The Richmond Haunting (COMPLETED)

Prologue

"What a strange house!" Charles Dickens Bleak House

This could be based on actual events.

At 03:36 A.M., Fiona, on the verge of sleep, propped herself up in bed and looked over at the window. She heard scratching on the glass.

Weird.

It stopped for a few seconds — and she thought it was just her imagination. But then it started up again. This time, more violent. Almost like a legion of fingers were desperately trying to claw their way out of a coffin buried deep in the earth.

It had to be somebody out there, but that was impossible; she lived on the third floor of a tower block.

Still, she could hear it. A shuffling sound, becoming louder, more desperate.

Maybe a cat had climbed up. And it was now stuck on the window ledge, wanting to be rescued. But Fiona couldn't hear a cat outside, only the scratching sound.

'Who is that?'

It had to be somebody, and she cocked her head like a dog and listened more carefully, the urge to see what it might be; hard to resist. Yet she did because she had felt something odd.

The bedroom, my goodness - it felt like an icebox, as though somebody had left a window open all night during the winter. Yet this was summer.

Using her arms as a coat to warm herself up, Fiona shivered. 'Jesus Christ, why is it so cold in here?'

Maybe she was coming down with a summer cold. Those were a bitch.

'No, I'm fine.' And she was.

Fit as a fiddle, right as rain, no sore throat, the omen of all bad colds. But the coldness in the bedroom. Christ, it was worse than having a window open all night during the winter.

And the only way; Fiona could describe the icy chills — was like being locked in a deep freezer.

Her thoughts were broken by the scratching sounds again, only this time, she thought for a second; she heard a voice.

'What the fuck!'

It had spoken her name, or that's what she thought. It had been quick and sudden. A whisper.

Alarmed by what she heard, Fiona leaned over to where her husband slept, tapping his shoulder.

'Steven, wake up.'

But Steven only groaned in his sleep, leaving Fiona with the one choice in her head. She would have to see what was scratching at the window. And that's what she did.

Not that she was keen on the idea, far from it, but the scratching sounds were becoming louder. Yet something kept her feet moving. The voice in her head telling her it had to be nothing.

But the coldness in the bedroom — the voice that had spoken her name, they were real.

Or were they?

Difficult to really tell; it could all be in her head, the fragments of a bad dream still haunting her. That would be great, except for one thing. She had been on the verge of sleep when the noises gripped her.

No, she heard it, all the noises and approaching the bedroom window, she opened the curtains.

Looking out, she could see no cat sitting on the window ledge; in fact, there was nothing out there, save for the streetlamps, burning and vehicles parked outside.

But there was something out there in the car park, a clicking sound, somebody walking. Slow and deliberate.

Not that it surprised her - always somebody; lingering around in the early hours.

Yet, the car park was a ghost town — nobody out there - but those footsteps, invisible shoes clicking one, they were coming closer - much closer - until somebody began to emerge, a silhouette figure.

'Who the fuck is that?'

She leaned closer to the window and tried to see the person walking, but it was onerous to tell. Was it a young man or somebody much older?

She thought about opening up the window to get a better look. But she didn't have to because the person was now below the window, staring up.

It was an old man, Fiona could see, dressed in a black suit.

'Okay, you, you can move now.'

Nothing of the sort happened. The old man stood his ground, his face ashen, with no expression. And despite — the window being closed, Fiona thought she heard him whispering something.

Of course, that was crazy. No way — would she hear him say?

'Hey, can see you!'

But it felt as though she had, and again that was crazy, but no more insane than the old man, staring up at the window, smiling.

'What a fucking creep!' Fiona thought to herself and for a good reason. She was at the bedroom window with only a tee shirt on.

And that old man was leering up at the window —until he began to walk away, whistling a song so loud, Fiona could hear every word.

'This old man, he played one...'

The song, fading ... fading ... fading.