Ghosts

Boxes are being moved about downstairs. There's nobody there. I
know, Bill checked half an hour ago. He took the big torch and searched
the cellar from one end to the other while I peered down the trap. It
was empty. The cellar is always empty, a little dust, no boxes. There's
one now, one of the boxes that aren't down there, being dragged across
the floor. Scrape. Stop. Scrape, scrape. Thump. Footsteps hobbling to
the other end of the room, then scrape, scrape.

I'm not scared. Bill is beside me, the nightlight is on and moonlight
casts a shadow on the curtains. I'm not scared because I know the
cellar is empty. I know the noises that sound like boxes dragging and
footsteps stomping are really the house contracting as the summer heat
evaporates to the stars. I know that my imagination is filling my head
with crazy ideas. If I weren't imagining it, Bill wouldn't be solidly
asleep. He wouldn't be curled in a ball, snoring. He'd be down there
with a poker shouting at the old man, filling up with rage.
'How dare you make that noise at this hour? Get to bed you crazy old
man.'
I'm assuming it's a man. Those boxes sound too heavy for an old dear to
drag. I'm assuming he's old because it doesn't seem right to have a
young man locked up in the basement.

I listen some more. The boxes must be harder to stack now. Each time
the dragging stops it takes longer for the thump to come. The same way
you can tell how close the lighting is from the thunder, I know he's
piling them higher. The strangest thing is I know his name. He carved
his initials into the brickwork by the bottom of the cellar ladder.
'P.K. 1867.' I guess he only had a nail and each night he etched a
little more from the bricks making the lines soft and deep. Sometimes I
hear P.K. scratching too.

Once I heard him cough. That disturbed me. Bill was away on a business
trip so I was alone in the house. I was drinking coco in the kitchen
when I heard P.K. coughing downstairs. He didn't just clear his throat.
He had a fit, hacking away as if it was his last breath. I wanted to
climb down with a glass of water, pat him on the back, help him breath
slowly, but I knew he wasn't there. I sat at the table trying to
imagine I couldn't hear anything. After a while, he stopped coughing.
Then I heard the sound of a box dragging across the floor.

I tried unearthing the history of the house. The noises started a month
after we moved in last spring. Of course Bill can't hear them. Or
rather, he doesn't want to. To Bill the noises are the house
contracting in the cool of the night or the wind or any excuse he can
think of to get a good night's sleep. I can't blame him. For a man in
his position the thought that he could entertain such fanciful notions
could ruin his career forever. His reputation is built on clear,
rational thinking. He makes difficult decisions each day of his life
and those decisions are based on cold and calculated fact. Nobody can
believe any different. When I tell our friends about our ghost he leans
across the dinner table and gently mocks my fragile mind. And I don't
mind that. I know his reasons. I understand his position. I can take a
little ribbing from his gentle mouth. But sometimes when were alone
together on the pillow and the scraping starts I whish he could
entertain me, instead of kissing my cheek and turning out the
light.

From below us, there is a bang. A noise so violent the whole house
quakes, windows rattle and the bedroom door flies open. Bill sits bolt
upright, eyes straining into the darkness, his hand digging into my
arm.
'You heard that then?'
'I think the boiler's blown. We should have called the service guy when
we moved it.'
'That wasn't the boiler. It was P.K.'
'Very funny Laura, your ghost gets up to all sorts of mischief. But I
should go see what damage there is. There might be a gas leak.'
'My brave Bill's going to get naughty P.K.'
'Don't talk like a child Laura.'
Bill gets his gown from behind the door. Moonlight quivers across his
shoulder muscles and I want to be with him more than I want to stay in
my warm bed.
'I'm coming with you,' I say, taking my robe.
'Well don't turn any lights on. We don't want to spark a fire. And
bring your holy water.'

Silver frosts the stairs with magical light. The flowers on the
windowsill have turned to ice. The carpet a fresh fall of snow,
glistening beneath our feet. The photos of Bill's children that step
down the stairs have turned to etchings. With the details obscured,
they could be children from any time. I reach for Bill's hand and we
descend.
'No smell of gas, maybe it was a cat. Or a fox, got in through a
window.'
'It was P.K.'
'Come on then, lets see if we can wake him up.'

All the downstairs doors have been blown open too. I press the front
door closed but it swings back open. The lock is shot. Bill examines
it.
'So much for a cat, it must have been the boiler. I don't know why it
would have imploded though.'
I mouth 'P.K.' but I don't say it out loud. I'm glad I'm with Bill and
he didn't leave me upstairs.
'Lets try the kitchen.'

The kitchen has been devastated. The cupboards and drawers are all
open. All the crockery, the cutlery, the fruit bowel and anything else
that wasn't fixed down, lies smashed in a pile over the cellar trap.
Plates have been crumpled like paper, forks twisted into lightning
bolts and fruit pulverised into barely recognisable contortions.
'Wow,' says Bill. He rubs his neck. 'I've never know anything like
this.'
'Oh my.' I reach down but Bill pulls me back. I've never see the
expression on his face before. 'I don't think we should touch it. The
police would want it left as it is.'
'The police? Bill, it isn't a murder scene.'
'They'll want to investigate what happened to the boiler. We should go
to your mother's for tonight, call them in the morning.'
'But how could this be - '
I'm cut short by an unearthly moan from the cellar. It starts low and
rumbling. I feel it in my feet first. A salty breeze blows across the
room. Bill looks at me. He can hear it too. The noise builds. The
breeze becomes a gale twitching at our robes. The cupboards start to
swing on their hinges. The drawers jostle in the cabinets. Then the
table - the solid oak table that took three removal men to lift -
starts to shake. It jumps an inch across the floor. Bill shouts
something but I can't hear him. He tugs my arm but I can't move. My
robe thrashes around me so violently the belt slashes my legs. It's
hard to stand. Wind screams in my ears. It's getting hot. Scorching
heat comes from nowhere blistering my hands and face. The wall behind
the cooker starts to brown, then blacken. A flame shoots up the wall
and across the ceiling. The last thing I remember is a shockwave
lifting clear of the ground and the impact of bricks on my back.

She has been out in the sun too long, must have fallen asleep. She
shifts around to keep the heat off, but her arms still burn, her face
too. There's an odd smell, something over-cooked. Her head is spinning.
It's quite difficult to catch her breath too. It's light, but not the
amber that follows a long beach, an intense white light that irritates
the eyes, even when they are closed.

She opens her eyes, but there is nothing to see. A dense fog obscures
her view. She blinks, trying to bring the world back into focus, but he
murk refuses to lift. She fumbles a hand out and then brings it to her
face. She can't see it. Her fingers feel cloth, she feels pressure on
her face, something wrapped around her, covering her.
'Bill!'
Her ears are covered too. She can hear her lungs wheezing, heart
starting to pump.
'Bill!'
She can hear muffled thumps in the distance, the sound of boxes moving?
Her fingers pick at the material, but the wrap is too tight.
'Bill where are you?'
At the back of her head, she feels knots. She pulls at them. A blister
ruptures. Her moist fingers slip from the fabric. She begins to sob.
'Please help me.' The tears are sopped up before they reach her cheek.
She strains. She scratches frantically at her mask. Two cold hands
clasp her wrists. She screams.

'I'm here darling,' says Bill's voice from behind her, 'There was an
accident, but everything's going to be alright.' A hand pulls her
shoulder gently into a soft body. Bill's scent permeates her mask. She
collapses into him, sobbing with relief. She feels tears on the exposed
part of her neck. No hers.
'The doctor said you have to keep the bandage on for a few days, buy
your eyes are ok. That's the main thing, your eyes are ok.'
'What happened to me?'
'The boiler exploded. You were right in front of it. The blast threw
you across the kitchen, knocked me out too.'
'What's wrong with my skin Bill?'
The body pulled away from her, lifts her legs to one side and sits
down. The hands pick up her right hand, as if it is a fragile
parcel.
'You've been burnt Laura. On your face and on you arms. Doctor Heaton
said it isn't really that serious but&;#8230;'
'But what, Bill? Oh Billy, you tell me the truth now.'
'There may be some scarring.'
'Scarring?'
'I though you were dead Laura. But you're ok.'
'Tell me Bill.'
'There's a band of severe burnt skin around both wrists. And across
your face, there's an area about the size of a hand. The skin will
repair itself, but Doctor Heaton wanted you to know there may be some
long term damage.'
'I want to see.'
'You have to keep the bandage on.'
'Fetch me a mirror Bill.'
He sighs, thinks for a minute then stands. She hears him rummaging
around, then scissors snap around her head and he starts to unwrap. The
light becomes brighter with each, turn forcing her to screw her eyes
up. Then she feels air stinging her face, and the cotton wool lifted
from her lids.
'You can open you eyes now.' Just like the fist time he took her to the
house and stood her in the dilapidated living room.

All she can see is light. Then there are edges, which fall into shapes.
The shapes become objects, blurred and indistinct. A pink oval up close
resolves into a face, an old man with a beard leering back at her. She
blinks and blinks until the face becomes clearer. Bill hasn't shaved
for days. Bruised skin sags around his eyes. His brow has become
furrowed.

--This is work in progress. If you would like me to finish it, please
email or vote. Thank you --