Chapter Seven

Matt stood outside the block of flats and stared up. He should really be getting back in. It was getting late, but he still had no idea what had happened in there back in 1946, and he wasn’t really comfortable going in until he knew… He continued to stare up at the flats. It wasn’t as if he didn’t like in spiritual inhabitants of his house. James- if rather sarcastic- seemed to care about him, and Jessica was just like a roommate. He had come in from his crappy new job the other day to find her sitting on the sofa, reading one of his books, her legs curled under herself. It was odd. He’d always imagined ghosts to be see-through and gaseous, but she was neither of the two as far as he could tell… “Are you the one who lives in the Simpson flat?” a gruff voice asked behind him.

He turned round to see an old man standing there. There was nothing odd about the old man, he was just there. “Yeah… Do you know what happened there?”

He nodded carefully, “Aye. I’m one of the few who does. The house has murdered hundreds. But it began in 1946.”

*****

1946

The flat was extravagant. For people of their wealth, it was often wondered why they had a flat, but it was simply because they preferred to be closer to each other. They were a definite couple, loving, caring. No-one ever suspected that something could be wrong… Then one day, the male of the two was in the living room, working on some sort of document at his desk, when the female stormed in. “Hello, how was work?” he asked conversationally.

“Where is she?” his partner’s voice cut through him like a knife.

“Who?” he asked in confusion, his nose wrinkling in thought. Then it occurred to him what she might mean. “No! You saw Hilary? Honey, I’m simply working with her. Why would I be unfaithful towards you?”

“I don’t know…” her voice was cold. “Why would you?” She brought out a black gun and pointed it in his direction, “Why would anyone do anything in this world?”

*****

2006

“She shot him,” the old man continued. “And from that day on, anyone who bought the house was killed, and, in every year that ended in a six, one person got imprisoned in the mirrors.” He shook his head slightly, “Some don’t believe the stories. Some don’t know them. Some come from other places, like yourself.”

“So what is it? An angry spirit? Or is he just trying to protect his house?”

A sigh escaped the man’s lips. “No-one knows. And those who found out never lived to tell the others. Have you seen anyone?”

“James Bourne’s in the mirror. Jessica Tait’s a ghost.”