Trust Me
By Andy Morris
“He was standing right there.” Penny’s hand was still trembling as she pointed down the hallway towards the bedroom. The wardrobe door was open. An avalanche of men's clothes had spilt out onto the floor, preventing her wheelchair from getting around the bed to open the curtains and allow sunlight into the dull bedroom. It hadn’t always been like this. When she’d first moved into her bungalow, about a year ago, everything had been fine. She still worked two days a week as a nurse so, she wanted to keep her hand in while she finally pursued her life-long dream of becoming a writer.
Any author would find this to be the perfect environment: It was located just outside Beaulieu, in the New Forest. Nothing surrounded her new home except empty fields and wild moorland. The long track that led to her bungalow was muddy and overgrown. It made it unlikely that random strangers would stumble upon her retreat by accident. Occasionally the odd pony wandered by to stare in through the living room window, or she’d spot cyclists out on the horizon, but no people ever popped bye. That was the way she liked it. Afterall, seclusion is a writer's best friend. Well, that and a working laptop. The Wi-Fi could be a little patchy at times, and if that had been the only problem, she would have been more than happy.
Inside, the exposed brick walls still supported the original wooden beams which spanned the low ceiling. Most people would have to stoop inside but, this wasn’t a problem for Penny. The bungalow was built in a time when people seemed to be a lot shorter. Overall, her living space was small and compact, yet full of character and history. That history, she had later discovered, included a violent past. After learning of the bloody incident in the late 1800s, Penny had fallen even more in love with the place. It was great material for her novel. By immersing herself in the history of her home and the surrounding area, she’d hoped her writing would blossom, and it had done, initially.
“It was the banging that woke me up,” she continued. “I rolled over in bed and, there he was: Stan Silver! Or his ghost at least. I’ve told you I’d seen him before, but he’d never got this close before. I knew he wanted to hurt me and as tried to scramble to my chair all I could think about was: Oh my god, I can’t have someone find me with my hair looking like this!” She felt her smile drop as quickly as it had appeared.
“Indeed,” Peter, her friend and ex-colleague exclaimed with intense interest. He was perched on the arm of the sofa with his right ankle casually resting on his left knee. Sporting his tweed jacket with the brown leather patches, he looked more like a history teacher than a drugs counsellor. “I imagine that would have been terrifying, and if you don’t mind me saying – you do look pretty awful.” He appraised her in his blunt familiarity. A spider scuttled across the wooden floor past Peter, but he didn’t notice. He held her gaze until she continued.
“I feel so confused; every rational part of my mind is telling me Stan Silver can't be real. So, why do I keep seeing him?
“That’s what we need to figure out, mate.”
“At first he didn’t appear that often. I'd catch a glimpse of something out the corner of my eye. But, over the last few weeks, he’s been coming more frequently. I see him nearly every day now, and all I can do is hide until he goes away. I shouldn’t have to live like that in my own home! I love this place and, I'd hate to leave but, it’s getting to the point where I may have to...”
“Perhaps you’re right,” Peter suggested as he scratched his monstrously bushy beard. “Why do you –”
“– Wait,” Penny cut him off. She lifted a finger, looking around the room. Cobwebs collected in the corners of the overhead beams. Shafts of midday sun lanced in through the small windows, highlighting dost motes in the air. Fruit-flies danced above the old coffee table next to Peter. They must be attracted to the lingering scent of something because the table was bare. The living room was beginning to look a little shabby she observed. Penny had a cleaner, Rosa, but she hadn’t been for a few weeks. She couldn’t recall why. That wasn't what had caught her attention, though. She’d become aware of a low knocking sound, punctuating the brittle quietness of the room. As she sat there listening, it started to become louder.
“Can you hear that tapping?” She asked. “It’s Stan Silver. It starts quiet and muffled but, it gets louder as he comes closer.” She paused, listening. “The temperature drops as well. The faster the tapping, the colder the room becomes. We should probably move into the kitchen.” She glanced into the hallway, mentally preparing her retreat. It was becoming such a habit now.
Peter was looking at her over the top of his glasses. He carried an expression of infinite patience, but it was tinged with private, regret as he said quietly, “Tapping sound? I don’t hear anything, mate. Erm, why do you think he’s here?”
“This was Stan Silver’s house," Penny recalled what she'd learned of the cottage's history. "He was a ship-builder in the mid-1800s. One night he’d been playing cards in The Royal Oak with a group of fishermen. There was an argument, and some of them followed him home. They broke into the house and stabbed him to death. No one was convicted of his murder due to lack of evidence. I think, by researching this place, I’ve somehow conjured his ghost. It’s like I woke him up and he wants me out of his house.”
A light shower of dust fell from the chimney, settling like snow on the grey coals in the dusty fireplace.
“We shouldn’t be here when he comes.”
The knocking was getting louder so, why was Peter saying he couldn’t hear it? She wasn’t hallucinating; she’d considered that before. There was no unresolved trauma that could be causing it - Well, there was that ‘wobble’ back in the summer, and she'd hit a low spot, but everyone has their demons. Besides, hallucinations couldn’t physically hurt you! She pulled the sleeves of her cardigan down over her hands. Peter observed this but didn’t comment. His silent scrutiny, usually warm and reassuring, was beginning to feel like a heavy blanket pressing down upon her.
“You know,” Peter said slowly. “I’d love to see your research on Stan Silver. Can you show me?”
"Yes, it's erm…" Penny was aware she was becoming more absent-minded. She never used to be like this. All this business with the ghost was affecting her memory. No doubt it would be on her computer, somewhere.
When she made no move to get the documents, Peter asked, "Something was different this morning, wasn’t it?”
“Yes,” she admitted. “You know, living out here was supposed to help inspire my writing but, I never thought it would lead to anything like this! My book is supposed to be a historical thriller, not a horror story.” She laughed mirthlessly, reluctant to relive the events of a few hours ago. “All of this sounds so ridiculous.”
“Not really,” Peter suggested. “The paranormal is a real interest of mine and, at the risk of sounding melodramatic, I do believe in ghosts.” His sad smile was genuine, full of compassion. He said nothing more as he waited for her to continue. Penny took a deep, shaky breath. Another spider ambled across the floor between them. She didn’t know if it was the same one from earlier or a different one.
All around her, the ghostly drumming continued.
Thump-thump thump-thump thump-thump.
“We should go into another room,” Penny urged. Peter remained on the sofa and took a sip from a cup of tea. A cup of tea that Penny must have made earlier, but had no memory of doing so.
Thump-thump thump-thump thump-thump.
“You know, there’s often a perfectly rational explanation for things that go-bump-in-the-night,” Peter offered.
“It’s more than a bump!” The wounds on her arms were no longer painful, but she was acutely aware of them. "You can’t hear him?”
“Just that blackbird outside,” Peter replied evenly. He sucked in a deep breath and held it while he composed his next sentence. He’d always had that annoying habit.
“I find it interesting –” he exhaled in a well-practised tone. "– that only you can hear these noises. Would you let me try something?”
Without waiting for a reply he got up, ducking his head beneath the low ceiling and went over to the nearest window. He lifted the net curtain and lit a match, passing it around the window frame. The orange flame flickered and danced, sputtering in a draft from an unseen gap.
“You said it’s often cold in here.”
“I get that but, there is no way a little draft could make the temperature drop as much as it does when he’shere. And, that doesn't explain what I've seen. Or the noises!” Penny argued. "Come on . It's not safe to stay in here.”
“Perhaps.” Peter ignored her pleas. “This is an old building and, sometimes pockets of air get trapped inside water pipes causing clattering sounds, not unlike what you’ve described. Now, as for what you’ve seen...” He picked up a copy of The Other Stories Collection lying on the sofa and offered her an ‘I-told-you-so’ expression.
Thump-thump! Thump-thump! Thump-thump!
Stan Silver was getting closer!
“No way, I’ve been over this dozens of times!” She became aware of her voice rising as she thumped the armrest of her wheelchair. If she were with anyone else, she would have been more retrained.
"The ghost of Stan Silver was here, and he’s trying to hurt me, Peter. We need to go. Now!”
Peter studied the room as the disembodied thudding quickly rose into a thunderous pounding. Its tempo was increasing with its volume, making it sound more desperate, more critical.
THUMP-THUMP, THUMP-THUMP, THUMP-THUMP.
“Oh, I can hear that,” Peter finally admitted.
Her relief never broke the surface. Peter was suddenly unsure of himself. He'd finally accepted what she'd been telling him and only now did he realise the danger they were in! Cautiously, he made his way back to the centre of the room, as Penny backed her wheelchair to turn around.
“Penny, maybe we should –” Peter’s voice was barely audible over the racket.
“Come on!” There was no time to complete her turn so, she threw her chair into reverse and trundled backwards towards the door. Her back wheel bumped into the coffee table, toppling it over.
“You’ve got it wrong, mate,” Peter called. “Stan Silver isn’t here to harm you!”
Penny stopped in the doorway. “No? How do you explain this!” She tore back the sleeves of her top to reveal a latticework of cuts and angry lacerations crisscrossing her pale flesh. A jagged blade had torn her skin apart, far more severely than she could ever do herself, even when she was self-harming.
The banging was louder than ever.
THUMP-THUMP! THUMP-THUMP! THUMP-THUMP!
She couldn’t wait for Peter. She motored backwards. One of the front wheels bumped against the doorframe, kicking up her footplate, but it didn’t slow her down. Out in the hallway, it was even cooler! Her exposed arms tingled with goose-bumps in the ice-cold air.
“This way,” she urged one last time over the frantic din.
The concussive pounding was almost physical in its intensity.
THUMP-THUMP-THUMP-THUMP-THUMP-THUMP!
“Penelope, stop!”
She paused, and it was as if someone had flicked the off-switch. Immediately, everything stopped. The whole house plunged into silence. Her panicked breath curled upwards like smoke in the chilly hallway.
Peter was staring at her strangely. Then she realised he wasn’t looking at her at all. He focused on something behind her. Someone else was nowhere. She tried to look over her shoulder but couldn’t crane her neck back far enough. She sensed the figure close in. As the phantom loomed near, her numb fingers found the controls of her chair. She was about to return to the lounge but, Peter ducked into the hallway, blocking her escape route and trapping her in the corridor. It was then that she realised they were somehow working together.
“It’s okay,” Peter whispered, as if from a distance. "Trust me; there's nothing to be afraid of.” He took a step closer.
Penny opened her mouth to respond, then realised Peter wasn’t talking to her.
“I see her too, Stan,” her friend continued softly. “She doesn’t understand what’s happened, and she’s very frightened. I’ll talk with her a while longer and try to help her remember her suicide. I’m hopeful that once she remembers, she’ll be able to move on, and you won’t have to worry about your home being haunted anymore.
Any author would find this to be the perfect environment: It was located just outside Beaulieu, in the New Forest. Nothing surrounded her new home except empty fields and wild moorland. The long track that led to her bungalow was muddy and overgrown. It made it unlikely that random strangers would stumble upon her retreat by accident. Occasionally the odd pony wandered by to stare in through the living room window, or she’d spot cyclists out on the horizon, but no people ever popped bye. That was the way she liked it. Afterall, seclusion is a writer's best friend. Well, that and a working laptop. The Wi-Fi could be a little patchy at times, and if that had been the only problem, she would have been more than happy.
Inside, the exposed brick walls still supported the original wooden beams which spanned the low ceiling. Most people would have to stoop inside but, this wasn’t a problem for Penny. The bungalow was built in a time when people seemed to be a lot shorter. Overall, her living space was small and compact, yet full of character and history. That history, she had later discovered, included a violent past. After learning of the bloody incident in the late 1800s, Penny had fallen even more in love with the place. It was great material for her novel. By immersing herself in the history of her home and the surrounding area, she’d hoped her writing would blossom, and it had done, initially.
“It was the banging that woke me up,” she continued. “I rolled over in bed and, there he was: Stan Silver! Or his ghost at least. I’ve told you I’d seen him before, but he’d never got this close before. I knew he wanted to hurt me and as tried to scramble to my chair all I could think about was: Oh my god, I can’t have someone find me with my hair looking like this!” She felt her smile drop as quickly as it had appeared.
“Indeed,” Peter, her friend and ex-colleague exclaimed with intense interest. He was perched on the arm of the sofa with his right ankle casually resting on his left knee. Sporting his tweed jacket with the brown leather patches, he looked more like a history teacher than a drugs counsellor. “I imagine that would have been terrifying, and if you don’t mind me saying – you do look pretty awful.” He appraised her in his blunt familiarity. A spider scuttled across the wooden floor past Peter, but he didn’t notice. He held her gaze until she continued.
“I feel so confused; every rational part of my mind is telling me Stan Silver can't be real. So, why do I keep seeing him?
“That’s what we need to figure out, mate.”
“At first he didn’t appear that often. I'd catch a glimpse of something out the corner of my eye. But, over the last few weeks, he’s been coming more frequently. I see him nearly every day now, and all I can do is hide until he goes away. I shouldn’t have to live like that in my own home! I love this place and, I'd hate to leave but, it’s getting to the point where I may have to...”
“Perhaps you’re right,” Peter suggested as he scratched his monstrously bushy beard. “Why do you –”
“– Wait,” Penny cut him off. She lifted a finger, looking around the room. Cobwebs collected in the corners of the overhead beams. Shafts of midday sun lanced in through the small windows, highlighting dost motes in the air. Fruit-flies danced above the old coffee table next to Peter. They must be attracted to the lingering scent of something because the table was bare. The living room was beginning to look a little shabby she observed. Penny had a cleaner, Rosa, but she hadn’t been for a few weeks. She couldn’t recall why. That wasn't what had caught her attention, though. She’d become aware of a low knocking sound, punctuating the brittle quietness of the room. As she sat there listening, it started to become louder.
“Can you hear that tapping?” She asked. “It’s Stan Silver. It starts quiet and muffled but, it gets louder as he comes closer.” She paused, listening. “The temperature drops as well. The faster the tapping, the colder the room becomes. We should probably move into the kitchen.” She glanced into the hallway, mentally preparing her retreat. It was becoming such a habit now.
Peter was looking at her over the top of his glasses. He carried an expression of infinite patience, but it was tinged with private, regret as he said quietly, “Tapping sound? I don’t hear anything, mate. Erm, why do you think he’s here?”
“This was Stan Silver’s house," Penny recalled what she'd learned of the cottage's history. "He was a ship-builder in the mid-1800s. One night he’d been playing cards in The Royal Oak with a group of fishermen. There was an argument, and some of them followed him home. They broke into the house and stabbed him to death. No one was convicted of his murder due to lack of evidence. I think, by researching this place, I’ve somehow conjured his ghost. It’s like I woke him up and he wants me out of his house.”
A light shower of dust fell from the chimney, settling like snow on the grey coals in the dusty fireplace.
“We shouldn’t be here when he comes.”
The knocking was getting louder so, why was Peter saying he couldn’t hear it? She wasn’t hallucinating; she’d considered that before. There was no unresolved trauma that could be causing it - Well, there was that ‘wobble’ back in the summer, and she'd hit a low spot, but everyone has their demons. Besides, hallucinations couldn’t physically hurt you! She pulled the sleeves of her cardigan down over her hands. Peter observed this but didn’t comment. His silent scrutiny, usually warm and reassuring, was beginning to feel like a heavy blanket pressing down upon her.
“You know,” Peter said slowly. “I’d love to see your research on Stan Silver. Can you show me?”
"Yes, it's erm…" Penny was aware she was becoming more absent-minded. She never used to be like this. All this business with the ghost was affecting her memory. No doubt it would be on her computer, somewhere.
When she made no move to get the documents, Peter asked, "Something was different this morning, wasn’t it?”
“Yes,” she admitted. “You know, living out here was supposed to help inspire my writing but, I never thought it would lead to anything like this! My book is supposed to be a historical thriller, not a horror story.” She laughed mirthlessly, reluctant to relive the events of a few hours ago. “All of this sounds so ridiculous.”
“Not really,” Peter suggested. “The paranormal is a real interest of mine and, at the risk of sounding melodramatic, I do believe in ghosts.” His sad smile was genuine, full of compassion. He said nothing more as he waited for her to continue. Penny took a deep, shaky breath. Another spider ambled across the floor between them. She didn’t know if it was the same one from earlier or a different one.
All around her, the ghostly drumming continued.
Thump-thump thump-thump thump-thump.
“We should go into another room,” Penny urged. Peter remained on the sofa and took a sip from a cup of tea. A cup of tea that Penny must have made earlier, but had no memory of doing so.
Thump-thump thump-thump thump-thump.
“You know, there’s often a perfectly rational explanation for things that go-bump-in-the-night,” Peter offered.
“It’s more than a bump!” The wounds on her arms were no longer painful, but she was acutely aware of them. "You can’t hear him?”
“Just that blackbird outside,” Peter replied evenly. He sucked in a deep breath and held it while he composed his next sentence. He’d always had that annoying habit.
“I find it interesting –” he exhaled in a well-practised tone. "– that only you can hear these noises. Would you let me try something?”
Without waiting for a reply he got up, ducking his head beneath the low ceiling and went over to the nearest window. He lifted the net curtain and lit a match, passing it around the window frame. The orange flame flickered and danced, sputtering in a draft from an unseen gap.
“You said it’s often cold in here.”
“I get that but, there is no way a little draft could make the temperature drop as much as it does when he’shere. And, that doesn't explain what I've seen. Or the noises!” Penny argued. "Come on . It's not safe to stay in here.”
“Perhaps.” Peter ignored her pleas. “This is an old building and, sometimes pockets of air get trapped inside water pipes causing clattering sounds, not unlike what you’ve described. Now, as for what you’ve seen...” He picked up a copy of The Other Stories Collection lying on the sofa and offered her an ‘I-told-you-so’ expression.
Thump-thump! Thump-thump! Thump-thump!
Stan Silver was getting closer!
“No way, I’ve been over this dozens of times!” She became aware of her voice rising as she thumped the armrest of her wheelchair. If she were with anyone else, she would have been more retrained.
"The ghost of Stan Silver was here, and he’s trying to hurt me, Peter. We need to go. Now!”
Peter studied the room as the disembodied thudding quickly rose into a thunderous pounding. Its tempo was increasing with its volume, making it sound more desperate, more critical.
THUMP-THUMP, THUMP-THUMP, THUMP-THUMP.
“Oh, I can hear that,” Peter finally admitted.
Her relief never broke the surface. Peter was suddenly unsure of himself. He'd finally accepted what she'd been telling him and only now did he realise the danger they were in! Cautiously, he made his way back to the centre of the room, as Penny backed her wheelchair to turn around.
“Penny, maybe we should –” Peter’s voice was barely audible over the racket.
“Come on!” There was no time to complete her turn so, she threw her chair into reverse and trundled backwards towards the door. Her back wheel bumped into the coffee table, toppling it over.
“You’ve got it wrong, mate,” Peter called. “Stan Silver isn’t here to harm you!”
Penny stopped in the doorway. “No? How do you explain this!” She tore back the sleeves of her top to reveal a latticework of cuts and angry lacerations crisscrossing her pale flesh. A jagged blade had torn her skin apart, far more severely than she could ever do herself, even when she was self-harming.
The banging was louder than ever.
THUMP-THUMP! THUMP-THUMP! THUMP-THUMP!
She couldn’t wait for Peter. She motored backwards. One of the front wheels bumped against the doorframe, kicking up her footplate, but it didn’t slow her down. Out in the hallway, it was even cooler! Her exposed arms tingled with goose-bumps in the ice-cold air.
“This way,” she urged one last time over the frantic din.
The concussive pounding was almost physical in its intensity.
THUMP-THUMP-THUMP-THUMP-THUMP-THUMP!
“Penelope, stop!”
She paused, and it was as if someone had flicked the off-switch. Immediately, everything stopped. The whole house plunged into silence. Her panicked breath curled upwards like smoke in the chilly hallway.
Peter was staring at her strangely. Then she realised he wasn’t looking at her at all. He focused on something behind her. Someone else was nowhere. She tried to look over her shoulder but couldn’t crane her neck back far enough. She sensed the figure close in. As the phantom loomed near, her numb fingers found the controls of her chair. She was about to return to the lounge but, Peter ducked into the hallway, blocking her escape route and trapping her in the corridor. It was then that she realised they were somehow working together.
“It’s okay,” Peter whispered, as if from a distance. "Trust me; there's nothing to be afraid of.” He took a step closer.
Penny opened her mouth to respond, then realised Peter wasn’t talking to her.
“I see her too, Stan,” her friend continued softly. “She doesn’t understand what’s happened, and she’s very frightened. I’ll talk with her a while longer and try to help her remember her suicide. I’m hopeful that once she remembers, she’ll be able to move on, and you won’t have to worry about your home being haunted anymore.