night's cleaning frenzy. He'd been dreaming, he knew that much, although he couldn't remember the details. A voice had woken him, however, and with a slow, creeping sense of dread he realized that he knew exactly whose voice it had been.
Turning, he looked toward the bedroom door, half expecting to see a figure out on the dark landing.
There was no-one.
He waited, listening to the silence of the house, trying to convince himself that the voice had simply been a part of his dream, but he'd heard it just as he was on the cusp of waking up, which meant he couldn't be sure whether it had come from the dream or from the real world. He told himself that it was natural for him to be jumpy, and that there was no-one else in the house and that his grandmother's soul, if she'd even had one to begin with, was long gone along with her body. Still, he could tell that something felt wrong, even if he couldn't quite put his finger on the source of the problem, and with each passing second he expected to hear her voice again, calling out to him.
Somehow, deep in his bones, he felt that he wasn't alone.
“Please don't,” he whispered. “Please, please don't come back.”
Deep down, he felt certain that she'd called out to him two nights ago, on the night when she'd died. He was sure she must have begged for him to wake up, but he figured he must have just slept through it all. He tried to imagine himself sleeping soundly, not hearing the faint, plaintive cries from the other bedroom.
And now she was gone.
Letting his head settle back on the pillow, he stared at the window, waiting for tiredness to return. Ghosts didn't exist, he knew that. After all, his mother had died several years earlier and he felt certain that if people could come back and contact the living, she'd have appeared a long time ago. He told himself that he was simply struggling to deal with the silence of the house, and that it was natural for him to start having dark dreams, but he was also sure that he could withstand any hint of paranoia. His grandmother had told him he was weak, but he was starting to feel strong.
“There's no such thing as ghosts,” he heard his own voice saying at the back of his mind, like a mantra. “There's no such thing as ghosts. She's gone.”
He waited, but even though he hadn't heard her voice again, he was certain that something felt wrong. The silence of the house was starting to build again, to sound the way it had sounded on the morning when he found her body. He turned to look at the door again, and although he knew he was probably imagining it all, he was suddenly filled with the overwhelming sense that if he just went out and walked to her bedroom door, he'd see her again, down there on the floor. The idea was impossible to entertain, of course, but he could still feel it tugging at the edge of his mind, and finally he realized that he'd never be able to get to sleep if he didn't at least go and check.
Slowly, he got out of bed and made his way to the door.
“You only have to do this once,” he told himself. “Go and look, prove that she's not there, and then you'll know forever. That's how it works.”
He paused, trying to believe his own advice.
“John.”
He froze. He'd heard the voice again, except it took only a fraction of a second for him to have doubts. Had he heard it, or had it just been a brief surge in the silence? Reaching out, he switched on the landing light and saw that there was no sign of anyone near the top of the stairs. His mind was racing, thinking back to the voice and trying desperately to work out whether it had been real or not. He told himself that it couldn't be, that it was far more likely that he was on the verge of cracking up, but more than ever now he knew that he had to go and look in her bedroom.
“John,” the voice had whispered.
Slowly, with fear tightening in his chest, he began to make his way along the landing until he reached her door. It was shut, of course, just the
Turning, he looked toward the bedroom door, half expecting to see a figure out on the dark landing.
There was no-one.
He waited, listening to the silence of the house, trying to convince himself that the voice had simply been a part of his dream, but he'd heard it just as he was on the cusp of waking up, which meant he couldn't be sure whether it had come from the dream or from the real world. He told himself that it was natural for him to be jumpy, and that there was no-one else in the house and that his grandmother's soul, if she'd even had one to begin with, was long gone along with her body. Still, he could tell that something felt wrong, even if he couldn't quite put his finger on the source of the problem, and with each passing second he expected to hear her voice again, calling out to him.
Somehow, deep in his bones, he felt that he wasn't alone.
“Please don't,” he whispered. “Please, please don't come back.”
Deep down, he felt certain that she'd called out to him two nights ago, on the night when she'd died. He was sure she must have begged for him to wake up, but he figured he must have just slept through it all. He tried to imagine himself sleeping soundly, not hearing the faint, plaintive cries from the other bedroom.
And now she was gone.
Letting his head settle back on the pillow, he stared at the window, waiting for tiredness to return. Ghosts didn't exist, he knew that. After all, his mother had died several years earlier and he felt certain that if people could come back and contact the living, she'd have appeared a long time ago. He told himself that he was simply struggling to deal with the silence of the house, and that it was natural for him to start having dark dreams, but he was also sure that he could withstand any hint of paranoia. His grandmother had told him he was weak, but he was starting to feel strong.
“There's no such thing as ghosts,” he heard his own voice saying at the back of his mind, like a mantra. “There's no such thing as ghosts. She's gone.”
He waited, but even though he hadn't heard her voice again, he was certain that something felt wrong. The silence of the house was starting to build again, to sound the way it had sounded on the morning when he found her body. He turned to look at the door again, and although he knew he was probably imagining it all, he was suddenly filled with the overwhelming sense that if he just went out and walked to her bedroom door, he'd see her again, down there on the floor. The idea was impossible to entertain, of course, but he could still feel it tugging at the edge of his mind, and finally he realized that he'd never be able to get to sleep if he didn't at least go and check.
Slowly, he got out of bed and made his way to the door.
“You only have to do this once,” he told himself. “Go and look, prove that she's not there, and then you'll know forever. That's how it works.”
He paused, trying to believe his own advice.
“John.”
He froze. He'd heard the voice again, except it took only a fraction of a second for him to have doubts. Had he heard it, or had it just been a brief surge in the silence? Reaching out, he switched on the landing light and saw that there was no sign of anyone near the top of the stairs. His mind was racing, thinking back to the voice and trying desperately to work out whether it had been real or not. He told himself that it couldn't be, that it was far more likely that he was on the verge of cracking up, but more than ever now he knew that he had to go and look in her bedroom.
“John,” the voice had whispered.
Slowly, with fear tightening in his chest, he began to make his way along the landing until he reached her door. It was shut, of course, just the
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