The Haunting of Emily Stone (7 page)

“It's alright for you. I can see you're doing alright. You've put on weight, you know. Wouldn't be surprised if you get a double chin soon.”

“Can we talk about Lizzie and the house?”

“After everything I did for you, you can't even bring me some Marlboros.”

“Was it real?” she asked. “Mum, I just need to know this one thing. The way I remember it, is that the very first few times, something actually happened. Everything after that was you trying to get a big payday from the papers, but right at the start...” She waited for a reply. “Please. Just tell me whether I'm right or not. If there was really something in the house back then, it might come back now and go after Lizzie.”

She waited.

“Or am I imagining things?” Emily asked. “Mum, I'm really struggling here, I don't even know what's real and what isn't. Am I mis-remembering what happened all those years ago? Was the whole thing a hoax, from start to finish? Please, I'm not angry, I just need to know the truth. I have so many memories knocking about in my head, and I don't know where to start telling the true ones from the lies. I know you remember, so please... Just this once, talk to me.”

Again, she waited.

“I should have had more kids,” Joyce said finally. “Then again, I didn't know you were gonna turn out like this, did I? Got a job yet?”

“Mum -”

“Course not. You were always a flaky kid. I don't know why anyone'd hire someone like you.” She sniffed again. “Never reliable, that's your problem. Even back then, I told you exactly what you had to do, but you never did it right. Cost us our big shot, you did, and now look at us. I'm not surprised Brad left you, he can do a lot better. You're getting frumpy. No-one likes frumpy.”

Emily opened her mouth to reply, before realizing that there was no point. Grabbing her coat, she got to her feet. “I can't stay today,” she explained. “I've got things to do.”

“Course you have,” Joyce muttered. “Don't let me keep you. God forbid you'd spend more than five minutes with your old mother, the woman who sacrificed everything to raise you.”

“I'll be back tomorrow or the day after. Lizzie's not well and I need to keep an eye on her.”

“Spoiled little brat, that girl. You won't do her any good by hovering all the time.”

“Thanks for the parenting tips,” Emily replied, turning and heading back across the room. When she reached the door, she glanced at her mother again and saw that she was still sitting by the window, still looking out at the garden. It had been a long shot, hoping that the old woman would actually help, but she'd had to try. Now she had only one option left, and it was someone she really,
really
didn't want to have to call.

Chapter Fifteen

“Unfortunately,” Doctor Robert Slocombe said as he slid the essay across the desk, back toward Rachel, “that's exactly what I'm saying. A complete rewrite, from the first word.”

“It's that bad?” she asked, picking up the essay and seeing spidery red corrections scrawled all over her neat, printed black text. She stared in shock for a moment, before swallowing hard.

“It's not about being bad,” he replied, “it's about being academically rigorous. You're a good student and it's usually a pleasure to read your work, but on this occasion you've drifted into unsupported arguments and weak, flowery points that undermine you entire hypothesis. Which, by the way, was wafer-thin at the start. I appreciate that you wanted to try something new, to bush the boundaries of accepted knowledge, but you picked the wrong way to go. Don't be too ambitious.”

“But I thought -”

“I know exactly what you thought,” he continued. “You thought you'd come up with a wonderful new idea. Well, I'm afraid you went out on a limb and it didn't work. Don't try to change the world, Rachel. Just write an essay, stick to the accepted ideas, and collect your good grade at the end.”

“There goes my weekend,” she muttered, flicking through the rest of the pages and seeing that there were crossings-out and underlinings in every paragraph.

“Sometimes you just have to focus on what's right in front of your eyes,” he continued, checking his watch. “Follow the evidence, rather than coming up with some grand idea and then trying to work back from there. Otherwise you'll end up desperately trying to support some crazy notion, and...” He paused for a moment. “Well, trust me, that way lies failure at best and humiliation at worst. It's better if you learn that lesson now, rather than later.”

“I'll get the rewrite to you first thing on Monday morning,” she told him. “I promise. And I'll do exactly what you said, I'll stick to the stuff in the textbook.”

***

“Crap,” he muttered a few minutes later, once he'd managed to get Rachel out of his office. His hands were shaking slightly as he took the hip flask from his desk drawer and filled a dirty shot glass with a half-measure of whiskey.

Loading up her email client, he glanced at the usual list of faculty messages and conference invitations, before clicking to check his junk folder.

As soon as he saw the name Emily Stone, he froze.

The email's subject line read: Please help.

“You've got to be kidding,” he muttered, clicking on the message. Grabbing his glasses, he leaned a little closer to the screen and read the message:

Dear Doctor Slocombe,

I don't know how well you remember me, but twenty-four years ago you investigated an alleged haunting involving my mother and me. I hope you don't mind me getting in touch now, but I need your help. I hope you're well, and I hope you'll at least read this message.

“Huh,” he said with a faint, astonished smile, “you hope I'm well, do you?” Grabbing the shot glass, he downed the whiskey in one go before filling it again as he read the rest of the email:

I know that what my mother and I did was wrong, and I know you have every reason to hate me. The problem is that although we lied, there was an element of truth in what we claimed. The very first experiences with the entity in our house were real, and it was only later that my mother got the idea to add some lies to the mix in an attempt to get the media involved. The whole thing spiraled out of control, but you have to believe me when I tell you that at the very beginning, something really was in my room.

For the past twenty-four years, I've been trying to put the whole thing behind me. I have a daughter of my own now, her name is Lizzie and she's twelve. In the past few weeks, she's started claiming that something is in her bedroom, which is the same room I had when I was younger. She's never been told about what happened to me, but some of the things she's saying are very similar to things that happened twenty-four years ago. I know it sounds unlikely, but I'm worried that it's all starting up again.

I'm contacting you today because I don't know where else to turn. I'm hoping that you can help, or that you can get me in touch with someone else who's willing to at least consider the possibility that this is happening. I know my history makes it almost impossible for you to believe me, but I'm worried about my daughter and I hope you can set aside your feelings about me, and see if there's anything you can do to help Lizzie.

I hope you're well, and that you'll feel able to help in some way.

Yours sincerely,

Emily Stone.

“Yours sincerely?” he muttered, pouring another shot of whiskey and downing it immediately, before pouring yet another. “Who the hell writes that in an email?”

Clicking the 'reply' link, he took a deep breath and tried to work out how to respond. For a moment, he considered deleting the message and forgetting all about it, but he felt a little annoyed that Emily Stone had contacted him again after all these years, and he was determined to make her understand just how he felt about her. Finally, he began to type.

Dear Emily Stone,

Fuck off.

Yours sincerely,

Doctor Robert Slocombe

Taking a deep breath, he clicked 'send', before leaning back and staring at the screen for a moment.

“What the hell,” he whispered to himself finally, “is wrong with that woman?”

***

“No!” he shouted, leaning across the table and almost knocking over several drinks. “That's the best part! She actually said she needed my help! Can you believe her gall?”

Smiling, Douglas took a sip of his beer.

“I mean,” Robert continued, “the dumb bitch -”

“Hey!” Jenna said, nudging his arm. “Cut that out!”

“You know what I mean,” he continued. “The nerve of the woman!”

“Calm down, Rob,” Jenna said, putting a hand on his shoulder and gently easing him back into his seat. “Come on, there's no need to get quite so agitated just 'cause you've had a few pints. And let's not go calling people dumb bitches. You never used to use words like that. Don't be that kind of person.”

“But can you believe her audacity?” he asked, looking around at the others in their corner booth, tucked back from the crowded bar. “After almost a quarter of a century, she drags herself back to me with her begging bowl, thinking I'm stupid enough to fall for the same bullshit twice. I'll forward you a copy of her message, it's pathetic and insane and whiny all at the same time. I can just imagine her typing it out, getting ready to spin another little web and catch me all over again. She obviously takes after her mother.”

“What exactly did she say?” Jenna asked.

“Just that she wanted my help.”

“And then what?”

“Some bullshit about her daughter, and about how part of the original story was true.”

“And you didn't reply?”

“I told her politely to leave me alone,” he said firmly. “Why would I waste my time listening to a liar?”

“You could have at least heard her out,” Jenna replied. “What harm would it have done? Maybe she really needs help.”

“She needs help, alright,” he muttered. “She needs locking up in a padded cell. I can't even begin to imagine what kind of a mother she must be.”

“It'd make a hell of a book, though,” Douglas pointed out.

“On what?” Robert asked. “Gullible fools? Compulsive liars?”

“On the human condition,” he continued. “Something's obviously not right in this Emily Stone woman's head. No-one rational would come back to you like this, not after everything that happened last time. Either she's genuinely got a screw loose or -”

Robert waited for him to finish. “Or what?”

“Or nothing. Sorry, I don't know where I was going with that.” He took another sip. “I mean, barring the possibility that there might have been a shred of truth in her story. If I recall correctly, that
was
an idea that was floating around once.”

“Hah!” Robert replied, taking a swig of beer before sitting back and letting out a loud burp.

“It might be good for you to have a project,” Jenna suggested, putting a hand on Robert's arm. “It's been a while since you really had something to get your teeth into, something to -” Reaching out, she steadied his pint glass as he almost knocked it over while fumbling for a lighter. “Something to keep your mind occupied,” she continued, with a hint of desperation in her voice. “Remember in the old days, when you actually gave a shit about your work?”

“You mean, when I believed in all that paranormal crap?”

“At least you believed in something.”

“I was
desperate
to believe,” he replied, before glancing over at Douglas. “And you're still chugging away at it, aren't you? Tell me, Doug, how goes life in the paranormal research whatever-it-is business these days?”

“Under-funded and under-appreciated,” Douglas muttered. “Be glad you got out when you did.”

“I'm thankful every day,” Robert replied. “Every morning, I wake up and feel a wave of relief when I remember that I don't still pursue that kind of garbage.”

“You don't know it's garbage,” Jenna pointed out. “You need to at least -”

Feeling a buzzing sensation in her pocket, she pulled out her phone.

“Go on,” Robert muttered, “answer it. I'm sure your dear husband wants to know when you're getting home. Give him my regards, by the way. What's his name again? Tim? Tom? Ted?”

As a scowling Jenna squeezed past the others and made her way to the crowded pub's front door, Robert stared down at his drink for a moment, before noticing that Douglas was watching him.

“What?” he asked.

“Rob, I know what Emily Stone and her mother did, and I know how it affected you and what it did to your career.” He paused. “But from a sociological standpoint, she'd be a fascinating case study in... I don't know, in whatever the hell is going through her head.”

“Bullshit,” Robert replied, taking another swig of beer, and this time managing to spill some down his front. “It's all bullshit, and I don't want anything to do with any of it. If that idiot wants to keep spewing rubbish about ghosts, let her. I just hope she doesn't screw her daughter's life up.”

***

“Jesus!” Tripping over something in the dark, Robert tried to steady himself but failed. Instead, he crashed down onto the floor of his cramped apartment, letting out a gasp of pain in the process.

Getting to his feet, he kicked the door shut before stumbling to the kitchen and flicking the light-switch. Barely able to stand, he stood in the doorway for a moment, swaying as he fumbled for his phone, which he tapped a couple of times before waiting for the call to connect.

“Come on,” he muttered, drumming his fingers against the door-frame as he glanced at the clock on the wall.

2:15am.

“Hi,” said a voice on the phone finally, sounding bright and cheerful, “this is Doctor Jenna Riseborough. I can't answer your call right now, but please leave a message and I'll get back to you as soon as possible.”

Followed by a beep.

Robert frowned.

“It's me,” he muttered, slurring his speech. “I just though I'd call and make sure you got home safely. That's the gentlemanly thing to do, isn't it? To make sure you got home to the sweet embrace of your loving -”

He hiccuped.

“Your loving -”

And again.

“You know what I mean. And fuck Emily Stone, by the way. Fuck her and her stupid ghost games and all that bullshit. I hope there
is
a ghost in her house, making her life a nightmare. If anyone deserves such a fate, it's that...”

He paused, trying to think of the right word, before there was another beep and he realized he'd run out of time to leave a message. Staring at his phone, he considered calling back and leaving another, before tossing the phone onto the counter and heading to the chair in the corner. Slumping down, he closed his eyes and decided to just rest for a minute or two before finding his way to bed. He took a deep breath and leaned back, and within just a few seconds he was fast asleep.