Your House - A Ghost Story (by Phil)

Your House – A Ghost Story

There’s nothing unusual about finding yourself walking behind a stranger on your own street.  You were returning from work, a little later than usual, due to a delay on the train.  The train was held outside the station for a time.  The conductor announced, “We’re just waiting for a place in the station for us.”  Not ‘a free platform’, just a ‘place’, as though the train could pull up anywhere.  While waiting for your place in the station, a gentleman sat down opposite you.  He began to speak, and this is what he said to you.

I was arrested and interrogated several years ago.  I was a suspected insurgent and the foreign soldiers believed I was plotting road-side bomb attacks.  They water boarded me.  I remember opening my eyes as they pulled me back for the tenth time by the shoulders.  There were four people in that square room with the poured concrete floor.  All of them were perfectly still.  I couldn’t even tell that they were breathing.  Before, there had been clamour, shouting of insults, inane questions.  But now it felt like I was in a waxwork museum after hours.  I noticed the grip on my shoulders, by two bulky young men with bald heads, was now soft where before it felt like two mechanical tools holding me fast.  I twisted my body, and came loose from the soldiers’ grasp.  I realised they had not a drop of water on them despite repeatedly dunking me into the tank, no sweat beaded on their bald heads in spite of the crushing heat.  The other two soldiers held rifles; they remained motionless and stared impassively ahead.  There was no movement from anyone but me.  Even the water in the tank was still.  I cautiously stood up and was able to simply walk out of the steel door.  I was in a very dark corridor, thick velvet darkness, so I held the wall as I stumbled forward.  At that point I had the distinct feeling of a presence in the corridor.  My mouth was open; I was breathing heavily with nervousness.  Then, in my mouth I felt a sensation like biting down on the hottest of chillies.  It was so intensely hot it numbed my mouth and throat and made my eyes feel twice their size.  I could see bright popping lights in my brain.  Suddenly, the sensation went away and I heard shouts behind me.  I just ran.

You didn’t know if his story had finished when he stopped as the train jerked forward.  The man opposite quickly stood and took his place at the double doors, finger poised over the ‘open door’ button.  You stood too, and by this time there was a line of other commuters between you and the man at the door.

Stepping off the train, you noticed that it had come to rest at a different platform to normal; a different place in the station.  Ten minutes later, you were walking down your street, a few paces behind that other person in a suit.  He was shorter than you, with a bald head.  He had broad shoulders, and walked with the control and poise of a man in optimal physical shape.  You were just a couple of steps behind him, almost level with your front gate, when he turned up your garden path.  Hey, you said, but your voice sounded strangely muted, like it was coming from somewhere deep underwater.  He pulled keys from his pocket and opened your front door with practised movements.  You had paused, but now you walked briskly up the path, only to find the door closed as you reached the step by the bald man.  He didn’t look at you; he just gazed ahead, emotionless.  You yanked out your keys and pushed one into the front door.  It didn’t enter the lock properly, and wouldn’t turn either.  You hit the doorbell repeatedly, but no one came to the entrance.  You turned and stared desperately around your familiar street, your vision dropping in and out of focus as you felt a tremendous heat gathering in your mouth and throat.