Enter the Dead: A Supernatural Thriller Page 26

  ‘What he used to wear? You want to know how he used to dress?’

  ‘Yes. You see…the man who I see in my dreams is always wearing the same clothes. He’s always dressed in a baggy grey suit, only the suit is torn and ripped in places. And he has this old-fashioned brown hat; I don’t know what you call it but it has a wide brim and is-’

  ‘It’s called a fedora,’ Janice said, her voice barely more than a whisper. ‘They used to be popular in the fifties.’

  ‘Oh…right. Did dad used to-’

  ‘A long time ago, yes. Stop messing around, Sam.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘This isn’t funny. Where did you get the photo from?’

  ‘What? I didn’t…I’ve never seen any photos of him. Like you said, you destroyed them all, remember? I swear on my life that I haven’t seen any…on Max’s life.’

  ‘Don’t do that. Don’t bring Max into this.’

  ‘It’s true though, isn’t it? Dad used to wear those clothes.’

  ‘Yes, but so did a lot of young men back then, especially that type of suit. We used to call them Zoot Suits.’

  ‘Zoot suits?’

  ‘Yes. Your dad was very fond of them when we first met. He used to love the old black and white gangster movies: you know - Al Capone, Chicago, prohibition - where the men used to dress smartly and fire machine guns at each other.’

  ‘Vaguely.’

  ‘Before we had you, we used to go the cinema all the time. He wasn’t so bad then; the drink hadn’t completely taken over and turned him into the bastard he became.’

  ‘Is it dad?’ Sam asked, ashamed to be upsetting his mother like this but nevertheless needing to put his mind at rest. ‘The man in my dreams…is it him?’

  Janice sighed heavily. ‘Your father was wearing an outfit like that on the night I first met him. You won’t be surprised to hear that he was drunk, but then again so was I. It was late, I was outside a bar. I was with someone else at the time; a young man called Greg Andrews. Your dad was in a gang…anyway, he ended up having a fight with Greg because he attacked me.’

  ‘He attacked you?’

  ‘I know, I know…I had a habit of falling for the wrong men. I certainly knew how to pick ‘em. Anyway, they had a fight, your dad won – he very nearly killed Greg – and then the police came and threw him in a cell for the night.’

  ‘Then what happened?’

  ‘What happened was that I ended up making the biggest mistake of my life. The following morning, I went to see him. He was in a heck of a state; bruised and battered, and his clothes were torn. He looked like a tramp. God knows why I went but I did. I suppose I had this misguided notion that he’d rescued me from Greg; a knight in shining armour I guess. That, and the fact that he wasn’t at all bad looking. Listen, Sam, I’m sorry but I don’t want to talk about him anymore, and to be perfectly honest, I don’t think it’ll do you any good either. They’re dreams, Sam. Just dreams.’

  ‘So that explains the suit,’ Sam said, ignoring her. ‘That explains why it’s torn.’

  ‘A total coincidence,’ she replied, although from the unconvincing way she said it, Sam sensed that he’d struck a nerve.

  After a considerable pause, he said: ‘You’re right. I’m sure it is only a coincidence. Like you said, that was the fashion back then. The man in my dreams…it could be anyone.’

  ‘That’s right. It could be anyone.’

  ‘Look, mother, I’ve got to go and see someone. I’m sorry for bringing him up without any warning.’

  ‘It’s fine,’ Janice replied. ‘You can’t escape the past. In the end, it always catches up with you. Anyway, apart from that, are you okay? How are you holding up?’

  ‘I’m alright. Look, I’m sorry but I have to go now. I’ll call you soon, okay?’

  ‘I’ll hold you to that,’ she said, but before she had time to add I love you, he had already hung up the phone.

  Little did she know that this would be the last time she would ever speak to her son again.

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  Slipping the phone into his pocket, Sam rose unsteadily to his feet and continued his journey to Gracie’s house, stopping en route at the pharmacy for a box of painkillers and a bottle of water. As a result of his conversation with his mother, he had quickened his pace, desperate to tell Gracie that which she already knew.

  As he turned the corner into Chaytor Avenue, he paused and removed two Paracetemol from their box, swilling them down with a glug of water. He knew they wouldn’t be strong enough to have any effect, but something – anything – had to be better than nothing. After a moment’s contemplation, he removed a further pill and swallowed it, and then another; indifferent to the dosage guidelines written on the box. Thirty seconds later, he was standing outside the gate to number thirty-nine, praying that Gracie was home.

  Taking a deep breath, he walked the few steps to her front door and rang the doorbell. When nobody answered he rang it again, leaving his finger on the buzzer a little longer this time. Still nothing. ‘Shit!’ he said, scanning either side of him to make sure nobody heard his outburst. Sensing it was futile, he rang the bell for a third and final time, before removing Max’s key from his pocket and inserting it in the lock. He had never been inside Gracie’s house alone - she had given Max the key so that he could let himself into the house after school – so to come here by himself just didn’t feel right. Nevertheless, he had no choice but to go in and wait for her to return. He needed to speak to her, and besides, he was so exhausted by the journey that he couldn’t go home without first sitting down and resting his legs. Satisfied with his rationale, he turned the key and pushed open the door, only to be met by the sight of Gracie lying spread-eagled on the hallway floor at the foot of the stairs, grinning unnaturally up at him like a devilish gargoyle.

  Sam instinctively cried out and backed away, the heel of his right foot striking against an uneven paving stone, sending him tumbling to the ground. As he fell, he had a vision of a disfigured Gracie emerging from behind the door and coming for him, crawling towards him with outstretched arms; that unholy grimace never leaving her face as finally she reached him and climbed over him, clawing at his eyes with blackened, jagged fingernails. Fearing the worst, he raised his head and stared into the house, relieved to find that his imagination had once again been playing cruel tricks on him. However, the fact remained that she was lying unconscious in the hallway: from where Sam lay, he could see an arm poking out from behind the door. He didn’t know whether or not she was dead, but she was certainly not moving.

  Coming to his senses, he reached for his phone and called emergency services. ‘I need an ambulance,’ he said, moaning in pain as he hauled himself back to his feet. ‘Chaytor Avenue, West Finchley. Number thirty-nine. There’s an old woman – Mrs Gracie Walton – I came to visit her and…and…she looks like she’s fallen down the stairs. She’s not moving.’ He paused as the telephone operator began asking him questions. ‘I don’t know,’ he said. ‘I haven’t been inside the house.’ Another pause. ‘Yes, I’ll wait with her until someone arrives. Come as quickly as you can. I’m not sure, but I think she might be dead.’

  Ending the call, he coughed up and swallowed the bile that had collected in his throat and edged towards the front door. The rational side of his brain told him there was nothing to worry about – that as sad as it might be, all that had happened was that an old woman had fallen down the stairs and died as a result of the accident. However, given everything that had happened over the course of the previous week, he could perhaps be forgiven for heeding the irrational side of his brain, which filled his mind with thoughts of a more sinister, supernatural nature. However, as much as he didn’t want to, the emergency services operator had asked him to stay with her. Considering everything that Gracie had done over the years for Max, the least Sam could do was be brave enough to overcome his fear and go inside to be with her.

  As the two sides of his brain struggled with one
another to win the argument, his phone rang, snapping him back to the present.

  ‘Hello?’

  ‘Sam, it’s me.’

  ‘Sarah?’

  ‘I’m just checking to make sure you’re ok. Where are you?’

  ‘I’m standing outside Gracie’s house. You’re not going to believe this.’

  ‘Believe what?’

  ‘There’s been an accident. I think Gracie has fallen down the stairs.’

  ‘Oh my God. How is she?’

  ‘I don’t know. I think she’s dead.’

  ‘What? Say that again.’

  ‘I’ve called for an ambulance,’ he said. ‘I’m to stay with her until they arrive. I can’t believe this, Sarah. What the fuck is going on?’

  ‘I’m coming over,’ Sarah said. ‘I won’t be long.’

  ‘What should I do?’

  ‘Go upstairs and pack some of her things in a bag.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘She’s going to hospital, right? So she’ll need a nightie, dressing gown…stuff like that. You’ll need to have it ready for when the ambulance arrives.’

  ‘But she’s dead, for Christ’s sake!’

  ‘You’re not a doctor so you don’t know that. Go on, do as I say before the ambulance gets there. I’m leaving now. I’ll be with you as soon as I can.’ There was a brief pause. ‘Stay strong,’ she said, ending the call.

  What the fuck I am supposed to do now? Sam thought, returning his phone to his jacket pocket. He didn’t want to put a single foot inside the house, let alone go upstairs and pack an overnight bag. ‘Get a grip, Railton,’ he said, taking a series of measured breaths to counter his nerves. ‘You can do this.’ Looking up at the sky as if seeking inspiration, he took a deep breath and stepped inside the house.

  The first thing his eyes were drawn to was Gracie’s face, which wore the exact same expression that it had done when he’d first opened the door and found her lying there. It was as if she was wide awake and had just heard a funny joke: her eyes were open and her lips curved as if smiling. On closer inspection, however, it was obvious that there was no life behind those eyes. Furthermore, the unnatural way her head was tilted back suggested that her neck had been broken in the fall. Sam’s thoughts immediately went to Lucy and the similar way that she had died that night, prompting his eyes to fill with tears that spilled down his cheeks as he remembered seeing her lying in a crumpled heap; their father standing between them on the stairs. And then he remembered the ambulance, and what Sarah had instructed him to do. Wincing as yet another bolt of pain shot through his head, he braced himself and stepped over Gracie’s body and onto the stairs; praying that she didn’t suddenly wake up and lash out to grab his ankle as he passed her. Without looking back, he slowly climbed the stairs, pausing half way up to catch his breath.

  Being a small terraced house, it didn’t take him long to locate her bedroom, the door of which was wide open as if she had left in a hurry. Perhaps the front doorbell rang when she was putting away some clothes, Sam thought, noticing the basket of ironing on her bed. His eyes then found the envelope that she’d placed on top of one of the pillows, and for some inexplicable reason he sensed immediately that whatever was inside that envelope had been written for him. Even though every bone in his body was warning him to ignore it and concentrate instead on packing an overnight bag, he felt himself being pulled across the room towards it. There was no use trying to fight it: no matter what his instincts told him, he had to open that envelope.

  Arriving at the bed, his suspicions as to the intended recipient were confirmed. Written on the envelope were the words: For the attention of Sam Railton. Against his better judgement, he ran his finger under the seal like a blunt knife and pulled out the letter.

  Dear Sam,

  If you are reading this note, then I’m afraid there is every possibility that I am in grave danger…possibly worse. However, whereas my fate is already sealed, it might not be too late for you and your family. But you must listen to me…you must follow my advice.

  I’m sure you know this already, but the man haunting you is your father. He’s angry, Sam; he believes he was betrayed all those years ago by yourself and your mother. He is convinced that his premature death was entirely your fault, so the reason he’s here is to seek revenge for what happened. You and I both know that his motive is misguided, but that’s of no concern to him. He’s been dead a long time, and I imagine that thirty years in Hell has made him somewhat bitter and twisted. He’s chosen to come now because he senses that you’re vulnerable, he feels that you’re weak. Whatever happened between you and Sarah has hurt you so much that it’s allowed him to force his way into your life again.

  He’s come for you, Sam. He wants you to join him in death. The problem is, it’s not only you he wants. The boy on the train, your friend Tom, those people you worked with: he’s behind everything…and there will be others too. Sarah, Max…I can’t say for certain, but what I do know is that he’s using you to get to them. The headaches you’ve been experiencing, the stomach pains, the strange visions: they’re not natural; they’re your father. He’s inside you, Sam. He’s using you as a conduit – a host - to get to the others, a physical earthly presence that allows his spirit to survive and wreak havoc, and when he’s had his fill of killing those around you, he’ll turn his attention on you. The problem is, I think he’s enjoying his work. I don’t think he has any plans to return to Hell just yet. I suppose what I’m trying to tell you is that I fear there will be others, Sam. Maybe lots of others.

  One glimmer of hope is that he can only get to those other people through you. In most cases, with those who don’t possess the gift, spirits aren’t able to have physical contact with the living without a conduit. Without you, he won’t have the power to hurt them. I realise that this places a heavy burden on your shoulders, but I’m afraid it’s the truth.

  So what can you do to stop him? You have to send him back, but the problem is I’m not entirely sure how to go about it. You can kill yourself so that he’s no longer able to live inside you, but of course I wouldn’t advocate that. You could see a priest and pray for help, but I know your faith is weak so I’m not sure how useful that would be. Aside from that, I have one other suggestion which might work. You need to go away for a while; disappear somewhere where nobody you know will be able to find you. I don’t mean forever – well, I hope not – but perhaps by going away, your father might grow tired of you and leave of his own accord. I know it’s a longshot, Sam, but at least it means that Sarah and Max will be safe. He won’t be able to hurt them if you’re not near them. You can protect them, but not if you see them when he’s inside you.

  I have to go now. I’m so sorry for how you must be feeling as you read this. I only hope that God gives you the strength and wisdom to see this through without anyone else being hurt. Especially Max.

  I pray that I will see you all again someday. Until then…stay strong.

  Gracie

  Unable to take his eyes away from the piece of paper in his hands, he slumped down onto the bed and read it again. And again. He would have probably read it a fourth time, had he not been interrupted by the approaching wail of the ambulance’s siren as it weaved its way through parked cars and pulled up outside the house. Hearing the sound of voices outside, Sam rose to his feet and began searching for an overnight bag as per Sarah’s instructions, only to realise the futility of the task. Gracie wasn’t going to wake up, so why go through the motions? She was dead, and even though Sam wasn’t directly responsible, it was pretty clear from the contents of the letter that he was guilty by association. Guilty by association with the ghost of his own father, who – if Gracie was right – was at that precise moment residing inside his very own body.

  The pattern was so blindingly obvious, why hadn’t he realised sooner what was going on? It had all started that day on the passenger bridge at York station: the feeling of something unnatural entering inside him as he knelt on the concrete floor
. The searing headaches had followed almost immediately, to the point where he’d felt as if his head was about to explode. And then, at the police station, the exact moment that Stephen Gilchrist had looked up at him, he’d felt an immediate release of pressure as the pain flowed out of him. He’d been so relieved to be free of the headaches that he’d hardly noticed Stephen collapsing to the floor. The next thing he knew, Sergeant Calloway had called to inform him that the poor kid had only gone and killed himself. As tragic as that was, however, Sam could perhaps be forgiven for not having made the connection between his own illness and Stephen’s subsequent suicide.

  But then the same thing had happened again in the park a day or two later: one minute Sam had been admiring the cherry blossom and thinking that maybe the world wasn’t such a bad place after all, and the next minute he was staring at Stephen Gilchrist as he hung from a branch, only this time it was his father’s face that he saw. Once again, excruciating headaches soon followed, only to completely vanish during the fight with Tom outside the offices of Chapman’s Design Agency. Surprise surprise, who was the next person to kill himself? Tom Jackson, but not before he had pulled a gun on Charles Holdsworth and Gabrielle Williams.

  The pattern had continued at Tom’s funeral in Stanfield. No sooner had the vicar said his piece and ran for the shelter of the church, then who should appear but Tom, glowering at Sam with insidious intent. Naturally, the headaches and the stomach cramps followed almost immediately, only he now understood them for what they were. It had taken Gracie’s letter to snip away any lingering threads of ambiguity, but there was no longer any use in denying the reality of the situation. Maybe part of him had suspected the truth all along, but had chosen to ignore all the warning signs in the interest of self-preservation. Not anymore. It was obvious what was happening. If Gracie was right – and Sam was convinced that she was – then there was only one thing he could do. He knew that the physical torture of having his father alive inside him wouldn’t last much longer; the spiteful bastard would soon emerge and claim his next victim. While it was unclear as to whom that victim might be, or when it might occur, it was evident to Sam that he couldn’t – mustn’t - allow it to happen. For once in his life, here was something he had the power to control. The pain, the needless deaths; he could put an end to them all right now. All it would take would be a moment of absolute courage; the end to a single, miserable existence in order to safeguard the lives of others.