Stop Believing

Silence smothered the place.

I let out a rattled breath, fogging in front of my eyes. The hectic heartbeat in my ear eerie, I stepped into the darkness. Cold, silent, darkness all around, no senses escaping. I couldn't pick out anything but indistinct shadows from beyond the threshold.

Did I mention it was a little scary?

I let out a rattled breath, rubbing my hands together.

“One night, that's all I need, right?”

No one answered, but I would've already been half-way down the block if anyone had.

“Just one night – what could go wrong?”

I didn't dare move until my eyes adjusted, revealing a bare hat-stand in the entrance hall. Well, hall was a bit grand – big corridor may have been more apt. One door on the left, two on the right and a final one beside the staircase.

“Lounge, lounge, lounge,” I muttered, desperate to avoid the quiet, walking to the first room. Peering through, I picked out a grand table with an assortment of broken chairs – some missing backs, some cushions and others one or more legs.

Sighing, I crossed over to the next. Several bookshelves lined the walls, musty tombs – I imagined – crowding them, secrets hidden amongst the pages.

Reluctant feet brought me to the third and relieved eyes spotted a pair of loungers, a couch and an old wood fireplace. Well, it was a metal grate with wood piled up beside it and I guessed having never seen one before.

I stumbled over a threadbare rug and narrowly avoided banging my shins on a low coffee table. The rusted latch gave me a bit of trouble, but a little finagling had it open. Dust or soot – the low light wasn't helping – covered the inside, a little breeze stirring it.

With care, I shifted some of the wood inside. Looking around, I spotted a pair of books on the table, a copy of the Bible and an old book of ghost stories. “Kindling,” I said, flipping through and finding nothing added.

Squatting down, I added some crumpled papers and arranged it all nicely before clicking the lighter – I wasn't a smoker, just had some friendly advice about the house's utilities.

I wasn't sure if it would take, fanning the fire with the hardback cover, so I smiled when the wood started crackling.

The heat climbing, I fell back onto my bum, letting the warmth wash over my upper-body. Glow breaking through the gloom, I took another look around the room. Yellowing wallpaper decorated the walls, a faux wood-panelling style, matching the dark brown leather of the seating and ornate oak of the table.

Little additional featured around, but several darker shaded boxes suggested paintings had been hung in the room for a while and thick curtains, adhering to the colour-scheme, cut off the large window. If I were a braver man, I may have drawn them; alas, I was not and so felt content that I'd be happier not seeing some creepy shadow darting around the yard.

I'd definitely be much happier in ignorance.

Though slowly, the time did pass, shifting my position to the lounger furthest from the door and adjusting its angle so I could see both the door and window. The room became warm, amiable even, and bright enough to turn my attention to a book I had specially chosen.

Looking Through The Glass, a childhood favourite of mine, reminded me of safety and gave me reassurance, more from the context of when I read it than the story itself. Though that specific copy had been devoured four times previously, once with college additions in a myriad of colours, I always seemed happy to add another to its count.

I lost myself in the story, only coming up for breath to check on the state of the fire, adding another log-chunk or two when required.

So, I was understandably scared witless when a raspy voice announced, “Good evening young man.”

My book hit the floor perhaps a split second before I did, my attempt to hide behind a little drawstring bag undoubtedly fruitless and humorous, from an outside perspective. Since the newcomer laughed heartily, I guessed he was one of them.

“I didn't mean to startle you and mean you no harm.”

I spent a moment inspecting him, finding an old man with a cane and a tweed suit. His posture straight and presentation immaculate, I went to his face, finding a wide, disarming smile coupled with a decent sized moustache and eyes half-closed.

That grandfatherly image didn't mean I trusted him though, so I asked the most probing question I could think of in such short time. “Promise?”

Even to me it sounded like a childish whine, but he took it in stride and replied, “Yes, I promise.”

Exhaling easily twice as much as I'd last inhaled, I picked myself off the floor, brushing off the dust I'd picked up. “Well, then, erm, good evening to you too?”

“Pleasure to make your acquaintance,” he replied, taking a limped step forward. “Do you mind if I have a seat? The mind is willing, but little else.”

“Sure, sure, make yourself at home,” I babbled, my mind a step too late realising how strange a thing to say to a stranger in a stranger's house it was.

A couple more thuds of his cane got him to the other lounger and he gracefully lowered himself in it, unlike my return which could best be described as a flop. Laying his cane across his lap, he asked, “A dare to stay at the haunted house, eh?”

I smiled, a little relief from such friendly company. “Sort of. It's more a professional thing, some higher up in the little magazine thinking it'd make a great article. A phone call to the owner, a raffle, a day to pack my bags, and here I am.”

“No notepad,” he said, his grey eyes swerving to the table before returning to me.

Tapping my pocket three time, I replied, “Tape recorder. If anything goes down, I'll turn it on and talk through it.”

“Clever,” he said, bowing his head a touch. If he had a hat, I'd imagine he'd give me a tip.

“I thought so, but that's usually a good indicator it's a terrible idea,” I said back, adding a chuckle for good measure.

He tutted, rolling the cane between his thumb and forefinger. “Self-confidence is important, something my own generation has forgotten to tell the younger ones.”

I bit down my instant reply, thinking my joke-tourettes probably wasn't what he was after. With nothing from me, conversation lulled, listening to the fire, up until I realised something.

“If I may, sir, what brought you here?”

His gaze sought me out again, the smile back. “Indeed. I lived here once upon a time and, on occasion, like to return.”

“It's spooky enough just for one night – I couldn't imagine living here for more than a week while staying sane.”

Something in his eyes stirred, though I put it down to the fire flaring momentarily. “Well, it was myself, my wife, our three children for a time, and a maid, so the night's were hardly lonely. Not to mention we had the gas lamps lit from sunset until sunrise, the fuel being cheaper in my day.”

It struck odd feelings, leaving me looking around the room. “Huh, I didn't notice there weren't any plug sockets or light switches.” An extra cycle of thought had me barely resisting the urge to slap my own face. “Or any lights at all.”

There were brackets though, which I'd glanced over, the small, brass structures blending in well with the background.

“Indeed. We weren't inconvenienced at all by their lack, but I acknowledge they have become quite ingrained with life since then, has electricity not?”

“Yeah, it really is, though that's not a bad thing, is it? I mean, sure, some people are wasting away in front of the television, but there's a lot of good it does too.”

His cane stilled, eyebrows knitted. “That it does; that it does.”

Silence once more took over, while I wondered what thoughts had engulfed him and he sat there looking like he was trying to do a sudoku all in his head, or something equally mind-boggling.

Just when I'd thought it safe to turn back to my book, he softly asked, “Do you believe in ghosts?”

A shiver went through my spine and, almost instinctively, I got up to add fuel to the fire. “No, not really,” I answered.

“You don't sound convinced.”

Nervous laughter trickled out of me. “Well, on a kind of scientific level, I know that ghosts would require some kind of magical sentient energy, which doesn't make any sense. On a logical level, I know that so many humans have died, that we should be swimming in ghosts, even if it was just violent deaths.

“So, for there to be ghosts, either science is very wrong or there's some secret ghost-fighting conspiracy that hasn't had any proper leaks in the thousands of years there's been writing.”

I looked up from my twiddling thumbs to find his eyes on the doorway, slightly glazed and his expression still serious. Slowly, reluctantly, fearfully, I turned my head.

Nothing stood in the doorway, but I almost knew what he was looking at. Something about it looked wrong, my brain able to distinguish that much though not the what or why.

“It's the darkness,” he said, barely above a whisper.

That clicked it into place: there was no flickering shadows, only solid darkness. I twisted, finding the fire still lit, its tendrils of light cutting through the murkiness up until a foot or so from the door, where all of a sudden they ended, leaving unlit a semi-circle.

“It's...” I began, unable to think of what described it.

My companion seemed under no such problem as he finished it with, “Unscientific.”

All I could do was nod, fixated on the lie in the universe.

“I fear I have drawn it here with my questions and, for that, I apologise.”

“Don't worry,” I said, though I wasn't sure if I believed him about the first half or if I'd forgive him if it was true. After all, if it was a ghost, I had no idea what it could do, but changing the rules of physics seemed a good indicator that I'd not last long if it was nasty.

Well, I assumed it could mess around with universal laws, but it didn't have to be that, did it? After all, it could just be producing smoke, thick enough to absorb most light and dark enough to appear as darkness.

To test that theory, I threw the empty Bible, watching it slide across the boundary. There didn't appear to be any disturbance, so I tried again with the other cover, to make sure. Unfortunately, my experiments agreed, which worried me.

“How could you do that?” I asked myself, though I wouldn't mind him offering any suggestions.

Alas, he remained silent. Terror started creeping up inside, squeezing internal organs and goading my heart to beat faster and faster.

Hoping though not hopeful, I questioned, “What do you know about ghosts?”

“More than I wish I did, but there is only one way I know to make an unruly ghost submit and that is to stop believing,” he replied, voice level and calm.

“What?”

He let out an audible sigh, annoying me, though not enough to call him out on it. “A nefarious ghost draws their strength from fear, playing with their victim's mind to further the experience. However, unless given sufficient food, their tricks are only mental, so by no longer believing they can cause harm, one effectively neuters them.”

I closed my eyes and took a deep breath in, then out. “Sounds easy.”

“Yet all you can think about is how powerful something must be to disobey your beloved science?”

“Yep.”

Seconds oozed by and all that I could notice was how the darkness was expanding, taking over more and more, touching upon the couch and walls.

“Any other tips? Maybe a prayer or a magic spell?”

If I wasn't convinced he had as much fear coursing through him as I, I would've thought he snorted with mirth. “Faith, whether religious or otherwise, is merely a tool for putting oneself in a safe frame of mind. If that works for you, then so be it.”

Though exactly what I wanted to hear, religion and I didn't have the best relationship. Meanwhile, magic had fallen out with me when I discovered it was less about doing impossible things and more about appearing to do impossible things, while actually doing possible things.

The ghost took that as a good moment to arrive.

If I had one word, I'd go for transparent-zombie-child-holding-a-butcher's-knife.

“Little Jason, brutally murdered by his mother who was in a bout of depression, aged twelve. She took a cleaver to his neck, taking enough to mortally wound him though not kill him outright. Realising this, she hacked at his arms and legs until he bled out in his bedroom, irrevocably soaking the floorboards of the second bedroom in his essence. She then took her own life, cutting off her hand at the wrist and bleeding out, adding to the life with which the room is drenched.”

I gulped, suppressing bile and terror, up on my feet and back against the wall. “Thanks for the history lesson,” I said, reverting to the act-without-thinking mentality.

“You're welcome,” he replied, unphased by my sarcasm.

“So, you say he can't hurt me even though his butter-knife looks like it can cut through bone?”

Little Jason stepped forward, his leg moving in a grotesque approximation of what humans did, the missing wedge in his upper thigh acting like a second knee.

“Yes. All he is doing now is convincing your mind that there is darkness where there is not,” he answered, still perfectly calm. The unafraid prat.

“To be fair, it's very convincing.”

The laughter didn't exactly help, but it made me think I could at least die somewhat happily. Familiar thuds sounded and then a reassuring hand clamped down on my shoulder. “Remember what I said: stop believing.”

While he had walked over, Little Jason had taken another few steps, putting him beside the couch. A flash of metal, then the armrest fell to the floor with a meaty thunk.

“It's an illusion,” he murmured, hand gripping tighter.

“Yeah, yeah, you're sounding like a broken record now.”

I barely blinked, too afraid of missing anything, hands itching to do something, anything. All I had was my recorder and a lighter, not the best defence against a psycho-ghost.

The darkness, almost forgotten as more pressing issues took up my conscious thoughts, had nearly reached me, spreading along an invisible wall. Step after step, the distance gradually reduced. “Do you reckon we could make it if we ran?”

“That would be a very good indicator of just how scared you are and likely to give him enough strength to hamstring you with his cleaver.”

“Spoilsport,” I muttered, gears turning. Magic, magic had been all about slight of hand and misdirection, getting the crowd looking one way while the magician acted elsewhere. Seeing through magic had been all about being stubborn and abrasive, ignoring the will of the magician.

It sounded unconvincing in my head, but I didn't have anything else.

Despite every instinct telling me to keep staring at the threat, I broke away and looked at the fire. Darkness had settled over it, but I knew that couldn't be the case. Sure, over by the door, it was entirely possible using some weird, supernatural gas, but in there, ventilation and rising air should have kept it clear.

I didn't believe, no, couldn't believe that whatever power the ghost had could work that way.

Light burst forth, engulfing a small amount of the thick shadows.

A first step.

Disbelieving became easier then, knowing darkness wasn't a substance that could be emitted, that didn't behave like I had seen it. Any physical cause should have reacted to the book covers. Reality wasn't lying to me, my eyes were.

Light flooded the room, the amber glow lapping up the walls and chasing the shadows back to the corners and under furniture.

Turning to face Little Jason, I watched him still where he was, barely a metre away. He was close enough that I could see the slice straight through his neck, a little less than halfway across, along with every other one.

“You can't hurt me,” I said, only mildly believing, but evidently enough to affect him as he staggered back. Resolve strengthened, I repeated. “You can't hurt me.” His stumbling took him back several feet. “You can't hurt me.” He fell back through the doorway, dragging himself around the corner, his translucent eyes staring through me. “You can't hurt me!” I shouted and, distantly, I heard scraping and clunking.

“Good, you did well,” he said beside me, almost making me jump as I'd lost myself in the moment.

I shuddered, the adrenaline leaving, moving forwards enough to collapse back in the chair. Once I had, he limped back over to his chair, lowering himself in it just as gracefully as before.

We looked at each other for a good few minutes.

Finally, I broke and asked, “Why?”

His smile grew slightly, became more genuine I thought. “My son isn't a bad person, but a victim of circumstance.”

Having my subconsciously founded suspicions half-confirmed had me skipping a heartbeat. Given how many extra I'd already had, I didn't think it was too big a deal. “So, you died to make sure he didn't kill anyone, or what?”

“I loved my son and, during my life, I stayed here, trying to help him find peace. Yet, no peace was found for him, so, once my still-living daughters were settled and happy, I took my life to give me an eternity to aid him. A monster he may now be, but my monster he is and my responsibility too,”

Other than smart-arse comments neither of us wanted me to share, I didn't know what to say. Showing I could have good ideas, I thought, mulling it all over. “It's a tragic tale.”

“That it is,” he said, softly. “Though I hope there is still a happy ending awaiting it.”

“Me too,” I added, meaning it.

He understood, giving me a nod. “Well, then, I think it is time for me to go and leave you in peace.”

“Your, er, wife isn't hanging around, is she?” I asked, trying not to let the fear show.

“I'm pleased to say she passed over without incidence. My son and I are the only of the others here and we shan't disturb you any further.”

Smiling, I watched him get up and limp out, his cane thudding along until I realised my ears were lying to me and silence descended.

Somewhat alone, I turned back to my book and, a few minutes later, I barely resisted the urge to slap myself when I remembered about the recorder sitting unused in my pocket. Even if it had all been a trick of the mind, at least I would have half the dialogue down.

Ah well, at least I hadn't been brutally dismembered by a ghost-child, which was a big plus in my books.