KATIE MARIE

There’s no such thing as ghosts

“You’ve got to be kidding me,” I say, staring at my bleary-eyed reflection in the mirror before I reach into the bathroom cabinet and pull out a pack of antiseptic wipes. Closing the cabinet brings the mirror back to face me, and I wince again at the cut on my forehead. It isn’t deep, but it is bleeding.  

By the time I finish cleaning it, the skin around the cut is red, angry and sore. I reach for my foundation to find it isn’t where I left it. I look around the bathroom, eventually spotting it on top of the linen cupboard. A place I can’t reach without the step ladder.  This isn’t the first time I’ve woken up injured and with items in the flat in impossible places. 

“There’s no such thing as ghosts,” I say to myself as I retrieve the step ladder from the kitchen. “There’s no such thing as ghosts.” I keep repeating the mantra as I return to the bathroom and clamber up the steps to retrieve my foundation. Coming down, I turn to face the mirror and drop the foundation. Reflected in the mirror, standing behind me, is a dark shape of a person, poorly defined and fuzzy but unmistakably there. I spin on my heels, my hand raises up to shield myself. But there is nothing there. “There’s no such thing as ghosts.” 

Shaking, I put the steps back and rush through the rest of my morning routine. I swear again when the alarm on my phone rings. 

“I know, I know,” I grumble, pulling my tights up. “I should be leaving.” I slip on my shoes. Running through my flat, I grab the sandwiches I had made the night before from the fridge and bolt out the door. 

“Cassandra,” Mrs Housen, my elderly neighbour waves at me as I rush past, trying to wrestle my car keys from my handbag. “Late again?” 

“Always,” I say freeing my keys and almost falling over. 

“Look where you’re going, dear,” Mrs Housen calls out. “Oh, and before I forget, I’m making casserole tonight, I’ll leave a bowl on your mat.” 

“You’re my lifesaver,” I call back clambering into my car.

As I start to reverse out of the driveway, there is a sound that makes my blood freeze. A scream that surely has to come from a devil, high pitched and deafening. I slam on the breaks and look in my side-view mirror. The creature that pads out from behind my car is huge. With long mottled grey fur, sporting several bald patches that reveal a scared and battered body. It is hard to believe that he is a domestic cat, given the size of him I suspect one of his parents was a wildcat, something that could be found roaming the moors, perhaps carrying off small children.

“Good morning to you, Mr Grey,” I said opening the car door. Mr Grey sits in front of me, blinking his one good eye expectantly. “I haven’t been shopping yet” I say. Mr Grey continues to stare at me. “But… what the hell I can buy lunch today.” I reach into my bag and pull out the cold sandwiches. “It’s just ham, I’m afraid.” I say opening the bread and dropping the ham for Mr Grey. He eats a meat in seconds, as I reach out and rub his ears. “You be good now, guard the house.” I get back into the car, Mr Grey watches as I speed away.

The office isn’t far, and I arrive only a few minutes late today. 

“Hey Cassy,” Ralph smiles at me as I walk in. 

“Hey Ralph,” I answer.

“What happened to your face?” he says, leaning forward. I automatically put my hand to the cut on my forehead. 

“Oh, nothing,” I say. 

“Cassy,” Ralph rolls his eyes at me. 

“It’s not deep,” I say. “It stopped bleeding ages ago.”

“Because you packed it full of makeup,” Ralph says. “But that’s not what I meant, and you know it. You need to find out what’s going on, normal people don’t wake up with random injuries. Do a sleep clinic or something.” 

“I’m not checking myself into a sleep clinic,” I snap, walking towards my desk. “I know you mean well but I’m fine.” Ralph grabs my right hand; he turns it so I can see the back of my hand and the scab slowly healing on my knuckle. 

“And then there’s this one,” he flicks my hair off my shoulder, showing my neck where another cut is slowly healing. “And I bet there’s more that you keep covered.” Ralph leans forward, looking closely at my cut. “It almost looks like something a dog or a cat would do,” he mumbles. “Bootsie used to scratch me up something rotten when she was angry.” I shrug and sit at my desk. Ralph takes his seat opposite mine and settles in.

“I don’t have a cat, or a dog,” I say. “Or any pets, they’re not allowed in my building.” 

“Well, whatever or whoever did this, you need to get it sorted. It’s been going on for months now.”

“I know,” I mutter turning to the computer, looking to see what dictation the partners had sent through. Ralph and I fell into a comfortable silence as I made a start on the typing. 

“Lunch?” Ralph asks suddenly, I look up at the clock, surprised to see it is already 1pm.  

“It’s all right, I’m going to stay in today,” I say. “I want to check some things online.” 

“You still haven’t got your internet sorted? How long have you lived in that flat?” 

“Too long,” I smile. Ralph rolls his eyes and walks out of the office. I reach into my bag and pull out the packet of biscuits I’d dropped in there yesterday. Minimising the office typing program, I open up a web browser and start looking for a flat. I’d been searching for something in my price range now for months, ever since I started seeing the shadows in the mirror and waking up with injuries. Unfortunately, there isn’t much available in my price range, close to work with parking.  

After half an hour of fruitless searching an idea strikes me, I can’t move out yet, but that doesn’t mean I can’t do anything. If I can capture the events happening on video, then I would at least know what was happening and maybe I can show it to someone who could help me.  I click onto a shopping website and by the time people start trickling back from lunch I have spent a good portion of this month’s budget and am the proud owner of a video camera and a huge data card. 

The rest of the afternoon passes in a blur of urgent deadlines and unreasonable demands until Ralph taps my shoulder. 

“Huh?” I say. 

“Earth to Cassandra,” Ralph smiles. “It was time to leave half an hour ago.” 

“What?” I say, my stomach drops. “Already?” 

“It’s six o’clock,” Ralph points at the clock. “I’m heading home.” He laughs at my despondent expression. “You’re the only person I know who seems to prefer being in the office to being at home.” Ralph waves as he heads out. I’ll just finish one more, I tell myself. 

I stay in the office until 8pm, but when I leave all the documents are typed and sitting on my bosses desk ready for tomorrows Hearing. I make a note of my overtime and head home. 

I pull into the driveway and spot Mr Grey sitting in his usual spot, just to the side of the communal bins. I think he hunts the rats that like to pilfer the rubbish. As I pass him, I reached down to run my fingers through his mottled fur. 

“How was your day?” I ask him. He meows loudly. “Really, that bad?” I stand up and allowe him to rub against my legs. 

“You fussing over that cat again?” Mr Housen says as he comes down to the bins, rubbish bag in hand. “Your mad.”

“I’m not mad,” I say, holding open the bin while he drops his bag inside. Mr Grey takes a half hearted swipe at Mr Housen’s ankles, making the old man step back.

“Damn wretch hates everyone but you,” Mr Housen says.

“He only likes me because I feed him,” I say. 

“No cats are smart. He owes you a life debt, and he knows it.” Mr Housen says as I reached down to give Mr Grey’s ears a rub before we headed inside. 

“A life debt,” I laugh. “That sounds overdramatic.” 

“Not so,” Mr Housen says. “You saved him after that punk with the fancy car hit him, he remembers that.” 

“Maybe,” I shrug. “The vet said it was just cuts and bruises, nothing life threatening. The car was probably in worse shape.” I forced a laugh. “But who knew getting a cat stitches and some antibiotics could be so expensive.” Mr Housen laughs as we reached his front door. 

“Good night.” I wave at him as he disappeared inside his flat. Picking up the casserole Mrs Housen had left for me by my front door, I stare at my front door for a long moment. 

“Stop being a wimp.” I huff to myself, grabbing my keys and going inside. 

•••

The camera arrives that weekend. 

I am sitting in the kitchenette eating breakfast when the doorbell ring. I buzz the delivery man in and head out to meet him. Taking my prize back inside, I spend the rest of the day fiddling with it, getting to know how it works and making terrible videos about the family of spiders that live under my bathroom sink. 

That evening when I head to bed, I clear a space for the camera on the shelf above the vanity. I position it so it is facing the bed, but also capturing a sizable amount of the room. 

That night I sleep fitfully, unable to fall into a deep sleep, I keep jerking awake feeling like someone is watching me. I wake in the morning with no new injuries. I check the camera footage and am relieved to see nothing more than a restless night. I put it on again the following night and again nothing sinister happens. Although the footage shows just how much of a restless sleeper I am. Hell, maybe I am doing this to myself? Maybe Ralph is right and I need a sleep clinic? The amount I toss and turn at night, it’s a wonder I’m not hurt worse than I am. 

It is Tuesday when I finally see something odd. 

I am eating dinner and reviewing Monday night’s footage of me tossing and turning when I spot movement on the screen that isn’t me. A lump forms in my throat, and I have to force myself to swallow my mouthful. Something is moving by my window. A dark shape moves across the window, along the ledge, until it reaches the far side. It waits for a moment before nudging the window open. 

“Huh?” I frown, I keep the windows locked. How is it opening? 

I watch as the dark shape steps into the room and reveals itself to be Mr Grey. 

“What the hell?” I snap, leaning closer to my laptop screen.

Mr Grey sits at the foot of my bed and I expect him to settle down and maybe go to sleep, but he doesn’t. He sits, sphinx like, at the foot of my bed, watching the room. Like he’s waiting for something. I fast forward the footage and after two hours Mr Grey moves. He stands, facing the bedroom door, and opens his mouth, baring his teeth in a hiss. I turned the volume up on my laptop. Mr Grey yowls, but sleeping me doesn’t stir. The cat all but screeches and still I don’t wake. What the hell is he screeching at? There is nothing in the room. Why am I not waking up?

I watch transfixed as Mr Grey leaps forward out of the view of the camera, I can hear him crashing around, yowling, it sounds like he’s fighting something. After a moment, he hurtles backwards and lands on me; his oversized paws swiping at thin air. I glance down at my arm and spot a faint cut I hadn’t noticed before. Mr Grey is responsible for my injuries! He’s coming into my room and getting zoomies!

“You little bugger,” I hiss. I keep watching, and eventually Mr Grey calms down. He limps across the bed, sniffs at me briefly before leaping up onto the windowsill and heading out the way he had come in. The window remains open for a while, but as I fast forwarded, I spot it closing, caught in a draft, probably. 

“Well, I’ll be,” I set the rest of my dinner aside. I go into my bedroom and check the window. Sure enough, the catch is broken. I laugh feeling relief at finally knowing what is happening and that it is nothing more sinister than an oversized tom cat.

I go to bed that night with a smile on my face. 

“I don’t believe it,” Ralph says the next day as I head out to lunch with him. 

“I know, it surprised me,” I grin. 

“No Cassy, really, I don’t believe it.” Ralph frowns at me. “You said things in the flat were moving around. I thought you were sleepwalking, hence why I kept suggesting the sleep clinic.” I thought about how items in my flat often appeared in places I had not left them and shivered. I still couldn’t explain that. But maybe Ralph was right, maybe I was sleepwalking.

I used the rest of my lunch break to pick up a new lock for the window and fit it myself that evening. I consider the camera before I go to bed and almost leave it off. But turn it on to see if Mr Grey has other ways in, or if he is buff enough to break the lock. 

I sleep peacefully that night and check the footage after work the next day. No sign of Mr Grey. I leave the camera on at night again and the next and the next, nothing happens. 

I wake up with a jolt on Sunday in the worst pain I have ever felt. The room is pitch black. The clock reads 3:15am and my right arm is broken. 

Hospital, my pain fogged brain manages though the surprise and pain. I need to get myself to the hospital. I get up and pull on my sneakers; I think about trying to change my clothes, but there’s no way I can face it, the hospital would just have the deal with my pyjamas. I drop my keys as I close the door to my flat. Bending down makes my arm hurt worse. But after a few tries, I retrieve my keys. 

“What’s going on?” Mr Housen says, opening his front door. 

“I’m so sorry,” I manage, fighting tears. “I didn’t mean to wake you, I didn’t realise I was that loud.”  

“What’s wrong?” Mrs Housen pushes past her husband and comes over to me. “Your arm!” she shrieks. “Edgar get the car keys, we need to take her to the hospital.” 

Mr Housen wipes the sleep from his eyes and nods. “Just give me a moment.” Mr Housen remerges dressed a moment later and together they get me into the car without tears. 

“Dear, we told you to come to us if you needed anything,” Mrs Housen says firmly as Mr Housen drives.

“You tell me who the bastard is and I’ll kill him,” Mr Housen fumes. I would smile if I wasn’t in so much pain. Mr Housen is pushing 70 and smaller than me, but he sounds ferocious. 

“I don’t know what happened,” I say. 

“Don’t you lie to me girl,” Mr Housen snaps. “If your boyfriend is knocking you about you tell me.” 

“I don’t have a boyfriend,” I say, trying to breathe through the pain in my arm. “No one else is in my flat but me.” 

“Did you fall?” Mrs Housen asks. “We heard a terrible noise before we heard you outside, terrible loud it was.” 

“I don’t know,” I say.

When we arrive at the hospital Mr & Mrs Housen offer to wait with me but they look exhausted so I sent them home reassuring them I had money for a taxi in my handbag and that would let them know I was home the minute I got back. The hospital staff saw me quickly and as soon as I have enough painkillers in me to not cry I call my mum to let her know what has happened. 

“How?” she asks after I explain where I am and why I’m calling at almost 5am. 

“I don’t know,” I say. “I just woke up, and it was broken, it can’t have been Mr Grey, I mean he’s big but this is ridiculous.” 

“Who the hell is Mr Grey?” mum all but shouts down the phone. 

“He’s a cat,” I say. 

“A cat?” mum snaps. “Cassandra … Cassandra I … what are you talking about?” A nurse shouts my name.

“I’m being called,” I stand up. “I’ll call you back soon.” I hang up before she can answer. 

I am X-rayed and the doctor tells me I have a displaced fracture, normally these types of fractures happen in bad falls or car accidents. Something has to hit you with enough force to not only break the bone, but force it to move out of place. I can’t explain it. The doctors treat my lack of explanation with extreme suspicion. Blood tests are taken and a bone density scan is ordered. Then I have to endure the biggest needle in the world in the back of my hand before they literally pull my arm back into the right position. I’d like to say I take it with grace, but I can’t. I was sobbing by the time they gave me an appointment to attend the fracture clinic in two days to have my wrist plastered once the swelling has gone down.

I sit in the waiting room crying and call my mum again. 

“Cassandra,” mum sounds angry when she answers the phone. “I’ve been talking to your neighbour.” 

“Mrs Housen?” 

“Yes, she said you gave her my number when you moved in, in case anything happened.” 

“Oh yeah,” I sniffed. “I’d forgotten that, she’s sweet,”

“She’s worried about you,” mum says in her, I’m-so-angry-I-might-murder-you voice and fall silent. “And I am too, although as soon as your father arrives I will stop being worried and will be furious with you.” Mum’s voice is rising in volume. “How could you not tell me?” 

“Tell you what?” I say. 

“That your boyfriend is hitting you!” mum’s voice brakes, and she sobs. “Why didn’t you tell me?” 

“Mum I don’t have a boyfriend,” I say. “Honest, no one is hitting me.” 

“Mrs Housen thinks someone is and now you call at 5am with a broken arm and no explanation.” 

“Well … mum, I honestly …”

“Shut up,” mum snaps, her breath coming in ragged hiccups. “Cassandra how could you not ask us to help? We would have helped, you know we would have.”

“Mum, no one is…” 

“Every few days you’ve got a new injury, poorly covered up with makeup,” mum snaps. “That’s what she said. Every. Few. Days.”   

“Mum please I promise there’s no one,” I say. “I kept waking up with scratches, sometimes they were deep, so I set up a camera and caught Mr Grey sneaking in to my room at night and scratching me.” 

“Mr Grey, the cat?” 

“Yes, honestly mum.” 

“You expect me to believe a cat broke your arm?” mum says. 

“He’s a big cat,” I mutter. I heard mum take a deep breath. 

“We’ll talk about this later, when you’re safe, right now I want you to go to Mrs Housen, you will sit with her till your father gets there. He left half an hour ago so he should be there in two hours. When he gets there, you will pack a bag and you will come home.” 

“Mum, what about work,” I say. 

“You’ve broken your arm!” mum snaps. “You can’t type with a broken arm; you’ll go on sick leave.” 

“I have to be back at the fracture clinic in two days when the swelling goes down.” 

“We have a hospital here, they can transfer you,” mum says firmly.

“But what about?” 

“Cassandra, be quiet, you’re coming home.” 

And I obey. I get a taxi back to Mr Housen’s flat. Once there, I sit and drank approximately fifty thousand cups of tea while waiting for my dad to arrive. He is stern faced when he knocks on the door and only speaks a couple of words at a time. I can feel the anger coming from him. He feels betrayed; I didn’t go to him for help when he thought I needed it. We pack a bag for me and drive home. By the time we arrive home, dad has calmed down a little and is speaking to me in more than grunts and single word answers.

The hospital at home do more x-rays and confirm that I have suffered a bad break; they also note that the bruising on my arm is very oddly shaped, hand shaped. Like someone had put their hands on my arm and snapped it like a twig. But that would take a great deal of strength, more than most people have at any rate. I can’t explain it, no one can. 

I stay with mum and dad for three weeks, I could have stayed there forever. The feeling of being at home was addictive. But I couldn’t just give up my independence. I had to go back. I almost ask dad to move in with me until I find somewhere else to live, but he has his own job to go to. I almost ask him for a loan so I can move into a hotel until I find somewhere else to live, but I can’t ask, I know mum and dad don’t have that kind of money. As it was, I have strict rules to follow, multiple phone calls every day. Mrs Housen will also check in on me and has already been given a flat key, and I am not allowed to do over two days at work a week until I’m out of plaster. 

Dad drops me off at home on Friday, and the minute my front door closes I feel cold. I am home alone, in the flat where something unseen has broken my arm. For a split-second, I’m tempted to run after my dad.

Holy shit, what am I doing back here? 

After an hour of sitting in the kitchen trying not to have a panic attack, I pluck up the courage to go into my bedroom and see the camera sitting there. I try to turn it on, but the battery is dead,  I hadn’t turned it off the night I had broken my arm. I sit and stare at it for a while, feeling nervous, that camera had filmed the whole ordeal. Can I watch that footage?

How can I not?

I plug the laptop in and wait for it to start. What am I going to do if it shows something? What am I expecting it to show? What if there was someone in my flat that night? What if there wasn’t? How the hell did my arm get broken?

With shaking hands, I insert the camera’s data card and open the viewing program. I watch myself sleep for a few minutes before hitting fast forward. I hit play again when I see the bedroom door open. I half expect to see Mr Grey padding into the room, but nothing comes in. I rewind the footage three times and watch the door open by itself three times. Putting it down to a draft, I continue watching. I spot Mr Grey suddenly at the window, pawing at the glass, trying to get in. He is frantic in his efforts to get in. His oversized paws scratching the glass. The window shakes under his weight. Three of my ornaments topple off the vanity, Mr Grey becomes more frantic, throwing himself at the window. I watch as my right arm rises as if lifted by an invisible hand, stays aloft for a moment, then snaps. 

I run to the bathroom and throw up the burger I at a roadside cafe on the way down here. My throat burns with stomach acid by the time I finish retching. 

I go back into my room; the laptop is still running. Fast forwarding the footage, I feel bile rise again. I watch as dad and I return and pack a bag for me before leaving. A few moments after I hear the front door close, something that I can’t see pulls the quilt and sheets off my bed and shreds them in seconds. I glance at the perfectly made bed and realized that it has all new sheets; Mrs Housen must have been in. What must she have thought of finding the place torn up?

On the laptop Mr Grey is back at the window, throwing himself at the glass again until the window springs open. I watch as he bounds into the bedroom, hissing and spitting, 25lb of pure fury. He leaps around the room, clawing at the something I can’t see; his long grey fur lifted, making him seem even bigger. I watch him fight the invisible force that had broken my arm, and I watch him win. The door to the bedroom slams closed as Mr Grey stands victorious on the bed. He sits after a few moments and licks his wounds. I feel hot tears on my cheeks before I realise I am crying. 

I turn off the laptop and stand up, decision finally made.

I phone work and inform them that I am handing in my notice. I phone my mum and asked her if I could come home until I find a new job and somewhere to live. Mum doesn’t ask questions, she sounds relieved. I phone my landlord and tell him I am leaving; I don’t tell him why; I want to. The thought of someone else living here and experiencing this make me sick, but the words stick in my throat. I will write a letter later once I’m home. I write a thank-you card for Mr & Mrs Housen, giving them my parents’ address and asking them to keep in touch. Lastly, I pick up my purse and head into town. I have a couple of hours until dad arrives to pick me up and I have a lot to buy. I come back in a taxi. The driver helps me unload a jumbo bag of kitty litter, six months worth of cat food, a cat tree, a carrier, a selection of toys and the biggest cat bed I could find.

I find Mr Grey, my furry protector, down by the bins and coax him into the cat carrier. 

“You’re coming home with me,” I say to him.