Eleven New Ghost Stories (11 page)

The thing in the bathtub. The
person. The man. I didn’t see him, I didn’t know him. But I did
know him. I mean, when I was dreaming, I knew that person. When he
went at me, when he grabbed me… I was frightened because I knew who
he was. But now I didn’t know who the fuck he was. None of this
shit was making sense to me.

But it was a dream. Dreams are
weird. I was angry, furious. I called up the plumber, like 20
times. Yelled at him on his answer phone. Then I tried to call
round other plumbers, but because it was Sunday no one would take
the call. I emailed the estate agents, the fuckers who sold the
place to me. Threatened to sue their asses for breach of contract.
That place was falling to bits. They were gonna pay to get it
fixed, not me.

It got late and I decided I was
going to go back. I got some pizza, some beers, and headed home. As
I got back I had a go at the doorman; he recommended those pricks
to come and have a look at my place. I dragged him up to my flat to
show him the damage. I showed it to him, but he kept coming out
with this shit, said it wasn’t damp.

I asked him: “What the fuck is
wrong with you! It’s coming off the wall because of the water.” He
said he couldn’t feel any water. He reckoned it had been torn off.
I couldn’t believe what he was telling me. Said he was going to
complain about me. About me! The nerve! I said I’d like to see him
fucking try!

Went to sleep on the sofa. I was
asleep for, I dunno, a few hours, before I started dreaming. I was
out driving again. I was tearing up the lanes again, in the Jag.
But I was tense this time, nervous. I was trying to get somewhere
in a hurry. And when it started to rain, I didn’t slow down, I
started to speed. I was trying to beat it. Beat the rain by going
faster.

But I couldn’t; the water came
down so hard the wipers did nothing. It poured down over the
windscreen so thick I couldn’t see a thing. Just water. There was
so much water it started to come through the windscreen. Water
washed down over the dashboard, over the steering wheel, onto the
seats, onto my knees…

Something leapt at the
windscreen. A man, arms out, smashed against the glass and the
bonnet.

I woke up with another shock. I
was in bed – in bed! I’d fallen asleep on the sofa, but now I was
in bed!

It was the same as last night. I
was in the second bedroom; I was lying on my side and I could hear
the taps in the bathroom and the shower. They were running again,
only louder this time. I sat up and saw this time the door was
open, the light was off. But the water was still overflowing from
the bathtub. I could see it trickling out the door on to the carpet
again.

This time I wasn’t going to go
creeping in. This time I was going to go and face down this thing,
whatever it was. I swung my legs out from under the duvet – but too
quick. I smacked the ball of my ankle on the drawers next to the
bed. As soon as I stood up I sat back down again, it hurt like
fuck.

I felt the pain and I suddenly
realised, had this moment of realisation: I was not dreaming this
time. You know how you always know, deep-down, when you’re
dreaming? Well I must have thought it, when I saw the bathroom, but
I knew I wasn’t now, because that fucking hurt. I’d hurt myself,
really fucking hurt myself.

I was awake. 100% fucking
awake.

The light came on in the
bathroom. I turned my head. The room was empty; there was no one in
there.

And then it came up from the
bath. This dripping wet arm came from under the water. It gripped
the side of the tub, pulling up this body. He was fully dressed,
dressed in a big brown duffle coat, the furry hood pulled down low
over his head.

He stood up, water pouring from
his body, pouring from his hood, sleeves and pockets. He wore
jeans, soaked dark with water. He raised one foot out of the bath
and slammed it down on the soaking wet floor. It was a black Doc
Martin boot; water squeezed from it like a sponge as he put it
down.

Jesus Christ, it was him! It
couldn’t be him. It couldn’t be him; what the fuck was he doing
here? What the fuck was he doing here!

He pulled his other leg out of
the bath and stepped out. He stood still on the spot, water pouring
off him onto the floor.

Then after a moment his drooping
head started to lift. The hood, dripping wet with water, started to
lift up, slowly revealing his face.

I nearly shat myself. I jumped
across my bed and went straight into the hall. I grabbed my wallet
and phone and fucking legged it. I went right out of there; I went
down to the basement to my Jag in nothing but my shirt and pants
and decided to get as far away from there as fast as possible.

What the fuck? It couldn’t be
him. What the fuck was he doing there? I mean, he was fine. He was
moving when I left him. He shouldn’t have been there. What was he
fucking doing walking out there in the middle of nowhere? It was
pissing it down for fuck’s sake. How was I supposed to see him?

I didn’t know where I was going.
I was just driving. It wasn’t even five in the morning. The streets
were clear. I hit the M25 still not knowing where I was
heading.

After I was driving for like,
over an hour, I thought I’d go out to my parents’ place. They lived
out near Oxford. I just needed to get away somewhere, clear my head
of all this shit.

I had to get some clothes first.
I walked into one of those big Tescos. The security guard tried to
stop me; I put a twenty in his hand and told him to leave me the
fuck alone.

Got some cheap jeans and a
jumper and a pasty for something to eat. I got off the motorway
just as the traffic was starting to come in. They had this decent
place out in the country. Three bedrooms, garden. Hadn’t been out
there for months, that’s why I forgot: they were going on holiday
weren’t they? Completely forgot.

They didn’t want me there.
Couldn’t get rid of me fast enough. Here I am, going out of my
mind, and they just wanted me out the way! I pretended everything
was cool. I just was passing by. Thought I’d drop in on them. I
couldn’t tell them what was going down could I? They’d think I was
fucking mental.

But they just wanted me out of
their hair while they were checking they’d got everything. Lock
this window, close that door. I pretended I was on my way to a
conference in Manchester. That way I’d have to be on my way soon. I
didn’t know what the fuck I was going to do. He was out to get me.
He wanted revenge. It was his fault, his own fucking fault. But he
wanted revenge on me.

Yeah, I thought that’s the way
to approach this. To get angry. Come out fighting. I watched my
dad; he told me when I was a kid that if you wanted anything you
had to fight for it. He’d done alright for himself. He’d come from
nothing; youngest of five. First in his family to go to college.
Running his business by the time he was 25. And he’d had his fair
share of shit. Been screwed by the government, the taxman; faced
down his rivals. But he’d come out fighting, every time. I
respected my father; I respected him proper.

I wasn’t going to take this. I
didn’t know what the fuck this was. Whether he was ghost or a
zombie or whatever the fuck. I was not taking this lying down.

I went out to the garden shed. I
rummaged around and I pulled out my old cricket bat. I was going to
end this! I got into my car; I was going to face this thing down.
I’d come too far. This was my life; I made it, no one was going to
take it from me. I was going to face this thing down; I was gonna
go down fighting!

I left my parents’ place driving
fast. Fuck the speed limit – this could not wait.

It started to rain; of course it
fucking did. It was pouring down, and I was sat in my car, just
like in the dream. But the rain didn’t come down so hard. I stayed
on course.

I got back and marched up the
stairs, bat in hand, ready to take on anything. I arrived at my
front door, and reached into my pocket for the keys. I saw the
floor – it was wet. I hadn’t even realised it; it was wet all the
way to the elevator.

I just touched the door and it
came open; I must not have locked it.

I looked in and the flat was
flooded. Water was dripping down the walls, dripping from the
ceiling; there was an inch of water on the floor; it looked like it
was raining indoors.

I walked in, bat in hand; he was
here somewhere. And there he was, out on the balcony, enjoying the
fucking view. Water was still dripping off every inch of him, just
like before. His hood still pulled down low.

I decided now was the time. I
went straight out onto the balcony. Pulled open the door and out
into the pouring rain and said: “Is this the best you can fucking
do, huh? This the best you can fucking do!”

He turned around slowly.

“I’m not scared. I’m still
standing here. I’m not scared. I’m not scared of you or any of this
shit. So bring it on. Bring it the fuck on!”

He didn’t do anything. He just
stood there, just fucking stood there. I picked up my bat and I
went for him. I swung it hard right against his shoulder, and then
back against his stomach.

He barely moved; it was like
hitting a mattress; it practically fucking bounced off him.

I took a step back, lifted it up
high and with everything I got I went straight for his head. I
screamed; I swung right at his head and he took it, his neck bent
right and he went back slightly, like all I’d done was give him a
slap. But that was it; he’d still barely moved.

“What are you?” I shouted,
throwing the bat down. “What the fuck are you?”

He twisted his head back. His
left arm came up slow-like and grabbed the end of his hood and
pulled it right back over his head.

I looked at his face: Jesus
fucking Christ, it was barely hanging on his skull; like a melted
rubber mask – it looked like you could just tear it off the bone.
Water poured from his eye sockets, his mouth, the hole where his
nose should’ve been. He had ginger hair, but there were huge chunks
of it missing.

He looked at me; skin drooping
over empty eye sockets pouring water. He looked right at me; stared
at me. I was froze to the spot, I couldn’t move; I almost pissed
myself.

He opened his mouth slowly –
then he screamed. He shrieked; I never heard anything like it. I
almost had to grab my ears it hurt so bad.

He jumped at me. His hands
clamped around my throat. I fell on the soaking wet concrete. His
hands were like claws; hardly any flesh on them. I felt the ends of
his fingers pierce the skin on the back on my neck. The water,
pouring from every feature on his face, landing on my face,
dripping into my mouth, on my eyes.

He kept screaming, spitting
water at me. He was right on top of me, I could barely move. I felt
my throat being crushed; I managed to scream. I rolled to my right
and pushed him off. He slid over to the patio window. I rolled onto
my front and managed just to get to my feet. But he swiped at me
with his claw; caught the back of my leg, cutting my muscle.

I fell back down; cracked my
knee on the concrete. I turned on my side; saw that face, the empty
eyes… It was crawling after me; it was unstoppable, I couldn’t stop
it.

I had no choice. I pulled myself
back up, standing on my other leg. I saw the patio table – the
stone table next to the barbecue. I had no choice; I leapt up onto
the table. I looked back. It screamed again; it came running at me.
I had no choice – I jumped.

It was going to tear me to
shreds. Nothing I could’ve done. I cleared the balcony rail. He
wasn’t going to get me; I wasn’t going to let him take me. I jumped
and I fell.

I thought this was it. I was
done for. Fucked.

But I was lucky. I’ve always
been lucky. There was another balcony below mine. Small one, but it
was there. I fell through the garden table; you know, like the ones
they have at pubs. It broke my fall. Most of it. I tell you the
people who lived there; you should’ve seen their faces. Scared
shitless.

They called the ambulance. Got
to hand it to them boys, they was there quick. They thought I was
mental. I probably sounded like I was fucking mental. But I knew
I’d got away with it. I knew there was nothing he could do to me
now.

As they put me in the ambulance
I caught sight of him. Standing, waiting down across the road. I
didn’t say anything; I just stared at him and smiled. There was
nothing he could do to me now.

Because I did it. I faced him
down. I looked evil in the eye, and I survived. I’m a survivor;
I’ll take anything on.

He leaves me alone now.
Sometimes I hear him – the drip, drip, drip. See him standing in
the rain, waiting behind the glass. But he knows he can’t scare me
anymore. I risked it all. I faced death and I came out of it. He’s
not getting in here. He can’t get me in here.

I’m a survivor. I’m going to get
better and show him he can’t do anything to me. I’m just resting;
my people, they know that. And I’m going to walk again too; I don’t
care what they say. You can’t keep this man down. I’m like a force
of nature. You can’t stop me. You can’t hold me back.

THE STORM WALKER

I was out driving the first
time I saw her. Sunlight was breaking through the clouds; there had
been a terrible storm and parts of the road were flooded.

She was soaked through to the
skin, water dripping off her. I’d never picked up a hitch-hiker in
my life, but I found myself thinking that I should stop and see if
I could give her a lift into the village. It was as if the city
thinking was already leaving me and I was starting to think like a
human being again. Or maybe I just wanted the company. She was
dragging an umbrella turned inside-out; she looked so tragic.