Fourteen Days(30)

He stood in the silence, listening to the clock on the wall ticking louder and louder, and the rain striking the window like machine-gun fire. He fought hard to stay strong and focused, but the fear was winning, infecting him like a virus. The house was once again a breeding ground for darkness and isolation. And the idea of summoning a spirit to his kitchen seemed preposterous. But not the actual concept, merely the stupidity of forcing something so terrifying out into the open. Richard had still not been able to overcome his phobia of spiders, despite countless attempts by his wife. And right now, standing in his kitchen, potentially about to come face-to-face with the ghost of a former occupant—he would gladly trade it for a spider any day of the week.

“Come on, Mrs. Rees, tell me what you want from me?” he asked. “Don’t be afraid.” The very thought of her being fearful of him seemed absurd. But nevertheless he had to take Karen’s advice. He didn’t have any ideas of his own to bring to the table. “Maybe I can help you? But I need to know what you want.”

With no response after almost five minutes, his muscles started to relax. His fists opened and his body straightened. She isn’t coming, he thought. Suddenly the room seemed a different world, like a great shadow had been lifted. Thoughts of seeing her faded, so he shook his head and left, relieved yet disappointed.

Stupid idea.

Why would a bloody ghost listen to me? God! What’s the matter with me? This is idiotic. If my friends could see me now. They’d laugh their asses off. This can’t be real. There can’t be a ghost in my house. Jesus Christ, Rich! What are you doing to yourself? You’re letting a couple of tricks of the eyes drive you mad. There’s nothing here. No woman in your kitchen. It’s all just mumbo-jumbo. Pull yourself together. Focus!

He left the kitchen and headed toward the living room door.

The shrieking of the smoke detector painfully filled his eardrums.

Richard’s body jolted with gut-wrenching terror. “Bloody hell!” His body spasmed with shock. Covering his ears, he climbed the first few steps of the stairs so he could reach the noisy device. He unscrewed it, his face scrunched up in repulsion, and then frantically removed the battery, his hands sweaty, trembling.

The noise stopped dead.

He set the plastic device down on one of the steps, and then leaned against the banister, taking a moment to calm down. “Bloody hell,” he repeated, holding a hand to his thumping heart.

Slightly calmer, he started to descend the stairs.

Just as his foot touched the hallway floor, the piercing sound of the smoke detector returned.

He recoiled in fright again. Frowning, he opened his hand to see the battery in his palm. He froze in fear, unable to explain how the device could still be screaming without power. Impossible.

Racing upstairs, he slipped the battery into his pocket as he climbed. Reaching the top, the sound became louder—it was coming from the other detector, located on the ceiling between the bathroom and the two spare rooms. Panicked, he hurried into the office room and wheeled out the computer chair. He positioned it under the squealing device, climbed up, and using the wall for support unscrewed it in a frenzy, also removing the battery.

The sound stopped dead.

His eardrums throbbed and rang as he jumped from the unstable chair. He slipped the battery into his pocket and wheeled the chair back into the office, his heart slamming against his chest, his hands shaking, sweat pouring down his face.

But before he even had the chance to calm down, the house came alive again with the sound of the smoke detector, this time coming from the kitchen.

“Bloody hell!”

He sprinted down the stairs, missing the last few steps completely. Storming into the kitchen as if his house was ablaze, he pulled out one of the chairs from under the table and climbed up, disconnecting the last remaining detector.

He stood in the kitchen, exhausted, shaking from head to toe, unable to comprehend what had just occurred. And then he remembered the dreaded chair. He took one look at it and left, still clenching the battery in his sweaty palm. Reaching into his pocket, he pulled out the other two. Shaking his head in mystification, he glared down at the batteries. “Bloody hell,” he said, for the fourth time.

He walked into the living room and collapsed onto the couch. His ears still rang loudly, so he picked up the remote control and switched on the TV, turning the volume up almost to the top. He ran his hand over his sweat-soaked face and sat back, eyes wide open.

He didn’t care what was on.

Anything would do.