Watching the Ghosts Read Online Free Page B
Author: Kate Ellis
day.
He left the boy, glancing over his shoulder to see that he hadnât shifted, and as he walked away down the street his phone rang.
It was the station. A woman had returned home earlier that morning after spending the night with a friend, only to find that her front door was blocked with furniture.
The Builder had paid another house call.
Lydia had heard crying in the night. Distant heartbreaking sobs. She knew Beverleyâs mother often became distressed in the night. But when sheâd passed Beverley in the corridor, she made no mention of it as they exchanged the usual empty pleasantries. She probably found the subject embarrassing and the truth was that she herself found the thought of the confused and frightened old lady in mental distress uncomfortable.
Last night sheâd met her old friend Amy for a drink. Amy worked in the box office at the Playhouse and Lydia had asked about the latest play,
Mary
. According to Amy it was by a new writer and concerned the eponymous young woman who had been locked up in a mental hospital in the 1950s purely for offending against the morals of the day. From Amyâs description, it didnât sound the sort of thing sheâd be able to recommend to visiting tourists as a fun night out.
The sun was already burning through the high white clouds as she walked to work down the wide street towards Boothgate Bar, the old city gate which stood like a truncated castle, guarding Eborbyâs ancient centre as it had done for centuries. She passed beneath the gate, glancing upwards at the massive slots where a wooden portcullis had once been suspended to keep the city safe from the attentions of hostile armies. She had plenty of time so she decided to take a quick detour down one of the shopping streets that lay beyond the city walls.
It was only eight forty-five in the morning so the shops were still shut and window shopping was her only option. When she reached the small side street off Pottergate where the antique shops congregated, she moved from one shop to the next, checking her watch at regular intervals, putting her face close to the windows and shielding her eyes so that she could see inside. There were a few small items to tempt her into a return visit in her lunch hour: a small nineteenth century bedside cupboard â sheâd been looking for one for ages; a pretty bracelet which she could buy with her birthday money; and a cheerful floral jug made by a Clarice Cliff wannabe. Some friends who favoured the more modern look turned their noses up at her treasures. But her father had been an antique dealer and she liked to think she had a good eye for such things.
She reached the last shop in the row, a small establishment with dusty windows. Inside she could see bare, splintery floorboards and dusty furniture piled in inaccessible heaps. Then she spotted it standing at the back of the shop, half hidden by a massive oak corner cupboard.
As she peered through the glass she could make out its painted eyes and its round, pallid face. She could even see the mouth half open to reveal something inside that she knew would be a group of painted planets.
It was the clock of her nightmares. Sheâd found it at last.
Melanie called into work to say sheâd be late but she wasnât sure whether sheâd be in any fit state to go at all. She hadnât eaten anything that morning, not even her usual single slice of toast topped with a smear of honey. The very silence of the place was a constant reminder of Daisyâs absence. And she blamed herself for what had happened. If she hadnât been distracted. If she hadnât turned her back to concentrate on her phone call. At that moment her world was full of regrets.
When sheâd called Emily Thwaite the night before she hadnât mentioned why she wanted to meet her and the woman had sounded a little impatient, as though she felt Melanie was wasting her precious time. Then, as sheâd lain
He left the boy, glancing over his shoulder to see that he hadnât shifted, and as he walked away down the street his phone rang.
It was the station. A woman had returned home earlier that morning after spending the night with a friend, only to find that her front door was blocked with furniture.
The Builder had paid another house call.
Lydia had heard crying in the night. Distant heartbreaking sobs. She knew Beverleyâs mother often became distressed in the night. But when sheâd passed Beverley in the corridor, she made no mention of it as they exchanged the usual empty pleasantries. She probably found the subject embarrassing and the truth was that she herself found the thought of the confused and frightened old lady in mental distress uncomfortable.
Last night sheâd met her old friend Amy for a drink. Amy worked in the box office at the Playhouse and Lydia had asked about the latest play,
Mary
. According to Amy it was by a new writer and concerned the eponymous young woman who had been locked up in a mental hospital in the 1950s purely for offending against the morals of the day. From Amyâs description, it didnât sound the sort of thing sheâd be able to recommend to visiting tourists as a fun night out.
The sun was already burning through the high white clouds as she walked to work down the wide street towards Boothgate Bar, the old city gate which stood like a truncated castle, guarding Eborbyâs ancient centre as it had done for centuries. She passed beneath the gate, glancing upwards at the massive slots where a wooden portcullis had once been suspended to keep the city safe from the attentions of hostile armies. She had plenty of time so she decided to take a quick detour down one of the shopping streets that lay beyond the city walls.
It was only eight forty-five in the morning so the shops were still shut and window shopping was her only option. When she reached the small side street off Pottergate where the antique shops congregated, she moved from one shop to the next, checking her watch at regular intervals, putting her face close to the windows and shielding her eyes so that she could see inside. There were a few small items to tempt her into a return visit in her lunch hour: a small nineteenth century bedside cupboard â sheâd been looking for one for ages; a pretty bracelet which she could buy with her birthday money; and a cheerful floral jug made by a Clarice Cliff wannabe. Some friends who favoured the more modern look turned their noses up at her treasures. But her father had been an antique dealer and she liked to think she had a good eye for such things.
She reached the last shop in the row, a small establishment with dusty windows. Inside she could see bare, splintery floorboards and dusty furniture piled in inaccessible heaps. Then she spotted it standing at the back of the shop, half hidden by a massive oak corner cupboard.
As she peered through the glass she could make out its painted eyes and its round, pallid face. She could even see the mouth half open to reveal something inside that she knew would be a group of painted planets.
It was the clock of her nightmares. Sheâd found it at last.
Melanie called into work to say sheâd be late but she wasnât sure whether sheâd be in any fit state to go at all. She hadnât eaten anything that morning, not even her usual single slice of toast topped with a smear of honey. The very silence of the place was a constant reminder of Daisyâs absence. And she blamed herself for what had happened. If she hadnât been distracted. If she hadnât turned her back to concentrate on her phone call. At that moment her world was full of regrets.
When sheâd called Emily Thwaite the night before she hadnât mentioned why she wanted to meet her and the woman had sounded a little impatient, as though she felt Melanie was wasting her precious time. Then, as sheâd lain
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