the stairs.  He knew it was not his Julia.  There was someone standing on the stairs. This was a man.  A dark shadow of a man.

Stephen did not care anymore.  He was at the point he had often reached in nightmares – when the fear was so much he just wanted it to end. 

The soft chime of the Grandfather clock interrupted the stillness.  Nine o’clock.

He would wait.  Stephen decided that he would wait.  There was no way he was going to move from this spot.  He was going to wait for whatever that thing on the stairs was, to go, to leave him.  Or… come to him… but that was not worth thinking about.

Stephen tried not to think about being watched.  Of course the man knew where he was, but Stephen was so scared, he was riveted to the spot.  Fear had seized his bones.  Nothing moved.  Adrenaline surged through his veins, sweat still bled from every crevice of his body.  It pooled on his stomach. 

Stephen was going to wait until morning.  The curtains were open.  The sunlight would make everything okay.

Ten o’clock.

He wondered what had happened to Duke.  Was he okay?  Then he thought of Julia.  There was no way she was here in this house with that thing on the stairs.  If she was here, he would have known by now.  All he could feel was the coldness coming off that thing on the stairs. 

Eleven o’clock.  Even the chiming of the clock sounded more heavy and oppressive.

Once he got past midnight, it would be okay.  Stephen felt sure of it.  His body shook.  Cold sweat caused goosepimples to rise on his arms.

A single chime signalled eleven thirty.

Thirty minutes to go.

Steeeepheeeen.

CHRIST! What was that?

Steeeeeepheeen…

Julia?

Squinting in the darkness, Stephen thought he saw a light.

Was it Julia?

Perhaps he should wait.

Steeepheeen…

But then he remembered his Julia.  He remembered the little things.  The way she had tucked her chestnut coloured hair behind her ear.  The way she always stirred her cup of coffee in a clockwise direction three times.  The way she always kissed him at 8.35am and at 7.15pm, just the way he liked it.

‘I’m coming Julia.’

Flicking on the torch, a beam of light lit the way to the stairs.  Daring with all his strength, he ventured the light upwards and with a sigh, he saw that the staircase was empty.

‘Steeeepheen…’

Gripping the table lip, he pulled himself to his feet, trying not to cry out at the pain in his knees.  His Julia was here, and he had to see her.

Limping, he dragged his legs to the stairs, trying to ignore his heavy feet.

Hand on the bannister, he raised his foot up and looked.

Nothing.  Staircase was still clear.

‘Steeepheen….’

He saw a white light, like a floating star, drift in the doorway of one of the bedrooms off the landing.  

He could not believe it.  His Julia was really here.

‘I’m coming my lovely, I’m coming!’

Amazed at his own braveness, he quickened his steps to the landing.

Then the light disappeared.

Stephen clung to the banister.

‘Julia?’

His voice faded.

Then there, in the black stillness, he saw a figure emerge. At first the lines of a silvery silhouette appeared, curved and delicate.

‘Julia!’

He recognised her.  The wavy hair, her dark blue eyes, her silk nightdress, clinging to her body down to her knees.

She smiled. 

‘Oh, Julia…’

Tears trickled down his cheeks.  He raised his hand to her, his shoulders a shivering judder.

Arms outstretched, he sensed her presence, the smell of her Dior perfume wafted over  him.

‘I’ve missed you so much, Julia.’

And as he let himself rejoice in the reverie of their meeting again, Stephen Fry’s imagined words from his Julia at their reunion were not forthcoming.

Instead, there were no words.  Just one, almighty, push.

When clearing the first three steps, all Stephen could think of was the ‘o’-shaped circle of his mouth.

Knowing he was going to hit steps four, five and six, he waved his arms like a drowning swimmer but nothing could stop his spine from hitting the edged wooden steps.

There was a sound, like splintering wood, but Stephen knew it was not wood.

Giving in to his fate halfway down the stairs came as a relief.  So this was how it would end.

And it wasn’t until his battered body started to crumple into the bottom of the stairs, did he really start to understand why she had done it.

The lies.

The obsession.

His grief which blinded his guilt.

And his rage. His never ending rage that he had failed to control the day his Julia had died.

He could see his Julia more clearly now.  The sadness in her eyes was more apparent. But he saw something else.  His anger was now part of her.

And as her lifeless spirit made its way to meet his as it left his incapacitated body, he saw something else behind Julia which forced the last few beats of his heart to peter out into stillness.

The dark shadow of a man, he recognised as the man from the staircase, the man who came out once a year to haunt this house and plague the unfortunate souls who dared to remain in it on All Hallow’ Eve.  And he was grinning. 

______

Other examples of my short stories include:

Man on a Ledge (Falling for You)
The Life and Time of Norma Ennis
Quid Pro Quo
Haunted
Alice in Wonderland (An Icelandic Love Story)
Walking Down the Aisle
A Second Chance at Life
Bought and Paid For

Author update - you can now purchase my debut novel, 'Where Were You When the World Ended?' from the Amazon Kindle store.