5 October
Soon as I cross the threshold, the flat feels different.
On a purely physical level, this place ain’t getting any warmer. I may as well have walked into a meat locker. The hallway and living room feel eerily still and quiet, but there’s something else, too. A kind of tension, like I’m standing on one big loaded mousetrap.
That’s because something terrible is going to happen.
The night is a wire, stretched so taut that it might snap without warning. But of course, this oddly brooding atmosphere must be all in my drunk, shattered head. Tomorrow is another early start on the wagon, and I shouldn’t have even stayed awake this late, let alone gone out and got loaded.
Screw lighting any candles tonight. Not only am I too pissed to be tooling around with fire, I have no fear of the dark or anything else.
Plus, in the absence of light, you can’t see that demon face on the window.
I slump straight down on my makeshift floor-bed, close my eyes, then groan at myself. Sleep, now? Who am I kidding? New unanswered questions make it utterly impossible for me to keep my hands off Scott’s phone. On my way back here from the Amsterdam, all I’ve been able to think about is how an evangelical Scott could possibly have spoken to Ray about me in early May, before he even knew I existed.
I’m reminded of what Maureen told me about Scott and Ray’s differing accounts of the fights Scott got into at school. So how much of what Ray said about Scott can I trust? Funnily enough, despite Ray having come across like a bad second-hand-car salesman, I feel I can place more trust in him than I ever should have in his twin.
There’s one easy way to put this to the test.
The Kindle reader app on Scott’s phone previously failed to pique my interest, but now Ray’s made his claim about the pick-up book, this thing feels like compulsory reading.
Hey. You didn’t check the bathroom or the bedroom, so look over to that archway and the hall. Just one glance to make sure nobody’s standing there in the darkness, watching you. Scott, for instance.
Nope. Don’t have to look to know there’s nobody there.
Oh, really? Or are you too scared to see your ex-boyfriend standing out there… possessed?
You might also see another blue, flickering thing… right?
Exhaustion makes me twitchy and impatient as I scroll past a load of crime thrillers and unofficial Prince bios. Just when I’m about to give up and confirm Ray’s status as a drunken bullshit-artist, here it is: The Cunning Man’s 69-Step Guide To Luring And Keeping Women.
Well, how delightful. The Cunning Man. Luring. Keeping. I feel dirty, just from having seen the book cover.
The table of contents lists the chapter titles, so I skip the author’s no-doubt-ugly foreword and go straight to the part about luring all these suggestible li’l kittens. A few pages later, I linger on Step Sixteen, which suggests how to break the ice with the laydeez.
The tl;dr version? Make eye contact with women and find an opportunity to bond over something you agree on. The author gives an example of mutually tutting over slow service at a bar in order to break the ice, then offering to buy the poor naïve waif a drink.
Bonding over something you agree on? Sounds familiar. Out in those Welsh woods, when Scott and I first made eye contact, we bonded over our shared mockery of Tomm. A deliberate tactic on his part, then.
An important note here, writes the author. In order to non-verbally express agreement with the woman’s point of view, you don’t even have to share it. In fact, you can privately disagree. All that matters is the bond made and the hot sex you’re getting tonight.
Prickling and driven by instinct, I search for “Tomm” in Scott’s Kindle library.
Three days after the digital retreat, Scott downloaded Tomm Kale’s self-published poetry book, then gave it a four-star review on Amazon.
Even our first shared moment has become tainted. Our porcelain castle was built on sleazeball, woman-fearing crap, and I want to hurl Scott into the moat.
Psst! Was that movement, out there in the hall, or did clouds pass over the moon? Go on, take a look.
Kindly fuck off, brain. I only have eyes for this screen.
The wind rallies enough force to rattle the window frames as I meditate on how Ray told the truth about the pick-up manual. Could this mean Scott really did talk about me on their birthday, in advance of the detox retreat?
I search Scott’s browser history for “Kate Collins”.
Nothing comes up. Propelled by a brainwave, I Google to see if there’s any way to dig up his private browser history. Yep, there is. As the instructions warn, this is far from the entire history, or even the entire recent history. But still, these are results I wouldn’t otherwise have seen.
Scott’s private browsing history is dominated by searches for cheap loans and porn. Hey, might one of these smut sites explain those bizarre screen grabs? Let’s head off on a quick tangent. Can’t hurt.
When I click on the URLs Scott visited, most of them lead to your standard porn… even though he has more of an appreciation of BDSM than I’d realised. He’d dealt me the odd playful spank, but never so much as broached the ball-gags, whips and bunny-tail butt plugs I see in some of these clips. Or indeed, thankfully, the watersports. Some of this stuff’s pretty out-there, but nothing like the otherworldly madness in those screen grabs that I’m still really praying were taken from horror movies.
You really should check on that dark hallway now. Anything could be happening through there…
Staying on my tangent, I zoom over to Facebook, where none of my friends have convincingly identified those screen grabs I posted. One person vaguely reckons they’ve been taken from the orgy scene at the end of some lurid 80s horror film called Society. This raises my hopes until gore-movie fans queue up to insist that this person is entirely wrong.
Argh. I really should get back on track and solve the riddle of Scott having spoken about me before we met. Then I can sleep. Returning to his private history, I scroll all the way back to May.
Christ almighty, here it is. Scott ran several Google searches for Kate Collins paramedic. The first of these searches was on 1 May, exactly one month before we met for the first time in the Welsh woods.
Rattle-rattle-rattle go the windows, challenged by a shrill, unhinged wind. If I didn’t know better, I’d swear Mother Nature was laughing hard at my expense.
My mind reels. Scott actually targeted me in Wales.
Why, why, why?
For reasons unknown.
How did he even know I would be at the detox retreat? And how am I supposed to sleep now, having learnt this? I’m going to be so fucked in the morning. And to compound the glee, I need the bloody loo.
Ooh, careful. That’ll mean going out into the pitch-black hallway.
I can take Scott’s phone to use as a torch. Just in case I need it.
Up I get, like a bleary-eyed child instructed to do something against her will. Approaching the archway, step by step, I hate the sense that the hall is practically daring me to set foot out there. Soon as I step through the arch, the whole corridor might come to life. Fast as the paper tongue of a party blower, it could wrap me up and gulp me down.
Please leave for your safety.
Ludicrous. Nevertheless, here I am, still hesitating, one step from the archway.
I actually find myself muttering, “Come on then, if you think you’re hard enough.”
Kate, major newsflash incoming: you’ve challenged a hallway to a fight. Calm down, go take a leak and then get some sleep, you absolute nutter.
Here’s a fun observation: you haven’t pushed all your boxes up against the front door for safety, like you did on that first night. Scott could easily have snuck in while you searched his phone. The wind would have ensured you didn’t hear him enter. What if he’s lurking unseen, among all those hallway shadows, back to revel in the emotional ruins he left behind and reclaim his phone?
A chill shimmers through me. Angry at this, I push back my shoulders and jut out my chest. My favourite life coach would be proud of the brave body language.
The darkness won’t let you see Scott – not until you’re close enough for him to reach out and grab you. Or he might say, Hello, Kate and induce cardiac arrest.
Without even having to look, I know there’s no one standing inside the front door. No one! Not Scott or anyone else. Fuck this.
I stomp through the archway and submerge myself in the oil-slick black of the hall.
Yes, that’s it: turn right, straight away. Don’t look behind you, towards the front door. Seriously dark here, isn’t it? You should use Scott’s phone torch. Are you too stubborn to even do that… or are you too afraid of what you might see?
Dimly visible, the open bathroom door looks too far away for comfort. I pick up my pace… strictly because I really need this pee. No other reason whatsoever.
Definitely not because the taste of copper has crept back into my mouth.
Behind me, something bursts into existence and shoots light along the walls. My heart pinballs down between my knees, then ricochets all the way up to plug my throat.
This light is neither the white of a normal ceiling bulb nor the yellow of the street lamps outside. No, this light is the same colour as that thing I saw in the corner of my eye.
Up ahead, the bathroom’s sink mirror reflects my image. Right behind me, hovers a mass of flickering blue light.
It does.
With a gasp, I break into a dash for the bathroom.
In the mirror, the blue light melts into black, like a shark darting off into untold fathoms. And yet I can’t stop running.
What am I doing? This is crazy.
Ghosts don’t care whether you believe in them or not. They don’t need your permission to exist.
Even though I don’t believe in ghosts, I’m no fan of the unknown…
… or darkness…
… but what in the galloping fuck was that? Felt like some kind of…
… go on, think it, there’s no harm in only thinking it…
… some kind of entity. I mean, obviously not an entity, because that makes no sense. But…
But what?
Barrelling into the bathroom, I slam the door and yank the latch across.
Can’t even see my hand in front of my face, but am I bothered? Hell no. This is fine. I am a dog in a burning room, okay with all the events that are unfolding currently.
I’m bone-tired, that’s all. Stressed and still drunk. This flicker-thing must have been the result of the ceiling lights going haywire. Some kind of power surge, caused by the electricity briefly coming back on. That’s exactly what this was.
When I first saw that demonic face on the balcony window, the seed of uncertainty planted itself in a part of my head where rational thought holds no sway. This seed wants me to believe that there’s something wrong with this flat. Something… off… with the very bones of this place.
What does it even mean for a flat to be haunted? Makes no sense. Flats are essentially boxes made out of wood, stone and glass. How can a box possibly be out to get you?
You’re going to love it here.
I Am Possessed.
A real wild one.
Lovin’ life.
This flat is not haunted. And so I’m going to sit here and take a piss in the dark, like any normal individual would during the night. I desperately need to shrug off the silly fright I’ve had and sleep.
Come on, admit it, you’re seriously creeped out. Why don’t you turn on your phone torch, or that mirror light? No one will ever know you caved.
Look, this was a power surge. At a push, it was a stronger hallucination than I experienced last night. That’s all! Either way, the case is closed. Now, if you’ll excuse me…
Fine, stay in the dark. But next time you’re watching a scary movie, you’re officially no longer allowed to yell, Just turn the fucking lights on! at the characters.
I can live with that. Now, while we search around for the toilet seat, let’s think about nice things instead, such as a bright future. Let’s picture ourselves in love with the man of our dreams. A man who lives in the same town as us, has no secrets worth shouting about and doesn’t perform a vanishing act worthy of Keyser Söze.
While we lift the lid, briefly wondering if we might need to throw up, let’s note that it will have taken us a while to trust this man. Because, oh sweet Christ, do we ever have raging trust issues thanks to Scott Palmer. But several years into this glorious relationship, we know Mr Perfect would never abandon us for a laugh, or secretly film us, or make us think we’re special when in fact we’re only a fraction of his grubby Tinder harem.
And as we grace the porcelain throne, let’s picture sitting beside Mr Perfect on a blanket in a field. Our child shrieks with laughter as he or she plays with our cute dog. A lovely little terrier with berry eyes, scampering about.
Hey… why does Mr Perfect have Scott’s face? We’ve very much moved on from him – haven’t we, heart? I’d certainly fucking hope so, given that we now know Scott targeted us from the start.
Yes. And for some reason, he’s lured you to this haunted flat.
Shut. Up.
Having erased Scott’s stupid enigmatic wolf face, let’s be lazy and go with some nice, generic square-jawed guy, straight out of a TV advert. Feels better, doesn’t it? Yes. So we’ll stay perched on this all-too-cold toilet seat and we’ll do our business. We’ll wind down, so that when we return to our super-deluxe duvet on the living room floor we can roll directly into sleep’s sweet embrace.
Christ, it’s so dark. Truly, if I’d gone blind, I wouldn’t know the difference till I went back to the living room. But hooray: my business is concluded here. Time for some much-needed sl—
Oh my God, oh my God, the fucking bathroom door.
Two flickering, corpse-blue hands push effortlessly in through the solid wood. The fingers are rigor mortis claws.
I blink and blink again, desperate to kill the hallucination, but no, this is actually happening. This thing really is floating in through the closed fucking door, right across the room from where I sit.
Every hair on my body stands up. Copper fills my mouth and my teeth feel raw, like they’ve been wrapped in foil. Must have dropped Scott’s phone, because it clatters on the floor and skims away.
Between these grasping, spectral hands, a face begins to form. The nose and the chin make their entrance first, followed by the eyes and mouth.
The eyes are twin black holes punched into blue cloth.
The mouth, fixed into the deranged grin of a hunter spotting prey.
This thing… this thing, it moves like a crudely animated drawing in a child’s flip-book – one with half the pages missing. The further it emerges from the door, the more its strobe dominates the room. Within its shimmering body rages what might be a turbulent electrical storm. Narrow, pulsating forks of white light dart out from its core to illuminate the fingers, the mouth, the dead eyes.
Having left the door behind, the intruder displays nothing but blurred, fizzing mist where its feet should be. The arms and legs move as if independent of the body, performing wild contortions that would cripple any living person.
With a series of angry, spasmodic jerks, this thing wrenches itself through the darkness towards me, as if crossing an ocean bed.
I try to scream, but I’m all seized up inside. I’m dry as dust and copper-mouthed. What good would screaming do anyway? Primal mechanisms take over and I hold my hands out in front of me, but that’s just the kind of pointless thing people do before getting splattered across a motorway.
There’s nowhere to run and nowhere to hide.
As this thing moves closer, her savage smile becomes all too clear. All too recognisable.
The deathless hands of Gwyneth Cooper reach out for me.