The Richmond Haunting (COMPLETED)

Chapter 38

In the days following the failed exorcism, Fiona, missing the girls with each hour and knowing that the old man was still at large in her house, began to suffer from depression.

Although it was never diagnosed by her doctor or by a team of mental health workers. Fiona knew her mind.

'I knew I was depressed, and the reason for it, the old man, just wouldn't leave us alone. Father Lamont would stop by most evenings and do what he had to do. The sessions sometimes, lasting for an hour, other times all night long.

It really was anyone's guess — how long the exorcisms would last in the house.

We only knew during the rituals; the ghost hunters would record what they could, but the old man would always delete everything. He was a cunt for doing that.

And when he did, Lisa would try to reclaim the lost footage, but it remained deleted.

Weeks went into months, and the only happy occasion we got during that time was the weekly visits from the girls, who were always accompanied by Angela.

Angela, during these visits, would write everything Steven and I did with the girls.

I hated the way — she would sit just there, like some toffee nose bitch throughout the meeting, never batting an eyelid — but remaining cold as ice, especially when Harmony and Katrina would break down and start to cry because they couldn't stay.

We would try to explain to the girls they couldn't stay with us because the social worker wouldn't allow it.

'Mrs. Berman, can you please not reveal information that my colleague and I are still to act upon!' She would say.

'I'm just trying to explain to my children why they aren't allowed to come home. Is that a crime?' I would snap at the social worker — who again would write everything I said.

And everything we did say — me and Steven — it was always twisted around in her notes. For example, I might yawn. Nothing to be alarmed about, but Angela would make a big issue out of it.

'Fiona, showing signs of tiredness, a possible case of CFS.'

What the fuck that was? I had no idea, and I had to Google it up.

It turned out to be a chronic fatigue syndrome.

The bitch really loved making a big deal out of everything; it's what she did.

Steven hated those moments, much as I did, but never said anything afterwards.

It was his way of dealing with it, I guess — but as far as the depression went. I knew I couldn't fight it. And to be honest — I didn't care.

That's the thing about depression; you just stop caring.

What, there's a party at a friend's house? Nah, I'm not interested. I've just won the lottery. 'Fuck it, give the money to someone else. I don't care.'

This is how it was with each day and with the nightmare — never-ending. I sunk deeper into myself.

Steven noticed and did what he could to perk me up.

Buying me crosswords books, something I did regularly when the girls had settled down for the evening.

Steven would buy me one each week, but the only thing, I did was look at the front page, nothing more.

The only thing that did interest me was the paranormal.

I would spend hours each day reading up on the subject. It became something of a fascination for me.