Page 26 of Spooked
There’s a sharp pain in my temple. I place my fingers there, then, in a stupidly plaintive voice, ask him, “But what does this mean? Do the people I saw in my head really exist? What the fuck’s going on, Mouse?” My eyes plead with him to help me.
“Vision, not dream or hallucination,” he states firmly. “We know you went to the house, you took pictures and showed them to Bullet. But while you were there, the spirits revealed something to you.” He rubs at his chin, and his brow furrows. He sweeps his long hair over his shoulder as he asks metaphorically, “But for what purpose? That’s what I want to know.”
My own brow creases. Could he be right? I’m a twenty-first-century man. It’s easier to believe I’m going crazy and thateverything I saw had been a figment of my imagination, or nightmares conjured up by the damage from that knock to my skull, than to believe I experienced a prescience of things that were real. My headache seems to worsen with all the conflicting thoughts in my brain.
I return to his question. “You think they were maybe trying to tell me something?” Frowning, I reinforce my question. “Do you really believe that’s possible, Mouse?”
Fixing his dark eyes on me, he projects sincerity over the desk that separates us. “If you’re asking me whether I believe there’s a spirit world that lives alongside us, then my answer has got to be yes. Do I believe in ghosts? Probably, though not the same way as you think, but there are things that we can’t explain.” He chuckles. “Maybe one day we will. Imagine someone from the nineteenth century being faced with a cell phone, having the ability to contact anyone, anywhere. They’d think that was magic and dismiss it out of hand.”
But cell phones are science. I start to argue against him, then close my mouth. Maybe he’s right. In the past, people put volcanic eruptions and earthquakes down to acts of their gods.
Mouse is staring at his screens once again. “Emerald gave birth to two girls.”
“Siobhan and Sian.” I give him the names immediately.
Raising his chin, he confirms that the facts back up what I was told in my… vision, I suppose, if that’s how he wants to describe it. I’m not sure whether to be relieved or dismayed that my imagination hadn’t been lying.
“Siobhan was born first, which would make her seventy,” he continues. “Sian was born four years later.” He keeps clicking, looking from one monitor to the next. “Looks like Siobhan married, but her husband died a while back.” Creases appear on his brow. “Albert died in the nineteen-eighties, but Emerald lived on. She passed away in 2010, at the age of seventy. Founda copy of her will. She left everything to Siobhan and nothing to Sian.” Again, his fingers fly over the keyboard, then he sighs. “Perhaps this is why. There’s a birth registered to Sian in nineteen ninety. She was unmarried.” He shakes his head. “Girl gone bad? Mother didn’t approve of the relationship? Whatever, that’s when Maeve entered the picture.”
“She’d almost married,” I tell him. “But her fiancé died before they could tie the knot. He was from good folks, but not the stock her grandmother was looking for. Siobhan spun a story that turned Emerald on her younger daughter, though they reconciled before her death. Maeve thought the will had been changed to favour her, but obviously,” for some reason I point at his monitor, “it had not.”
His sharp eyes narrow. “Maeve told you that?”
Swallowing hard as it seems unbelievable, I simply nod.
He chuckles softly, as if my non-response had been the answer he needed. “As I see it, there’s only one thing you can do now. Hound, if I were you, I’d go visit Maeve. I think her grandmother might have been trying to tell you something.”
He what? Visit the ghost/spirit, whoever she is, in the hospital? Fuck no.I don’t need to struggle to come up with the excuse as to why that’s a bad idea. In fact, it’s preposterous the more I think about it. “You’re suggesting I go visit a woman I’ve never met before…”
His snort interrupts me. “From the sound of it, you got quite cosy with her.”
How he picked up I was attracted to Maeve, I don’t know, but it only serves to add yet another complication. I’d feel awkward meeting her. I can’t explain that to Mouse without betraying more of myself, so I rely on the most important thing. “What’s the fuckin’ point if she’s unconscious?” Feeling a shiver down my back, I don’t voice my next fear. What if the Maeve in the hospital isn’t the one I met?
He shrugs. “I don’t rightly know, but something tells me this is your path. The coincidence of you both being admitted at the same time can’t be dismissed lightly.” His shoulders rise up and down. “Maybe she’s waiting for you to wake up. Perhaps your presence will bring her around. Or maybe there’ll be links to the fucked-up family you found out about.” He stands. “Come on. I’ll come with you.” My expression must speak volumes. Rolling his eyes, he passes my crutches to me. “We’ve got to go now, or else we’ll miss evening visiting time.”
CHAPTER TWELVE
MAEVE
I’d apparently come around from a coma, not slowly with a polite regaining of consciousness, but with a gasp, and such a sudden movement from horizontal to vertical that it shocked the fuck out of the nurse who’d come in to monitor the machines in my room. Unprofessionally, she’d screamed.
Even though, to her credit, she’d recovered fast, I was unable to comprehend her words. My mind was assailed by other times, other places, a whole kaleidoscope of colours and images that made no sense. And an overwhelming sensation of a stranger who, for some unknown reason, had become important to me.
Doctors had rushed in, at first concerned that my vitals were triggering warning lights, but as I’d gradually come back to myself, my heart rate slowed, as did their frantic efforts. Finally, when I was breathing at a rate they seemed to accept, they answered the question of why I was lying here, hooked up to machines. Anger caused by the explanation that I was in the hospital as a drunk driver had rammed into my car, and concern when they told me I’d been unconscious for over three weeks, had my blood pressure rising all over again.
I’d been an idiot.I’d no longer had ties to Tucson, so why the hell had I felt driven to come back to visit the remains of mychildhood home at this particular time? Damn that sixth sense of mine that seemed to have been pushing me to come. Instead of listening to revived images triggered by dreams, I should have listened to that sane part that told me revisiting my past would just cause me pain and resentment. Though any distress I’d envisaged would have been mental, not physical.
“Steady.” One of the doctors places a firm hand on my shoulder. “You really need to stay calm.”
I ask the obvious question—what are the extent of my injuries? To which I’m told I suffered a severe concussion and a brain bleed that had eventually stopped. Apparently, I have stitches at my hairline, but I am reassured that my bangs should cover that. I’ll be weak due to being laid up for a while, but subject to anything new arising, should now be well on the mend. Well, that’s what I interpret from the medical jargon they throw at me.
All I want to know is when I can go home.
The medical staff are cautious due to my abrupt return to reality. I’m told that while my vital signs have already returned closer to normal, I need to have more tests run and remain under observation for perhaps another few days until they can be sure I’ve suffered no lasting effects.While the medical expenses build up,I sardonically think to myself.
That thought makes me query who ran into me and whether they were stopped. Because how else was I going to pay the hospital fees? I’m no millionaire with spare cash lying around.
Those questions are best directed to the police, is their reply, before continuing with their examinations.
