A Book of Good Things

This is a pic that I took of a completely normal and non-haunted book

“Just let me take a quick picture,” Violet said.

I sighed. “It’s just a basic burger. It’s nothing special. And you already took a picture when I sat down.”

“But now it’s got a bite taken out of it,” Violet said. “It’s more authentic.”

“It’s just a burger.” I stared at her. “There’s a MacDonalds in every High Street. Think about it, Burger King is everywhere and you can get burgers in half the pizza and curry delivery places in town. This isn’t fancy!” I put the burger back on the paper wrapper. “Take a picture if you must.”

“You’re right,” Violet said thoughtfully. “It’s not really fancy. Hang on.”

I could feel my jaw drop as Violet picked out a spray of plastic foliage from the display next to the table and arranged it artfully across the soggy bun. “That’s better.” She snapped some pictures, turning the paper to get better angles. “You can eat it now.”

“Somehow I don’t feel so hungry,” I said. “Not after that plastic thing has been on it. I mean, the furnishings here have seen some stuff.” I winced as I saw the manager approaching.

“I’m sorry, but I’m going to have to ask you to leave,” she said firmly.

“But this is exposure!” Violet said.

“We’re leaving,” I murmured. “I’m really sorry.”

“People can’t get enough of food content,” Violet said, protesting as I grabbed her arm. “It’s organic marketing.”

“I’m really, really sorry,” I told the unimpressed manager.

“Sales can go through the roof from the right sort of post,” Violet called over her shoulder as I pulled her out of the burger place. “I’ve seen it happen.”

“Please don’t come back,” the manager said, shutting the door as I pulled Violet away and down the street.

“Vi, it was just a £1.50 burger, but I was looking forward to it.” I stopped and looked at her. “I know that you want to do the whole influencer thing, but cheap burgers aren’t going to get you noticed. Why don’t you do hair and beauty?”

Violet’s shoulders slumped. “Kylie would kill me,” she said. “She’s really good to me, but she’d never tolerate me sharing salon secrets.”

“Kylie’s a good friend as well as your boss,” I said. “And I suppose you’re right. You have a waiting list for clients and you star in all of her social media posts. Maybe you can talk with her about collaborating or something.”

Violet shook her head. “Hair and beauty is oversubscribed,” she said. “And, to be honest, I don’t want to always be doing hair. Don’t get me wrong, I love my job,” she added quickly. “But it would be nice to do something else.”

I patted her shoulder. “You’ll find something,” I said. “I just don’t think that it’s going to be food. Anyway, let’s get a burger from the food van. I’m still starving.”

I worried about Violet. She was a genius at the salon, and I know that Kylie treasured her, and she had the sweetest, kindest, most generous soul that I’d ever met. She also had the resilience and depth of a petal. She was sort of a friend, and sort of a cousin, and I felt that she was also sort of my responsibility. I’d been in the same classes at school, frantically dragging her away from daydreams to get her to lessons on time, scaring off the bullies, and hoping against hope that something – anything – would stick as she drifted through life. She came to life when she was styling hair, with a drive and authority that would match any sergeant major. Away from that, however, she was a vulnerable sweetheart with a heart of gold. I spent a lot of time worrying about what fad she’d pick up next.

“I’ve got it!” Violet tumbled into my flat, her smile wide and her eyes bright. “I’ve got it – and it’s perfect.”

“What?” I looked at the book she was waving at me. “A reading club?”

“No! Cleaning tips,” Violet was almost vibrating with eagerness. “Cleaning is a pretty crowded niche, but antique cleaning and recipes is a little more open.”

“You’ll be brilliant with that,” I said sincerely. Violet may have had the strength of a dandelion clock, but she kept her flat immaculately clean. “You could do surgery on any surface in your flat.”

Violet waved a hand. “I’m not talking about current stuff,” she said. “Look, it’s a book of household tips that’s over a hundred years old.”

“Look at this,” she said. “It’s like another world. There’s a section on how to use a mangle.”

“What’s a mangle?” I asked, looking at the tattered book in front of me.

“It presses water out of clothes,” Violet said. “It’s a sort of early spin dryer, except that it doesn’t spin.”

“I don’t even know what one looks like,” I said, an uneasy feeling growing in my stomach.

“And it tells you how to make indelible ink – look!” she said, leafing through the faded pages. “Take 20 grains of sugar and dissolve in 30 grains of water…”

“Water doesn’t have grains,” I said as she frowned over the old print.

“No, grain is a type of old measurement. It’s tiny, like a tenth of a gram or something. But it’s all in proportion. It’s two parts sugar to three parts water. Then you add sulphuric acid.”

“What!” I craned to see over her shoulder, but the tiny, cramped printing defied me. “You can get Sharpies from the supermarket.”

“But that’s no fun.” Violet said. “Lots of people want to go back to homemade, natural treatments.”

“Sulphuric acid isn’t natural,” I said, “Or it shouldn’t be. Where could you get it from?”

“I can get hold of sulphur,” Violet said uncertainly. “How hard can it be?”

“Perhaps you should start with something easier that won’t terrify any followers,” I suggested.

“Hmm, perhaps,” Violet said. “But there are loads of old housekeeping books around that are going for pennies, and I can share them with my followers.”

I thought about it for a moment and I couldn’t see any pitfalls. “It sounds great,” I said. “Don’t forget to send me the links so I can follow.”

Violet was prepared. She’d set up accounts on Facebook, Instagram, Pinterest, X, LinkedIn and even Goodreads. She posted, tweeted, shared and reviewed and I found myself relaxing. She’d found her place and she was having a blast.

“She’s really getting into the old book stuff,” Kylie told me when I bumped into her at the coffee shop.

“To be honest, so am I,” I said. “I’m not posting or sharing, but we have a great time when we get out to go to sales and charity shops. There’s all sorts of stuff out there, and some of the books are hilarious.”

“It’s given her a new topic of conversation at the salon,” Kylie said. “I can’t begrudge her, though. It’s given her a new lease of life and I’m thinking of entering some competitions.”

“You should come along to the next book fair,” I said. “Though you might want to bring some sanitiser and wipes. Not all the stalls are well dusted.”

Kylie chuckled. “I’m surprised that Violet would touch those old things. She’s always been particular.”

“You should see her, once she’s got them home,” I said. “She’s got tiny vacuum cleaners and brushes, and she’s been taping up loose pages and spines.” I grinned as I picked up my latte. “She even has a spreadsheet.”

Then she got the book. The slim, tattered volume was tucked in the back of a box of a trader at a collector’s fair, along with some random 1980s cookbooks, bought from a house clearance company. I ignored it, but it caught Violet’s attention. It was a small volume with old recipes and it seemed to call to her.

“Look at this,” she said, waving the book past my face. “It’s got little sayings around the edges of the text. Look – ‘Wilful Waste Makes Woeful Want’. It’s true, though, isn’t it? You always end up down if you waste stuff.”

I nodded hesitantly.

“And there’s a recipe for Spiff Pudding here. I’d never heard of that before,” Violet continued. “I can’t wait to try it. It’s got currants in it.”

I listened patiently as she worked her way through the book, but then work got busy for me, so I wasn’t meeting up with Violet so much. I followed her social media, of course. Every morning I dutifully logged in on all the different sites and liked and shared everything. I even skimmed the text over my morning coffee. I started noticing things, however, or rather the lack of things and I started to feel uneasy. I remembered us chuckling over a facsimile copy of Mrs Putnam’s Receipt Book, which must have dated to the early nineteenth century. There wasn’t a mention of it in any post. There was hardly a word about Soyer or Acton or Glasse or any of her staples. Instead it was all about that little book. She started every day with a tweet of one of the trite sayings printed at the edge of the page. There were dissections of the recipes and videos of her trying them out. There was even some quite deep research on the book’s background, which I thought had been a bit beyond Violet, but she had been focused.

The posts churned out, more than I thought the thin book could have held, There were recipes, tips for cleaning, hacks for nineteenth century laundry and even videos as Violet tried out using honey infused with onions to treat a cold. Despite this, the articles seemed flatter and lifeless, with nothing of the inner joy that Violet took in life. Even the language seemed different. Violet didn’t usually worry about spelling and grammar, but the over-correct text next to each picture was jarring. Finally I got a call from Violet’s boss at the salon.

“I haven’t heard from her all week,” Kylie said. “It’s not like her, and I’m more worried than anything else. Have you heard from her?”

“I’ve not heard a thing,” I said. “She’s still posting, though, so she must still be sort of okay.” Inside I was terrified. Violet lived for her job, something was badly wrong if she was risking it.

“I don’t think that means much,” Kylie said. “Violet was telling me how she sets posts up to go live weeks in advance, just in case.”

I felt a chill run through me. “I’ll call in at her place tonight,” I said. “I’m sure it’s nothing.”

I wasn’t reassured when Violet answered the door. She had always been slim, but now she was barely skin and bones. Her eyes were sunken and her smile was strained. I could see her trying to find an excuse to keep me out, but I pushed past her into the dark hall before she had a chance to stop me. “Are you okay? What’s happened?” I almost stumbled when I went into the living room and stared around in shock. Violet had always been a minimalist, with the immaculate room being kept in perfect order, but now it was a mess. Plastic flowers and bits of twigs were heaped everywhere. Black coffee mouldered in half a dozen mugs scattered around next to crumpled paper and crumb-covered plates. The curtains were closed even though it was bright outside.

“I’ve been a bit tired,” Violet said. “And I haven’t had much appetite. But I’ve had some meals from The Book.”

I didn’t like the sound of that. After all, this was a book that suggested making ink using sulphuric acid as one of the ingredients. I looked around. “Where is it?”

“Hmm?” Violet’s eyes were losing focus and she was swaying.

I swore and grabbed her. “When did you last have something to eat?” I snapped as I guided her down on her chair.

“I made baked tomatoes for breakfast,” Violet murmured.

I stared at her for a moment. She looked like she hadn’t eaten in a month. “Hang on,” I said, and strode into the kitchen and stopped suddenly. It was almost as much of a shock as the living room. Instead of clean, clear order, the room was overflowing. Packets were stacked haphazard on the usually empty counters, and the bin was spilling over. Someone had been eating plenty here. I opened the fridge and poked at the densely packed shelves, crammed with cream and butter. Something very odd was going on, and I was getting more worried by the minute. I returned to the living room. “You need to see a doctor,” I said firmly. “You’re nothing but skin and bone.”

Violet shook her head. “Honestly, I’m fine. I’m just a bit run down.”

“Kylie is worried about you, you know,” I said. “Why didn’t you at least call her?”

“What day is it?” Violet asked. She checked the calendar on her phone. “What’s happened? I think I’ve lost three days.”

I looked at her. The porcelain skin was now looking thin and dry. Her hair, normally gleaming and fantastically styled, hung lank around her head. And instead of the cutting-edge fashion she normally wore, the stained t-shirt and jeans fell loosely around her. “You can come and stay with me,” I said. “I’ve got a sofa bed in the living room, and it will give you a chance to relax. Come on, I’ll grab your toothbrush.”

“I have to bring The Book as well,” Violet said.

“Which one?” I asked as I rummaged in her bathroom.

“You know, The Book. The one called ‘Good Things’. It’s been an absolute life saver. And it was written in 1896, you know.” Violet looked wildly around and then relaxed as she picked up her book. “Here it is.”

I frowned as I came back in. “Are you sure that’s it?”

“Yes, look – it says ‘Good Things’ on the front.” Violet said, displaying the thick volume. “And I’ll need my camera as well.”

“I suppose so,” I said reluctantly as I rummaged through her cupboards. “I’ll pack some clothes for you as well. Should I pack some warmer things? I mean, if you’re feeling under the weather, you might want to snuggle into a sweater. What do you think?” I looked up. “Violet, should I pack a sweater?” I waited for an answer but she was caught up looking through the book. “Violet!”

“Yes, that’s probably a good idea,” Violet said vaguely. It didn’t reassure me.

I didn’t feel better about things when I got Violet back to my flat. I settled her down on the couch and made her some cocoa. “Are you sure you won’t see a doctor?” I asked, setting the mug down next to her.

“I’m fine,” Violet said. “I’ve just been overdoing it. I’ll have a look through The Book and see if there are any recipes for invalids. That will make a good blog post.”

I dragged out spare blankets and pillows and then looked hard at the book. It didn’t look like the book I remembered. It was plump and sleek and it seemed to gleam a little under the living room light. “I’m just nipping to the shop for some bits,” I said. “And I’ll call in at the pharmacy as well.”

“Ask if they have any quinine wine,” Violet said. “The Book recommends it.”

I stumped off down the road and, when I was sure I was out of sight of my windows, rang Kylie. “I’m really worried,” I said. “But I can’t get her to see a doctor.”

“Perhaps some time with you will sort it out,” Kylie said, though she didn’t sound convinced. “And she’s owed some holiday time. She never takes time off.”

“It’s that damn book, I’m sure of it,” I said. “She’s following health advice from a time when they gave opium to babies and put arsenic on the wallpaper. I’ll pick up something more modern at the pharmacy in the supermarket.”

“Let me know how it goes,” Kylie said. “But I’m sure that you’ll work it out.” I didn’t feel sure at all.

Violet had fallen asleep when I got in, with the book tucked in close to her. I looked closer. It had ‘Good Things’ embossed on the cover, just like I remembered from the first time I saw it, but it didn’t look the same. I went into the kitchen, pulled out my phone and started checking Instagram. And it was there! No-one would believe me if I just came out with the words, but the book changed. Over the weeks the thin, threadbare copy seemed to swell and the cover grew sleeker at every image. At the same time, the images showing Violet’s hands holding the book grew thinner and paler until they were almost skeletal. I couldn’t hear Violet moving, but I didn’t want to take a risk. I carefully shut down my phone and poked my head back into the living room. The book hadn’t moved, but I had seen far too many horror stories. I went back to the kitchen and texted Kylie. <Check the book in Violet’s Instagram. It’s the same, even though it changes.>

Kylie texted back. <Are you sure it’s the same book?>

<According to Violet, it’s the same book and the same printing is on the cover.>

<You need to burn it!> Kylie texted. <It’s possessed.>

<How am I supposed to burn it?> I texted back. <I’m in a second floor flat with no fireplace. Besides, Violet would never permit it. She’s even sleeping with it right now. The hard part is going to be getting hold of it. We can worry about what to do with it after that.>

<I have an idea.> Kylie texted back. <I’ll be there in an hour.>

I had doubts when Kylie arrived. “Are you sure about this? I’m not sure it’s ethical. I’m not sure that it’s even legal.”

“Desperate measures,” Kylie said breezily. “And do you have a better idea?” She pushed past me into the room and stopped suddenly. “What the hell is the matter with you, Violet? You should be in a hospital!”

Violet managed a tired smile. “I’m okay, really. I’m just a little run down.”

“We had burgers for dinner,” I said. “Proper meaty ones from the butchers, with chocolate pudding afterwards.”

Kylie looked at Violet in disbelief. Violet looked like she could be blown away like a dead leaf. “Well, I’ve got something that will pick you up,” Kylie said, recovering. “I’ve got a bottle of tonic wine for you and a bottle of prosecco for us.”

I still had reservations as I brought out three wine glasses. The tonic wine was strong stuff and though Violet had wolfed down three huge burgers and two helpings of pudding, she didn’t look like there was anything to mop up the alcohol. Then I caught sight of the gleaming book nestled in Violet’s lap. I didn’t like the idea of getting Violet drunk. but if that is what it took, then that is what I would do. “Tonic wine,” I said. “It’s like the quinine wine that the book recommends. It will be just what you need.” I watched as Kylie poured a generous glass for Violet and then two more reasonable measures for her and I.

“The Book is never wrong,” Voilet said, and took a mouthful. She blinked. “What is in this stuff?”

I picked up the bottle and looked at the label. “It says it has added iron.”

“That won’t hurt,” Violet said and took another large mouthful.

“You’re looking a little peaky,” Kylie said, ruthlessly topping up Violet’s glass. “Iron has to be good for you.”

It took half a bottle before Violet started to nod. I exchanged an uneasy look with Kylie. It seemed more about exhaustion and lack of resources than a couple of glasses of wine. “Let’s get a blanket on you,” I said cheerily as I stretched Violet out along the sofa. “What you need is a good night’s sleep.”

“That’s absolutely right,” Kylie said, shaking out a throw and slipping it over Violet. The book fell out of Violet’s hands and onto the floor. Violet murmured and shuffled in her sleep, but the tonic wine was too much for her. Kylie automatically bent to pick up the book, but I stopped her. I nipped quickly into the kitchen and came out with a tea towel, which I used as a barrier as I picked up the book.

“I’m going to take a walk,” I said, marching briskly to the door. “Keep an eye on Violet, will you?”

Kylie nodded, her eyes wide and fixed on the book as I marched out of the door, phone in one hand and a book wrapped in a tea towel in the other. “Be careful!”

I moved with purpose, down one street, then another, then I cut across a park, past an arcade of shops and then down the back of the industrial estate until I got to the canal. I hesitated. I had seen Jumanji. Things could come back from a watery grave. Then I pulled myself together. That had been a wooden box, not a paper book. Besides, there were things in the canal that would clean brass. An old cookbook didn’t stand a chance. I found the footbridge, got to the centre and shook out the tea towel, sending the book into the water with a splash.

I stood there, almost transfixed by the reflection of the setting sun bouncing off the murky water. I expected something to show for it, like lights or explosions or steam. Then I got a text alert. It was Kylie.

<Violet is looking better. She has some colour in her cheeks. Have you done it?>

Yes, I thought, as I turned back to the flat. I’ve done it.

Sea God Calling

 

Photo by Mourad Saadi on Unsplash

He stood between the land and sea.

He cocked his head and beckoned me.

I shook my head, ‘You let me be.

You’ll get no power over me.’

His hair waved dark, his eyes sparked blue.

He raised his hand and the cold wind blew.

‘I will not bow nor bend the knee,

You’ll get no power over me’

Strong he stood, the clouds hung low.

I wanted him but dare not go.

‘A mortal woman’s not for thee,

You’ll get no power over me.’

The waves dashed high where the sea god stood.

I bit my lip and I tasted blood.

I wanted him, ‘You let me be,

I’ll give no power over me.’

He beckoned me, I felt the call,

The sun shone warm on the sea god tall.

I whispered, ‘Do not call to me,

I daren’t give power over me.’

He strode across the warming sand

And knelt to gently kiss my hand.

‘Lady, at your whim I be

You have love’s power over me.’

The Portrait

 

Photo by The Metropolitan Museum of Art on Unsplash

Kent waved the letter at his wife. “It's the valuation.” Rupert watched carefully as Kent ripped the envelope, struggling with the expensive, heavy.  

“You can't be thinking of selling it,” Alison said. “That portrait has been in your family for generations.” Her voice dropped to a whisper. “And you know painting is haunted. Look what happened last time it was sent for cleaning.” Rupert nodded. At least someone else was paying attention. He looked critically at the portrait. It had worn well over the years, and the jewel shown still remained with the family. At least, he didn’t remember it being sold off.

“Those sort of accidents are normal for a house of this age.” Kent looked uneasily over his shoulder. “It was a coincidence. The gargoyle that fell on him was probably loosened by a storm and could have fallen at any time.” He sighed, still struggling with the envelope. “And we have to face reality. We are in a Grade I listed English Stately Home with a leaking roof. We can't just get any old tiles from the local builder's yard and get the cheapest quote plus scaffolding. Did you see how much the only firm I could track down wanted? We need the money.”

“Do you want to sell it?” Alison asked as Kent finally pulled the letter out of it's rich, cream envelope. “Soames is talking about expanding the market garden side. We’re making a decent profit there, then there are the guided tours and the lavender farm.”

Kent set the letter face down on the table. “I don’t want part with the portrait. I grew up with it, and I was always fascinated by the man in the picture. I can’t believe that all the stories I heard were true, but if even a tenth of his adventures were real, he was such a character.”

Rupert grinned. Every exploit was true, and the gold and jewels that he stashed from the profits were a guard against just this sort of crisis. His grin faded. He didn’t understand why Kent hadn’t sold any of it. Surely he wasn’t emotionally invested in some cold metal and a few chunks of pretty rock.

Kent put his hand on the letter. “I really don’t want to sell it, but sentiment won't patch the roof.” He absently straightened out the letter. “I wish we didn't have to.” He straightened his shoulders. “And if I'm not getting a good enough offer, I'm keeping it. There are grants, after all.”

Jenkins stuck his head round the door. “It's Soames about the gardens again. He's in the study, sir.”

Rupert waited until Kent and Alison left the room and stood square in front of the portrait, his hands behind his back. He loved this estate, loved it with every fragment of him, and he wasn’t going to see it fail. He leaned a little closer to inspect the detail on the jewel. The artist had done a wonderful job, and it would be a shame to lose the portrait. But what had happened to the jewels? The family had been quietly prosperous for generations, but now it was finally time to use what had been put aside for just such a problem. It was hard to remember after so many years, and his recollection was foggy around the time of his death, but he would swear an oath that none had been sold. He turned to inspect the letter. £350,000 was a significant sum, but it wasn’t enough to leave a cushion and he wasn’t going to let his portrait leave. He concentrated. He’d not spent the last few centuries drifting around like the Grey Monk in the Long Gallery and he wouldn’t allow a letter to defeat him. It took some work to manipulate, but after a mentally strenuous ten minutes, the offer was £35,000, take it or leave it. The old ghost knew that Kent would never settle for that. But he still needed money.

Rupert thought back. His son had been something of a gambler, so he’d hidden most of the marginally legal spoils to keep safe for his grandson, but then he’d caught the fever his son had brought back from a gambling hell and was never able to tell young Henry where to look. That’s why the jewels had never been sold. No-one knew that they existed. Rupert straightened up. All he had to do now was remember where he’d left them.

The tension hung heavily in the air after Soames left. “It sounds like a good deal,” Kent said. “If anything, I think Soames underestimates some of the profits.”

“I think that he’s over-cautious on the start up costs as well,” Alison said, tapping the papers in front of her. “But we still need more money than we have, and if the roof isn’t fixed soon, we could get structural damage.” She stood and laid a hand on Kent’s shoulder. “I don’t want to see the portrait go, either. It’s the soul of the house. But we are running out of choices.”

Kent looked around the panelled study. “We can’t lose the house,” he said. “This room hasn’t changed since the seventeenth century. Can you imagine what a property developer would do to the place? The wainscotting would be gone, the oak beams in the red parlour would be plastered over, the nineteenth century wallpaper would be stripped…” He sunk his head in his hands. “We have to make it work.” He jumped, startled, as a crack rang through the room.

“What now?” Alison said. “Not the chimney!” Another crack sounded from the fireplace and a shower of ancient soot fell into the unused fireplace.

Kent swore and hurried over. “We can’t afford anything more,” he said, pulling out his phone and switching on the torch. “But it was capped years ago.”

“It’s not the chimney,” Alison said. “Look.” She pointed to a split in the panelling at the side of the fireplace.

Kent aimed his phone into the crack. “Hang on.” He gently ran his fingers over the tiny gap, then slid them up to a burnished rosette on the fireplace. “I wonder…” He pressed the rosette, tentatively at first, then harder. “I remember going to stay with Phil and Larissa one year, and they were so proud of their priest hole.” He put his phone down and pulled out a pocket knife. “Come and look.”

Alison hurried over as the split grew wider. “A real priest hole!”

“I’m surprised to find this,” Kent said, gently prising open the crack. “We were Protestant all the way through, but I did hear that Rupert, from the portrait, had a hidden cupboard for all of his ill-gotten gains.” Ancient hinges protested, but gave as he swung the door open. “I thought that the tales of gold and jewels were just stories. You know, adding to the legends of his time as a privateer and explorer.” He reached towards a sad leather bundle that filled the floor of the cupboard, then drew his hand back. “We should probably get someone in,” he said.

“Probably,” Alison agreed. “We should get someone in to authenticate the leather and all that.”

“We definitely need witnesses,” Kent said. “But if we get the security guy from downstairs and call Soames back…” He picked up the phone and shone the bright light closer to the bundle. There was a rich gleam in the dust.

“I’ll give them a call,” Alison said. “And why wait longer. You may not be Rupert, but you’re definitely related. And we get to keep the portrait.”

“We always keep the portrait,” Kent said.

Dark Cupboard

Image from Unsplash, taken by Thom Milkovic

Jim looked around. “It’s not a bad little flat,” he said. “It’ll turn a good profit once we’ve tidied it up a bit.”

Steve nodded. “It really just needs a few coats of paint and perhaps new doors on the kitchen cupboards. Everything is pretty sound.”

“She didn’t want to leave,” Jim said thoughtfully. “I mean, she handed over the keys alright, and the place was cleared, but she kept warning me about the cupboard.” He nodded to the cupboard set into the wall, with chipped paint and an ornate chain.

“I’ve got the bolt cutters here,” said Steve. “I’ll get into it in a sec.”

“I’ll nip back to the van and get the camera,” Jim said. “She seemed a sweet old dear, and a little confused, but she may have been playing crafty. There could be structural stuff inside that cupboard and there go our profits.” He glanced over at Steve. “Don’t start without me, we need to document this.”

“I’ll get it opened up,” Steve said. “I’ll get the lamp shining in by the time you’re back. It’s probably where she hid the empty bottles. She was talking about spirits when she left.”

“Or it could be a Ouija board,” Jim said with a shudder. “You know I hate anything like that.” He glanced uneasily at the cupboard. “Back in a tick.”

Steve shook his head as he heard Jim clatter down the stairs. You couldn’t even read your newspaper horoscope around Jim. He hefted the bolt cutters and checked the chain. It was steel but old and the bolt cutters were top of the range. The chain fell apart without much effort.

The cupboard was dark inside, much darker than Steve expected. He pulled out his phone to use the torch and shivered as a cold draught ran through the room. He looked closer and saw a few chalked symbols, faded and barely visible under some dusty leaves, on the base of the cupboard. The stench was stomach churning.

“There’s nothing here, Jim,” Steve called, heading to the windows. He had to get some fresh air into this room. “But we may have a sewer line issue.” He tugged at the window catch. “Have you got some WD40?” The window was jammed, no matter how hard he pushed and shoved. He frowned. They had been fine earlier and there had been nothing in the survey. He could hear Jim on the stairs. He had better get the chalk marks wiped off before he got here, or he would have a fit. “Hang on, Jim, I need a cloth.” Steve strode over to the door, shivering as another blast of icy stench ran over him, and grabbed the door handle. It wouldn’t move. “Jim, the door’s stuck. Give it a push, will you?”

There was a rattle. “I can’t shift it,” Jim said. “Is there a lock?”

Steve peered at the door. “I can’t see anything.”

“I’ll get the toolbox,” Jim called. “Back in a tick.”

The light in the room dimmed. Steve turned around, hit by another icy, stinking draught, but there was nothing over the window and the sun seemed just as bright. He shivered as the room got colder and, as he heard a low, malicious chuckle, he wondered if they would have been better leaving the cupboard alone…

Particular

Image from Unsplash, taken by Saif Akhtar

I looked down at my husband’s grave. The funeral had been yesterday and the flowers were already drooping. I stooped and pulled out a faded leaf. Alan always liked things just so, and it was the least I could do for his memory.

He had liked his tea brewed for exactly four and a half minutes. He had insisted that his newspaper was placed at the side of his breakfast dish with the sports pages showing. He had always checked that his dinner knife was exactly perpendicular to the edge of the table. I accommodated his little ways as the years went on. After all, a prize winning research chemist had to have a few little foibles after working with dangerous chemicals all these years.

But while he was so particular about the brand of salt on the table and the angle of the curtains when they were opened, it was a shame that he had paid less attention to other details. It was always risky taking a mistress who worked in the same lab as you and who also dealt with dangerous poisons. And his genius for new compounds was lacking when it came to cyber security. I had known all his personal passwords for years, and I suppose plenty of other people had as well. Perhaps most dangerously, he forgot that once, long ago, I had also worked in the lab with him on dangerous chemicals, the same lab I regularly visited to bring his freshly home-made lunch, with the sandwiches always cut on the diagonal.

The police had found the email apparently from my husband to his mistress, ending their relationship. They had found poison in the mistress’s bag, coyly left next to my husband’s coat in the cloakroom where I left his lunch. They had ascribed the hysterics she had to guilt.

I straightened the roses – not lilies. My husband had been particular about flowers as well. If only he had been as particular and paid attention to me.

Missed Meeting in the Library

 

Photo by Tim van Cleef on Unsplash

Melody tapped her translucent pink fingernails on the desk and looked around. “I wish that I was still alive,” she said.

“You get used to it,” Elsie said, drifting past. “But you know how courting happens in the modern world, don’t you? How can we get Rhia and Liam together?”

Melody looked at Mr Kennington. “I just wanted a few moments of drama, you know, nothing too big, just a note to say that I died in a library.” She shook her ghostly head. “I thought I’d die in a car crash or in a club. I never went to libraries.”

“We will all support you as much as we are able,” Mr Kennington said. “And though you may not have frequented a library in the past, your contribution to our work now is valued.”

Melody paced around. “I was getting headhunted by London firms,” she said. “I was a real rising star. Now I’m stuck here.”

“People were hunting you?” Mr Kennington asked, aghast.

Melody ignored him. “I couldn’t stop my mind working, even though I came here because of a different account. I was looking around, trying to frame some angles.” She shook her head. “That’s when it hit me, the – what did you say it was?”

“Rhia told us that it was an aneurysm,” Mr Kennington said. “I’m unsure what that means, but could it have been a result of the hunting?”

“How old are you?” Melody asked.

A slight grimace passed across Mr Kennington’s face. “Normally it’s considered bad form to ask ages as it could mean the age that I had attained when I died or the age I am now, but I imagine that you are curious about how long I’ve been here.” He drew himself up to his full height, drifting a little above the floor. “I died two weeks after the battle at Alma.” He sighed at Melody’s blank look. “You know, the Crimean War? I died in 1854.”

“Was that the Charge of the Light Brigade? That’s a long time ago,” Melody said. “I guess that it means that you don’t always use current usage – expressions that are normal to me. When I said that I was being headhunted, it means that other firms were trying to get me to leave my current employer and join them. I worked in marketing.” She tilted her head as she regarded Mr Kennington. “I found different ways to sell items and services, like adverts, social media campaigns, endorsements, and all that good stuff.”

“I bet you were really ruthless,” Tony said, sliding through a bookcase and over to Melody. “I can’t believe how you negotiated with Rhia about the exhibition.”

“It’s a start,” Melody said. “I need to be able to use a computer, though. Going through Rhia takes time that this library doesn’t have. Besides, she’s busy here and I could use the computer at night when no-one’s around.”

“Tony can switch the boxes off and on again,” Elsie volunteered. “He was trying to explain a…” She waved a hand. “You had to make a line of things.”

Mr Kennington and Melody turned and looked at Tony, who flushed. “Thanks a lot,” Tony said. He looked at Melody. “I’m still having trouble navigating, but I can manage basics.”

“You need to show me!” Melody said. “I need to be monitoring the feeds in real time if things get hot.”

“I’m not exactly sure of your meaning,” Mr Kennington said.

“This exhibition is just the start,” Melody said. “There needs to be engagement on the right feeds.” She paused to translate. “A lot of universities and colleges are interested in research material, like the piles of records stuffed into your cellars. They also follow what’s going on by using the internet. One the computer that Tony uses.”

“I think that I begin to see your point,” Mr Kennington said. “If we can be noticed on this internet computer, then the universities and colleges will direct their students to visit here – and subscriber numbers will rise.”

“That’s right,” Melody said. “And I need to watch to see how the figures, that is, the number of people watching and reacting to our content, the things that we post, to get an idea of how well things are going and whether we need to change some things, what we need to stop doing and what we need to do more of.”

Mr Kennington was a little glassy eyed. “I see.” He straightened his translucent jacket. “Then you must gain access to this internet computer.” He turned to Tony. “How soon can you facilitate the necessary training.”

Tony wasn’t listening. Instead he followed Elsie towards the massive exhibit taking up most of the spare space on the main floor of the library. “Are you alright, Elsie?”

“Elsie is a lovely girl,” Mr Kennington told Melody. “But I have concerns about your exhibit. You are correct that the records we hold about the social impacts of the Great War are unparalleled, but that is when she died. It was quite sad, really.” He drifted slowly after Tony, Melody following close behind. “She was never much of a reader, but she was respectful enough. She only came here to meet her beau. They had an agreement that once her young man returned from France, they would get married. Unfortunately she passed from influenza, collapsing in this very place, and her young man never returned to the library.”

“That’s so sad,” Melody said.

“I’m still not sure about her competency at reading,” Mr Kennington said. “However she may find the exhibit distressing.”

Elsie stopped next to Rhia as she put the final touches to a display in the corner. “That’s my name, there,” Elsie said, pointing at a list on the board in Rhia’s beautiful calligraphy.

“That’s right,” Rhia said. “Elsie Stretton, Spanish influenza.”

“And that’s my nan, and my auntie,” Elsie added.

“This is a list of all the people in the parish who died of Spanish Flu,” Rhia said. “I’m trying to show how many were infected.”

“And this is the names of the soldiers who died overseas of the Fluenza,” Elsie said. “That must have taken some working out. They were so far away from here, so it must have been hard to work out what happened.”

“There’s lots of information in the stacks,” Rhia said. “And I had some help from Tony. He’s wonderful with computers.”

“And that name, that’s Albert,” Elsie said, suddenly still.

“Albert Birkenshaw, yes he died of the Influenza when he was at Etaples,” Rhia said, shuffling through the copied photos. “It’s very sad. He was wounded in action and got a medal for bravery – the Military Medal, and he caught the flu the day before his discharge. A lot of soldiers who survived the Great War were killed by the Spanish Influenza.”

“My Albert is dead?” Elsie asked, her voice barely a whisper.

Tony laid a gentle hand on her insubstantial shoulder. “It’s has been a while,” he said. “And if he could have got back here, he would have done.”

“Albert was an estimable young man, with great potential,” Mr Kennington said. “I was always confident that he would have returned if at all possible.”

“My Albert is dead?” Elsie repeated. “So he won’t come back to meet me here?”

“I’m afraid that he won’t be able to meet you here,” Mr Kennington said. “He would never let you down if he could possibly help it.”

“Albert can’t come here to meet me,” Elsie said. “If he could, he would.”

“Indeed,” Mr Kennington said sadly, as Elsie started to fade.

“And if he can’t meet me here, why am I waiting?” Elsie asked herself. “What if he’s waiting for me outside the Pearly Gates? I can’t be hanging around here.” There was barely a trace of her left, a wisp hanging in the air. “I’ve got to go and meet my Albert.”

“Goodbye.” Mr Kennington said softly to the empty air. “And God Bless.”

Tap Tap Tap

Photo by Jp Valery on Unsplash

It started when the house along the street blew up. We were told it was safe and I suppose it was. The houses either side of the gap were fine and there was no trace of gas or anything. But that night the tapping started.

First it was on the windows, a light, tap tap tap, like a branch against the panes in a light breeze. Except there were no branches near my window. Just the tap tap tap after dark. It started to unnerve me. There was never any trace when I pulled back the curtains to look and nothing seemed out of place when I looked at the windows from the street in daylight.

Gradually I got used to it and talked about perhaps it was mice or birds in the attic. I even added it to the ghost stories that were exchanged at work - I live in York, after all, and there are always ghost stories. However, as the nights grew longer and the days got cooler, the tapping changed.

It was the day after my birthday, 22nd of September, when I sat bolt upright in bed. The tap tap tap was now coming from the living room. I remember how frozen I felt, pinned to my bed as the gentle tap tap tap seemed to patter against the wooden floor. I crept to the door of my bedroom and listened. There were no human footsteps, no rustle of clothes and no sigh or grunt of someone moving. I opened the door just a crack, peering out into the hall. No light shone from under the living room door. As I gathered my courage to confront the noise, the tap tap tap faded away and I realised it was dawn.

That was three days ago. I forgot about the tapping as I went away for work. I lost myself in the hectic pace of the conference and the after conference drinks, happy to forget about strange noises, but now I was back. There was no sign of any disturbance in the house. Nothing had moved. I had a quick shower and got into bed with Netflix playing loudly as I wriggled down into the bed.

But it didn't drown the tapping. I can hear it now, tap tap tap in the living room. I am lying here, terrified, as the tap tap tap gets nearer and nearer. The tapping is in the hall now and getting closer to my door.  I pick up my phone from the bedside cabinet and scroll through my contacts, looking for the number that had been forced on me. Now I was desperate. I found the name - Rev D King, Exorcist. My fingers trembled as I dialled the number, burrowed under the covers. Dawn is two hours away and the tapping is getting closer.