Dream House (12 page)

Beginning to feel upset, as though suddenly certain that he's lying, I walk to the living room, where the clock tells me that it's now 10:24 in the evening. I turn the light on and off repeatedly, as Avery told me to do if I needed to talk to him.

A split second later, the lonely window in the tower of his house, which I can only imagine belongs to his bedroom, comes on in answer, signalling his presence.

I find my shoes and make my way round to the gate. It's dark. I have no flashlight or candle to help light my way, and the wind blowing through the trees in the blackness makes the atmosphere sinister, but as I walk I trail one hand along the wall to guide me, and after the usual double left turn, I see the gate.

Avery isn't there yet, so I wait impatiently for his arrival.

I spot him walking down the stairs of his front porch, but he doesn't see me straightaway. When he reaches the gate, there's a concerned look on his face, probably due to the urgency of my call, but he also flashes me a brief smile—that is, until he notices my serious expression. He looks at me questioningly.

“Did you tell me
everything
about Alfred?” I begin.

“Yes,” he answers, looking perplexed. “Why?”

“Do you know what happened to him?”

“I told you his story,” he says, seemingly sensing what's about to come.

“No, I mean after that.”

“Would you mind being less mysterious?” he asks, mild irritation at the turn our conversation is taking beginning to creep into his voice.

“Did you know that he died?” I ask finally.

He pauses for a moment, as though picking his next words carefully.

“Yes. Five years ago,” he admits.

My jaw drops in disappointed shock at his admission. “Why didn't you tell me that before?” I ask. “How could you have left that out? And more importantly, why did you bother telling me to stay away from him, if you knew he wasn't even really here?”

“Isn't he?” he counters.

My eyes widen with the realisation that Avery might know a lot more than he lets on. Does he know I can see Alfred? Is he able to see him as well? I have to know, but all I manage to mumble in reply is, “I don't know, is he?”

Looking disappointed by my attitude, he says no more, so I seize the opportunity to ask another question.

“Can you see him?”

He doesn't answer. He just gives an evasive shrug, which makes me think there's a chance that, like me, he can.

By this time he's looking quite upset. So much so that he starts backing slowly away from me. When I notice, I press him.

“Why can't you be honest with me? I know you don't owe me anything, but you could at least
try
to help me.”

The hurt and desperation evident in this last sentence seem to cut through his emotional fragility, and he looks me straight in the eyes and says, “We shouldn't be talking about this.”

“Something is going on in this house, and I can't ignore it, Avery!” I tell him. “Maybe that's how you're used to living your life, just watching everything without doing anything about it—but I'm not like that.”

Realizing how nasty I must sound, I open my mouth to apologize—but it's too late. Avery has turned his back on me and is walking away without uttering a single word. Tears start welling up in my eyes as I stand there by the gate, trying to control all of my confused emotions.

Finally, they force their way out as silent sobs.

A
T 9:20
the next morning I open the door of my bedroom and walk out into the long hall. I feel tired and awful, but I know I can't hide in bed forever.

Shuffling like a zombie, I make my way to the kitchen, where I pick up one of the few remaining chocolate bars and take it with me into the living room. I sit there apathetically on the sofa, letting time pass by without me and staring out the windows in the hope of seeing Avery, tormented by yesterday's spat.

I know I was in the wrong. I know there was no justification at all for me behaving like that towards him, and that there's absolutely no excuse for the things I said. I don't know much about him, after all, yet even though we were complete strangers until a week or so ago, he has repeatedly been there for me.

I look around the room, feeling an urge to keep myself busy so I can avoid dwelling on Avery too much, and find something that works perfectly: almost hidden away up in the top corner of the bookshelf, I spy the book that Marvin was reading the day we met—
Spiritual Relief
.

I toss my snack onto the coffee table, walk over to the bookcase, and jump as high as I can in an effort to reach it. But it's no use, so I drag over a chair from the dining table and climb up on top of that.

My fingertips brush against the black leather binding of the book, and I slide it out from the shelf where it belongs. It's not a big volume, but it feels heavy, and by the look of it I can tell that it's pretty old. Inside the front cover, the blue title appears again at the centre of the flyleaf, followed by the authoress's name—Vivien Bisset—and the date it was written, 1948.

Turning it over, I find a list of the book's contents: the various chapters, all dealing with spirits, divide the book into sections.

The first chapter is called “Know the Spirit.” I flick to the page and read the sections into which it is divided: “Rudiments,” “Ghosts,” and “Spectres.”

A quick skim through “Rudiments” reveals that there are different types of spirits with which we may come into contact during our lives. Some might be ghosts, some might be spectres, but in between these two categories are numerous other subtypes, each differing from the others.

The book explains that when you come across a spirit, your awareness of its existence means that it notices you as well—until that specific moment, it may not have been aware of your presence at all. Acknowledging each other's existence is the first step to take in order to understand which type of spirit you are dealing with.

The page goes on to explain all of the various types, so I skim through it in search of a category that might fit Alfred's case. When I reach the word “suicidal,” I stop dead in my tracks.

The paragraph describes how spirits who have died a terrible death—caused, for example, by murder or suicide—should be considered dangerous, as they may be haunting the location in which they passed away, and their frustration at being stuck there and having to re-experience their death over and over again may result in constant anger and cause the ghost to be unwilling to collaborate.

After the list of all the various other kinds of spirits, a new chapter called “Signs of Haunting” begins, describing all of the various things which might occur when one encounters a spirit. But, already fairly certain now of what Alfred's situation is, I decide to skip over it.

The third chapter, titled “Select your Spirit,” is where the authoress explains how a more-than-expected number of spirits might be gravitating towards the same area. Some may be aware of the others in their environs, while some may not be conscious of one another's presence, their level of awareness being lower.

A little confused by this last piece of information, I flick forward a few pages and find a section titled “Awareness” where Ms. Bisset talks about how some spirits, depending upon the circumstances of their deaths, may become aware of their situation, while others might remain completely clueless. In both cases, they may either cross over directly or find themselves stuck in a certain place or with a specific person. And for this very reason, it's vitally important to be able to connect with the spirit you want to help or get rid of without bothering the other ghosts which might be in the same location but unaware of their surroundings.

The book also underlines how important it is to be extremely careful when talking to a ghost, as it may well be ignorant of the fact that it has ceased to be alive (as in cases of sudden or unexpected death)—and in the rare case that you do upset it, it might react violently.

I skip some more pages and reach chapter six, which is titled “Talk to the Spirit.” As Alfred didn't seem too keen to talk to
me
, this part might come in handy, but I decide to jump forward to chapter ten, the last in the book, titled “How to Help.” Here, the writer gives an exhaustive description of how to assist spirits in crossing over, depending upon their story and type.

After running over Alfred's case in my mind, I jot down a list of important points about him, following Ms. Bisset's indications:

1) Ghost

2) Non-malevolent

3) Suicidal

4) Aware of his situation

5) Unwilling to collaborate

Now that I have a better understanding and a clearer definition of what type of spirit Alfred is, I can search for the section of the chapter that will tell me what to do.

When I eventually find it, I'm relieved to discover that there is a solution. The authoress writes that good ghosts with a sad past might be holding onto the world of the living as a personal punishment, as if the pain they had suffered in life wasn't enough and they needed it to continue after their death. Unable to find peace, they are usually unwilling to listen, which makes it harder to help them.

She explains that the only way for them to let go is to be certain that they have been forgiven and accepted by the people they hurt during their lives.

I slam the book shut.

So that's what Alfred needs in order to cross over—he has to realize that he
has
been forgiven. But forgiven by
who
, exactly? His family?
They
knew he wasn't a bad person.

Maybe the reason he's stuck here is because of this ludicrous story of the Derfla—he isn't able to forgive himself for it, even though it was other people's judgement rather than his that brought it about. He just has to realize that he needn't keep blaming himself for it.

But how? How can he forgive himself if people won't believe his story?

Or maybe—just maybe—that's
it
. I have to open people's minds and show them the real picture. I have to make them understand once and for all what actually happened, so that they can finally forgive Alfred and let him rest in peace.

Before putting the book away, I open it at the middle part and read some more, in particular a chapter which explains how ghosts that have spent a long time in the human world after their deaths might begin to gather strength, and how a ghost that is unaware of its death might act and feel the same way as any regular person.

Overwhelmed by all this new information, I flick through the pages until I reach the last, which reads:

This shall not be considered as a complete spirit guide. All the information provided in this book derives from my own personal experiences with the paranormal. I shall not be held responsible for any eventual unfortunate events.

By night-time I feel confident that I've got the answer I was looking for.

I grab a bite to eat and head outside in search of Alfred. I tread the same path I am starting to know so well, crossing the back garden and ending up at the shed. I knock gently and push the unlocked door open.

He's sitting there on the floor, looking extremely miserable.

When I enter, he doesn't bother to stand or even look up, but that doesn't really matter to me: I'm going to help him, no matter what.

I join him on the floor, sitting fairly close but at the same time leaving a bit of distance between us. And I begin.

“You said you paid someone to look after the children that day . . .”

He nods slowly.

“Did she die in the fire?” I ask.

“They didn't find her body,” he replies obliquely, confirming what I had already suspected.

“Have you ever heard from her since the accident?” I wonder.

“No, she just . . . disappeared.”

“How come you asked
her
?” I ask. “Was it somebody you already knew?”

His eyes lock suddenly onto mine, as though trying to tell me that, yes, he
did
, but without wanting to say it out loud.

“It was somebody you cared about . . .” I whisper.

“Yes,” he says, raising his voice, “yes, it was—but it's not what you think.”

“Then tell me,” I say gently.

He pauses, lost in thought for a few moments.

“It was my sister. My little sister,” he admits finally. “I knew about her . . .
condition
. I wasn't thinking straight. She'd been fine for years. Even so, I knew deep down that it wasn't a good idea to leave her alone with the babies, but I wanted to trust her. After everything I'd been through, after what had happened to Lilly—I
needed
to trust her.”

Tears start to stream down from the corners of his eyes.

Aware that I risk crossing a line, I steel myself and ask, “What do you think happened to her?”