What he saw wasnotMrs Thomas at all.
Callum’s limbs turned to stone, eliminating the possibility of movement completely. He could only stare at a young man’s body hovering vertically above him.
A face he knew well, even if he had only come to know it this evening.
Neck bent. Skin as pale as cooling ash. Wide sky-blue eyes.
Callum gasped, gagging on foul stale air, finding that he could make no sound.
Robert Thomas lay over him. He was still at first, so much so that Callum blinked, expecting the image to dissipate from whatever nightmare he had found himself in. But Robert did not vanish, no matter how hard Callum pinched himself with his nails.
This was no dream or nightmare. It was somethingworse.
Callum couldn’t do anything but watch as Robert Thomas’s face split open, his lips parting wide to reveal a black, endless hole.
Robert screamed. He screamed and screamed, the noise like nails scoring down a chalkboard. And Callum couldn’t look away. He couldn’t do anything but look into the impossible face of the dead boy. A face that would be resting in the cellar beneath him, covered with a sheet.
Except he was here. Shrieking. Blaring so loud that Callum drowned in the grief and fury of the ballad.
Robert Thomas was dead, which should have made this impossible. Just a trick of Callum’s exhausted mind. A nightmare. But it was not a nightmare, or an illusion conjured by brandy. It was somethingfarworse. Something he had feared from the moment he stepped into Hanbury Manor.
This was ahaunting.
PART 1
A Mundane Sunday
2024
William Thorn didn’t exactly believe in ghosts, but he liked the idea that the dead walked on. At least, that’s what gave him comfort. After all, what was a ghost except the love of a soul clinging onto what they didn’t wish to leave behind? But if that was the case, all those William had lost prematurely must’ve hated him. Because he was alone, clinging to the hope thatsomeonewould visit him just to ease the heavy grief he bore.
But he couldn’t exactly tell his taxi driver that, so he opted for a more straightforward answer – one that wouldn’t encourage more questions.
“No, I don’t believe in all that,” William scoffed, catching his own furrowed expression in the foggy car window beside him. He looked as unapproachable as he sounded. “Fairies and ghosts, monsters and phantoms. It’s all a load of shit if you ask me. Stuff that belongs in books.”
Undeterred, the taxi driver didn’t seem bothered by William’s bluntness. “Well, I believe. In fact, I’ve seen a ghost with my own eyes.” The driver also hadn’t noticed William’s obvious disinterest in the conversation. Instead, he dove straight into a speech about the afterlife and how he once saw the ghost of his dead dog watching him from the end of his bed.
William distracted himself from the incessant noise by pulling his phone from his jacket pocket. As soon as the screen lit up, he watched the signal blink out of existence. William half expected the bars to return. Or half hoped they would, just so he could drown out the driver’s chatter with one of his sombre, personally crafted, Spotify playlists. But they didn’t, and for the first time in months, William found himself inhaling deeply. He held it and held it, waiting for the weightless feeling of relief to follow–
The taxi jolted violently over the road, which turned out to be covered in more potholes than tarmac. William swore beneath his breath as his phone nearly slipped from his fingers. The driver must’ve heard his muffled curse because he was laughing, taking this opportunity to spring into yet another conversation.
“The road will only get worse off from here,” he said, turning the aircon dial and blasting the car with a shock of stagnant air. “Hold onto your back teeth, William.”
William couldn’t remember the taxi driver’s name. In his defence he’d only said it once, almost three hours before. Since then, he had waffled about the weather, politics, drama from what felt like every family holiday he’d ever been on. The list went on. But worst of all, he’d asked so many questions about William’s life that it took great restraint not to open the car door and fling himself onto the motorway.
“I gathered as much about seven potholes back,” William replied.
“You’re telling me! I’ll need new tires by the time I get back to London. All countryside from here on out. Nice views though, can’t knock ‘em. But those views won’t be able to pay the price of replacing my tyres. Am I right?”
If he was fishing for a bigger tip, he’d find himself disappointed.
William forced a smile and caught his reflection in the rear-view mirror. Whereas his mouth said one thing, his green eyes practically screamedshut the fuck up.
“I hate to ask, but how long do we have left?” William raised his phone again. “I’ve got no signal, and my maps have just cut out.”
“Already desperate to get rid of me?”
William ignored the question, which in itself was answer enough, so the driver continued but with less hope in his tone.
