Most Ghostly

 by Colin Davies

 I'd always promised myself a trip to a haunted house. As a child I was fascinated by the idea of the paranormal, ghosts and other such spooky shenanigans. That's why, when given the opportunity, I jumped at the chance.

The journey to the house was extremely uneventful. So much so, that I can hardly remember the trip. Everything was about the house: would I feel the eerie ambience as soon as I laid my eyes on it?

Walking up the drive I can tell you now the answer to that question is yes.

The general vista was one of any oldish country house. It had sand coloured rendered walls, large ornate windows and a front door that was begging to be opened by a doorman in pantaloons and a red velvet jacket.

The shadows that hung from the various reliefs in the architecture transformed the clean lines of gentry housing to the foreboding repression of Gothic majesty. Everything about this building in the light of evening song was sinister and intimidating.

The hypnotic effect of this construction held me so captivated, that I found myself staring at the ornate ceiling in the main entrance hall without realising I'd actually walked through the door. The delicate mouldings blended with imposing ease through the Regency decor into the smooth polished redwood banisters that twisted their way upstairs. The chill in the air was amplified by the realisation that I was standing on the spot at the foot of the stairs where Lady Lancaster was found with a broken neck in 1764.

I decided to start my exploration on the upper level. The ascent felt effortless as my mind was filled with the stories that have become embedded deep within the very fabric of these walls over hundreds of years.

The layout was so natural that it was easy to think I’d been there before: like a new song that sounds familiar the first time it’s heard.

I looked down the dark, shadow-guarded corridor.

At the far end, on the right, I could see movement.

I had thought I was on my own this weekend.

Walking into the room I found a group of people, two held video cameras and one had a boom mic. They seemed to be concentrating their attention on two other people stood by an obvious statement of wealth in the form of a fire place.

I recognised these people.

They reminded me of a couple I’d seen on TV called Yevett and Derek.

Derek turned to look at me. "There's someone here," he said. "A man."
"What's his name?" asked Yevett.
Derek repeated the question to me, so I answered: "Colin."
"Colin," he told her.
She responded with another question. "Did you die in this house?"
Again Derek repeated her enquiry towards me.

The question was so preposterous that I was dumbstruck.

Derek asked the question again, only with a little more force. "Did you die in this house?"
I was beginning to feel offended by this seeming lack of respect so I answered "NO!" Only the sound that fell from my lips with a whisper was, "Yes."
Have you ever had a realisation that felt like the entire world around has stopped while a sick empty feeling hits you in the middle of your stomach so hard your arms and legs go cold? Your lips become numb, unable to form words and your vision develops a slight vignette which removes you from the situation, turning you into an observer rather than the player.

Suddenly I was stood at the top of the main stairs. A man was shouting at me. I told him, "You're finished, I'm going to bring you down". I felt his hands on my chest, then panic, like that moment when you realise the chair is about to topple backwards.

I suddenly looked at Derek.

"I'm in the cellar, under the apple barrels"

The TV psychic started wearing an expression of concern.

"And phone my editor at the Mirror." I pause. Sometimes being proved wrong is a strangely wonderful feeling. Like here: years trying to show the world that psychics and haunted houses are just elaborate frauds, and now I am about to help one go stratospheric with his own fame.

"You're about to solve a murder."