The Cursed Hill (Rick Thane Series Book 1)

Chapter 1 Client #23

My mother died two years ago from cancer.

The corner shop where we got the odd bottles of milk and some food items was a small Spar shop near Clapton train station. There were dozens of people milling around. Most of them were alive, though some of them were clearly deceased. One such unlucky lady was completely naked with a knife in her throat. She and I had already exchanged words, and there was nothing I could do for her. The only thing I knew she wanted was to find out who killed her, but the house where she used to live in was now the Spar shop, and her case was now cold and sadly forgotten. And because I couldn't help her, she loathed me.

"Hello, Mildred." Acknowledging her was, I felt, a good thing to do. All of the spirits that I have met tend to just want acknowledgement that they were still around, although almost all of them wanted something from me. Scowling, she headed straight for me and passed right through my body. My throat caught, and I felt blood choke me. Coughing, I moved away from her and went into the shop. "Cow." Spirits can be just as nasty as the living. Mildred was one of those nasty spirits. If they can't get what they want, they'll be spiteful just for the sake of being spiteful. I was thankful she didn't follow me into the shop like she usually does. But the remnants of how she choked to death still lingered. Sometimes spirits can become so emotionally charged they can affect the living, though they can affect me more than others.

The first time Mildred passed through my body, I thought that I was going to die. She made me feel the blade slice my throat, felt the warm blood pool in my mouth and choked me as I inhaled it. I fell to the floor in the middle of the shop, clutching my throat and struggling to breathe. She stood and laughed, watching me. I had to get out of the shop to stop her influence over me. Since then, I rarely visited the Spar, only if I needed to, but at least now I know what to expect. Spirits can have a detrimental effect on me, though I try not to let them overpower me like that.

Grabbing a jar of cheap coffee, a packet of gum and a four-pint milk bottle, I dodged Mildred as I left the shop and headed back to the house, spying the usual spirits in London. Most of them were from World War Two, though there were a few hit-and-run spirits and even a few Victorian spirits wandering around speaking about the egregious way young people wear their clothes.

Half an hour later, with a steaming mug of extra sweet coffee and a bowl of cereal, I was sitting in my cold, slightly musty-smelling room with my cassette playing Nirvana in the background. My pen was hovering over a half-written paper that was due in on the 1st of November. It was nearly noon, and it was still raining.

Everything was unusually quiet until someone ran across the landing and, banging open the bathroom door, upchucked most of the contents of their stomach. Rolling my eyes, I concentrated on my work. Academic books were scattered around my rather messy desk, but that didn't bother me as I knew where everything was. What did bother me was Edgar, who was in the corner of my room, asking me whether or not I'd be celebrating his birthday.

I looked at him and saw him looking at my full-length mirror. He couldn't see himself, but he remembered what he used to look like back in the day. Edgar was wearing an old army reserves' uniform, apart from the hat, which he said he'd lost the day he died.

Edgar told me what had happened during the London Blitz of 1940; he described it so vividly it was almost as if I was there. He had been called to duty after the siren wailed across the city. He was near Whitechapel, and the bombs hit one after the other, BANG, BANG, BANG! Roads and houses exploded into millions of pieces, igniting and raining down on the sleepy residents who had refused to leave their homes for the country. Edgar was sent to help the fire brigades put out a large fire that decimated an entire street, making it impossible to tell where a street started and where a house ended. He heard a scream and had run into a burning house to rescue someone, but another bomb dropped close by, shaking the houses' foundations and causing them to collapse. Poor Edgar was crushed to death.