The Sceptic

This was ridiculous. Here he was, a grown man, allegedly sane, spending the night alone in a so-called haunted house. For a dare.

That's what it was, in essence. A dare. Damned local radio stations. That was the last time he did a live interview, absolutely the last. It should all have been routine. Just the usual plug for his latest book, maybe a few anecdotes about famous ghosts he had debunked. Make fun of the believers.

The interview had been going well until, right at the end, the young brat had sprung the trap. He'd asked Jim, live on air, whether he dared spend the night in the local haunted house. What could he say? After all, he was a professional sceptic. If he'd refused it would have seriously affected both his reputation and his income.

He should have done his research better, should have known about the local haunted house. Then he could have had the explanation for its reputation to hand and sunk the presenter on the spot. But he'd been in too much of a rush, he simply hadn't prepared. Still, be positive. At least he'd get the chance to lay to rest another haunted house. To destroy another mythical ghost and continue his life's work disposing of superstition.

So here he was, waking up in the middle of the night in the cold with a bad back. He was too old for this. His doctor was going to give him hell.

What had he heard, then? Observation, that was the key in these investigations. Jim lay still, senses reaching out into the dark. Nothing. He could hear nothing other than his own breathing. Forget it. He might as well try to get back to sleep. He lay back down on the floor and closed his eyes.

A few seconds passed, a few minutes. He was just beginning to drift off again when a violent crashing sound jerked him back to wakefulness. Jim sat upright, gasping for air. Jesus wept, what the hell had that been? Gave him the shock of his life that had. He remained still for a moment whilst his breathing slowed and the pounding of his heart stopped. What the bloody hell was going on? Whatever had made that noise, it hadn't been a mouse.

Crawling out of the sleeping bag, he reached for the torch, then thought better of it. The moonlight coming through the bare windows would be enough to see by once his eyes had adjusted. No point giving his presence away by using the torch. Probably a prank, that's what it was. A set-up. That kid from the radio station, maybe with some friends. Yes, that's what it would be. They'd got him here, now they were just waiting to take photos: "see the great sceptic scared out of his life". The newspapers would queue up for that. Well, he'd play his own game not theirs. Sneak up on them, give them a scare back. The sound had come from the kitchen, so Jim headed in that direction, careful not to make any noise.

He'd explored the whole house when he'd first arrived. A small cottage, deserted for years. He'd spent some time in the kitchen earlier. There was no electricity or gas, of course, not even any water. But there were still a few bits of furniture left behind by the last occupant. He'd sat at the filthy old table and eaten the sandwiches he'd brought with him. Thinking back now, he remembered the layout. The kitchen had only two doors, the one to this room and one to the outside. The latter was badly in need of oiling, so he would have heard anyone opening it. Maybe that was what had woken him the first time? Perhaps, but his years of research had taught him not to theorise without solid facts.

Reaching the door, he stopped and listened. Still no sound. Whoever they were, they were good at the game. It didn't look as if he was going to be able to get the jump on them. Well, nothing else for it. He'd have to confront them.

Carefully fixing an unworried smile on his face, Jim went into the kitchen. Nobody there. Strange. He'd convinced himself that there had to be an intruder in the kitchen. If not then what could have caused the noise that had startled him so badly? It was a quiet night, little wind, so he couldn't blame a slamming window or door. A light breeze blew through the gap where a window pane was missing. He felt chilled.

There was something else. Something was wrong. He didn't know what, but a part of his mind was tugging at his consciousness like a child pulling at his sleeve. Trying to tell him something, to point out something that he had missed. Something... horrible. No. Enough of that. Fancies, just fancies. Exactly the sort of rubbish that led to these silly ghost stories starting in the first place.

So, look at things rationally. No wind, no people. What did that leave? He refused to believe in ghosts, so there had to be an extra factor that he hadn't found yet. In the faint moonlight, Jim looked around. Ah! That was it! He'd left his rucksack on the table earlier, but now it lay on the floor, surrounded by debris. His spare clothes, the plate he had brought to eat his tea from and, smashed, the remnants of the milk bottle. What was left of the milk was being lapped up by a filthy looking cat.

He smiled. Good, good. Nothing supernatural, no ghosts. Just a plain old stray cat. It must have got in through the missing window pane. As if to confirm his theory, the cat turned towards him, arched its back then hissed and ran across the floor, up onto the sink and out into the night.

That was that then - time to try and get some rest. He wasn't going to bother clearing up at this time of the morning. He turned and went back through the door to the other room.

Well, if that was the worst this house could manage then he had nothing to worry about. There were no ghosts here. Yet still, something nagged just beyond comprehension. What had he missed?

He walked over to the sleeping bag deep in concentration, then stopped suddenly. The sight on the floor was too plain, too obvious to be denied. Looking down, Jim understood.

In the sleeping bag lay a corpse. His corpse. As he looked at its pained face, at the hands clutching at the chest, Jim remembered that when he had gone through the kitchen door he hadn't actually thought to open it first.

Finally, the sceptic had to admit that he believed in ghosts.