Eyes On You E-Book

Steven Jenkins

• Herausgeber: Steven Jenkins
• Kategorie: Abenteuer, Thriller, Horror
• Sprache: Englisch

Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2019

Beschreibung

“She's Always Watching.”

Having found the perfect flat, Matthew and Aimee settle into their new home with all the hopes of a young couple in love.
But something hideous resides within its walls.

Before long, curious incidents turn violent, and it becomes increasingly difficult for the sceptic Matthew to deny that an unholy ghost has descended upon his happy home.

Tormented by the wrath of this angry spirit, Matthew and Aimee’s relationship begins to crumble under the weight of their terror, and have no choice but to flee into the night, leaving their beloved flat behind.

But you can never run from your past…because dark secrets have a way of hunting you down.


“Once again, Jenkins has managed to move, surprise, and terrify all in one glorious novel.”
ANDREW MARMION – Author of Ghost Lady

Leseprobe

Eyes On You

A Ghost Story

Steven Jenkins

Contents

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Prologue

I. Beetroot

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

II. Anywhere But Home

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

III. The Archers

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

IV. New Beginnings

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

V. Stay Buried

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Epilogue

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About the Author

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For Lissa.

Prologue

My phone vibrates in my pocket. It’s Mum again, no doubt wondering where the hell I slept last night, or whether I skipped school today. I should answer it, tell her that I’m fine, and that I’m on my way home, but it’s too much effort.

The sun is glaring down so I shield my eyes with my hand, the other one holding onto my swirling stomach, praying that I don’t puke up for a third time. Shouldn’t have had that last swig of vodka.

Home is just up ahead, so I focus on our red front door in the distance, using the parked cars to keep me from toppling over. Mum’s car is parked in the drive. Dad’s isn’t. That’s worrying. Any other day and that wouldn’t set off a single alarm bell, but after yesterday, after the shit-storm, God knows where he is.

No, no scratch that, it’s obvious where the cheating bastard is—shacked up with that whore!

Hobbling up our drive, I stop by the front door. I don’t think I’m quite ready to face Mum, especially with the worst ecstasy comedown ever. I lean against the wall and close my eyes, contemplating whether or not to head back the way I came, try to sleep for a few more hours.

No, I can’t. I can’t put this off any longer.

I let out a sigh, rub my burning eyes, and then open the front door.

Mum is in the living room, sitting on the couch, staring at the TV in a daze. Her eyes are bloodshot, her cheeks red and puffy, and she has the phone in one hand, and a tissue in the other.

She sees me standing in the doorway. “You’re home,” she says with urgency. “I’ve been calling you all morning. Where’ve you been?”

I shrug my shoulders. “Out,” I reply, cagily, my voice hoarse, my throat dry and sore.

Mum sniffs loudly and wipes her nose with the tissue. “Sit down, Matt.”

“Where’s Dad?” I ask, as if I don’t already know.

Mum doesn’t answer. I was right—he’s with that bitch again.

“Just sit down,” she repeats, breaking out in tears. “Please.”

This is the last thing I need right now. I should never have come home so soon.

“Is he coming back?” I ask, stubbornly refusing to move from the doorway.

The phone drops out of Mum’s trembling hand. “No, your father’s not coming back,” she weeps, struggling to form words. She looks down at the floor, resting her head in her palms; her entire body convulsing.

I want to go to her, wrap my arms around her shoulders and tell her that he doesn’t deserve us, that the best place for him is the gutter, but I’m too numb, too drained. So instead I just stare at the photo of him on the mantelpiece and pretend that he’s a stranger, that he’s not the man that I spent my entire life idolising.

He’s nobody to me now. Just a man who—

“Your father’s dead, Matt,” Mum blurts out behind shudders of turmoil.

“What?” I ask with a deep scowl across my brow. Did she really just say that?

No, of course not. I’m still high. Still drunk.

He can’t be dead.

“They found him this morning,” Mum replies. “With a note.”

“You’re lying,” I say, shaking my head. “Why would you say something like that?”

Mum gets up from the couch, eyes streaming, and walks over to me. “It’s true, Matt,” she says, taking both my hands. “He’s gone.”

“No,” I say, pulling out of Mum’s grasp. “He’s just with that woman. That’s all. He’s not dead. You’re a liar!”

I start to back away towards the front door, refusing to let her lies seep in.

“I’m not, Matt,” she replies as she follows me. “They found him by the train tracks.”

“No!” I snap, my back against the door, my hand gripping the handle, ready to bolt down the street. “Dad wouldn’t do that to us! He wouldn’t leave us like that!”

She opens out her arms, inviting me in for a hug. “Come here, Matt.”

Shaking my head in disbelief, my vision fogs over, and the walls start to move, pressing towards me.

Mum mouths something else, but I can’t hear her words.

I can’t hear anything.

The acid in my stomach erupts and I puke up over the floor. I wipe my mouth and then drop to my knees in tears. Mum kneels down beside me, her arm across my back, crying hard into my shoulder.

I can’t catch my breath.

I need to get out of here.

I need to see him.

I need to see for myself—because this is all my fault. And if it’s true, if he is dead…then I really have lost everything.

Part I

Beetroot

1

I lift the box labelled ‘MATTS SHIT’ and take it into the bedroom. Dropping it on the bed, I let out a loud moan of relief. I open the box and rummage through, realising within the first second that this is most definitely not my shit.

“Aimee?” I call out.

“Yeah?” she replies from the kitchen, which is so close it feels like she’s calling from the same room. “What’s wrong?”

“How come this box says ‘MATTS SHIT’ when it’s clearly your shit?”

“Are you sure? Have a good look. You know what you’re like.”

I scan the contents again even though I’m pretty sure that I don’t own a Sex and the City boxset, a stupid dream-catcher, and a collection of ceramic dolphins. “It’s your shit. Where are my DVDs?”

I hear Aimee groan as she leaves the kitchen. She pokes her head through the doorway, her long blonde hair clinging to her face, still damp from the downpour earlier. “You probably left it in your car. Just go check.” She spots the dolphins. “Be careful with those ornaments now; I’ve had them since I was five. Put them on the shelf before you break them.”

“I’m not going to break them?”

Aimee chuckles. “Yeah, right. You’re the clumsiest man in the world.”

“No, I’m not,” I reply, delicately placing each dolphin on the wooden shelf above the bed.

“Yes you are. You spilled red wine over my parents’ new rug—or did that slip your mind?”

“That wasn’t me,” I reply, scanning the box for the DVDs. “I already told you, the cat must have done it.”

Aimee rolls her eyes and smiles. “Yeah, yeah. It’s always the cat’s fault.”

I don’t retort, too focused on locating my movie collection. Where the hell are they? “They’re not here, Aimee.”

“You must have left it at your mum’s,” she replies. “Just pick them up on Sunday.”

Exhaling in frustration, I empty the box onto the bed. “I suppose so.”

“Oh grow up, Matt,” she says, playfully, as she returns to the kitchen. “You can watch your stupid films another day.”

I place Aimee’s DVDs on the shelf and her boxes onto the bedside table. “They’re not stupid,” I mutter. “Sex and the City is stupid.”

Aimee’s cat comes creeping in, loitering by my feet. “Out, Luna,” I whisper. “Go on.” He doesn’t move, just stares up at me with those cold, yellow eyes. Why anyone would want a house-cat is beyond me. The furry white bastard can live outside as far as I’m concerned.

I should have lied and said I was allergic.

Aimee crawls into bed next to me, wearing her pink pyjamas and thick blue bed-socks.

“I’m exhausted,” she says. “Totally shattered.”

“Thought you wanted sex tonight. You know—christen the flat.”

“In your dreams,” she snorts. “Maybe tomorrow.”

I close my eyes and huddle up close to her. “Maybe I won’t feel like it tomorrow.”

“Yeah, right. That’ll be a first.”

I smile, open my eyes and then kiss her on the lips. “Goodnight, Aim.”

“Good night.”

As I lie there, almost drifting off to sleep, I think about Mum. I wonder how she’s coping without me. Has she made my room into a shrine yet? Probably. The moment I stepped outside the front door, she threw me a pair of those guilt-trip eyes.

I’m thirty-two for Christ’s sake!

Dad would understand if he were still here. And I’m sure he’d be proud of me, even as a hospital porter. It’s not exactly a brain surgeon, but it’s still a job, it’s still money. And I’ve finally got my very own double bed. No one should have to share a single bed with a girlfriend. No wonder Aimee never liked sleeping over. It’s nice cuddling up on a single bed—for about five minutes.

We did think about renting a place first, but getting on the property ladder seemed like the smart move. The flat isn’t exactly huge, but it’s all we can afford right now. Besides, the other flat downstairs is still unoccupied, so technically, we have the whole building to ourselves. I just pray to God the owner doesn’t sell it to some weirdo. Or worse: Mum! No, she’d never leave Cardiff. She’s too much of a—

The sound of glass breaking pulls me out of my thoughts.

Aimee shoots up. “What was that?”

“Don’t know. Sounds like it came from the kitchen.”

She prods me. “Go check, Matt. Might be a burglar.”

“Okay. Stay here,” I say, climbing out of bed in just my boxer-shorts. Creeping towards the door, I pick up Aimee’s 2kg, pink kettle-bell as a weapon, ready for sudden attack. The bedroom door creaks loudly as I open it slowly. Heart racing, I step out into the hallway, knocking the light switch on. I tiptoe towards the kitchen. The door is already open so I just reach in and hit the light switch.

I pause for a moment when I see the fridge door hanging wide open, and a broken jar of beetroot on the floor; shards of glass scattered, and a pool of dark red juice and clumps.

“Any burglars?” Aimee shouts from the bedroom.

“No. Don’t think so. Just a broken jar of beetroot on the floor.”

“Shit. Not my beetroot.”

“Stay in the bedroom. I’m gonna check the rest of the flat just in case.” I leave the kitchen and head into the living room. Once I switch the light on I can see that the room is empty, and the window is closed. I then check the bathroom and broom cupboard just to be sure. Both empty. Opening the flat door, I step out onto the pitch-black landing.

“Where are you going?” Aimee asks from the bedroom doorway.

“I’m going to check downstairs.”

I reach blindly onto the wall, find the light switch and knock it on. I can’t see anyone. Grasping the banister, I peer downstairs. I can see stacks of junk mail by the front door, but can’t really tell from here if it’s locked or not. Reluctantly, I slowly make my way down the stairs to double-check. As each step brings me closer to the door, I’m annoyed with myself for feeling so edgy. I know there’s no one down here, but I still can’t shake off these nerves. Must be first-night fears. New home. New neighbourhood. Brand-new worries. Once I’m down, I walk over to the main door and twist the handle a few times to make sure it’s locked. Over to the other flat, I try the door. It’s also locked. I know it’s empty but can’t resist the urge to press my ear against the door to listen. Maybe the flat is full of smack-head squatters, or illegal immigrants. Can’t hear anything. I give the door a gentle tap. “Hello,” I whisper. “Anybody in there?” I listen again but there’s nothing. No movement, no voices, no sounds at all.

Relieved, I head back upstairs to our flat. I switch off the landing light and close the door, hooking on the door-chain just in case.

Inside the kitchen, I go over to the cupboard under the sink, dodging the glass with my bare feet, and pull out some kitchen-roll, a dustpan and a small brush. I start to gather up the glass into the pan, and soak up the juice with the kitchen-roll.

“How the hell did that happen?” Aimee asks from the kitchen doorway.

“Don’t come in here,” I protest, holding my hand out to stop her. “You might cut your foot open. The glass has gone everywhere.”

“What about you? You haven’t got any shoes on either.”

“Yeah, but I’m already in here now. It’s too late for me.”

“Well that makes no sense at all.”

I scoop up the last of the beetroot and glass. “Must have just fallen off the shelf. The fridge door must have been left open.”

“Or a ghost,” she says in a spooky voice.

I snort. “A ghost?”

“It could be.”

Dropping the pieces in the bin, I make my way out of the kitchen, and then back towards the bedroom. “You’re twenty-four years old, Aim,” I point out. “It’s not a bloody ghost.”

“Don’t be so narrow-minded all the time,” she replies, following me into the bedroom. “You don’t believe in anything.”

“Like what?”

“Well, you laughed when I said that I believed in healing, and you made a face when you first saw my dream-catcher. Bloody hell, you even think acupuncture is bullshit.”

“It is bullshit,” I say, climbing back into bed. “All of it. And anyway, I seriously doubt that a ghost would want to haunt this shoebox of a flat. There’re only four rooms. I can think of better places to spend eternal damnation.”

Aimee joins me in bed. “Doesn’t work like that.”

I chuckle. “As if you know how it all works.”

“I don’t pretend to know everything.” She snuggles up beside me. “But it’s good to be open-minded. And don’t you think it’d be exciting if we did have a ghost?”

I dismiss the comment by kissing her cheek, and then turn to face the other way. “Good night, Aim,”

As I close my eyes, trying to drift off to sleep, I hear Aimee mumble, “Boring bastard.”

2

I kiss Aimee as she leaves for work.

I can tell she’s jealous that I’m off work for two whole days. It’s her own fault. She should have put in for leave sooner. February’s always easier to get time off at the hospital. No one takes days so close after Christmas, and normally, neither do I, but with the move, and tidying up the flat, I thought I might as well use up a few.

I take a look around the hallway, at the bathroom, at the living room, and smile. First day alone in the flat. No mother bugging me about clean clothes, always promising to stay out of my room. No neighbour’s dog barking outside. No phone ringing every five minutes.

Complete privacy.

I can even stay in my white T-shirt and Spider-man pyjama-bottoms all day.

Paradise.

I pull out the laptop from the cardboard box, take it to the bedroom, and then plug it into the wall. I do the same for the printer, and within minutes I’m online. Haven’t surfed the Web in a few days, been too preoccupied with the move. It feels like the world has gone on without me and I’m out of the loop. I check my emails, social networks, and various movie sites, which takes me about an hour, and then I’m bored. I spend the next hour downloading a few episodes of Family Guy and watching some stupid videos on YouTube. The brightness of the screen starts to tire my eyes so I rub them hard.

Another hour goes by and I’m hungry. Have to stop eating so much. Looking down at my midriff, I inspect the slight bulge. Oh shit—don’t think that was there before Christmas. Definitely not. Need to get back down the gym. Spring’ll be here in no time. I lift my T-Shirt up and see three rolls of flab across my stomach. Jesus Christ, those are definitely new. I straighten and then suck in my belly. It’s not that bad. Just the way I’m sitting.

My phone beeps—a second text from Mum asking if I’m all right. I think about ignoring it again, but then that will lead to a phone call, then a visit, and then a full-blown panic attack.

No thank you.

But she really needs to accept that I’ve moved on with my life, that I’m not a dumb, emotional teenager anymore, and that Aimee is not some crazy-arse man-eater that all mothers fear—she’s the greatest thing to happen to me in years. Yeah, she may be eight years younger, but that suits me just fine. I’ve been out of the game for a long time, so I’ve got some serious catching up to do.

I reply to Mum telling her that I’m fine, and then I get up off the chair, releasing a giant yawn at the same time.

I’m hungry.

Inside the kitchen, I open the fridge and scan each shelf. Can’t see anything I fancy. Maybe a ham sandwich? I kneel down to check the bottom compartment for salad ingredients. I pull out a cucumber and a bag of lettuce. Just as I’m about to stand, I notice a large shard of glass poking out from under the fridge. I pick it up and take it over to the bin. Guess I ain’t having any beetroot then.

I prepare the sandwich, lay it on a small plate, and then carry it back into the bedroom. A small cardboard box under the desk catches my eye. I slide it out, peel off the parcel-tape from the top and then open it. I don’t remember packing this; Mum must have done it. Inside, I find a few postcards from Uncle Gary, a couple of videotapes, and a stack of photos bundled together with an elastic band. I remove the band and start to flick through. Most of them are ones of me as a kid, at the park or playing in the garden with my cousin. There’re a couple of Dad, as well. I stare a little too long at the one with him and me at the beach; his legs buried in the sand, his forehead burnt to a crisp. Happier times. My throat catches so I move on to the next photo. It’s me, mid-teens, full of zits, dressed in black, sitting on Gran’s armchair. I seem so different in this, like a stranger. I remember trying to smile that day, but it was too hard back then even to fake it.

The next few are just random ones from parties and weddings, with some just senseless pictures of the sky. The sight of all these photos makes my skin crawl; dragging me back to that shitty time in my life.

Some things are best left forgotten.

I quickly get to the end of the stack, making sure that there aren’t any embarrassing ones, or photos of my ex-girlfriend. There’re none, so I drop them back into the box, push it under the desk, and then return to the computer.

Another hour or so passes and I can feel the drowsiness start to kick in. I rub my eyes again and run my fingers through my short brown hair. Could easily have a nap right now. I lean back in my chair, yawning, just as a cold rush of air slithers behind me, blowing a few papers off the desk and onto the floor. Turning to see if the window is open, I notice Luna; he’s standing in the doorway, staring at me in silence. “Out!” I yell to him. He doesn’t move a muscle. Stupid cat. The window is closed, so I get up off the chair, gather up the papers, and then check the rest of the flat. When I see that the living room and kitchen windows are both closed, I walk over to the flat door. It’s locked. Putting it down to a hidden vent, I make my way into the bedroom. Luna is still standing in the bedroom doorway, staring at my desk—and the papers are back on the floor. Shaking my head in confusion, I nudge the cat out onto the hallway, using the side of my foot. “Where the bloody hell’s that draught coming from?” I mutter to myself, looking up at the ceiling and walls for a vent. Shrugging it off as another one of life’s great mysteries, I pick up the stray papers and return to the screen.

Eight o’ clock approaches, and almost to the hour I hear Aimee walk through the door. Thank God for that. Need to get off this couch. I greet her in the hallway. “You’re home late, Aim,” I say, kissing her on the lips, bursting to give her the good news. “Where’ve you been?”

She goes back outside to the landing and picks up a large, rectangular mirror, propped up against the wall. “Just picked this up,” she replies, sounding out of breath. “Thought it’d look nice in the living room above the fireplace. And look…it’s even got dolphins on the frame.”

Shaking my head with a smile, I take the mirror from her and carry it into the living room.

“What do you think?” she asks. “Too big?”

Holding it up against the wall, I reply, “No. Looks good. We definitely need something in here. Looks really bare at the moment.”

Aimee nods and then stands back, tilting her head to the side to inspect it. “Yeah. I like it. Let’s put it up.”

I set it down against the TV stand. “What…tonight?”

“Yeah. Why not?”

“Well, it’s late, and I’m tired.”

“Tired? Don’t be so lazy; you’ve been off work all day. How can you be tired?”

“I’ve been tidying the flat.”

Aimee looks around the living room, spotting the three large boxes still in the corner. “Tidying? Really?”

“Well I did set up the computer and printer. That took me ages.”

Aimee rolls her eyes. “Look, the sooner we get this mirror up the better. Otherwise it’ll be sitting on the floor for the next three weeks—like those bloody boxes.”

“So you don’t want to hear my good news then,” I say with a smug grin.

“What good news?” Aimee asks, a confused frown across her brow. But then it suddenly disappears and her face lights up. “You got an interview!”

I nod. “Yep. My boss put a good word in for me. They want me to come in next week.”

“That’s great, Matt!” she says with excitement, hugging me tightly. “I’m so proud of you.”

“I haven’t got the job yet,” I say, coming out of the hug, “and there’re six other candidates competing.”

“Forget about them—you’ll smash it. I have total faith in you. So how much responsibility will they give you?”

“I’ll be working directly under the head of the audiology department, helping her with patient referrals, setting up meetings, admin; that kind of stuff. It’s not exactly brain-surgery, but it’s much more money—and it’s a step up from pushing beds and emptying bins.”

“Of course it is. And who knows where this could lead.” She kisses me on the lips. “We need to celebrate. How about we watch a film with a few beers?”

“Perfect!”

“But first,” Aimee says with a cheeky grin, pointing to the new mirror. “Will you put that up for me.”

I sigh loudly. “Fine. I’ll get the drill out.”

“Where are you going?” Aimee asks as I get up off the couch.

“Getting another beer,” I reply. “Want one?”

She pauses the film with the remote and shakes her head. “No thanks. Is there any chocolate left?”

I continue into the kitchen. “No, we had the last the other night,” I say, pulling out a bottle of beer from the fridge. “Do you want me to nip out to get some?”

“No, it’s okay,” she replies with a groan. “I suppose I’ll survive.”

Sitting back down on the couch, I notice that Aimee has changed the channel to a cooking show. “What’s this shit?”

“Masterchef—semi-finals. It’s nearly finished. Just want to see which one goes through.”

“What about the film?”

“Honestly, there’s about two minutes left. Just hang on. The film isn’t going anywhere. And it’s crap anyway.”

I shake my head in disbelief, and then sit back on the couch and take a sip of beer. “Well you picked it.”

She shushes me. “Just two minutes.”

I take another sip of beer. “Okay, but after this—”

The room suddenly fills with a loud cracking sound.

My heart jolts in fright. Aimee grabs my arm, her nails digging into my flesh. “What the fuck was that?” I blurt out, nearly spilling my drink.

“Jesus Christ!” Aimee cries. “Look at the mirror!”

My eyes widen in shock when I see the huge crack running across the glass, as though someone just took a hammer to it. “How the hell did that happen?”

We get up off the couch to examine it. Aimee prods the glass with a finger. “I don’t know. Never seen something like this happen before. It must have been flawed. Or maybe already broken in the shop and we didn’t notice… Or maybe an earthquake.”

“An earthquake? We live in bloody Wales, Aimee. It’s not exactly China.”

“Well, whatever the cause…I think I just shit myself.”

I start to peel the shards of glass from the mirror and place them on the floor.

“Don’t put them on the floor,” Aimee tells me, and then runs out into the kitchen. “I’ll get you a plastic bag.”

She returns immediately with the bag, so I drop the pieces in, until all that’s left of the mirror is an empty frame. “Maybe you should take it back to the shop. Get your money back. We could’ve got hurt.”

Aimee carries the bag of glass into the kitchen. “I’m not sure. What if they think I’ve just dropped it on the way home? How can I prove it? They’ll never believe that it just cracked on its own.”

Sitting back down on the couch, I take another swig of beer, finishing off the bottle. “Well, it’s up to you, Aimee. But I would if I were you. Do you want me to come with you? I don’t mind arguing with them.”

Sitting down next to me, she shakes her head. “No, it’s all right. I’ll phone them tomorrow and explain.” She glances at the TV. “Shit. Masterchef is over. I don’t know who went through. Bloody hell!”

I hand her the remote. “Just rewind it back.”

“All right,” she replies. “But you do it.”

“Why can’t you do it?”