It’s Joe Calling

A ghost story for Christmas

By Mike Rickett

‘I never used to believe in ghosts,’ says Adam Curtiss, swirling the remains of his beer around in its glass and staring at me with troubled eyes. He stares around the pub as though expecting to see a friend or relative.

   ‘That obviously means that you do now,’ I say to him smiling and then a little more seriously, half expecting him to laugh it off as people tend to do where ghosts are concerned.

   But he doesn’t. Instead, he stares at me, hollow-eyed, his face gaunt and emaciated.  I don’t quite know how this will end,’ he mutters but I think he will get me . . . in the end.’

   I stare at him perplexed. ‘Who will get you?’ I ask, looking around to see if anyone is watching us.

   Nobody is.

   He sighs deeply. ‘His name is Joe, and he is plaguing me.’ He stops and stares vacantly at the ceiling. ‘It must be over a year now since it started,’ he whispers.

   Adam and I are both lecturers at Liverpool Hope University. His subject is psychology and mine is English. When I first met him during a Fresher’s week, we got on more-or-less instantly. He was good company with a wicked sense of humour, And I know he was an enormous hit with students who both like and respect him.

   My name, by the way is Finley Harvey, a senior lecturer with a special interest in Medieval studies. We hadn’t bumped into each other for a few months, despite swopping texts saying we must do a catch-up over a few drinks. It just never happened.

   Until now.

   And I was deeply shocked in the change of him.

   ‘Over a year since what started?’ I ask wondering what could possibly be responsible for such a drastic change.

   He gives me a lobsided smile. ‘The biggest mistake I have ever made,’ he mutters. ‘You know Roger Simkin and Andy Terrin of course.’ It wasn’t a question. They are both fellow lecturers on the same campus. I know them but not well. I just nod.

   He shrugs his agreement. ‘Well, we were all at Roger’s house in Mossley Hill one night having a few drinks when Andy suggested we do a Ouija Board session just for fun.

   ‘It’ll be fun,’ he had declared.

   ‘I wasn’t into that kind of thing,’ he says. ‘Roger was really keen on the supernatural and all that and I believe he’s been on a few ghost hunts, including the Adelphi Hotel here in Liverpool.’

   I laugh at that. I have heard all the nonsense about it being haunted. I had always though it was a cover up for the fact that is commonly thought to be one of the worst hotels in Britain despite its long history.

   I grin at that, but his face is serious.

   ‘Anyway, I agreed to humour him, and he lit a few candles, cleared a coffee table and set out the board with a small glass tumbler on top.’ I was quite prepared for it to be a total waste of time, and we could get back to finishing the bottle of bourbon.’

   He stops and passes a hand over his face.

   ‘Anyway, at first nothing happened. The three of just sat there like dummies with the light from the candles just flickering, throwing eerie shadows on the walls. We kept asking: “Is anybody here?” and nothing happened. Nothing at all.’

   ‘And then, suddenly it all changed.’

   His face clouded over, and he wiped his brow, at the same time looking around the bar as though expecting to see someone.

   ‘The tumbler began going mad and I think it would have kept moving whether our fingers were on it or not. We couldn’t tell what it was trying to say it was going so fast. In the end we all took our fingers off and it stopped.’

   ‘Let’s start again,’ I said and put my finger on the tumbler. It began moving without anybody else touching it. It was scary. We all stared at each other. I wanted to take my finger off, but I couldn’t. It was as if it was attached to the glass.’

   ‘So, I asked who was there. Almost immediately it spelt out. “Joe,”’

   ‘The others were asking me to ask him all kinds of things but before I could it spelt out: “Hello Adam.”’

   He stares at me blinking wildly, his hands twitching. ‘How could it possibly know me,’ he says, almost pleading. I shake my head wondering if it was some sort of stunt the others were playing on him. I say as much to him. He shakes his emphatically.

   ‘How could it be a stunt?’ he asks. ‘At first that’s what I thought. I studied their faces wondering which of them was going to burst out laughing first but they were looking bemused and slightly scared too.’

   He looks around the bar again studying people. Nobody is taking the slightest notice of us. ‘He’ll be here somewhere,’ he mutters.

   I look around too. ‘Who are you talking about?’ I say a bit bewildered.

   ‘Joe,’ he says. ‘He’s never far away.’

    I stare at him. ‘The spirit or whatever? You aren’t serious are you? Are you sure all this isn’t all in your imagination?’

   Before he replies, a barman walks over to our table. ‘Are you Adam Curtiss?’

   Adam stares at him and nods. ‘There’s been a phone call for you,’ the barman says bluntly, obviously not too happy about it. ‘It’s somebody who says to tell you that it is Joe calling. We are not supposed to take messages so please tell people not to ring you here. Haven’t you got a mobile for God’s sake.’ And with that he walks away.

   Adam stares at me. ‘Now will you believe me?’

   I stare at him. ‘I’ll go to the phone but there will be nobody there,’ he says resignedly. He walks off. Two minutes later he returns, looks at me and shrugs. ‘It happens almost every day,’ he mutters, the haunted look returning to his face.

   We part shortly afterwards. I stare after him as he trudges down the road. I wonder, yet again, if it is some sort of practical joke that is being played on him.

   A month later and it is almost time for the Christmas break, and I am looking forward to a few weeks off as well as everything else that goes with the festive season; parties, too-much eating and drinking, as well as carols of course. I am due to spend it with my sister and her family in the Lake District.

   I have a few tutorials to get through and then it will be time to head back to my flat and put my feet up; On second thoughts I may go for a few pints at my ‘local.’ I feel I have deserved it.

   I am just packing up when Roger Simkin appears at my door looking disturbed. ‘Have you heard? It’s Adam, he’s been found dead apparently. The Dean told me about an hour ago. He wants to have a word with you in his office in the morning.’

   The following morning, I arrive at Dean Albert’s office. He is a dour man at the best of times and this morning he is looking particularly gloomy.

   ‘Ah Harvey, thank you for coming,’ he mumbles. ‘You have heard about Curtiss I take it.’ I nod as he fiddles with papers on his desk. ‘There is going to be an inquest of course,’ he adds, nodding sagely. ‘There is a question about next of kin and they keep asking me about that, but I am not able to help. Are you . . .?’ He leaves the rest unsaid as I shake my head.

   ‘Hmph.’ He declares and fiddles with more papers, finally brandishing a thin volume. ‘Apparently, it was his wish that this should go to you. There was a note apparently saying you would understand.’ He hands me the volume. I open it and scan the contents briefly. It looks like a diary.’

   ‘Was it suicide then,’ I ask thinking about the note.

   He frowns. ‘They don’t think so, apparently, but having said that there was no sign of foul play either.’ He stares at me owlishly, his mouth working silently.

   He finally mutters something and then stares at me. ‘I’m told his face was contorted into an expression of abject terror.’

   He points at the book I’m clutching.’ Maybe the answer is in that,’ he says, waving me away.

   When I return to my apartment, I brew a cafetiere of coffee and open the diary. The first entry is exactly a month ago. It is Friday, September 8.

Back in my apartment. There is a creaking sound in the hall outside my bedroom which I can’t explain. It sounds like something is being dragged along the floor but when I open the door there is nothing there. I don’t like it.

   I assume his imagination was doing overtime. It’s strange why we see or hear things when it gets dark; probably dates back to primeval times when venturing outside the family cave could be perilous!

   I ring Roger Simkin and tell him about the diary. He says he will come around with a few bottles!

   Half an hour later Roger arrived with six bottles of Doom Bar. We open a couple and open the diary. He reads the Friday entry, and we turn to the next.

                                 Saturday, September 9

I was walking past my ‘local’ the Richmond pub and glanced in the window. It was 9.00 am and there was a figure seated at a window table, staring at me. That was odd because the pub was closed. There were no lights on. There was something strange about him and it was a while before I realised what it was. He looked old fashioned, wearing a trilby and a long grey macintosh and cheap round spectacles like they wore in the 1930s. I must have looked away because when I glanced back at the window he had vanished. Then my mobile buzzed. There was a text message. It just said. ‘Joe is calling.’ That’s all.

   I suppose you’re going to say he imagined it,’ says Roger grinning at me. ‘He obviously saw something in the pub.

   ‘Which then inexplicably vanished,’ I finished the sentence for him. ‘I think he may have been hallucinating. The Ouija session must have really got to him. Let’ see what happens next, I turn the page.

Monday, September 11

3.00am. Something has woken me up. There’s a strange scratching sound at the window. JESUS xbxnnxx,m,.,x…///x….///

   ‘I wonder what that was all about,’ I say thoughtfully. It looks like he was so disturbed he must have dumped his laptop and run from the room. What do you think?’

   Roger is looking bemused. ‘If you heard somebody or something scratching at your bedroom window you might be tempted to get out of bed to take a look, wouldn’t you?’

   I nod in agreement.

   ‘So, you would draw the curtains and see who was outside. It looks like whatever it was he saw, so scared him he must have grabbed his laptop, typed JESUS and just run from the room.’

   ‘But where would he go?’ I ask. ‘It’s a one-bedroom flat, there is just the bathroom, the sitting room, the hall, and the kitchen. The last place he would go is outside if he thought there was something nasty out there.’

   ‘True,’ admits Roger. ‘I think I would have gone to the kitchen, switching every conceivable light on in the process and grabbed the biggest knife I could lay my hands on.’

   ‘And then what?’

   That stumped me. I grimace. ‘If it were me, I would wait and listen and then creep to the sitting room, switch the lights off and peep out of the window. If there is nothing there I would sigh and make myself a strong coffee.’

   ‘There’s something else too,’ Roger murmurs ominously. ’Something we haven’t considered.’

   I look at him expectantly.

   ‘His flat is on the second floor. It’s quite high up. What could possibly be outside?’

   I stare at him. I feel a cold shudder developing and close the diary. ‘Let’s go the pub,’ I say.

*

It is three days later, and I have finished teaching for the day and am about to leave my room in college when a smartly dressed man appears at the door. I stare at him and ask if I can help him.

   He introduces himself as Inspector George Martin. ‘The Dean said I would find you here,’ he says. ‘It’s about Adam Curtiss. I understand you were a close friend of his.’ I nod at that.

   ‘The circumstances surrounding his death are puzzling,’ he says. I invite him to sit, and he does so.

   ‘We have discounted suicide but there are indications that there was somebody else in the room. It was greatly disturbed; things broken, the table overturned and so on.’

   He stops, scratches his chin and stares at me. ‘Then there was the expression on his face.’ He shrugs. ‘I have never seen anything quite like it. A look of pure terror. Did he confide in you about what he was doing by any chance?’

   I tell him that as far as I knew he had no enemies; did not appear to be short of money and his only odd activity was a session with a Ouija board with some friends.

   DI Martin relapses into a thoughtful silence. ‘I wonder what you make of this,’ he finally says producing a mobile phone from an inside pocket. ‘This is Martin’s mobile. We found it lying on the floor some distance away from the body, almost as though it had been thrown. Take a look at the more recent messages.’

   He hands me the phone and I click on texts. There are five and they all say the same thing: ‘Hello. It’s Joe calling.’ That’s all, nothing else. I stare at them and hand the phone back.

   It tell him that Adam did appear to be pursued by somebody called Joe. I tell him that a friend and I are currently going through his diary to see if we can unravel the mystery. ‘At the moment we can’t decide whether it was all in his imagination and that he was hallucinating or that somebody was playing an elaborate practical joke.’

   ‘If it is some sort of twisted joke, it’s gone way too far,’ mutters DI Martin.

   He asks me to keep in touch and hands me his card, I will be interested in your conclusions,’ he says finally, striding to the door.

   The following night Roger comes around and we decide to plough through Adam’s diary to see what else happened to him.

Wednesday, September 13

Am beginning to dread the nights. I have taken to leaving the lights on everywhere, even in the toilet and bathroom. I don’t want to walk into a dark room because of what might be in there.

Last night, I could hear a shuffling sound outside my bedroom door. I was in bed. I got up and shouted: ‘Go away. Leave me alone. I don’t want you here.’

It went silent after that, and I went back to bed.

I think it was about 3.00am when I was woken again. This time there was a muttering, and I could see a light under the door and then the door handle began to turn. I screamed and threw something at the door.

It all stopped instantly, and I managed to sleep fitfully for the rest of the night.

When will this stop? What must I do? I think I am losing my sanity.

‘That couldn’t possibly be a hallucination, could it,’ exclaims Roger. ‘You would have to be completely bonkers to imagine stuff like that.’ He stares at the words and shakes his head. I am inclined to agree with him. I have never really believed in ghosts, but I am beginning to wonder.

   ‘Could all this really be as a result of our Ouija session,’ Roger says, almost to himself. I decide to read the next entry in the diary to see if the nightly disturbance continues.

Friday, September 15

I have had an undisturbed night’s sleep for the last two days. There has been no repetition of the horrible things that have been happening. Has it decided to leave me alone at last? I hardly dare to hope that it has come to an end.

I forgot to say that the other day I looked out of my bedroom window to see if it were possible for someone to climb up and look through, but I don’t see how it could be done. There are no drainpipes or vines that somebody could climb so it is all a bit of a mystery.

Talking of mysteries, I was walking home from college earlier today after alighting from the bus. I was walking along Allerton Road which is always busy and bustling. I happened to glance behind me and about fifty metres away was a man walking in the same direction. Normally, I would have ignored him, but he stood out because he looked so old fashioned with a long, ankle-length raincoat of the kind that nobody wears any longer and an old trilby hat. He reminded me of the man I saw in the pub. Could it be the same man?

The other oddity was he appeared to be walking quite energetically in my direction, but he got no closer. Nobody else appeared to notice him.

   ‘What do you make of that?’ I ask Roger. ‘Odd, isn’t it, that nobody else appears to have seen the figure. Could that be another of his hallucinations do you think?’

   Roger rubs his chin thoughtfully. ‘It’s possible I suppose. I am more interested in the fact that he has had two peaceful nights without any weird things happening. Why is that I wonder?’

   A thought suddenly occurs to me. ‘You know, the impression I get is that it . . . whatever it is . . . is getting closer. Let’s think about it for a minute. So far, it started at a distance; phone messages, a text, a man sitting in a closed pub but then it changed. There has been a face at his bedroom window, scratching or whatever outside his bedroom door. It, I suppose we might as well call it Joe, was getting closer.’ I point to the latest diary entry. ‘And the walker is keeping his distance, no matter how fast he appears to be walking.

   Roger nods his agreement and then purses his lips. He stares at me grimly. ‘It doesn’t mean it will stay that way though, does it? What do you think?’

   He has a point. I have a feeling that it is not about to end. We decide to call it a day and go for a couple of pints.

*

It almost a week later that we get together again. I decided I would not look at Adam’s diary on my own; I’m not quite sure why I decided that. I get a feeling of unease whenever I handle it or even if it is lying on my desk. There is something malignant about it. I know that sounds crazy and I have difficulty explaining it; probably the result of over-thinking Adam’s situation but I would rather not have it sitting there in front of me. I can feel its presence.

   So, until then it has been out of sight in a drawer which is where it stayed until Roger, and I got together.

   I give it to him to look at. I just don’t like being near it. He turns to the next entry.

Sunday, September 17

I thought it might have gone away and left me alone, but I was wrong. Very wrong.

Last night I woke up at around 2.00am. I’m not quite sure why. It might have been the cold. My room was freezing, and I was shivering. I sat up in bed and stared around the room. Everything seemed normal. Shafts of moonlight were streaming through a gap in the curtains onto the opposite wall. I have never liked sleeping in a totally dark room.

At first I thought it was my imagination but the wall in the far corner appeared darker. There was an impenetrable blackness there which I didn’t like. I was about to wrap my duvet around myself and hunker down when I saw a flicker of movement.

I stared at it and to my horror a form emerged. It was the sad-looking man in the raincoat, only this time his eyes were luminous. He raised an arm, and a skeletal finger pointed at me. I was so scared I think I passed out.

When I came to the room was normal. Did I imagine that or was it real.

God help me.

We stare at each other. Could that have been real? Roger’s expression is grave. Remember me saying last time that the figure – Joe – is getting closer, well, he is now in the bedroom. I think we both know how this is going to end, don’t we?

   I tell him that we should show this to the police because it is obviously relevant to Adam’s death; it may even be the cause of it.

   He gives me a look of incredulity. ‘Are you serious? They will simply put it all down to his imagination. You know how they think. If they can’t see it, touch it, feel it, they will say it doesn’t exist. Have you ever heard a coroner’s inquest put the cause of death down to a ghost?’

   He smiles sarcastically.

   ‘They would just say the death was unexplained,’ I murmur. I glare at the diary and close it firmly. ‘I’ve had enough of that for one day,’ I say. ‘And I have twenty essays to go through which is my evening accounted for.’

   We agree to meet again in a couple of days. I have a tiring night and sleep fitfully, tossing and turning, ending up with me lying half out of my bed. I know I had been dreaming and it must have been disturbing but now, in the daylight, I just have vague and fading visions of shadowy images that I must have found horrifying. Perhaps the picture of a skeletal hand had something to do with it!

   I think we are coming to the end of Adam’s diary thank Heavens. It has had a disturbing effect on me; I feel immensely sorry for him. Whatever the cause of his nightmare, I cannot but feel sorry for him. Whether the ghost Joe – if indeed that is what it was – was real or not, he believed it was.

   It was a week later that Roger, and I were able to get together. This time we went to the pub first and after three pints we both felt up to what was, almost certainly, the end of Adam’s diary.

Thursday, September 21

I think I am going mad. The last two nights have been very disturbed. There was a lot of activity; I could hear muttering outside my room and the figure of Joe – I assume it was he – is now in my bedroom every night, but never when I leave the lights on, so I have grown accustomed to sleeping with them on all night the last two days. He doesn’t seem to like lights.

I am sitting at my desk writing this. It is early evening. I feel unsettled; there are strange sounds in the hall and rapping on the wall broken only by a sudden, sardonic laugh.

Jesus! The laugh is in my room. It is coming from all around me. The lights have started flickering. They have gone out. I can make out a figure. He is coming towards me ^&*()__+(MK  JOE  k hjKJIm . . . . ./  hnznjkbhj,bhgjHhh

   I close the diary, and we stare at each other. ‘That must be when he died,’ says Roger quietly. Poor bugger.’ hnznjkbhj,bhgjHhh

   ‘The question is, do we show this to the police? It does explain his death I would have thought. It will then be up to them what they do about it.’

   Roger shrugs: ‘What can they do about it? They will just put it down to a disturbed mind; he does say “I think I’m going mad” which is all they need by way of an explanation.’ We agree to hand it over to Inspector George Martin. I say I will call him in the morning.

   The following morning, I arrive on campus and am on my way to my room when one of the admin staff stops me.

   ‘Good morning Finley,’ she says cheerfully. ‘There was a message for you half an hour ago.’

   ‘Who was it?’ I ask puzzled.

   ‘He just said to say It’s Joe Calling,’ she says walking off.