Chapter 5: Five - A London Haunting: A Christmas Ghost Story

The following morning, Lottie arrived at Reggie Lord’s house early – ten to ten – determined not to give him any reason to moan about her timekeeping again.

As she let herself in, she could smell decay once more, and she wondered at her imagination: how it could be so insistent that the whole house reeked, when, in truth, it didn’t. Shutting the porch door, she shifted the backpack on her shoulder, one that held a flask of tea, a packed lunch, and, of course, Mabel’s book.

No sign of the two boys today; they were likely off causing mischief elsewhere. The only thing to greet her as she’d walked up the weed-choked garden path was the Christmas tree, framed in the window – out of place and out of time, just like the clock on Mr Lord’s mantelpiece, its hands frozen at four forty-five.

Morning or night, on what day – and why?

Don’t get carried away again, Lottie, she warned herself, repeating her routine from yesterday and calling his name before climbing the stairs.

If the living room door was locked, then perhaps the two bedrooms on either side of Reggie’s were as well. Apart from the kitchen, the bathroom, and Mr Lord’s own room, the house was a prison of nailed-down windows and barred doors.

Again – why?

Unlike yesterday, Reggie Lord wasn’t waiting for her at the top of the stairs. But then again, she wasn’t late this time. Neither did he respond to her call.

Having almost reached the landing, she faltered.

He was…okay, wasn’t he? In his bedroom – on his bed or in his chair?

He was, as she’d described to her mum and Tony, as hadn’t been described to her by the agency, relatively healthy.

What exactly was the truth here?

Before calling out again, she let her gaze wander. Besides the three closed doors, the landing was stark – the same bare floorboards and bare walls as in the hallway below. A house lost in time. Her eyes flicked to her Apple Watch, half expecting that to have stopped too, the moment she set foot inside, but it ticked on, oblivious.

No more ruminating. Reggie Lord – Mr Lord, as he insisted – had to be checked on. If the worst had happened, if he’d slipped away in the night, then perhaps it would be a mercy. This existence could hardly be called living. For all his agility, he already seemed to have one foot in the grave, his life pared down to a single room.

She steeled herself.

“Mr Lord,” she called again, softer this time. What was the point of shouting – especially if…? “Mr Lord, it’s me, Lottie.”

Still silence.

As she turned the handle, a sudden thought struck her – what if there was no Mr Lord on the other side? No clutter, no dust, no stifling heat, no broken clock, no ornate silver photo frame with nothing in it but inky blackness? What if that blackness had spilled over again, and this time swept everything away?

Oh, Mr Lord…what’s happened to you?

A wall of heat hit her as she opened the door, disproving the notion at once. With it came the stench of old food and ingrained grime. The scene before her was exactly as it had been yesterday – a jungle of mess, basically. The sagging curtains were half-drawn, what sunlight there was barely able to seep through windows long overdue for a good scrub. Which, of course, she’d see to. Today.

If he was still alive.

Now fully inside the room, her eyes went straight to the bed. Empty. The sheets and blankets lay unruffled, just as she’d left them yesterday after clearing away the litter from on top. She’d asked if he had fresh bedding somewhere – in a cupboard or a spare room – but he’d shaken his head. ‘Those’ll do,’ he’d insisted.

They wouldn’t, though. Not for long. Everyone’s bedding needed washing regularly. He’d set his boundaries, made it clear he didn’t want her wandering the house, but sooner or later she’d have to, in search of things like that. Whatever he thought, or rather demanded, there’d be no escaping it.

So…if he wasn’t in his bed, and he wasn’t on the floor – she’d checked – then he must be in his chair. Slumped there, perhaps, since she couldn’t see the crown of his thick grey hair – dark once, she’d wager. Yes, she could easily picture Mr Lord with dark hair, and dark eyes to match. Still piercing, even now. Though he’d proved himself lacking in the charm stakes, he might have been charismatic once. Heaven forbid, he might even have been fun – the sort who didn’t take life too seriously. Until one day he did. Until seriousness was all that remained of him.

She sighed. Where were these thoughts coming from? She didn’t know the man – not yet. She shouldn’t keep assuming. The way she’d sketched him in her mind, though, felt true enough. Something had happened to him – something that had stripped the joy from his life. And of course, that sort of thing happened to many people; loss came in all shapes and sizes. But his…how catastrophic had it been? And how long had he lived like this, as a shadow of himself?

The room was unnervingly quiet. If the clock worked, it might have offered a tick – but no. There should at least have been the sound of breathing, a faint snuffle if he slept. But there was nothing.

“Shit!”

She darted forward. A dead body wouldn’t scare her – she’d seen them before in her line of work. It would just be a shame, that was all. He’d wanted some company in his last days, been prepared to pay for it, and what had he got in return? Zilch.

“It’s all right, Mr Lord. I’m here.” I’m sorry. Please don’t die. Not yet.

He was slumped in his chair, just as she’d guessed. She reached out, ready to shake some life back into him, but before her hand met his shoulder, he stirred. Still alive. Just surfacing from a deep sleep, that was all, murmuring under his breath.

“No, no. Not again. Stop. This has to stop. Enough. Please. I can’t anymore.”

As confused by his words as he seemed to be, Lottie spoke gently. “Mr Lord? I think you’ve been dreaming. A bad dream, maybe, but it’s over now. It’s Lottie, your carer. Everything’s all right.”

He opened his eyes, though there was no recognition in them. “Lottie?”

“Yes – Miss Beck. You remember me, don’t you? We met yesterday.”

“Miss Beck…ah, yes. Yes.” Just as she touched him, to help him sit up, he brushed her arm away – rudely. “It’s all right, I can manage,” he said tersely. “I was…asleep, was I?” He shook his head then, panting slightly. “A deep sleep. Yes, it must have been. And yet…” Now upright, he glanced around, and not just a sweeping gaze either, but a scrutiny. “Everything’s in order?”

“Order?” Lottie repeated. He called this order!

“Yes!” His breath still came ragged, his nostrils flaring with indignation. “Is everything in order? My order? Check, girl. Check.”

Girl. It wasn’t the first time he’d called her that, and it was something she’d need to address sooner rather than later. If he insisted on being called Mr Lord, she’d insist on not being called girl. For now, though, seeing how agitated he was, she let it slide, making a show of glancing around before finally replying.

“Yes, everything seems in order. But, Mr Lord, it’d be a lot easier to keep track of it all if there wasn’t so much clutter. I’m going to need to clear it away.”

“Some of it,” he conceded, a hint of colour returning to his cheeks. “I’m thirsty. Could you fetch me some water?”

“From the kitchen? Yes––”

“From the bathroom,” he snapped. “I’ve told you, the kitchen is out of bounds.”

Lottie nodded, biting back her frustration. There was a glass tumbler on the table beside him, one that had gone cloudy, that, like the windows, like everything, needed a good scrubbing. She picked it up, making mental notes about all the changes needed.

He couldn’t have been living on takeaways for long, surely? His cholesterol would be through the roof, never mind what it might do to his supposed diabetes. She’d tackle the healthy-eating talk later, though, along with checking his medication, which she’d yet to see any sign of. But one question pressed too hard to hold back.

“Mr Lord?”

“Yes. What is it?”

“You were worried things might not be in order?”

“Yes,” he said, his eyes again drifting past her.

“Messed by who? Who do you think would come in here and disturb everything?”

She’d fetched water from the bathroom and would have made him some breakfast too, but he refused – ‘not hungry’, he’d declared, still barring her from the kitchen. After a few moments, during which he seemed to compose himself, not answering her question, he took himself off to the bathroom, leaving her alone in his room, baffled.

At last she sighed. Fine. If she couldn’t cook for him, she could at least make a dent in the cleaning – gather up what was clearly rubbish and get rid of it.

Tony was dropping off a fan later, one he was picking up from Argos, and already she was aching for its cooling blast. The heat from yesterday hadn’t lifted; if anything, it had thickened – something else to wade through, like treacle.

There were so many questions she wanted to ask Mr Lord, so much to learn about him, but nothing in the room offered a clue to his life or personality – not least the empty photo frame. Could she get away with placing it face down, she wondered? She really didn’t like the blackness inside it. Just how…absolute it was.

Just get cleaning, Lottie. Get this room sorted.

With a sigh, she dropped her backpack onto the chair, and then – bereft of a bin bag – grabbed the largest takeaway sack still intact and began stuffing it. All too soon it bulged, yet the room looked no different, her efforts swallowed whole. Hopeless. She needed to go to the kitchen. There might be bin bags there.

Mr Lord had been gone just over five minutes. If he was washing, she could count on another five, maybe ten. Time enough for a quick raid. And if he noticed – if he asked where the bag had come from – she could lie, say she’d brought it with her.

On tiptoe, she slipped onto the landing and paused, listening. From the bathroom came splashing, and the occasional grunt – evidence enough he was occupied.

It was now or never.

Still creeping, she made her way along the landing, past the bathroom, and down the stairs. She wasn’t yet familiar with which steps might creak, but thankfully none betrayed her as she descended, and soon she reached the bottom. Ahead lay the living room door, and further along, the kitchen.

It was the kitchen she needed. But the living room – should she test the handle again, make absolutely sure it was locked? She edged towards it, then froze at the sound of a cough above – Mr Lord clearing his throat.

No, it would have to wait. In this house, where time seemed to stand still, it was also very much of the essence.

Minutes. That’s all this would take, she told herself as she hurried down the hallway with its grubby walls. The kitchen door stood ajar – the only one in the house that did. Even Mr Lord’s bedroom door had been shut that morning.

So many closed doors. The whole place sealed tight.

Perhaps he couldn’t afford to keep the house running – not fully. A simple enough explanation. And yet, private care was something he could apparently manage?

“Oh, Mr Lord,” she murmured. “What an enigma you are.”

At the kitchen door, she reached out, intending to push it wider, but her heart was hammering, and nothing to do with how she’d raced to get there. Mr Lord had been afraid when she’d first arrived this morning, when he’d woken and said what he did. It had been as plain as day. And though she’d repeated her question – who was it he thought might disturb him in the night? – he’d staunchly refused to answer.

This house…could it be haunted?

Was that what terrified him – a ghost? Why he holed himself up in one room, hiding there as if to keep the darkness out? Some people would scoff at such a notion – most people would. Either that or scarper. But Lottie wasn’t most people. She knew if ghosts didn’t exist exactly, then ghostly stuff did. Stuff outside of normal, which was all paranormal truly meant: happenings that couldn’t be explained entirely by logic alone, coincidences too precise to be coincidences at all.

She knew, too, that consciousness wasn’t confined to your own head, that it could overlap, even merge, with another’s. You could listen to someone without ears.

Her mum used to say it was down to imagination, what Lottie could do, and then, in the next breath, call it dangerous. She could still hear her voice, word for word: ‘They used to burn women for that, you know, Lottie. Or hang them. Or drown them. They’d be shunned by society. Outcasts.’

And yet Bobby had urged her to use her gift – not to waste it.

“Come on,” she’d insist, “repeat after me: I, Lottie Beck, have a gift. An awesome gift, in fact. Totally kick-ass. One that can change lives for the better, help people. Hang on – why stop there? One that can change the entire fucking world!”

Eighteen-year-old Lottie giggled when Bobby said that, but she repeated it all the same. Woe betide her if she didn’t – Bobby would have had her guts for garters.

And so now, more curious than scared, she resolved to open her mind, to sense what was happening here. To fathom it.

Solve the enigma.

With that, she flung the kitchen door wide and stepped inside.