The Writer Read Free

bed… I can’t believe that those things were just fantasies cooked up by my imagination. They were right there, in front of me.
    “You can stay here tonight,” he continues. “If you don’t want to go back to your house, I mean. You know I’ve got that spare room.”
    “I don’t want to put you out,” I reply, even though I’m desperate to accept. The thought of going back right now is almost too much to handle, and I figure that somehow it’ll be easier in the morning, in daylight. “You’ve already done so much for me…”
    “I’ll get you some sheets and a pillow-case,” he says with a smile as he turns toward the door, gasping briefly as his aged hips creak. “Damn it, I need to take something for that,” he mutters. “It’s no fun getting old, Beth. Trust me, the number of aches and pains that start adding up, it’s unbelievable. Old age, that’s the real horror story that’s waiting for all of us.”
    “Let me help you,” I tell him, standing up and following him to the door.
    “No,” he says quickly, turning and putting a hand out to stop me. “I mean, just stay here and try to relax. I can get a few sheets from the cupboard, you know. I’m not some kind of invalid. Just relax. I’ll take care of you.”
    “Thank you,” I reply. “I don’t… I’m sure it’ll be okay in the morning. You know how the world seems different at night? Maybe I’ll go to the doctor, too, and see if I can get something to help me sleep.”
    He smiles as he heads through to the nearest bedroom, leaving me to look at the bookshelf again. Setting my cup of tea down, I slip out a copy of The Haunting on Winchester Road . The cover shows a spooky house with a dark figure in one of the windows, while the legend above John’s name proclaims the book to be the latest ‘hit ghost story’ from the man whose previous novel sold more than one hundred thousand copies. It’s the only one of John’s books that I haven’t read, but that’s only because I don’t feel that I can read this kind of thing anymore, not since the accident.
    One day I’ll read horror novels again. Right now, however, I almost feel as if I’m living in one.

Two
     
    “Why don’t you want anyone to know that you see me?” Doctor Ferguson asks as he watches me from behind his desk. “Are you ashamed?”
    “It’s not that,” I reply, sitting on the sofa in his well-lit office. “It’s just… It’s my business. I don’t feel the need to tell everyone that I have regular sessions with a psychiatrist.”
    “But you just admitted that you actively lie about it,” he continues. “You said your neighbor keeps pressing you to have sessions with a man he knows, and you flat-out tell him that you’re not interested.” He makes a note in his journal. “I’m interested in the fact that you’ve been coming to me for two years, since almost right after the accident, and yet you refuse to acknowledge this fact when you’re talking to your friends. It’s almost as if you’ve erected a barrier, and I’m worried that the barrier means you can’t carry over anything from these sessions into your everyday life.”
    “I just don’t want people to think I’m…” I pause. “Mad…”
    “No-one thinks you’re mad.”
    “They might, if they know that I’m still struggling. It’s been two years. I should be over it by now.”
    “Why should you be over it?” He waits for me to answer. “Beth, your husband and your five-year-old daughter died in a horrific car crash, and they were your only family. Do you really think you should be ‘over it’ after two years? And what does ‘over it’ mean, anyway?”
    “I just want to be able to move on,” I tell him. “I don’t want it to still be haunting me.”
    “That’s an interesting choice of words,” he replies, fixing me with a curious stare for a moment. “Tell me more about this latest… nocturnal encounter. You said you believed your husband and daughter were in the