The Case of the Haunted Cot, Page 3

  The emotions she’d been fighting down throughout this conversation were starting to show themselves more clearly. Tears welled up in her eyes, and her voice sounded cracked and broken.

  ‘Mrs Fullwood, we don’t have to continue if you don’t want to,’ Miller said.

  Sophie waved her hand in a gesture intended to dismiss Miller’s concerns. All the same, Miller remained quiet to give Sophie time to compose herself. After a couple of minutes, during which time Father Lenn’s obvious unease increased, Sophie managed to stop the tears.

  ‘Has your husband experienced any of this?’

  ‘Some,’ she said. ‘He didn’t take Tia’s death as badly.’

  It seemed that Sophie might lose all that self-control again at the mention of her daughter’s name, but she successfully fought it by focusing on the floor. Once again, Miller was left staring at the side of her head, and he couldn’t help but notice how messy her dirty blonde hair was, he could even see knots in places. How much had her personal health suffered these last few weeks? Had her husband — Keith, wasn’t it? — been keeping an eye on her, or was he too busy with his own grief?

  While he had no idea what to make of any of this yet, Miller was certain of one thing: Sophie Fullwood’s bravery. He couldn’t begin to imagine what she was going through.

  ‘I’m certain he feels just as terrible,’ Miller said. Then, in an effort to lighten the tone a fraction, ‘Us men do have a tendency to hide our emotions.’

  ‘Men also don’t think of babies the same way women do. Oh he loved her, I don’t doubt that. But she wasn’t an actual person to him, not yet. She was more the promise of a person. Men don’t see the little sparks of personality in a new-born baby. I knew her the second I held her.’

  ‘I don’t doubt it, Mrs Fullwood.’ Miller placed a hand on one of hers.

  She didn’t stop staring at the floor. Father Lenn was biting his lower lip and fidgeting as he paced; his fear for Sophie’s mental state was obvious. From that, Miller inferred that she was very different from the person Father Lenn had known before all this. But Miller might have guessed that anyway.

  ‘So what has actually happened?’ Miller asked. ‘To make you believe you’re being haunted, I mean.’

  He doubted the feeling of being watched and feeling her presence was enough to bring her here for help.

  ‘I heard her. Through the radio. One day it turned itself on, turned itself up, then, through the static, I could hear her.’

  ‘When you say you could hear her …’

  ‘Crying.’

  Out the corner of his eye, Miller caught Father Lenn lower his head.

  ‘It’s behind the static,’ she continued, ‘but it’s there, and it gets louder and louder.’

  ‘Are you sure it’s her?’

  ‘A mother knows her baby’s cry. It’s ingrained into your brain. You’re programmed to wake up at the slightest hint of it — of course I know it’s my baby.’

  ‘Sorry, Mrs Fullwood. I didn’t mean to offend you.’ She waved away the idea of offence, but Miller could see her pain rising again. He hoped she hadn’t thought he doubted her; he didn’t want to make her feel any worse than she already did, if that was even possible.

  ‘Does it happen randomly?’ Miller asked.

  ‘Occasionally. But there’s one time in particular it always happens, without fail.’

  Miller leaned in closer.

  ***

  ***

  ‘Eight o’clock on a Saturday night?’ Price said. ‘Are you serious?’

  ‘Every Saturday night.’

  Keith Fullwood sat on Price’s sofa, his eyes occasionally finding Price’s, but mostly distracting themselves elsewhere. Let him look; Price had little to see. He lived in a small flat, with small furniture, in his small living room, conjoined to his tiny kitchen. On the other side of the flat, past the hallway, was the only bedroom, small. And to think, if sales continued this poorly, and if he continued to be blacklisted at every paranormal-centred event, Price would have to downsize further. Or get a real job.

  ‘It does happen at other times, too,’ Keith said. ‘Randomly during the week, although always in the evening. But without fail it’s happened every Saturday night around eight for the last few weeks. Do you think it means something?’

  ‘What, like ghosts really hate Doctor Who? I have no doubt that it means something. I just don’t know what. Yet.’

  ***

  ***

  ‘It’s getting worse,’ Sophie said.

  ‘The crying?’

  Miller wasn’t sure how anything could be getting any worse for Sophie at this point.

  ‘Whatever’s happening to her on the other side, it’s getting worse. She’s getting more upset and she hasn’t got anybody to help her.’

  Hoping to reassure her somewhat, Miller started, ‘I don’t believe —’

  ‘Don’t dismiss me!’

  The shout echoed around the church. Father Lenn appeared to follow it as his eyes danced around the hall, until they landed on the image of Jesus at the front. That seemed to console him somewhat. Miller didn’t like to presume to know the mind of any man, but he suspected Father Lenn believed Sophie had come to them for a reason, and that they were meant to help her.

  ‘I came here because I thought I wouldn’t be dismissed.’

  ‘I’m sorry,’ Miller said. ‘I only meant that I didn’t think God would abandon her. We won’t dismiss you, I swear. That wasn’t my intention.’

  Sophie Fullwood nodded.

  ‘She …’ Sophie started, then trailed off after just the one word.

  Miller moved a little closer to her, reaching a hand out and placing it on her shoulder. He wasn’t sure if this might help her feel more or less comfortable, what with him being a stranger, but he couldn’t sit there and do nothing. Meanwhile, to Miller’s surprised and disappointment, Father Lenn did nothing but observe, as if he still hadn’t decided exactly what he was meant to do here, or whether he was meant to be there at all.

  ‘It’s hard to explain,’ said Sophie. ‘I can feel this fear building up inside me, every second that I’m in that flat. But there’s no specific reason for it, it comes from another place entirely.’

  Miller waited, trying to comprehend this. Fear was a powerful motivator at the best of times, let alone when it was the fear of a parent for their child.

  ‘It’s her fear,’ Sophie continued. ‘I’m feeling her fear.’

  ***

  ***

  ‘And you want me to prove that her fears are unfounded?’

  Unable to just sit there and listen to the story, especially after he was already certain what was happening, Price had stood up and walked to the kitchen. It was only a few feet away, so Price did not have to raise his voice.

  ‘You do realise that will mean proving to your wife that your daughter is dead and gone?’

  Price re-entered the living room, this time with a bottle of lager in each hand. Having already opened them, he handed one to Keith. He hadn’t asked Keith whether he’d wanted it, just worked on the assumption that he drank. Keith was part of the ironically unemployed working-class and he was grieving; statistically, he was guaranteed to drink. Price’s suspicions were confirmed as Keith eagerly accepted the bottle.

  ‘I’m not asking you to prove she’s not in Heaven,’ said Keith. ‘Just that her spirit isn’t trapped in our flat.’

  They both drank in silence for a minute or so, Price watching how quickly Keith went through his. Then, when Keith finally stopped drinking and apparently wanted Price to say something, Price downed enough to make his bottle emptier than Keith’s.

  ‘Can you give me a logical explanation or not?’ Keith asked.

  ‘Easily, but you won’t buy it.’

  Price took another swig. Not because he was thirsty, or even out of some masculine competitiveness; this was simply a victory swig that felt right for the moment.

  To his credit, Keith didn’t argue, didn’t insis
t that he would believe or even listen. But he did sit there staring at Price, waiting for this easy explanation.

  ‘The radio is the only real issue here,’ Price said. ‘It’s known as EVP — Electronic Voice Phenomenon. And it’s most often caused by random noises, which the brain tries to interpret as something recognisable. Hear enough gobbledygook, and something will eventually sound familiar.’

  Silence. Price wasn’t surprised by the look on Keith’s face, the one that so clearly said: I wasted my time coming here. He’d known since Keith first started explaining his situation that it would come to this.

  ‘So that’s your genius theory: we’re imagining it.’

  ‘Occam’s Razor suggests so,’ Price said, partly to see whether Keith knew the term. ‘The human brain is programmed to recognise things, especially human faces and voices. That’s why people see faces in smoke, and hear voices in noise. It’s called pareidolia, and it’s why people see Jesus on their toast.’

  ‘It’s not that,’ Keith stated.

  Price tried to keep his anger in check, because people that he verbally tore apart had a tendency not to pay him. He wasn’t too concerned about Keith’s emotions. The guy was going to feel crappy now no matter what Price said. And no matter what Price said, he’d also feel better one day in the future. Time and emotions just worked like that.

  ‘You ask for my opinion then instantly dismiss it. This must be what marriage feels like.’

  ‘This is real,’ Keith said, defiant.

  Price finished off his lager, stood up, then walked back to the kitchen, placing the empty bottle down hard on the work-surface. The clank rang out across the flat. Much to Price’s annoyance, Keith didn’t flinch.

  ‘I can’t trust you and I can’t take your stories at face value.’

  That got a reaction, though. Keith stared down Price like he’d just accused him of something unspeakable. Price suppressed a smirk. He knew what was coming and he’d tried to explain it many times in the past. Moving slowly back towards Keith, Price hoped he would be one of the few intelligent enough to listen.

  ‘I’m not lying.’

  ‘It’s not about lying. Every story told by anyone ever is a game of Chinese whispers. It’s just the way the brain works. Evidence cannot be relayed, it has to be witnessed and recorded professionally. The reason so many people believe in the paranormal is because of the sheer amount of stories taken at face value. You want me to fully explain everything you’ve experienced, I need to witness and record it first-hand.’

  Keith averted his gaze, ashamed.

  ‘You can’t come to the flat. You can’t.’

  ‘Then I can’t help you.’

  As much as it would be entertaining, Price didn’t want to get caught up in a relationship drama when the wife found out who her husband had hired and why. Relationship dramas were rarely entertaining, especially when Price was involved.

  ‘Please, just give me all the possibilities you can think of. I’ll investigate them myself.’

  ‘You?’ Price laughed. ‘And you think you can carry out objective research?’

  ‘She can’t find out I spoke to you, she just can’t.’

  Despite Keith’s subterfuge in coming here, it was clear how much he loved his wife, and how worried he was for her. That made Price curious to meet her. And if Keith was correct, and her current belief was tearing apart at the walls of her sanity, then Price might just be one of the few people capable of helping her. But there was no way he could help and accept Keith’s non-involvement terms. An investigator needs to investigate.

  ‘You realise this is like asking a detective to solve a crime without letting him near the crime scene or victim?’

  ‘So you won’t help me?’

  ‘Whoa, I never said that — you said you’d pay me, right?’

  ***

  ***

  Miller and Father Lenn watched in silence as Sophie Fullwood left the church. She’d finished her story, asked if Miller could help, then, after receiving her answer, she took a moment to compose herself and left. Miller dreaded what he was letting himself in for, almost as much as he dreaded letting Sophie Fullwood down. All too easily could he imagine picking up a local paper only to find her suicide coldly detailed.

  When the door closed itself behind her, Miller saw out the corner of his eye Father Lenn turn to him.

  ‘You’ll help her, right?’ he said.

  Miller continued to watch the door, as if Sophie might return, having left something behind.

  ‘I’ll do whatever I can, Father.’

  It was the truth of course, and Father Lenn knew that. But Miller had no idea just how much he could physically do. At the very least he could go to their home and see some of these events for himself. From there he might have a better idea of how to help.

  ‘You know, officially, the church doesn’t believe in this spiritualist stuff,’ Father Lenn said.

  ‘And unofficially?’

  ‘Unofficially, it scares the crap out of me.’

  Chapter Five

  Hiiiissssssssssssssssssssss.

  Keith Fullwood stood in the kitchen, waiting for the toaster to pop. This was what his days had come to now, passing the time whatever way he could. He didn’t even feel all that hungry. But eating was something to do, as was preparing food, but he didn’t have the energy to do anything more complicated than placing bread in a toaster then buttering it.

  He could hear the constant loud hiss of the static from the living room, where Sophie sat waiting to hear the dead. He couldn’t put it out of his mind, that damn hiss. Even if he went into the bedroom on the opposite side of the flat, he could still hear it. Hell, even on the rare occasion it was turned off Keith thought he could hear it, lurking there in the background. But nothing was worse than when he really could hear it, when he was close to it, like now. Sophie had it loud enough that the kitchen door barely helped.

  Keith walked over to the fridge and removed the margarine, then he got a knife from the cutlery drawer. He took his time with the movements, as if the act of walking and preparing might distract his brain from that noise.

  And the only thing worse than that damn hiss was the sound Sophie was waiting for. Keith didn’t want to believe it was his daughter, but, like Sophie, he felt the increasing foreboding in his heart, and that cry did strike him in a deep, primal, sort of way he couldn’t fully understand. And still Sophie refused to believe that he felt it as deeply as her.

  Pop.

  The bread flew up and fell back down in the toaster. Keith looked at the dull knife in his hands, ready for buttering. He probably couldn’t kill himself with it. Or at the very least it wouldn’t be easy. He’d probably have to hack away at his wrist for at least ten minutes. Of course, he could get one of the sharper knives. Or maybe jam this one into the toaster, see what happens.

  Hiiiisssssssssssssssssssssss.

  Dear God would that ever stop. Did she need to constantly listen to it?

  Hiiiisssssssssssssssssssssss.

  Without thinking, Keith slammed the knife down on the work-surface and barged into the living room. Sophie sat on the couch, papers and books spread across the coffee table. By setting up a tape to record the static, Sophie had managed to drag herself away from the radio long enough to get some essential reading from the library.

  Sophie paid no attention to him entering the room, if she’d even heard it. With a quick press of a button, Keith turned the radio off. He didn’t move immediately, and didn’t turn to look back at Sophie when she spoke.

  ‘Leave it on.’

  Keith sighed.

  ‘Nothing happens until the evening anyway,’ he said.

  ‘I don’t care, I’m not risking missing anything.’

  Sophie turned around long enough to look at Keith with so much anger that he genuinely felt scared. Not for his safety, but because of how easily that anger could turn to hate, and if she hated him he truly would have lost everything. Keith turned the radio back o
n, but dared to put the volume slightly lower than before. If Sophie noticed, she didn’t say anything. She turned back around and continued with her reading.

  Keith stepped lightly towards Sophie, his footsteps hidden by the white noise. He looked over her shoulder. She held an old book with a dark green hard cover that was frayed at the edges. The page she held it open on had the title Hauntings at the top. Risking another step closer, Keith looked at the papers and other books on the table. He caught the phrase EVP on two of them, remembering Price’s words. Random noise, indeed. The longer he thought about it, the more times he heard it, the more convinced Keith became that Price was wrong. Seeing him had been a waste of time, and risky too. If Sophie had —

  Keith had no idea how long Sophie had been looking back at him, as he’d become too engrossed in his own thoughts. But she was staring at him now, and not pleasantly. He didn’t know what to do or say; he never did anymore. He remembered the first few years of their relationship, when he could calm her and console her with a few simple words. Words he’d always instinctively known.

  Silently, Sophie collected up her books and papers. As she did so, Keith edged backwards towards the door, hoping to limit whatever damage he’d caused. Sophie didn’t look at him, just stared past him towards the kitchen. Only when she was alongside him did she stop, and, without looking at him, said, ‘Please leave it on.’ Then she left, but not before putting the volume louder than it had been when he entered.

  Hiiisssssssssssssssssss.

  It could have been anywhere between a few seconds and ten minutes that Keith stood there in the middle of the room, drowning in that horrendous noise.

  Hiiisssssssssssssssssss.

  Keith placed his hand back onto the volume knob. If he turned it down, he might be able to stay sane a little longer. If he left it, he might be able to put off his wife’s hate a little longer.

  Hiiisssssssssssssssssss.

  He decided to leave it as it was. After all, he could live without sanity.

  Hiiissssssssssss — knock, knock, knock — ssssss.

  What was that? A second noise. Was it beneath the static?

  Hiiisssssssss — knock, knock, KNOCK.

  No, it was completely separate. The front door. It had been so long since they’d received visitors that it seemed alien to Keith. An hour ago he’d have probably ignored it. And apparently that was exactly what Sophie was doing now. But Keith needed the distraction.