‘Haunted Mind’ by Retal O
27/10/2020. There was a piercing scream slicing through the cold night air and James Smith woke with a halt. He was drenched in icy sweat, his hands were shaking and his heart was hammering painfully against his ribs. He’d been having the same nightmare for days, maybe weeks, ever since Tom Willson had been murdered, ever since the police told him he should visit the crime scene as he could help solve the case.
11:30. He was sitting in his office, gripping the arms of his maroon, thronelike chair as if he could anchor himself back to reality, away from the darkness, the sound of agonizing screams, the smell of blood haunting his dreams. Standing against the windowsill, staring through the mist was Alastor Black, head detective. He turned to face James, black smoke curling from the cigarette pressed to his lips.
“As I have stated before, it is of extreme urgency that you visit the crime scene. Firstly you will get the support of the people-“
“You have no right to tell me what to do! I am the mayor and I don’t need your advice to stay in power!” James spat. Anger was boiling up inside his veins, throbbing inside his brain.
“Well, what about solving the crime! Don’t you want to find out who has been slaughtering people for the last 3 months!” Alastor’s face had turned a horrible shade of purple , his cigarette lay forgotten on the gleaming floor.
“Fine! I will go to Mr Willson’s house… with the necessary protection of course.”
Alastor’s face curled into a tiny smile before he said, “I am glad you came around Mr Smith.” He left the room with a mocking bow.
For the next few days, dread swept across James, threatening to swallow him whole. He could now sense the cold hands reach out from under the black cloaks and hoods and strangle him, sometimes his breath caught for a few seconds as if he was inside his nightmares. The press was relentless, he spent his mornings listening over and over to how Tom Smith was found sprawled on his living room floor, swimming in a pool of blood. His wife had been found dead in her bed, although the cause was unknown. His children and the staff who had been working in his house were nowhere to be found. Tom had been one of James’ best mates and colleagues, exceptionally charming. In charge of all the campaigns.
On Saturday, James awoke from a sleepless night with a horrible amount of thoughts curling around his mind. Resign…, Run away…, etc, etc. He didn’t want to step into Tom’s house and meet the same fate. He longed to tell someone about his dreams. But how would that look if the information had been leaked? Surely it would make headlines: ‘London mayor going mad’ ‘Unfit to govern’ ‘Urged to resign’. He couldn’t though, for all the dread that was choking him, there was still a tiny bit of curiosity burning inside him. ‘Who?’ ‘Why?’ were some of the questions that were biting at his insides, demanding answers.
On Sunday, the day he was supposed to visit the house that had been haunting the life out of him, he stepped onto the cold floor and slid his feet inside his cushioned slippers. He drowned his face in freezing water and straightened his black suit. He pulled on an elegant black coat and stepped into the harsh October wind. He got into one of the police cars silently, ignoring the herd of reporters hurrying towards him. The drive was a blur of Alastor going over the names of the recent victims and suggesting unconvincing conspiracy theories of a secret gang working with the opposing party or a bunch of ghosts living in Tom’s house. “Seriously, it’s too good a crime to be done by humans” he said when James shot him an exasperated look.
When they stopped at the house James let out a shocked gasp at the site before him. The white gleaming pillars of the house looked black in the moonlight, and he could see a red stain from the distance. The majestic cream walls looked grey and haunted. And a red liquid was coming out of the fountain that certainly did not look like water. But for some strange reason it all looked oddly familiar. James shuddered as the passed by it and reached the front door. This time James let out a gasp of horror, it was the same exact place from his dreams. The same deserted corridors coated in black. The same destructed living room buried in blood and ashes. Before he realised what he was doing, his trembling hand closed around the gun on the floor and he slowly turned around, finger pressed on the trigger. A horrible exploding sound filled the air as he fell to the floor with a painful thud and everything became black.
He swam into the darkness, a hooded person, Tom and his wife pleading for him to spare them; Alastor’s agonizing scream as a cold hand pressed the trigger; Tom’s two sons and his butler laying on a shiny underground floor, ropes binding each of them to chairs; and then the tear-streaked face of his wife. He suddenly sat up, she was sobbing into her hands, tears falling onto the front of her jumper. “I didn’t do it!” he screamed at the top of his lungs.
“I know you didn’t mean to, its alright it happened a long time ago. You’re being released today,” she sobbed
He glanced at the very old newspaper clipping crumpled in her hand and grabbed it so hard she flinched.
‘27/10/1997.Convicted criminal to get sentenced today. Former Mayor, James Smith, confessed to the murders of Lucy Livingstone, Michele Jones, Tom and Emma Willson. Additionally, the mayor confessed last night to detective Alastor Black (before shooting him) that he was fully responsible for the capture and murder of Fred and John Willson along with their butler: John Green. His family claim that he had been mentally unstable but was not diagnosed with any sort of dissociative identity disorder. The public, however, believe they are trying to protect a terrifying, merciless criminal.’
James moved to the window, leaning heavily against the wall. A hollow feeling sinking into the pit of his stomach: guilt. He did not know why or how or when he had committed these horrific crimes. It was as if he had witnessed them through the eyes of a different person, yet the memories were as vivid as ever. It was as though he was feeling the emotions of someone else after something he had not done. He looked into the mirror, an old, exhausted face stared back at him instead of the handsome young face he remembered. He had a filthy beard and deep dark circles under his eyes. He was wearing a striped, dishevelled jumper instead of an expensive suit. And it suddenly dawned on him, he would spend the rest of his life living in the shadows of something he does not remember and does not believe he had done. Everyone will be terrified of him, parents won’t let their children near him, old men and ladies will whisper behind their hands when he walked by. And worst of all, he will be tortured forever by the guilt squirming in his heart for what he was told he did. The times ahead of him were very sorrowful indeed.