Andrew looked terrible.
Chris had meant to pay him a visit, but time was no friend of his. Not with the other case in Blackpool and the one on Richmond Street. The last being the most violent.
Add to that — the seminars he was scheduled for on Thursday, one in the morning and the latter in the afternoon. That meant going through his notes. Checking for any grammatical errors because — the last thing — you wanted was to stumble halfway through a sentence thanks to a blunder in the writing.
It wouldn't make a good impression during the lecture, not when you had some students studying for their BA.
Everything had to be perfect, but his mind wasn't. It was everywhere at the moment. And his lack of sleep didn't help. Four to five hours a night, and that was something his slumber didn't like. He was an eight-hour man. But his workload wasn't allowing that.
Depending on what he had on, he would have to be up at six-thirty, and that was no fun, not when you came home around nine or eleven. Sometimes at midnight. Those days when he was ghost hunting.
No wonder he was so tired. It was everything in his work life, the lectures at the Union, the paperwork he had to proofread before the seminars, the investigations. Add to that the bad dreams he was still having.
Those really kept him awake soon after. They were scary — but not as bad as the sounds he would hear in the early hours. Voices, speaking in the bathroom, a dog that would suddenly bark, and the damn cat outside his window. Yes, the same one that attacked him.
And now, with all this, Andrew.
Lisa was concerned about him. The things she kept hearing about him. He wasn't himself — kept speaking to somebody.
It was her friend who mentioned it. She knew Andrew.
Of course, Lisa hadn't mentioned that house on Richmond Street. The old man haunting it.
Best not to. People only laughed when you spoke about ghosts and demons.
And how she came involved with these two happened like this.
Her good self and Andrew had gone to hear one of Chris's lectures. And it was different. A mile away from the other talks, no jargon tones, but straight talking.
And following that first and only lecture; (don't ask why), Lisa wanted to know how somebody became a psychic researcher. She also mentioned the gift that Andrew had. Psychic abilities.
Andrew had felt embarrassed when Lisa had told Chris about his talent because it wasn't something you spurted out, not during a first encounter. Yet Chris was an open book.
'Don't be embarrassed; we live in a world where most things are excepted, but if you want to know how I started hunting ghosts. There's a course you can take online. Parapsychology; it's a three-day course. Or you can take the long route.'
'Doing what?'
'Spending three years at the KPU.'
'Sorry, what's that?' Lisa asked; the abbreviation sounded too far right for her taste.
'The Koestler Parapsychology Unit. It's in Scotland, Edinburgh Union, if you must know.'
'Is that where you went?'
'Three years there.'
'Does it pay well? You know haunting ghosts?'
Chris laughed. 'Not really; my fees come from these lectures.'
'So, it doesn't pay anything, ghost hunting?'
'I'm afraid not, but if you want an insight into the work, I do, you're more than welcome to join me. As long as you pass the course online.'
And that's what happened. She and Andrew had applied for the parapsychology course online, passing with flying colours. And a week later, they went on their first assignment.
The first two nights were dead to the wind.
'So when does it kick off?' Lisa asked.
'When our invisible friends call the shots.'
And this invisible friend had been haunting a single dad's house, turning beds upside down, hiding things in weird places.
All poltergeist activity. Never violent, yet the dad of two wanted it gone. So, he had scurried the internet, looking for somebody who dealt with this kind of shit.
Nothing.
Everyone who came into contact with Chris did so by pure chance. And in Joe's case, it was overhearing a phone conversation when he was out shopping.
The father had made some feeble apology, then told Chris about his problems, how things kept disappearing. The walls around him were constantly speaking.
Chris had gone to the house, a two-bedroom property on a busy road, where at night, it wasn't uncommon to hear dickheads speeding up the road.
And for the first night, nothing happened there, but then on the second night, he went into the kitchen, and there he saw a glass of milk hung upside down. The milk was still in the glass.
With that evidence in the bag, it was time to find out who the ghost was.
In the past, Chris had worked with a young lady, a self-proclaim medium. But the woman had left the world of hunting ghosts after she became pregnant.
So Chris needed help, and quickly.
His job, after all, was proving that a place was haunted. Yet after that, sending the spirit to the other side was always down to the medium. And these people were really hard to come by, unless they came out with it.
And as luck would have it. A young lady did. A face he had spotted during his lecture. Who, after his talk, wanted to find out how somebody became a ghost hunter. Telling Chris, there and then, her friend Andrew was a medium.
So Chris took a chance and invited Lisa and Andrew to the investigation he was on.
Which, at the time, with them being present, nothing happened. Not until the third night.
Andrew had sensed a young boy. Lonely, confused.
The child had gotten sick and didn't understand the people in his mum's house, why she wasn't around.
Chris, asking the neighbours about the previous families who lived in the house, was told by a neighbour there was, in fact, a young boy who became sick and died in the house.
So that was the ghost, a child, missing his mum.
And that's how it was for most cases; the spirit, confused, lonely, unlike Richmond Street. That was something else. Demonic, terrifying. Effecting Andrew, big style.
'Is he really that bad?'
'Yeah, the university. They want him to speak with somebody.'
'Who?'
'Probably somebody from the well-being team.'
Chris — making a right turn. He and Lisa coming back from Blackpool — wanted to know if it would help?
'I mean, who's going to believe him?'
'I know what you mean. Ghosts and demons. T. V stuff.'
'Exactly. Have you seen him lately?'
'Andrew?'
'Yeah.'
'Not since we went out for that drink. I only know that he's staying at his mum's house.'
'Since when? I thought he and a few others were renting somewhere in?'
'He was, but his friends kicked him out.'
Chris said, wow. 'Some friends, eh?'
Lisa picked something up in his voice. And it had nothing to do with Andrew. It was the case in Blackpool.
'You're not God, okay? That woman was a con artist and a good one at that. She even had me fooled.'
'I know. I just can't believe I got scammed like that. I'm supposed to be a professional. Someone who knows what they're doing and somebody can con me like. I should sue the fucking bitch.'
'And what will that prove?'
'That you don't fuck with the hard cores.'
Lisa snigger. 'Sorry, I didn't mean to laugh, but it sounds like a film pitch.'
Chris glanced at Lisa, reflecting some of the humour, which soon disappeared with the thoughts of Andrew.
'How is he at the moment?'
Lisa didn't say anything; only her eyes did.
'Is there something you're not telling me?'
'It's best you pay him a visit?'
'What tonight?'
'Yes, tonight!' Lisa snapped, something she didn't mean to do, but Chris had to see Andrew for himself.
'Okay, what's the address?'
Lisa spurted out the address.
'Do you know it?'
'Not really, but the Sat will. What's the postcode?'
Lisa went on her phone and told Chris the postcode.'
Arriving at the location, he was taken aback. 'The hell happened there?'
He couldn't help —but notice the bedroom windows all boarded up.
'You're best going in there.'
'You're not coming in?'
'I don't want to, not again.'
'What do you mean, not again?' Chris asked.
The question; was pointless; he already knew the answer. 'Is there something you're not telling me?'
'Jesus, what is this, the third fucking degree? Okay, I've seen him once or twice, and each time I've spoken to him, he looks worse. Now, whether it's that house or not, I don't know, but sometimes I wish we never got involved...'
'They needed our help.'
'I know, I'm just saying.'
Chris, speaking with his eyes, undid his seat belt and got out of the car.
Outside the house with the wooden frames for windows, a strange stillness suddenly closed in around him like a jacket he didn't want to wear. Something wasn't right. He could feel it.
'It's late; maybe I should come back tomorrow.' He thought to himself. But he was kidding nobody. He was afraid.
'I don't want to be here.'
He really didn't, but he had to cross the no-man's-land, and that's what he did.
A woman came to the front door. She looked tired, as though she had spent a fortnight walking around and not sleeping.
'You are?' She asked, her voice stern, questioning.
'I'm a friend of Andrew. I'm from the University.'
'Do you have a name?'
'My name's Chris. I don't know whether Andrew has mentioned me or not.'
'He has. Come in.'
Chris did, much to his surprise, and he said thank you.
'I won't take much of your time. I know it's late.'
Krystal smiled. 'That's fine. Make yourself comfortable. Do you want a drink?'
Chris shook his head. 'No, you look dead on your feet.'
'Somebody who doesn't mince his words, I like that. So you're from the University?'
'That's right; I work on what you might call the ghost-hunting side.'
'So you're to blame?'
Chris didn't know where to look. He was still in awe — this complete stranger had allowed him into her house. He could have been anyone, plenty of muggers and rapists in the world today.
'You know the doctors don't think he's a danger to himself or anyone, yet they don't live here; they don't hear him screaming at night.'
'Has he seen anyone?'
'You mean like a doctor?'
'Yeah.'
'He hasn't left the house for weeks. He hasn't showered. And what he eats. Well.'
'Well, what?' Chris asked, not meaning to sound pushy, but he couldn't help it. Because usually, when somebody paused halfway through a sentence, it meant bad news.
And that was the case.
'Insects, mice, even rats. I don't know where they come from, but I saw him eating one. My god, it was still alive. But it's this old man he keeps speaking about.'
'An old man?'
'I know, crazy.'
Chris rose to his feet. 'Do you mind if I see him?'
'He might be sleeping, but you can try.'
Leading Chris into the hallway, Krystal went no further than the staircase. 'It's the door to your right.' she told him.
Chris gave the woman a reassuring look and made his way upstairs.
Standing outside the room, he knocked once.
'Who is it?'
'It's me, Chris.'
Behind the door came the sounds of chains rattling, bolts being undone. Chris waited a few seconds until he saw Andrew and couldn't believe how white and unshaven the man looked.
Lisa was right; he looked terrible.
'Can I come in?'
'Sure, why not?'
Chris went in — and there, he saw the reason for the clicking and the sound of chains rattling. Three padlocks were visible on the door frame.
'You like your security?' Chris said and commented on the boarded-up window.
Andrew wiped his mouth with the back of his hand.
'It keeps him out, the old man.'
Chris didn't need to ask whom Andrew had meant by the old man. And looking around the room, he saw a sandwich on the sideboard. A cloud of flies hung around it, treating it as a banquet.
'Are you hungry? You look famished.' Andrew asked, offering Chris a bite from the sandwich.
Chris looked at Andrew, still trying to get his head around the shocking state of his friend, and thought to himself, another month from now; he would be skin over bone.
'Your mum's worried about you. We all are.'
Andrew scoffed. 'Why I'm fine; long as I keep myself in here, he can't come in.'
'You know that's not true,' Chris said, looking at the state of the bedroom and trying to avoid the thick stench of cat urine — that hung in the air.
He put a hand over his nostril to block out the smell.
'You'll get used to it; he leaves it when he can't get in.'
'Who?'
Andrew looked at Chris, surprised by the question.
'Fuck, you are slow. I used to look up to you as someone who knew what they were doing, but you're like everyone in this fucked-up world. You only know what you want to know. It's why you had to get outside help. Yet, you want to know something; the church won't stop him.'
'How do you know about that, the church?' Chris asked, confused.
'He tells me.'
'Who does?'
'Him, the old man, he floats outside the window. Why do you think I boarded it up?'
'You need to speak to somebody.' Chris suddenly said. Andrew wasn't crazy, but the problems at that house had messed with his head.
'It's too late for that.'
'It's never too late. Everyone who cares about you will support you.'
'What about my mum?' Andrew asked.
'She only wants the best for you. We all do.'
And what happened here with these two players in this ghost story; this author here writing these words likes to believe Andrew got the help.
I never knew, not for a long time.
Only Chris, driving away, not saying anything.
And on Richmond Street, Fiona could feel something wasn't right. Harmony was too quiet.
'This old man, he played one.'