Ghost of a Chance
By joyce_hicks
- 441 reads
THE GHOST OF A CHANCE
By: Joyce Hicks
THE house had taken George two painstaking years to build, but only
recently had he noticed the strange atmosphere. Nothing he could put
his finger on, but he'd sensed it as he finally completed the
decorations and moved in furniture. He hadn't mentioned it to Rachel,
but now she had finally noticed it too, and said so.
'We're probably just imagining it,' he said, trying to make light of it
all. 'Besides, the house is still settling. That could he it.'
'Settling my foot!' Rachel said sharply. 'I'm highly sensitive. I know
what I feel and there's definitely something eerie about this house! By
why?' she wailed. 'Spirits are supposed to haunt old houses, for pete's
sake, not new ones. It doesn't make sense. George? Are you listening to
me?'
George was staring into the fire, deep in thought. 'But it isn't really
new, is it?' he said pensively. 'Newly built, yes, but ninety per cent
of it was built with reclaimed materials, right? This house is one huge
compilation of very old properties, and all of them with long
histories.' He was silent a moment, then added, 'If there is something,
and I'm only saying 'if', then perhaps it came with something
else.'
'With something else?' Rachel's glance was withering. 'Trust you to
start talking utter rubbish!'
'It was only a suggestion,' he said with a resigned shrug. It was
normal for Rachel to invite his opinion on something, and then dismiss
it as rubbish. 'And you're probably right,' he conceded. 'It was a
stupid idea.'
Further attempts to discuss it rationally were met with the biting lash
of Rachel's temper, and the following days and nights became fraught
with anxiety. Rachel started jumping at shadows, fearful of moving
around the house after nightfall. The atmosphere became tense and
unbearable, reaching a terrible climax when their visitor finally
decided to show itself. George was the first to see it, and it happened
when he was least expecting it.
Rachel was preparing supper, and George had gone upstairs to shower. A
sudden, late-autumn burst of sunshine and blue skies had put them both
in better humour, and all thoughts of ghostly visitors were temporarily
forgotten.
He was walking back down the stairs when he saw her in the hall below,
standing in the soft glow from a table lamp. She was gazing at the wall
as though a mirror hung there, apparently absorbed in a last-minute
inspection of her appearance. A hand patted into place the soft
chestnut-coloured hair, interwoven with flowers, that swept up into an
elegant knot. She twisted and turned to inspect the beautiful white
gown, the soft folds that fell to the floor, the narrow bustle and the
train that flowed behind her. And then, apparently satisfied, she
passed through the wall and was gone.
Supper was abandoned, and in the sitting room Rachel paced agitatedly
up and down, tearing nervously at a handkerchief. She looked grim and
desperate. Her fear suddenly turned to anger and George, reading the
signs, braced himself for the verbal onslaught he knew would follow.
Rachel didn't disappoint him.
It was all his fault, she ranted, because he'd built the stupid house
with reclaimed materials from every spooky property in the county. And
why hadn't they bought a nice modern bungalow in town, close to her
family? This house was isolated. . . Perfect for ghosts! Rachel's
mother had warned her about George's stubborn-ness, and it was a pity
Rachel hadn't listened. A pity she'd married him in the first
place.
'So? What are you going to do about it?' Rachel concluded, glowering at
him and waiting for a response.
'Do?' George asked. 'What can I do?'
'It was you who suggested she'd come 'with' something,' Rachel seethed,
'so find it! Then sell it. Give it away. Burn it. Just get rid of
it!'
'But what if I can't find it'?' George pleaded. 'It could be virtually
anything, Rachel.'
'Then we'll move!' Rachel yelled, 'assuming we can find a buyer;
someone who won't mind that the house comes with a sitting tenant who
floats around at night and disappears through walls!'
'Move?' George was stunned. He'd invested years of hard work and
planning into this house and he loved it intensely. 'Move?' he
repeated.
'You heard me,' Rachel warned defiantly, 'unless you get shot of Lady
Macbeth!'
Over the coming days Rachel's fragile nerves got worse, which brought
on her migraines and acidy stomachs. Their visitor fleetingly appeared
several more times, but never in the same place twice. The rows and
petty squabbles increased.
George started moving out pieces of antique furniture, around which she
had been seen hovering and, unknown to Rachel, transferred them to a
lock-up for temporary storage. It was a futile exercise anyway, because
the lady in white seemed as determined to stay put as George was.
But then he saw her one night at close quarters. Rachel had gone to bed
and before turning in himself he decided, as he had on previous
occasions, to check the dining room.
He loved - and was justifiably proud of - this room with its panelled
walls, parquet floor and carefully chosen furniture. The centrepiece
was a magnificent oak refectory table, and there she sat at the head of
it, as though hosting a lavish banquet. George was captivated. She
gazed up at him with large soulful eyes that were full of mystery, and
he knew he'd never seen anything quite so lovely. For a few moments
they studied each other across the vast chasm of a hundred years or
more, until quite suddenly she dissolved into nothingness.
He didn't mention the incident to Rachel. Her nerves were already shot
to pieces, and there seemed little point in adding to her misery. In
any case they glimpsed her several more times after that, gliding
around the house like a flickering ethereal light.
Finally Rachel had had enough, and announced that she was going to stay
with her mother. 'Indefinitely, George!' she threatened, 'unless you
evict that awful apparition from this house!'
'But what else can I do?' he pleaded desperately. 'Move out all the
furniture? And it's not just furniture, is it? There are doors,
fireplaces, flooring, roof tiles and bricks. I mean, taken to its
logical conclusion I'd end up demolishing the entire house! Our dream
house,' he reminded her gently.
'This is no dream, it's a total nightmare!' Rachel screamed, before
finally driving away as though all the demons of hell were behind
her.
It was the following day when, in blissful solitude, he phoned Wally,
owner of the Antique Furniture Emporium, from whom George had bought a
lot of his furniture, and Wally listened with very little sympathy to
the whole, sorry tale.
'What else did you expect?' he asked impatiently. 'You know perfectly
well that I warned you when you bought it: wherever that refectory
table goes, she goes. And I should know. . . She haunted my warehouse
for weeks and scared a few potential clients witless! So frankly
George, if you're asking me to take it back--'
'Don't be daft!' George exploded. 'It's a beautiful table, and so's the
lady who comes with it!'
It was just a pity she'd taken so long to make her appearance. Perhaps
it was the move from the warehouse to George's house which had
disorientated her a bit, making it difficult to get her bearings. But
never mind, she'd settled in very nicely now. At long last she'd
finally been reunited with her table, which was why George would be
using it regularly in future. Last night she had even joined him at his
evening meal. And while he ate he'd chatted about his day, his life,
his difficult marriage, and she seemed to understand; even to
sympathise. She wasn't just stunningly beautiful either, but obviously
intelligent too, and he found this deeply attractive. Here was a woman
he could finally talk to, and furthermore she wouldn't answer back.
Would never argue with, or belittle him, the way Rachel did.
'So what are you saying?' Wally asked, sounding completely confused.
'Because I'm telling you mate, if the table stays the spook stays,' he
pointed out, 'and while the spook's there your wife'll never come
back.'
'Precisely,' said George.
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