Death's Sweet Echo Read online

  Death’s Sweet Echo

  13 ghost stories and strange tales

  By Len Maynard & Mick Sims

  Copyright Maynard Sims Limited 2015

  www.maynard-sims.com

  [email protected]

  07801 472554

  Contents

  GLORIOUS DILAPIDATION

  ANOTHER BITE OF THE CHERRY

  HOPING HE WOULDN'T BE TOO LATE

  I’M HERE

  SWEET DECAY OF YOUTH

  I HEAR HIS FOOTSTEPS DRAWING NEAR

  AND IT GOES LIKE THIS

  SILVER

  GUILT CASTS LONG SHADOWS

  JUST THE WAY IT IS

  THE WALTZER KING

  COLD COMFORT

  RESTITUTION

  Credits

  ANOTHER BITE OF THE CHERRY

  2014 - published by invitation by Hersham Horror as The Curse Of The Mummy 1/2015

  I HEAR HIS FOOTSTEPS DRAWING NEAR

  2014 published by invitation in the Midnight Street anthology 6/2014 by Immediate Direction

  SILVER

  2014 published by invitation by Hersham Horror in the Dead Water anthology 7/2014

  GLORIOUS DILAPIDATION

  The house had stood there for as long as I could remember.

  When I say it stood, that might seem to suggest it was proud and erect, possibly rising majestically up from the ground on firm foundations, the walls straight and true, the roof attached strongly, and the overall ambience pleasing to the eye. It wasn’t like that, and never had been all the time I knew it.

  These days it leaned in a forlorn, almost wistful manner, as if it knew it had died but couldn’t find the heart to accept a fate so final.

  It was Ruth’s idea to go back and visit it while we were in the area. I’m not blaming her for what happened. I was as eager to see what had become of the old place as she was, though I wouldn’t have told her that. I was surprised she wanted to go back, after I had told her about the first time I went, but once she had voiced the suggestion it took hold in my mind and wouldn’t let go, so that I became even more immersed in the plans than she seemed to be. I did wonder if she had second thoughts, and had mentioned the house simply because we would be so near to it on our trip. I have to admit I probably didn’t give her much of a chance to back out once she had mentioned it, but it was her who brought it up initially, so all I really did was go along with her idea.

  That needs to be understood. I didn’t have any wish, before she spoke about it, to go near the house ever again, not with someone else. Obviously, if I could have known how things would turn out, my enthusiasm would have stayed what it had been for years: mere curiosity about a childhood event that had happened a long, long time ago. Trouble is, I have always been the same. Once an idea is planted in my mind, I have to see it through to completion or I get left with an irritation deep inside that borders on obsession.

  I knew I was on the spectrum of obsessive-compulsive behavior when I was younger, certainly in my teens. The word obsession often describes something enjoyable, but in OCD the obsession is usually unpleasant and frightening, and it was for me. As a teenager, I began to suspect that my brain didn’t work in the same ways as my friends’. They were casual and carefree about life in general, but I never did feel that way. I always needed to know in advance where we were going, what we were doing and who was going. If, when I got there, the plans had changed, I was totally unable to cope with this at all. I felt as if I was trapped and that I had been betrayed if things weren’t as they’d been planned. I would appear to the others to be sulking, but in truth my brain filled with thoughts, going over and over, about how the plan had been agreed, and I was completely unable to manage to adapt to the alterations. The negative thoughts were going round and round in a loop in my brain.

  In the back of my father’s car, on long trips with my parents, I’d find my thoughts continually looping, going over things again and again. I’d recite in my mind my books, and my records, and what order they were in on the shelves. I’d list my clothes and where they were in the drawers. I’d even list in my mind my washing things and continually recall where they were in the bathroom. The listing went on and on. If someone tried to speak to me, I was impatient, because they’d disrupted the pattern and I had to start over.

  When leaving home, I’d repeatedly check doors, windows, pockets for things. Even when I was at the venue, wherever I was going, unless I was able to relax enough for my mind to switch off and enjoy the moment – which happened only occasionally – I’d be thinking about things I had at home and where they were. Yet I’m not a materialistic man, not at all; I guess this was just a symptom of the condition, even though I had no idea then that there was such a thing.

  On vacation, when I should have been calm and relaxed, I’d be unhappy if my things weren’t in order in my room. Even on the beach, I’d be happiest if my things were close to me and not spread out. I had paranoia about losing things, even unimportant items. If I mislaid one thing, what else had I lost? If I had forgotten about one thing, what else had slipped my mind?

  I’d be at a family event and not speak to anyone at all throughout the day or evening. People would try to talk to me, but I’d invariably ignore them; naturally, I was thought to be rude. As I got older these symptoms persisted, so that even when I was a grown man in my twenties I was still disconnected from society to a large extent. Was I unhappy? It’s hard to say, as I don’t really know what happy means.

  My ability to relate to others and to make and maintain relationships was severely restricted. I had girlfriends, somehow, but never for long, as they all seemed to recognize in me a kind of selfishness that was unattractive. I heard from people that they found me immature, inward-looking. I was, so I only had myself to blame.

  At work I was considered efficient, if unimaginative. I had a compulsion to do a job very efficiently, and I’d see it through to the very end. I was, and still am to some extent, a perfectionist, and I was known to stay late to finish jobs that others would have, possibly correctly, done quicker and with less detail.

  My physical and psychological responses began to affect me at this stage. I looked permanently worried, as my thoughts were in almost constant turmoil inside my head. I developed headaches and muscle pain as my body seemed to cramp up with the strain of thinking about trivia all the time. I became a loner, deliberately keeping away from others, as I’d come to realize that I was different from many other people.

  It might have been different if I’d recognized, or others had seen, that there was something wrong with me. As it was, I stayed silent. I seemed stand-offish to others, which gave me an inferiority complex that affected my work. I didn’t progress at the same rate as my peers; psychologically, I always felt like a fraud at work. If I was praised, I was waiting for the but…. I always felt as if I’d be exposed at any time and dismissed for not being good enough, not being as good as others.

  Poor me. How I snared Ruth is still a mystery.

  Looking back, it’s hard to say why we chose the Cape, other than that friends had said we had to go, and their stories of Martha’s Vineyard and the like sounded good to both of us. I don’t want to place more of what sounds like blame onto Ruth, but I can’t help recalling that she was the more eager of the two of us to take up the suggestions at that dinner party when the plans were made and the decisions cast.

  We’d known Pete and Becky for ages. Ruth had gone to college with Becky. Pete was okay, but making friends has never been what I’m good at, so my relationship with him could never be called warm, although we were able to chat easily enough, so long as football, beer and work were the main subjects. The other pair at
the meal was Dougie and Jo, and neither Ruth nor I knew them all that well. Ironic, then, that it was their prompting that did more than anything else to persuade Ruth about the trip, though I’d have said it was more goading than suggestion.

  ‘Beer, Steve?’ Pete called from the kitchen, and it was decided for me that I’d be drinking beer for the evening. I could have said no, and asked for something different, but that would have meant getting more involved than I wanted to, so I took the easy option.

  ‘Sure, got a Sam Adams?’

  He gave me a Bud without comment, and I took it and smiled. He looked at me and I looked back, and whether he knew what he had done, he didn’t seem concerned.

  ‘So, how’s work?’ he said, and the moment was gone.

  I’d worked at the bank for ten years by then, and the initial rush of what passed as excitement for me had long since ceased. It was like ten years of perpetual boredom. I was a middle management employee, well enough regarded but never going places. The pay was decent; we were able to afford a nice apartment in a good part of the city, and vacations or weekends away when we wanted. Children hadn’t been discussed, and if she didn’t raise the subject, then I wasn’t going to.

  ‘Good. Working on short-term loans at the moment.’

  I could see from his face that even so short a reply as that was more than he really wanted to hear. This was a man who was happiest in a conversation when his mouth worked more than his ears. So many are like that, but mostly it suits me, and saves me having to get involved in any way except superficially.

  ‘But how’s things with you?’ I asked, as quickly as I could.

  ‘Same old, you know how things are.’

  Actually I didn’t, as I had never exactly understood what he did for a living. I knew it was something creative and thought it was related to advertising, but I suspected that if I asked him what I might have seen of his on TV, the answer might be embarrassing for both of us – but mostly him, because I didn’t really care.

  We were saved further conversation by the arrival of the other two. Pete flicked back his slightly too-long hair and mumbled words about ‘getting that’ as the doorbell sounded. He was dressed in black jeans and a white shirt, and I thought he looked like a waiter.

  The volume in the room increased as Dougie entered the nicely furnished apartment. He was in his family business, compressors or engines or more boring stuff like that. Luckily, he didn’t seem to identify himself with his work like some men do; he didn’t pin his personal value to what he did for a living. He seemed a little older than the rest of us, more early forties than late thirties, although he was so confident, it might have been that which gave him an aura of authority.

  His girlfriend was much quieter, but as the evening went on it was obvious that Jo had enough strength to handle anything; she had hidden depths, and didn’t need to project out to others to impress them. I liked her.

  As we all started drinking, Becky and Ruth came out of the kitchen and the greetings were all made again, so that everyone had been introduced and welcomed at least once. Eventually we were told to sit in the dining alcove, with a decent view over the Common, and Ruth brought out bowls of clam chowder for us all, and Pete made sure we were all topped up with whatever drinks we had settled on.

  ‘Did we tell you about our Cape Cod trip last month?’ It was Dougie who brought it up. ‘Took our time driving down, you know what the traffic is like on a Friday evening. Stopped at a little mall on the way and got some supplies, booze mostly. Didn’t book, just took a chance. Worked out perfectly didn’t it, Jo?’

  Jo nodded. ‘We stayed at the Woods Hole Inn, in Falmouth. Apparently it re-opened in 2012, and it’s delightful. Small, and some of the suites have private decks overlooking the harbor and the Martha's Vineyard ferry.’

  ‘Ours did,’ Dougie said. ‘The food was great and the area is to die for. You’ve done the Cape, right?’ he asked generally to the table.

  ‘Sure,’ Becky said, and took hold of Pete’s hand. ‘We love it, so romantic. We usually stay at the 1750 Inn at Sandwich Center in Sandwich. It’s a lovely place, and there’s so much to do.’

  ‘We should go, Steve,’ Ruth said, and we were off on the first part of the journey.

  Over the main course – steak – we were bombarded with so many suggestions about where to go, where to stay, what to do, that I switched off. Ruth didn’t, of course, and that’s pretty much why I have to repeat that the idea of the Cape trip was hers, although it was given to her by each of our dinner companions in various stages throughout the evening. When it became her idea, I couldn’t say, and when it became ours, agreed together, I simply can’t bring to mind at all.

  The food was good, and the drink flowed, but around ten I was getting the familiar feeling I’ve endured all my life – I wanted to leave and I wanted to go now, right now. I couldn’t, not without being so rude that no one, least of all Ruth, would forgive me, and so I stayed, and tried to keep the frustration out of my expression. Luckily, the subject under discussion had moved away from Cape Cod and its attractions and veered from fashion to movies. None of them shared my tastes in movies, and fashion is meaningless to me, so my participation remained what it had been most of the night, limited.

  In the cab on the way home, Ruth was affectionate. If I had been a less than worthy dinner companion, she let it pass – used to it, I expect. In bed, she initiated sex and I reciprocated. Afterwards, as we lay huddled in one another’s arms, she broached the subject.

  ‘We should go.’

  ‘Go where?’ Although I knew full well where she meant, or at least I thought I did. The full implications of what she had in mind didn’t sink in for a while.

  ‘The Cape.’

  ‘It sounded great.’ I managed to infuse interest and enthusiasm into my voice.

  ‘We have a free weekend at the end of this month. The weather will be good, it’ll be fun.’

  ‘I can get off early one Friday, and we can stay all weekend. We’d need to book somewhere, though.’

  She kissed my shoulder, which was the nearest part of me to her mouth at that moment. ‘You old adventurous soul, you. No, don’t worry. I know you couldn’t just head off without it being planned out. We can do it tomorrow.’

  So it was agreed: we were going, in under three weeks. Actually, it sounded like a good weekend idea. And then she said the words that had already sashayed across my thoughts.

  ‘You know what we could do while we were in the area?’

  I held my breath. Don’t say it, please don’t suggest…

  ‘We could go and see if that old house is still standing.’

  My breath released silently, and my heart thumped. It was time to say something like ‘Why would we want to do that?’ or ‘Are you crazy?’ Instead I said, ‘We could.’

  And so it was decided that we would.

  We had booked a double room at the Queen Anne Inn at Chatham, on the edges of Cape Cod. It looked good on the website: homey, a pool, and a decent walk into the small town and down to the beach. And not too long a drive from our Boston home. The internet says that Chatham is the quintessential New England village by the sea, so it must be true.

  Boston to Chatham was a little under ninety miles, and by taking Route 3 south, across the bridge into Route 6 and down the Old Queen Anne Road, we did it in less than two hours. The Inn was just off Main Street, and as we pulled our Chevrolet Cruze into the parking lot we were feeling relaxed. I was sure I was going to enjoy the weekend away from the city, and if carefree might never be my natural state, I did think I might allow myself to smile.

  The reception area was empty when we went in, but a press of the bell brought a friendly woman who checked us in and showed us to our room, a good-sized bedroom with en suite bathroom that overlooked the parking lot, but that didn’t bother us. It was quiet enough for us. We booked in for dinner, a couple of hours away yet, and the woman left us to unpack.

 
; We hadn’t brought much, and with the sunshine promised for Saturday and Sunday neither of us had packed much beyond shorts and cotton tops. Unpacking didn’t take long, even for a pedant like me, and so we had about an hour and a half before we could eat.

  ‘We could explore the inn,’ I suggested.

  ‘We could,’ Ruth said, and dropped one of the straps of her thin top from her shoulder. ‘Or we could start the weekend in style.’

  So we did.

  As I dressed for dinner, with Ruth drying her hair from the shower, I realized that I was feeling an odd sensation that wasn’t a familiar one for me. I was relaxed. Not totally – old habits die hard – but I felt akin to happy.

  Dinner was good, and when we slipped into bed and began to sleep, the weekend promised much. My last thought before I drifted off was that the house hadn’t been mentioned once in weeks, not since the plans were set, and I was confident the subject had been forgotten, tossed in the trash. I was wrong, of course.

  The morning was bright sunshine, and breakfast served in the conservatory was wholesome and filling. After it, and too many cups of coffee, we had to walk it off. Armed with a map of the town from reception, we started out left on Queen Anne Road, turned right, and we were headed down Main Street. There were houses, business premises and shops on either side, but none of it felt crowded. It was a lovely little town and as we bought ice cream cones and sat on a bench to enjoy them we looked at one another, and the look Ruth gave me filled me with gladness, that’s the only word. It reinforced all the reasons I thought I loved her. Though it also reminded me how lucky I had been to have found her, and for her to have seen through the outer layers of awkwardness and into what I hoped was the decent man beneath.