The Ghostman Read online

duction

  All through their lives, most people are content with just one name. I have three. Allow me to explain a little more about the need for a second name and to tell you how to third came to be.

  My real name of Jamie Summers hardly conjures up a vision of a man of extra sensory perception and psychological insight. It sounds somewhat drab and mundane and, when I began to apply my conjuring skills in the field of mentalism, I adopted the stage name of “Doctor Logic” as I felt it would be more appropriate for the part. Maybe you may have seen some posters for my shows around town. Perhaps you’ve even attended one of my shows!

  My formal magical background in work begun with various sleights of hand and a number of small, well-hidden gimmicks but I found that the field of mentalism was one that adult audiences could relate to more freely. Soon, I moved from an occasional children’s party magician and ventured into the dark and sombre world of adult performances, reading minds and performing feats of mental dexterity under the pretence of some inherited powers of ESP. Perhaps a few of you may appreciate the blurred move from the bright showy children’s entertainer (who produces an array of colourful silks from the sleeves of his audience members) to the sombre bizarre mentalist (who is able to infiltrate a person’s innermost thoughts and feelings.) Some of these effects rely on the same menagerie of gimmicks and subtle sleights of hand, although the end result is so much different. However, in common with many in my trade, I shall not use these pages to disclose the secrets of my craft. I must place bread on the table for tomorrow and the veil of secrecy allows me to continue with a task that I enjoy as well as paying my way.

  Please allow me to continue, if I may, to explain how my third name “The Ghostman” came into being.

  When I first began performing within the field of mentalism, bookings were few and far between. I was keen to build up a name for myself and was not accustomed to the use of written contracts. I had been booked to perform an “Evening of ESP” at the Swallows Arms, Belton as part of the festivities around the appointment of a new landlord and landlady. A verbal booking had been made two weeks prior and I rang the pub the weekend before the reservation, in order to confirm the final details. I dialled the number and waited.

  “Good evening,” I began. “Is that the Swallows Arms? I’m ringing to confirm my visit this Friday evening.”

  A man’s voice answered with a nervous confirmation.

  “I believe I made the arrangements with your wife,” I continued. “She wanted me to run through a few mentalism routines at your venue, this Friday evening. I just wanted to ring to confirm the details and to reassure you that everything is all set and ready for the night.”

  There was a very slight pause and then the man’s voice relaxed.

  “Oh, sorry!” he replied, “Yes, Friday’s evening is fine. I didn’t realise that Brenda had contacted you – she’s currently out, meeting with the removal company, please forgive me for being disorganised but there’s so much happening at the moment with our change of address. Yes, I shall look forward to seeing you Friday evening and then Brenda can fill you in with all the relevant details. She’s the one who deals with this; I just end up doing all the physical work.”

  He laughed, if somewhat uneasily.

  I summarised some brief details about ESP, book tests and clairvoyance and then finally the landlord checked with me that I had the correct address and start time, quickly running through some brief directions as to how to locate the venue.

  Nothing that was said in that conversation led me to realise the mistake that had been made. The family were, indeed, packing but not unpacking as arrivals. They were, in fact, making plans for a hasty exit. I had not been booked for an evening’s entertainment but instead for something that was far more sinister and covert, something that I would not appreciate until after arriving at the venue later that week.

  That Friday evening I drove along the country lane, at the same time eyeing the clock on the dashboard. The console light glimmered through the dimness of the winter’s evening to inform me that I had plenty of time. It was six-thirty and I was nearly at my destination. I headed off the main road up a narrow winding country lane. The headlights stretched two narrow pencils of light into the far hedgerows, where the road twisted and deviated through the bleak countryside. I headed around a final corner to discover the sombre imposing brickwork of a two-story building standing alone and secluded from the main village. The car park was deserted, apart from one single car nestled snugly adjacent to the side of the pub, and the only lights I could see came from a front upstairs window, behind the thin wisp of curtain material, and another from the rear of the building. Apart from these, the pub looked lifeless and silent and I guessed that the occupiers had really gone to town to set the scene for the night’s entertainment.

  I parked my car alongside the one other in the car park, stepped up towards the main door and turned the handle. It was locked. I glanced around for a second main entrance but found none and so knocked firmly. It was then that I began to guess that something was amiss. I heard steps shuffling towards the door and the sound of a key being turned in the lock. The door opened to reveal a very uncomfortable man.

  “I’m most dreadfully sorry,” he began. “There has been some kind of terrible misunderstanding. Do forgive me. Please come inside and allow me to explain.”

  He led me around the back of the pub, into a brightly light kitchen where I saw two figures sitting at a small wooden table: a young attractive woman of about the same age as the man dressed in a pair of faded denim jeans and a light blue t-shirt and a young girl of about eight or nine dressed in a charming, but somewhat dated, party dress.

  The young woman began to speak first.

  “There’s been a dreadful mix up and I’m so very sorry,” she blurted out, before clasping her hands to her face and bursting into tears.

  The young man placed a reassuring arm over her shoulder while the young silent girl looked on quite perplexed at all the commotion around her.

  “This was meant to be our opening evening,” he began, “but we never really settled into our new home. This has been quite a most dreadful experience and one that I shall be glad to put behind us both.”

  He stroked the fleshy pad of a comforting finger across the check of the woman, brushing away a tear, and then continued, “This building was meant to be our future, one in which we could raise a family, but it has turned out to be our nemesis.”

  The small girl sat at the table and remained quiet. I guessed that this must all be quite traumatic for her, two house moves in just a few weeks and now an inconsolable mother too. My heart felt for her and I offered a brief smile across the table together with a knowing look. Her eyes caught those of mine and for a brief second I looked into her soul. She seemed so sad and alone, so confused and isolated. Then the man spoke and I returned my gaze to the couple.

  “When you phoned earlier this week,” he continued, “ I thought that you were a exorcist or something and that my wife had contacted you to sort out this problem.”

  I stifled a small laugh. This was the first time that I had ever been referred to as an exorcist and the thought of it seemed so outlandish.

  “It’s our bedroom,” the man continued. “It just seems too cold and uninviting. Things move.”

  I butted in, “Move? What do you mean by this?”

  The man looked me straight in the face.

  “I know that you must find this hard to believe but … but … the drawers … nobody touched them.” He continued, “When we first moved into this pub, we placed the drawers in the corner of the room in order to cover a mark on the wallpaper but when we returned, the drawers had been dragged into the middle of the room. First of all I thought it was Brenda. I thought that
, perhaps, she moved them out for some reason but it happened again and again. It wasn’t you, was it Brenda?”

  The man turned towards his wife for a reassuring nod before continuing with his story.

  “I never felt at ease in that room,” he muttered, “It feels so cold and unwelcoming, as if some chilling draught is penetrating your very innermost being. Please, let me show you what I mean.”

  He stood up and beckoned to the door. The woman took his hand and followed in his footsteps. I pushed the chair back to stand and, as I did so, I felt the cold grip of a small hand as the young girl curled her fingers around mine. I guessed that she too must have found this most trying and yearned for reassurance from an adult figure too. The two of us followed the couple through the door, across the hallway and up the stairs. Up to this point I felt nothing unexpected or extraordinary, the house seemed as warm and as inviting as any other that I have visited and, to be honest, I felt very sad indeed that the three of them hadn’t settled down in their new home.

  At the top of the stairs, the man pushed open one door to