Chapter One

Jack awoke, startled. He was breathing hard, sweating profusely, and almost hyperventilating. He struggled to get his bearings. He looked round, and to his left, saw a half-empty bottle of Jack Daniel’s on the bedside table nestled amongst several packets of painkillers. He reached for one of the packets, emptied its contents, and with a large swig from the bottle washed them down.

 

Sighing, he rested his head back against the metal headboard, grasping the bottle like a crutch. A trickle of whiskey dripped from his lips onto his unshaven chin. Still in shock, Jack reached over to the drawer on the bedside table and with his free hand, pulled it open to reveal a packet of Marlboro Lights. He struggled with his single hand to open the packet, so balanced the bottle between his crotch and stomach. Holding the packet with his left hand, he reached over with his right and opened it. Another sigh – there was only one cigarette.

 

As Jack took the last cigarette out of the packet, he accidently tipped the bottle, spilling Jack Daniel’s into the drawer. He cursed as the whiskey soaked his last cigarette. Letting go of the drenched Marlboro Light, Jack tried to salvage the last remaining drops of whiskey. Unfortunately, he was too late. The alcohol had completely emptied into the drawer and was permeating through the gaps in the wood, leaking onto the dirty red carpet below. Jack cursed and flung the empty bottle across the room. He stretched his arms and rubbed his bloodshot eyes with index fingers, removing the flaky, crusted build-up of sleep.

 

He got out of bed, and ambled to the kitchen. As he walked through the doorway, he spotted an ashtray piled high with cigarette ends on the breakfast bar. He reached for it and fiddled around with the ends. Unfortunately, each end he picked had no drag life. It was the same story with every ashtray in his flat. He let out a heavy sigh, realising he would have to leave his flat to get cigarettes.

 

Since the death of his wife, Jack had lost the will to live. His world completely turned upside down. He had once been a fun-loving husband with a wicked sense of humour, with the ability to make the most po-faced person break into fits of laughter. Now he was a nervous wreck, his fragile mind persistently dogged by suicidal thoughts. Something simple, such as having no cigarettes, was enough to push him over the edge. Jack desperately rummaged through the kitchen bin in the hope of finding something he could smoke. As his hands soiled with the rancid contents, he tried to come to terms with the inevitable. He would have to go to the shop; he would have to venture outside.

 

As he sat with his back against the kitchen wall, he began to turn his wedding ring over with his right index finger and thumb. It briefly calmed his nerves, enough to make him think clearly for a few seconds. Jack had no money to buy cigarettes. His rent was in arrears, his telephone disconnected, and he knew it was only a matter of time before his electricity and gas suppliers would follow suit. He contemplated whether to pawn his wedding ring to buy more cigarettes and alcohol. It was a huge price to pay. The ring was all he had left of his wife. He could vividly remember the day Chloe had put it on his finger for the first time, just after saying her vows. It had been the happiest day of his life. His eyes watered as he desperately clung to the memory.

 

Shaken from the memory by a violent burst of pain stabbing his body, Jack inwardly cursed. He felt anxiety return as his nicotine-starved brain screamed at him for relief. He kept turning the ring on his finger. He didn’t like the idea of it ending up in a pawnshop, where some shifty dealer would only know its second-hand price, not its true value. However, he had no idea how else he was going to get money. He was in a quandary, his mind racing back and forth.

 

Maybe, he could convince Dawid, the Polish owner of the local convenience store, whom he knew and trusted, to give him cigarettes on credit. As a sign of good faith, he would give Dawid his wedding ring until he could afford to pay. He liked the idea his ring would be in safe hands, rather than taking his chances with a pawnshop. Jack stood up and grabbed his keys, which were lying on the breakfast bar. Grasping them firmly in his hand, he walked into the hall and put on his shoes. He grabbed his old, battered, brown knee-length leather jacket from a hook next to the front door. As he threw on the jacket, he remembered the countless occasions he had made this particular trip.

 

Opening the front door, Jack looked at his keys. One of them looked unfamiliar to him. He examined it closely and saw that it was a car key, inscribed with the iconic Ford logo. It resembled the key to his old Ford Cortina, a car he had owned years ago. His mind, clouded with the immediate need for nicotine, meant he was unable to recall how the key had got there, or whether he had simply decided not to throw it out all those years ago. Either way, his memory failed him. Puzzled, Jack scuttled out into the stairwell. He closed and locked the door.

 

He descended the stairs and walked out into the fresh air. Suddenly, the heavens opened and torrential rain began to pelt down. People already outside quickly scurried indoors. There was a bright, blinding flash, followed by a loud, menacing rumble of thunder. Within seconds, Jack was soaked to the bone, but was so desperate to get his fix of nicotine he was blind to the storm. As Jack continued along the street in the downpour, accompanied by forks of lightning and the continuous rumbling of thunder, unbeknown to him, a reflection appeared in the window of each shop he passed. However, it was not his own. It was of a pale, gaunt woman, who hung from a noose, blood oozing steadily from her neck.

 

Each window that Jack passed, the woman’s head lolled from side to side at breakneck speed, like a blurred, inverted pendulum. Her hands moved sharply toward the glass as if she were attempting to catch his attention.

 

Jack was oblivious. His eyes were fixated on a dim light in the distance, which emanated from a shop a few hundred yards in front. As he neared the light, he made out the familiar sign of Dawid’s Convenience Store above the front door. He was relieved he would soon be able to get out of the teeming rain. He hoped Dawid was in a good mood. If he were not, then his plea for cigarettes would fall upon deaf ears. Contemplating what he was going to say, Jack reached the entrance, took a deep breath and pushed open the door.

 

The sound of an old brass bell that rang above his head greeted Jack as he entered the shop. As he walked further inside, the smell of perfume smacked him in the face. His nostrils flared with excitement as he immediately recognised the sweet musky scent. It was Chanel N°5, Chloe’s favourite. It was as if she were in the store with him. The scent calmed him as he continued to walk amongst the aisles.

 

As Jack walked closer to the counter, he noticed dirty footprints on the tiled floor beneath him. Dawid was nowhere in sight. Normally he would be behind the counter, greeting him with a friendly smile, and a packet of Marlboro Lights at the ready. They both knew each other well, and Dawid could always tell when Jack needed his nicotine fix.

 

The sound of Frank Sinatra’s My Way began to fill Jack’s ears. It was coming from a pair of speakers either side of an old record player on the counter, which had belonged to Dawid’s grandmother before she died. Dawid often played old records, much to the amusement of his customers. My Way was one of his favourites. As the song reached the chorus, the record began to skip, as if caught in a groove. Looking around him and still not seeing any sign of the shop owner, Jack walked briskly up to the counter and removed the needle from the record. The shop became silent.

 

Jack failed to see the dead body, lying in a heap on the floor in a pool of blood, behind the counter. Instead, his eyes focused on the silhouette of a woman on the CCTV screen next to the cigarette display behind the counter. The image on the monitor showed the aisle directly behind him. The woman’s silhouette stood frozen. Her face was blurred and Jack could not make it out. He turned around but there was nobody there. Jack quickly turned back to the monitor and saw that she was standing in the same place, looking straight into his eyes.

 

Jack repeatedly spun his head back and forth between the aisle and the monitor. Each time he looked at the screen, she would seem closer to him, but every time he looked round at the aisle, she would vanish as if she never existed. Jack, now confused, and paralysed with fear, fixated his eyes on the monitor. The woman was directly behind him. He felt a sudden chill on the back of his neck, which made the hairs there stand up on end. With apprehension, he slowly turned round.

 

Behind him, wearing a bloodstained white nightdress stood the woman, aimlessly looking into his eyes. Jack felt a shock wave rush throughout his entire body as he instantly recognised her. It was Chloe, his dead wife.

 

Jack stared at her, captivated. She had exactly the same dimples at the side of her lips as Chloe had. Her facial expressions were the same too. Somehow, her eyes were different. As he stared into them, he fearfully realised they were a lifeless black instead of the beautiful blue he remembered. Her sobering eyes seemed to penetrate his soul. Suddenly, she began to cry. Jack felt a sudden stab of pain and sadness as he watched the tears trickle down her gaunt, pale complexion. He felt an overwhelming urge to reach out and take her in his arms, but before he could move, her watery tears began to turn red and blood began seeping from her blackened eyes.

 

An avalanche of fear quickly replaced Jack’s sadness. As he felt the adrenalin surging through him, he saw her lips move. She tried to open her mouth but could not. He then saw why. Her lips had been loosely stitched together with wire. With one big thrust, she moved her jaw and the stitches ripped, tearing her lips from her face. Blood gushed from her mouth, effusively. She screamed in anguish and Jack was sure his heart was about to explode. He was breathing so hard, he was on the verge of hyperventilating.

 

Suddenly, from behind him, there was a noise followed by a crackle, and Jack turned around to see the needle back on the record and the speakers booming out My Way. When he turned around, the woman had vanished.

 

‘Help me, Jack,’ a soft, female voice whispered from the aisle in front of him.

 

Taking a deep breath, Jack hastened down the aisle. He looked in all directions, but couldn’t find her. He was shocked, dazed, and confused. He had no idea what he had just seen. Was he going insane? It had felt real. Chloe had seemed real. She had been there, right in front of his eyes. He was definitely awake and compos mentis. Jack didn’t know how or why, but was convinced Chloe was real. He had definitely seen his wife.

 

Jack turned to walk back toward the counter and did a double take. In front of him, neatly laid out, were a one-litre bottle of Jack Daniel’s and a stack of Marlboro Lights. Jack swore they had not been there before. Without hesitation, he grabbed the items and quickly walked out of the shop to the fading sound of My Way.

 

Hurrying along the street in the deluge of rain, Jack turned the corner and saw the double block of high-rise flats in front of him. His flat was in the second block. He approached the front door and delving into his right pocket, pulled out his keys. Upon entry, Jack walked to the lift. Usually, a large sign confirmed that the lift was out of order, but today, the sign was missing. Jack felt surprised by its absence. Walking inside, he pushed the button for the fourth floor and waited. The door slowly creaked closed and with a jolt, the lift began to rise upwards.

 

Jack removed the bottle of whiskey from his right inside pocket, twisted the lid, and took a huge gulp. As he moved the tip of the bottle away from his mouth, he gazed out the small glass window on the door. As the lift reached the first floor, something caught his attention. He saw a woman standing on the other side, staring through the glass at him. Jack tried to look at her face but the lift had already passed, leaving her behind. As he reached the second floor, he saw her again, staring at him through the glass just like before. Jack did not require a second glance to see who she was; the same woman from the shop who looked exactly like Chloe. Her ghostly face and dark nihilistic eyes caught his gaze through the glass. As Jack recoiled in horror, the bottle of whiskey slipped from his hand. Before he could react, it fell and hit the floor, shattering into pieces.

 

Jack stood frozen as the woman began to walk toward the door, the bones in her body breaking with every step. Her fragile body flashed in his mind as the lift began to approach the third floor, making his heart palpitate in anticipation. He stood back against the rear of the lift as he looked through the window. As the lift reached the third floor, a pair of bloody hands suddenly pressed up against the glass and the woman’s head rose into view, shaking and twisting, as if her neck were about to break. Blood poured from a series of crevices on her face, mouth, nostrils, and from within her eyes. Jack fell to his knees, almost cutting himself on the shards of glass lying on the floor.

 

Moments later, the lift reached the fourth floor and stopped. The door slowly crept open. Jack had his heart in his mouth as he watched the corridor reveal itself. For a moment, he gazed out of the lift in suspense. Nothing happened. The corridor was empty, eerily silent. He slowly got to his feet and cautiously stepped out of the lift. Looking up and down, he saw nothing but the flickering of lights. There was nobody there but himself. Breathing a sigh of relief, Jack casually walked along the corridor towards his front door. As he approached the door he saw it was ajar, moving slightly, seemingly from a breeze, but Jack could hear nor feel any wind. He shrugged his shoulders, reached into his jacket pocket, and pulled out a packet of cigarettes. His shaking hands struggled to remove the plastic film. Eventually, he managed to tear it off, throwing it into the deserted corridor without a second thought.

 

In one swift movement, Jack opened the lid of the cigarette box, removed the foil, and extracted a Marlboro Light, placing it between his peeled, dried lips. Removing his lighter from his pocket, he flicked it open and lit the cigarette. Jack inhaled deeply and felt the rush of nicotine soothe his aching body. He exhaled, pushed open the door, and crept inside, slamming the door behind him. As he tried to put the lighter back in his pocket, he accidently dropped it. As he crouched down to retrieve it, the floor became illuminated by the hall light above, which spontaneously shone without any warning. Pocketing his lighter, he stood up to see that the hallway before him was immaculately clean. The pile of rubbish bags that had been there previously had vanished. Walking around, Jack noted every ashtray was empty and the place had a fresh, clean feel to it, just as in happier times gone by.

 

Then, he saw something that almost made his heart stop.

 

On the clean floor in front of him, leading across the hall to his bedroom, were a pair of small, bloody, child’s footprints. Feeling more dumbfounded than horrified, Jack followed them into his bedroom. As he walked inside, something else caught his attention. Looking across, toward his bedside cabinet, he noticed a pair of earrings sitting on top of a bloodstained piece of paper. In a flash, Jack rushed over and seized them, clutching them tightly in his hand. They were the same earrings that he had seen in his dream; the exact ones Chloe had worn the day she died.

 

Gently replacing them, Jack picked up the piece of paper. His hands trembled as he realised what it was. The letter Chloe had sent him, precisely six years after her death.