GHOST - SHORT STORIES

HE DIDN'T KNOW WHERE ELSE TO GO

The sky over Manchester has been particularly angry as of late. Spilling rain in a non-stop pour, flashes of crackling electricity dancing amongst grey clouds.

A rumble of thunder expresses its rage somewhere in the distance. Pulling your thoughts away from the word-littered pages in front of you. A once-steaming mug of tea settled upon the coffee table a few feet away. Forgotten while you lost yourself in the story cradled within your palms.

Your phone illuminates with a pointless notification, but reminds you of the minutes that inch towards midnight.

Despite it being a Saturday night, you have no inclination to leave the comfort and warmth of your home. Even though your friends had continued to try and convince you to hit the town, to join them in their desperate attempts to revitalise your love-life. At this point, they're more eager about it than you are.

You'd sworn, after your last relationship, that love is for people who want to eventually be unhappy. Sure, being loved is nice.

But the inevitable heartbreak ... it's something you don't ever want to experience again.

Vowing to never let yourself become the shell you had been after Simon Riley walked away. Threw his hands up and decided that loving you was too much for him.

As your attention returns to the book that's kept your mind occupied for the last four hours, the raging storm booms its echoing thunder once more. Louder this time, growing closer in its travels.

The steady downpour doesn't seem to be easing; in fact, it sounds as though it's doing the opposite. Rain falling heavier. A soothing sound - the perfect accompaniment to the fireplace across the room that crackles. Flames consuming the wooden logs with flickers of amber and orange.

As the protagonist of the story you read continues through a perilous journey to save their people; alongside the irritating, but devastatingly beautiful man that is destined to be their love interest; you find yourself drawn back into the story. Letting the strung together letters manifest into a film that plays out in your mind.

At least, until a steadily repeating thump upon the front door pulls your focus. Gaze flickering towards the small hallway that leads to the entry-way.

Holding your stare as you try to determine whether the sound is simply a result of the unrelenting gale winds, or instead, a late night visitor.

The ensuing silence is enough to convince you of the former. Returning your attention to the alternate world you've been lost in for the better part of the night. Rereading the script to find your place once again.

And then ... three more steady knocks. Louder and clearer than they had been only moments prior.

While you're still unconvinced of their origins, you can't help but feel an unease rumble through your chest, not dissimilar to the vocalisations of the tempest above.

Quiet in your passage towards the front door, familiar with the volatility of your ancient wooden floors. Knowing how easily they can creak beneath each footstep. A surefire way to communicate your presence with the suspected stranger beyond your doorstep.

Reaching for the door handle, you steady yourself against the cold metal. Shifting onto your tip-toes as you peer through the peephole. Attempting to discern who or what is making the unsettling noise.

A silhouetted figure beyond the distorted glass. Features impossible to decipher; too shrouded in the absence of your unlit porch-light.

Yet you recognise the stranger instantly.

And he's anything but unfamiliar.

"Simon?"

The uttered name is muffled by the sounds of your quick turning of the lock. The twist of the handle and the haste pull upon the door. Removing the wooden slab between you both; the night's arctic air washing over you.