The following day, Fiona looked bad. She had spent the previous night sleeping in a rigid state. Why? Because Katrina's bed was only a singular. Usually, Fiona would stretch her legs out. It was her sleeping ritual, but she couldn't do that in Katrina's bed. Too small.
So, the result was a bad night of sleep. Fiona looking like a ghost painted on a black wall.
Downstairs in the kitchen, Steven was ready for another day at work; he had his visor jacket on.
'I'll take it; you slept last night in the girl's bedroom?'
'Yeah.'Fiona said, making herself a coffee. 'Do you want one?'
'No. I'm good.' Steven said, shaking his head.
'Well, I need one, that's for sure. Those single beds are meant for sharing.'
'I think that's why they call them singles. So, I'll take it the girls weren't okay last night?'
'Not really; Katrina was having trouble.'
'With him?'
'Who else?'
'Sorry, stupid question. So what was he doing?'
Fiona thought about last night as she drank the coffee she had made. 'You know, the usual.'
'Do you want to speak about it?'
'Not if you don't mind being late.'
'Five minutes won't hurt. So, what happened?'
Fiona told Steven about the old man, the ghost, not letting Katrina sleep.
'Never any rest from the wicked, eh?'
'You can say that again. I just wish Chris would text.'
Steven looked doubtful. 'I think that ship has sailed.'
Fiona allowed that comment to hang around for a second, but then she blew it away.
'You never know, he might reply.'
There was hope in her voice - Steven heard it like a song - being played on the radio. But he found the lyrics hard to swollen, the melody of key.
'I think you need to wake up and smell the coffee.'
'And what does that mean?'
'Exactly what it means, this thing, in our home. It's too much for Chris and him being under the weather; he might not be.'
'You reckon; he's faking it?'
Steven made a big gesture with his shoulders. 'I don't know, he could be!'
'Or maybe he has something to do with it.'
'The old man?'
'Why not? I'll mean, the last thing he wants is us getting help.'
Fiona could have a point - nobody got that ill; they couldn't make a phone call or send out a message. Unless that person was dying, or the latter. It had something to do with the old man.
Maybe that was true, but right now, Steven had to get moving.
'Listen tonight when I get in from work. Why don't we all go out? Get away from here, you know.'
'Where?'
'Anywhere, KFC, Pizza hut, who cares?'
'Sounds good. I think the girls will like it, as well, and talking about the girls. I'm best, waking them up for school. I just hope Chris texts.'
'Me too. Fingers cross.'
Fingers cross, indeed.
Chris was starting to feel a lot better than he had done in the past few weeks: well enough for him to write in his journal.
Below is the entry; the date is not given.
Author's Note.
It should be noted here with permission from the writer. The pages where Chris speaks about his non-involvement with the Berman case don't exist in this paperback version. The publisher and I believed this was slowing the pace of the real story down. The Richmond Haunting. The original chapter, however, can be found in the hardback edition; and on Kindle.
********
Chris Simmons' journal.
At last, I'm feeling much better; the fever has gone away! Two weeks of idling around at death doors. And I don't give a hoot what anybody says. Man flu is a bitch, but at least it's over. And not before time, I might add.
And you know what's been strange about the fever? Every time I would think about that house on Richmond Street or the family going through hell in that property, the aches and pains would grow worse. I've never known a fever like it.
At least — I'm over it now. I can hold my food down without throwing up or spending an hour plagued by diarrhoea. What's more, my appetite has come back with victory. Last night, for example, I even got myself a takeaway, something I never do.
I just wish the same could be said about the bad dreams I keep having. My slumber has become a horror channel of late. Each night when I go to bed, I'm ridden with nightmares. Some of them are so bad — I wake up terrified. And on one occasion, even crying.
It's been a regular theme since going to Richmond Street and getting involved with the Berman case. Some I can remember, others fade away as the day gets older. But one hasn't. My own funeral.
That one has repeated several times in my slumber. I'm able to pen down every scene. Enrich them with details like an author might do when creating a story.
I'm a pallbearer, carrying my own resting place of wood upstairs to the bedroom. A strange place to have a burial, but I have to keep telling myself — it's a dream. And dreams don't have rules. But the funeral does.
Save for the carpet in the bedroom, it looks different, why I can't say, but more people are standing around, five or six in counting. They're looking down at one particular spot, which makes the carpet a stranger to me. Only when they move aside — do I see why.
That one part of the carpet isn't made of fibres loomed together. For some reason, it's made of loose soil — the kind that will sprinkle through your fingers. Parts of it have been dug up. Two men are stood over it with shovels.
'It's almost time.' One says, looking away from the dug grave and at the bedroom window. From somewhere out in the black night, a church bell strikes three times. The sound is sombre, like an owl tooting. But there is nothing pleasant about the sound. It has a heartbeat of fear.
'Almost time.' The gravedigger speaks again.
No doubt because in walks the vicar, an elderly man in his late seventies, his face ivory, grey hair on top.
Next to him is a choirboy. The whole scenery — from what I can see, doesn't belong here. The century is a cry back to Queen Victoria. The men are clothed in black suits, dark gloves, and hatbands. The women in mourning dresses.
'It's only a dream.'
But I'm afraid. It doesn't feel right, all this. Dreams cannot be so strong. You can smell the surrounding people and taste the air.
The vicar knows this because he looks at me, smiling, but his leer is not amity. It's dangerous and feral in nature. And he keeps looking at me, and just for a moment, I get the feeling. He stood over me, watching me slumber.
'It's almost time.'
There it is again, that warning, for whom.
Me?
I don't know. I feel trapped, caged in because the mourners are closing in, touching and prodding me. I try to escape — but to no avail. The hands touching me are forcing me into that waiting coffin. Tearing at my clothes.
How can they know my greatest fear, being buried alive?
'Because we know you.'
How is that possible? I'm a stranger, a character who shouldn't be here, but they keep chanting that phrase over again!
'We know you.'
'We know you.'
'We know you.'
It's only a whisper, the voices, but loud enough for me to hear.
The vicar looks down at me. I can see him praying over me, and again, the church bells ring out in the black night. The same as before, three times and now part of the coffin lid is sealed shut. Only my face and chest are exposed.
Looking up, I can see the gravediggers loading their shovels with dirt and throwing it in. It makes a thumping sound as it comes into contact with the coffin lid. And again, the gravediggers, working as a team, bend down together and dig their spades into the mountain of earth. Once again, spraying the coffin with it.
It happens too fast. I cry out for them to stop, but they don't listen, and again those church bells ring out.
'Please stop what you're doing.
They don't listen. The gravediggers fork their spades into the dirt, pouring it onto the coffin. Some of it sprinkles onto my face. I shake it away like a dog coming in from the rain.
'I have to wake up.'
A thick chorus like a stench of out-of-tune music breaks out among the mourners standing around the coffin. The women are laughing, pointing their fingers at me.
'You can't stop him. You can't help them. Never, never, never.'
The men don't laugh; they can't because they don't have faces. Their features are like pillars.
Yet, they stand over the coffin, looking down at me, as once again — the gravediggers throw it more dirt. Sprinkles of it, turning my face into a mask of soil. Where — no matter how much I shake my head and spit the dirt out, it keeps coming in. Thumping against the coffin lid. Thump, thump, thump.
Until the sound is muffled and the dirt has now become heavy, somehow pressing down on the coffin lid.
'And now let's pray for the pig.' The vicar says, and he opens the prayer book in his hands, his face burning with disgust as he speaks.
'Eternal rest grant unto him, O Lord, and let perpetual light shine upon him.'
The vicar is spitting these words out, his face reeking with disgust. Something is not right about him. I know this because as he continues to read from the prayer book, various animal noises can be heard from the back of his throat. A pig snorting, a lamb crying out, bleating.
I can't remember what happens next, only the part where I wake up and see the vicar standing over me. An old man.
'Stay the fuck away, stay away.'
**********
Author's note.
Chris writes he now believes the ghost problem could be something else. Demonic. Although he can't be certain for sure. His fret is only speculation. But he does make a note of going back to that house. ASAP.
And getting those tapes to find out for sure.