5 - Echoes Of A Bygone Tragedy

Shrieking startles me back to the waking world, which is not a very good way to start the day, I have to admit.

I open my eyes blearily and find myself stretched out on the sofa with a scratchy blanket I can't remember fetching draped over me. I'm freezing, with ice settling deep in my bones, and my head feels as though someone has taken a hefty swing at it with a sledgehammer.

The lounge is still quite dark, with a vague, cool rose light streaming in through the windows. Sunrise. All around, the house is creaking and groaning and shuddering in the wake of an unpleasant night, and I hear the familiar rumble of an approaching car. Ah. The gate is shrieking. Not lost souls.

I heave a great sigh and tug the blanket up to my chin. My mind is wrapped in tendrils of fatigue that numb the pain pulsing at the back of my head, and I can't quite summon the energy to sit up and face a world where a boy died in this house and I spoke with him last night.

When I put it like that, I sound in desperate need of a therapist.

Thankfully, this Sam guy is nowhere to be seen (believe me, I check the room fervently), and when my mum opens the front door, it's like she brings with her a ray of sunshine; a serene fog of peace.

She finds me, soon enough. In the midst of pain and ice and fatigue. She's in her nurse's uniform, still, with her dark hair tied back and her dark skin glowing with mingling exertion and victory after a long yet successful shift.

"Theo, love, what are you doing down here?" she asks, frowning lightly at me as she shrugs off her bag and dumps it unceremoniously at her feet. She looks exhausted, and I know the night has been a difficult one for her— no matter how much she smiles through it.

I'm intending to keep the more startling news to myself, but the words come tumbling regardless. "I fell over and hit my head and knocked myself out and I think I've got a concussion," I tell her pleasantly, rubbing my eyes and realising that I'm not wearing my glasses.

I find them on the ornate coffee table, next to my phone, and I definitely don't remember putting them there.

"You what?" she blurts out, looking a lot more awake. "And that's why I've got a missed call?"

I nod, even though she can't see me because she's too busy digging through her bag for a little flashlight and an ice pack. She bustles over and helps me sit up, only to shine the light directly into my eyes.

"Ow," I hiss, shrinking away from her.

"Theo," she snaps, squeezing the ice pack and handing it over.

Gingerly, I hold it to the back of my head. I let her fuss over me, checking how my pupils react to light (and burning my retinas in the process), checking my speech for any slurring, checking I'm not in dire need of an ambulance and a trip to the ER.

I don't really help the situation when I say, "I kept thinking I saw this... boy. That's a hallucination, right?"

"Sounds like it," she says, concealing a yawn even as she studies me closely. "I mean, if you hit your head so hard you knocked yourself out, it's no surprise you're a bit confused."

A bit confused doesn't even begin to cover it.

"I'm sorry," I say, guilt like a fist around my throat. She's had a long shift and I'm making things worse. "I'm fine, I swear. I took some painkillers."

"Alright," she muses, though she doesn't look certain. "Sleep it off, and if you don't feel better by this afternoon, I'll take you to the hospital— just to be sure, okay?"

I hum vaguely in agreement and melt back against the sofa.

Mum frowns at me, smoothing down my hair. It's a pointless endeavour— my springy curls follow no known laws of gravity even on a good day. "Don't you want to sleep in an actual bed, sweetheart?" she asks me gently, as though I'm a particularly stubborn patient on her ward.

"No," I mumble into the blanket, my leaden eyelids falling closed. "That's where the boy was."

"Your nursery friend?" she taunts. I'm certain, if I could open my eyes, she'd be wiggling her brows right about now.

The thought sends ice sliding down my spine.

"Mum," I warn.

She must pick up on some note of genuine fear in my voice, because she sweeps her thumb across my cheek and says, "Alright, I'm only joking. Get some sleep, you'll feel better when you wake up."

She's right. I wake up to a dull throbbing at the base of my skull, but otherwise my mind is clear and I don't feel quite as lost to delusion as before.

I do have a lot of questions for Cliff, though, and that alone has me getting up. It gives me the backbone I need to go up to my room.

I open the door with a wince, expecting to find a smudgy boy sat on my bed, but — thankfully — the room is empty. My bed sheets are rumpled and the lamp is on, still, so I quickly switch it off, get changed, and text my mum to let her know I'm heading out. Even though it's late-afternoon, given her long night shift, she's probably still sleeping.

Hopefully, I'll return with some genuine answers. After all, the article was vague at best, and Cliff clearly knows more than he's letting on. It can't be a coincidence I saw a boy named Sam who claimed to be a ghost (as surreal as that sounds) only to find out a boy named Sam died in this house.

By the time I wander into town (I could've taken the car, but I figured the walk and fresh air would do me some good and help fight off the remnants of this headache), the sky is washed in burnt amber and angry clouds lurk over the horizon. A fierce gale twirls leaves up into the air, howling forlornly through rustling trees and empty streets.

I find Cliff organising shelves, huddled away in a quiet corner of the library. Close by, there's a table of college students poring over their work, looking miserable and bored out of their minds. Some catch my gaze, a silent plea for help or distraction, but I turn my attention to Cliff. He's got a little cart full to the brim with books and is so lost to his task that he startles when he turns and finds me.

"Sorry," I say with a little, helpless wince. "Need any help?"

He smiles. "Hello, Theo. That would be wonderful."

For a while, we work in silence. It's rather therapeutic, finding the rightful homes to a bunch of historical classics, but last night's chaotic events loom over my thoughts like a particularly disgruntled shadow.

"Yesterday, you said something about a boy," I murmur, pulled by the studious atmosphere to keep my voice soft. "And a tragedy. What... what happened?"

Cliff goes a little rigid, as though his form turns to stone, and he deposits a book with a little more force than necessary. He releases a heavy sigh and leans against the shelf. "The house used to be a hangout spot for teens— you know the sort. The troublemakers. They'd go up there and smash windows, drink beer, be nuisances away from prying eyes. Some kids went up there at the start of summer, back in the nineties. One of them stayed late, tripped, and fell down the stairs. He hit the post wrong and he died. The family moved away— can't say I blame them. After that, the house was boarded up for years. Then a lady bought the place—"

"My gran. She left the house to us in her will," I fill in, frowning and hugging myself. The story has made me go a little cold, and I think of the staircase back at the house. The newel post cap Oliver the cheerful attorney leant on when he showed us around, the one I used to steady myself last night when I was concussed and stumbling.

A boy died on that staircase.

Nausea rolls through me, and I reach up to cover my mouth as the pain in the back of my head spikes.

Cliff watches me, his features twisting with understanding. He takes my shoulder and gives it a little squeeze. "Ah, I see. I'm sorry for your loss, kid. I didn't know her well."

"Me neither," I manage. It's not my gran I'm worried about, at the moment.

"Are you talking about the old Solus place?" one of the teenagers sat at the table close by asks, turning to face us, her expression lighting up with intrigue. Her voice is a pinprick to the bubble of horror I'm lost in. "Do you live there? Isn't it haunted, or something?"

I make a little, unconscious noise. A pathetic squeak of horror. Apparently, in Eden's Gate, it's common knowledge that there's something not right with Solus Estate, and no one thought to tell me about it.

One of her friends grabs her by the arm and glares. "His gran just died, weren't you listening? Shut up." He sends an apologetic glance my way. "Sorry."

Cliff glowers at them both, standing a little in my way as though to shield me from their curiosity. He turns to me with a noticeably kinder expression. "Ignore them. Are you feeling alright?"

Over his shoulder, I see the college students all huddling together and whispering.

I force myself to nod, even as dizziness makes my head feel light and airy. A stubborn echo of the concussion. Some shade of this must make its way onto my face, because Cliff looks rather concerned, now.

"Headache," I explain pitifully.

He's still holding my shoulder, and the contact is strangely grounding. "Listen, kid, I'm not picky when it comes to hours. Frankly, I'm glad of the help, so whatever time you can spare me is good enough. If you want, you can go home and get that headache sorted. Otherwise, if you're feeling up to it, I've got three more carts in the back to organise. My son's meant to be helping me but, as usual, he's a no-show."

His ramblings about something so mundane help to pull my scattered focus back to some shade of clarity.

I decide to stay, to pass the time stocking shelves and stamping title pages and (more often than not) reading a few passages and getting sucked into a period drama when Cliff isn't watching. He keeps me in the back, a cosy room looking out onto the river, I think to keep the college kids from asking any unpleasant questions about the house and the not-so-solid resident lurking there.

He asks about my life before Eden's Gate, but I hedge around the topic until he gets the message and asks about my future plans, instead. We get onto the subject of literature degrees and thesis prospects and careers in publishing, and Cliff lends me a few classics I haven't had the chance to read, claiming it'll be good to annotate and practise for university, so that by the time next year rolls around, I'll have an assortment of projects to fall back on if I'm ever stuck.

It's good advice and I take it gladly, thinking it'll be a good distraction from the more pressing and ghostly problem I've got to face, anyhow.

Before long, it's closing time, and I find myself wandering back up the winding lane towards Solus Estate, thinking of the hallucination — apparition? — I saw. The lane is dark and wind howls up in the trees; overall, it's a horrible walk and does little to calm me down.

There's a car I don't recognise on the driveway, and it distracts me from the looming, gnarled silhouette of the house. A welcome distraction, for sure.

Inside, there's a man clad in overalls knelt in the cupboard beneath the stairs, an open toolbox at his side. The house groans and wails a morbid greeting, but I detect a melody of plumber noises (all metallic clanging and thuds) playing in symphony.

The air inside isn't much better than the wailing gale outside, and my glasses remain tauntingly fog-free even as I close the front door. A shiver slides down my back.

Mum comes bustling out of the kitchen with a cup of tea, and she smiles at me in silent greeting. As she goes to give the man — our saviour — the mug, I find my gaze lifting to the stairs. The newel post cap.

A boy died here.

The thought sends ice scuttling down my spine on many tiny legs, and I fervently turn and retreat into the kitchen. Mum's got some dinner cooking on the stove, and it smells like heaven. My stomach grumbles, and I realise I haven't eaten all day. Thus decided and feeling impatient, I check out what's in the fridge.

Mum comes up behind me, clearing her throat and scuffing her foot on the hardwood floor to announce herself.

"He's a bit jumpy," she murmurs, so only I can hear. "Almost backed out when I told him the address."

I narrow my eyes and, coming up empty, close the fridge with a disappointed thud. I think I know why the man's not keen, and it's not a pleasant thought. "Can he fix it?"

She hums, turning her attention to the stove. "Not a clue. You know how useless I am with the heating. I hope so. Hey, how are you feeling, now?"

"Good," I tell her honestly. After the peaceful afternoon, and after a slow walk back, the headache is gone, and I feel almost cheerful at the prospect of an evening in to do some work. "I might do some thesis planning tonight. My boss, Cliff said it's good to get ahead before university. Less of a shock to the system after a year out."

"That's a good idea. Which book?"

"A Christie mystery. He lent me one— I think he's a super-fan. The man's obsessed."

She laughs— a light, warm sound that chases off the shadows. "Well, have fun."

I fetch my laptop from upstairs (it's buried in one of my bags, but I'm slowly getting round to unpacking everything), and settle down in the lounge to write up a plan for my thesis. I think to myself that, ever so slowly, I could build up some sort of routine here. Ghosts aside, that is.

When I open the laptop, I catch my own reflection on the black screen— and right over my shoulder is a distinctly smudgy complexion.

I startle so hard I almost drop the laptop. "Fucking shit—!" I yelp, whipping round.

Sure enough, Sam — without the headache to blame him on, I think, with some discomfort, he looks very ghost-like — is standing behind the sofa. He backs up, vague hands raised, wincing lightly against my reaction.

Nope, I think. Definitely not a hallucination.