No. It was just his imagination. He was certain of that. He didn’t believe in ghosts. Not really anyway.
So why did the empty kitchen chair fill him with such dread?
Calming down, still undecided of what he saw, he got a small dustpan and brush from the cupboard underneath the sink, and began to clear the broken pieces off the floor. “Jesus Christ,” he muttered, still shaking as he gathered up the mess. “I’m losing it. I must be.”
He tipped the pieces into the bin and turned to look again at the table. A thin layer of sweat had formed on his brow, a combination of the heat and fright. He wiped it off with his wrist and shook his head, still not over the shock. What’s wrong with me? His eyes were still fixed on the chair.
Unable to think of anything other than the mysterious woman, he remained in the kitchen for several minutes—forgetting about the urge to urinate.
“I’ve tried dropping hints, but it’s no good,” Nicky said, sitting on the couch next to Richard. “Even Lucy’s started to notice.”
“Why doesn’t your boss say something to her?” Richard asked half-heartedly, his focus split between his wife’s office politics and the woman from his kitchen.
“Because everyone’s afraid of her. But I’m not. I came so close to telling her today.”
“And what stopped you?” he asked, trying to throw the woman’s tortured face to the back of his mind.
She shrugged. “I don’t know. It’s not worth it—especially when your boss doesn’t back you up. It’s all right for you, you’re a manager—people listen to you. But no one gives a crap about what I say.”
“That’s not true,” he said, rubbing a sympathetic hand across her leg. “Everyone listens to you.”
Chuckling through her nostrils, she replied, “If only that were true.”
“Well, I care about what you have to say.”
Smirking, she turned to him. “Are you sure about that?”
“What d’ya mean?”
Her eyebrows rose. “Didn’t I ask you to do the dishes this morning?”
He bit his bottom lip like a naughty child. “Sorry, forgot.” He paused for a second, and then added, “Didn’t you tell me to take it easy?”
“I think you can manage a few dishes. Which reminds me: some of the spoons are missing from the cutlery drawer. Have you left any in work?”
“I was going to ask you the same thing.”
“Well, I haven’t taken them. Are you sure you haven’t? They were a wedding present from your auntie and uncle.”
Frowning, he shook his head. “Of course I’m sure. Why would I take them to work? You’re the one who takes salads and cereal to work. I only eat sandwiches and junk food.”
She pondered for a moment. “That’s odd.”
Picking up the remote control, she pushed the standby button. The half-lit room became illuminated as the television powered up.
“Listen, I wasn’t going to say anything, but—” Richard said, his words laced with severity.
She turned to him with a concerned look on her face. “What’s wrong?”
Holding back his words, he exhaled as if to prepare. “Well, it’s just—”
“Hang on for a second.” She pushed the standby button again and the television died. “Go on—what’s up? It sounds serious.”
“This afternoon, I saw something. At least I think I did. I’m not sure.”
Intrigued, she leaned in close. “Saw what?”
“A woman. In our kitchen.”
“What, a burglar?”
He shook his head. “Not exactly.”
“Then what?” she asked, grimacing.
He braced. “Well, I’m not saying it was a ghost, but…”
Moving away from him, his wife gave out a loud cry of laughter. “A ghost? Is there something wrong with you? How old are you?”
“Look, I said it wasn’t a ghost. I’m just saying I saw something, all right. Probably just my eyes playing tricks. That’s all.”
“And what did this woman look like?” she said, clearly humoring him. “Was she pretty? Or was she one of those zombie ghosts, all rotten with worms coming out of her face?