Twisted Little Things and Other Stories (34 page)

She stares at me for a moment longer, and then she looks down at the book again.

“Some people have even claimed to have spoken to him,” she says finally. “Apparently he's perfectly friendly, and he...”

She hesitates.

This time, I notice that her hands are trembling.

“He what?” I ask, although my smile is fading slightly.

“He sometimes... He talks about a dog.”

I wait for her to say more, but now I think I see genuine fear in her eyes.

“A dog, eh?” I mutter, forcing a fresh, broad smile. “Well, would that be a ghost dog?”

She stares at me.

“He doesn't have the dog anymore,” she says finally. Now it's not just her hands that are shaking. Her voice is trembling, too, and she's looking at me as if she's barely convinced that I'm even here. “According to the story, he lost the dog before he died. According to at least two accounts of meetings with him, he was... I mean, he's looking for the dog.”

“Is that right?” I ask, as I start to realize why she's so scared.

“And he's just out here, night after night, making his way along the dark canals. Looking for his dog.”

“Is
that
right?” I mutter again, taking a sip of tea.

She stands in silence for a moment, as if she doesn't quite know what to say next. Her hands are shaking more than ever, and she looks as if she might turn and bolt right out the door at any moment.

“Well,” I continue with a smile, “I can promise you one thing. I am most certainly
not
a ghost. I mean, I think I would know if that were the case, don't you? And I'd certainly have noticed dying, that's the kind of thing that would really get a man's attention.”

She forces a faint, weak smile, but her eyes are wide with fear.

“You know,” I add, “just because I'm old, that doesn't mean I have to be dead. I'm just enjoying myself, living on the water and seeing a different part of the country each day. Although, to be honest I don't quite -”

Stopping suddenly, I realize that perhaps I shouldn't be completely honest with her. The truth is, lately my memory
has
been getting a little unreliable, to the extent that I often can't quite remember what I've done with my time. Right now, for example, I don't remember any part of today up until the moment the sun went down. For some reason, I remember the nights pretty well, but never the days, not anymore. I'm sure Angela would have a field day with that admission, but I really don't want to add any more fuel to the fire of her crazy idea.

And still the girl stares at me.

“I don't know what you want me to say,” I tell her finally, feeling a little exasperated. “I'm sure as hell not a ghost!”

I wait.

No reply.

“Does this chap have a name?” I ask, pointing at the book. “The man in the story, he must have a name!”

She swallows hard.

“This is ridiculous,” I mutter, stepping over to her and grabbing the book. “You can't just board a man's boat and start accusing him of being dead!”

I start flicking through the pages, but I can't find the section about the ghostly canal drifter.

“No-one knows his name,” she stammers suddenly.

I turn to her. “What was that?”

“No-one knows his name.” She pauses. “People have talked to him, or they say they have, but no-one has ever asked him his name.”

“What about his boat? Do they know the name of
that
?”

She shakes her head.

“But he's only been seen on this stretch, eh?”

“He's been seen all over,” she explains. “Only on this canal, but as far as Macclesfield and...”

Her voice trails off.

I flick through the book some more, before turning to the index at the back and finding the section about the canal.

“So you think I'm a ghost, do you?” I say with a sigh. “Well, I can honestly say that in all my years, I've never been accused of that! Although if you happened to ask my ex-wife, I'm sure she'd say she wouldn't mind me being dead.”

When she doesn't respond, I glance over at Angela and see that she seems almost frozen by fear. She hasn't moved from that spot next to the sofa, and she's staring at me as if she expects me to suddenly put on some kind of a show.

“I'm almost flattered,” I tell her. “
Almost
. But really, truly... I'm just an old man living out his final years on a rundown boat, and there's really nothing more interesting than that going on here.”

She stares at me for a moment longer.

“What about the tea?” she asks finally.

“I beg your pardon?”

“The tea.” Her voice is still trembling. “You kept saying you were making tea. You said it was on the table.”

“And?”

“And there's no tea.”

Sighing, I look down at the table, only to see that she's right. I swear there were two mugs there a moment ago, filled with fresh, steaming tea, but now the table is bare. Glancing toward the sideboard, I see that all the mugs are still in place on the rack. I distinctly remember making tea, and then drinking a cup, and then making more, but now it appears as if none of that ever happened. I even thought I saw her take a sip. After a moment, I turn back to Angela and see the fear in her eyes.

“I don't think you really know
what's
going on here,” she says cautiously. “I don't think you know what you are.”

Four

The camera's flash goes off again, briefly filling the barge's interior with light as I continue to flick through the book of ghost stories.

“Sorry,” Angela mutters, moving over to the other side of the sofa and immediately setting up another shot. “I guess that's annoying, huh?”

“Not particularly,” I reply, rolling my eyes. “I just don't get what you expect to see. I'm right here!”

“There's evidence to suggest that ghosts don't register properly on photographic equipment,” she explains. “I took some pictures with my main camera, and you showed up just fine, but now I'm using old-fashioned film. If my theory is correct, when I develop these...”

Her voice trails off.

“I won't be there?” I ask.

The flash goes off again, and this time I wince slightly. Blinking away the spots of light in my eyes, I turn to another page in the book.

“Don't you have somewhere you ought to be?” I ask. “Maybe a home? Parents who'll be wondering where you are?”

“They don't care.”

“They should.”

She shrugs.

“Angela, listen -”

“This might be my only chance,” she replies, interrupting me. She's already setting up yet another shot, and a moment later the flash goes off again, briefly blinding me. “I've been walking the towpaths in this area for so long now, searching for some sign of ghostly activity. Now that I've found... Well, now that I've
maybe
found something, I have to get all the evidence I can before you...”

She pauses.

“Well, in case you disappear.”

Sighing, I hold out my left hand for her to feel.

“What am I supposed to do?” she asks cautiously.

“Touch me!”

She stares at the hand, before shaking her head.

“I'm real!” I hiss, starting to feel that the joke is wearing a little thin. When she doesn't reply, I lean over to her and touch her hand. “There! Do you feel that?”

“It doesn't prove anything.”

“But do you feel it?”

“Yes,” she replies, “but you might just have an unusually pronounced corporeal presence and -”

“An unusually pronounced
what
?” I ask, raising both eyebrows. “Kid, you don't have talk some nonsense sometimes. Just promise me that when you figure all this out, and you realize that I'm just a boring old fart on a boat, you'll come and own up to your mistake. Seriously, I'll get a kick out of that.”

The flash goes off again, and I instinctively turn away.

“I need to get some shots from outside the boat too,” she says, with a hint of excitement in her voice. She's already clambering across the seat, heading toward the door. “I'm not clear whether the boat is real, or whether it's part of the manifestation experience.”

“You're standing on the damn thing, aren't you?” I mutter under my breath. “If the boat wasn't real, you'd be awful wet by now.”

“Back in a moment!”

With that, she hurries outside, and a moment later I hear her jumping onto the riverbank. I guess she's out there on the pitch black towpath somewhere, trying to line up a better shot of me. Looking back down at the book, I turn to the next page, where there's an account of some supposed ghost that haunts this canal. I've got to admit, having read these pages a couple of times now, the story certainly features some spooky touches. Still, it's clearly
just
a story, and I have to wonder whether Angela is quite right in the head. After all, she seems to be taking this whole thing very seriously.

The flash goes off outside the boat, as I turn to the next page, and then the next.

Checking my watch, I see that it's 11.31pm. I should be asleep by now, and Angela should be getting home. This silliness has been mildly amusing for a while, but I'm too old to mess around all night. When Angela comes back inside, I'm going to politely usher her on her way. I've got to admit, I'm quite looking forward to setting off again tomorrow and getting to some other part of the canal. I'd honestly forgotten how tiring it can be to deal with other people for an extended period of time.

And then, as I flick to another page in the book, I spot a line that catches my attention. I read the paragraph, and slowly I feel a faint shudder pass through my chest.

“It can't be,” I whisper, reading the rest of the section before going over it again.

Outside, the flash is still going off every thirty seconds, and Angela is clearly moving to different spots so she can get various shots of the boat.

“Hey!” she says breathlessly a couple of minutes later, when she finally comes back inside with the camera swinging around her neck. “I'm gonna develop these as soon as I get home. This might be huge! Imagine if I've caught real, irrefutable evidence of ghosts! It'll be mega, it'll be the biggest news story in the history of the world! I'll be, like, totally famous!”

I read the book's next paragraph one more time, before turning and looking at her.

“This has to be pretty weird for you,” she mutters.

I frown. “Come again?”

“Realizing what you are.” She steps closer, and now she doesn't seem quite so scared. “Are you starting to remember things? I mean, it seems like you don't remember much from your old life and -”

“I remember plenty from my old life!”

“But not -”

“I remember my own goddamn life!” I hiss, momentarily angered by the suggestion. “Don't come onto my boat and lecture me about my memory! I remember what I need to remember!”

“Sure, but -”

“Maybe we should be more concerned about what
you
remember,” I add.

“Me?” She frowns. “What are you talking about?”

“Have you read this whole thing?” I ask, holding the tattered book up for her to see.

“Sure. Well, most of it. I've been studying certain sections in particular.”

“Have you read the other parts about this stretch of the canal?”

She hesitates. “Probably.”

I watch her for a moment, before looking down at the book again.

“I am
not
the ghost described in this damn thing,” I mutter, “but you should've read on to the next section, where it describes another ghost that's often seen near this canal and its towpath.”

I glance at her, and once again I feel my chest tightening a little. No matter how much I try to tell myself that this situation is absurd, I can't shake a deep, visceral punch of fear. Angela looks so normal, so innocent, so... real. And yet, at the same time, there are clearly things she hasn't admitted yet.

“The story about the old man is just
one
of the ghost stories about this stretch of canal,” I tell her. “One of the other more prominent stories is about a girl.”

She stares at me for a moment. “So?”

“A girl about your age,” I continue, “who's sometimes seen walking alone along the towpath at night.” I pause, mostly for effect, just to get her a little rattled. “Several witnesses report that she's been seen carrying a backpack.”

I wait for her to reply, but now it's her turn to look a little shocked. She stares at the book in my hands, and I swear the color seems to have drained from her face.

“The popular story,” I tell her, “is that the ghostly girl is the spirit of Amanda Bates, a local teenager who drowned at the age of fifteen after she fell into the canal late one night, twenty years ago. According to legend, Amanda's body was recovered from the canal and buried in a nearby cemetery, but people swear they've seen her on the path between the canal and the church, and also down here on the towpath. Apparently she even acknowledges people when they greet her.
Apparently
she can be rather talkative.”

I pause, before setting the book down and sliding it toward her across the table.

“In fact, there are just as many supposed sightings of Amanda Bates as there are of the mysterious old man on the boat.”

She stares at the book, and for a moment she looks positively nauseous.

“So?” she stammers finally. “That... That doesn't mean anything.”

“What if -”

“My name is Angela,” she adds. “Not Amanda.”

“Angela what?” I ask. “Tell me your surname.”

“Angela...”

She pauses, and it's clear that she can't remember.

“Angela sounds an awful lot like Amanda, doesn't it?” I continue. “Maybe if someone was trying to remember the name Amanda, and couldn't quite manage it, they'd get confused and end up with Angela. Like a mental typo. I mean, it's kind of a crazy idea, but no more crazy than the whole ghost thing in the first place.”

She shakes her head.

“Where do you live?” I ask.

“With my parents!”

“Where?”

“Not far from here.”

“What's the address?”

She pauses. A moment later her mouth opens, as if she's trying to remember, but no words come out.

“Where were you this evening,” I continue, “before you came to the towpath?”

“I walked here,” she says, a little defensively.

“From where?”

“I came down through the cemetery,” she explains. “It was dark, I walked through the cemetery and -”

“Where were you before the cemetery?”

I wait for her to answer, but evidently she can't.

“You don't remember, do you?” I ask, feeling a faint shudder in my chest. “At least I'm an old man, I've got a decent excuse for not remembering things too well, but what about you? You're young, what's
your
excuse?”

“I don't need an excuse,” she stammers, “I... I'm fine, I... I'm not the one who's out here all alone at night, on a boat, with no-one around! I'm not the one who keeps forgetting that he lost his dog!”

“You still can't tell me where you were before you were walking through the cemetery, can you?” I ask, leaning back and folding my arms. “You don't remember. Seems to me, we're both in the same boat. Literally
and
metaphorically.”

Again, I wait for her to say something, but she seems troubled. I probably shouldn't keep pushing, but to be honest I want to teach her a lesson. She came barging in here, spouting all that nonsense about ghosts, and now I've turned the tables and shown her what it's like to be on the receiving end of it all. She clearly doesn't like the taste of her own medicine, but I figure I've probably opened her eyes enough for one night.

“I'm not saying you're a ghost,” I continue finally. “Believe me, I'm not that crazy. What I
am
saying is that everything you've accused
me
of, is something that could just as easily be said about
you
.”

I watch as she picks up the book. She flicks through to the page I was reading a moment ago, as if she wants to double-check the story about Amanda Bates. As she reads, I see her eyes grow even wider, as if she genuinely can't believe what she's seeing.

“Don't take it so seriously!” I tell her. “I was only messing with you! I just wanted you to know what it's like, being accused of something like that!”

“I
don't
remember anything from before the cemetery,” she replies, her voice filled with a sense of wonder. “I don't remember much at all, except that I was here on the towpath this evening and... I was here last night, too. And the night before that.”

She pauses.

“I remember the nights,” she whispers finally, “but not the days. That's not normal, is it?”

Seeing the fear in her eyes, I'm starting to think that perhaps I went too far. I only meant to give the girl a bit of a scare, not to shake her to her very foundations.

“Let's not take this too seriously,” I tell her. “Obviously you're a normal, living girl, because anything else would just be absurd. I know
I'm
alive, and I also know that I'm not in the habit of seeing ghosts, so it's only logical that you're alive too! You've just let this whole thing get to you, that's all.” I pause, before reaching out and taking the book back from her. Heading across the kitchen, I drop the book into the bin before turning back to her. “If you want my advice, you'll head home and find yourself a new hobby. This one's no good, it's doing a number on your mind.”

Instead of replying, she looks down at her right hand, as if something's wrong.

“And I should get some sleep,” I continue. “Trust me, when you get on in years, these late nights aren't very appealing.”

She opens and closes her fist a few times, before looking at me again.

“Are you okay?” I ask. “Does it hurt?”

“I touched you,” she replies.

“And?”

“I felt you.”

I can't help sighing. “And?”

“That really happened,” she stammers, as if she's feeling a fresh wave of fear. “We really shook hands.”

“And what does that mean?” I ask, convinced that she's about to launch into a fresh bout of over-imaginative hysteria.