The room changed in appearance. The walls and ceiling seemed closer, almost suffocating him. Every object he could make out looked like a figure: the chair resembled a crouched-down child, the dressing-gown hooked behind the door reminded him of a hanging corpse, and he could swear that there were two feet sticking out from under the curtains. The loneliness of the house crept all around him, and the fear had well and truly returned. The fact that Nicky was right beside him meant nothing. He had been abandoned and left to face the house that he had once loved, yet again.
He turned over onto his back and scanned the moonlit room, with the quilt now pulled up to his chin. Having most of his body covered made him feel safer, more guarded. The last thing he wanted was to have his leg or arm hang out off the side of the bed and risk it being grabbed by someone, or something.
The minutes passed by. Each noise, however slight, widened his eyes and jolted his heart. He even shuddered at the sound of the wind outside. He prayed for Nicky to be awake. No such luck. She was fast asleep.
The longer he lay and listened, the louder the sounds got. Was it his imagination? Or was it simply the sounds of the night? Or worse still, the woman creeping around the house, waiting, luring him out to investigate the noise?
Not a chance in Hell.
Too afraid to close his eyes for fear of her standing over him when he opened them again. Too terrified to pull the quilt over his face for the same reason. There was nothing to do but wait for her to show herself.
Any other time he could put all this down to simple paranoia, left over from his childhood. But this time he did have something to fear. This time there was something lurking in the shadows, living under his bed, watching him, preying on him. There was no way to avoid it other than move out, and he was in no way able to do such a drastic thing. Although, right now, that sounded like a very tempting prospect. Right now, he would gladly trade his warm bed for the carpet-less floor of his best friend’s grotty flat over on St. Pauls.
Right now, he would gladly sleep anywhere but here.
He checked the time on the bedside cabinet; an hour had passed since Nicky had fallen asleep. He closed his eyes with reluctance. He had to get some sleep. Visions of the woman sitting on his bed, staring at him, flooded his mind. He could hear the sinister tapping noise she had made on the spare bedroom door resound in his head. His dream flooded his mind. And the name Christina Long. Was it really her name, and if so, who was she? And how the hell did she end up in his house, tormenting him, day after day, night after night?
His head filled with unanswered questions and constant reminders of his ghost, which lasted well into the early hours of the morning. He could feel that sleep was just around the corner.
The sound of something falling in the kitchen made his eyes spring open, causing his heart to pump fast and his breathing to increase. His eyes were fixed on the door handle while he prayed that it wouldn’t start to turn; that there wouldn’t be another knock on the door.
As the terror built to a boiling point, he repeated in his head: Please be a burglar. Please be a burglar. Please be a burglar. Please be a burglar. Please be a burglar….
Chapter 10
Day 10: Thursday
Richard ransacked the spare room, looking for his missing laptop. “Where is it?” he shouted, surveying the damage. Every box was tipped over, the contents spilled across the floor; the drawers of the wooden chest were open, with clothes hanging out the sides; the junk from underneath the bed had been pulled out and scattered.
Out of breath and sweating, he stood back and glared at the cluttered room. Where’s she put it? he thought, shaking his head in mystification. I bet it’s at her bloody parents’ house. “Shit!” he said, almost spitting the word, realizing that his computer was unobtainable.
Leaving the room, he stepped out onto the landing. He had closed his bedroom door tight to avoid the chance of seeing her sitting on the bed again. Still petrified, he raced past the door and down the stairs, leaping over nearly half the stairs into the hallway. Relieved, he let out a long breath and headed for the kitchen. Passing the dreaded chair, refusing to look at it, he grabbed his car keys from the counter and exited as fast as possible.
“I hate this house,” he mumbled.