Chapter 8 John
John
John has to admit, it’s really fun, this sneaking through the corridors. Maybe he’s been missing out for the last thirty years. He found a lot of comfort in being an ‘honourable’ ghost, but perhaps the haunting sort have more fun. Maybe Mags had had it right after all.
He tiptoes down the corridor towards the guest room where Sam is staying. The door is ajar, and John carefully slides it open far enough to slip inside. His heart is pounding in anticipation.
It’s not quite four in the morning. Sam is sound asleep on his back, one arm flung above his head.
His mouth is slightly open and there’s a faint whistling sound as he breathes.
He really is an attractive man – John can see why Mia was gaga over him in school.
Truth is, John would have been too. As it is, Sam’s a little young for his tastes now.
John steps through the room, taking note of Sam’s cardigan draped across the chair in front of the little writing desk, upon which Sam has arranged his speaker, his pen and, for some reason, a banana.
John bends over and quietly replaces the pen with an identical one – that’s all dried out.
This is one of the first pranks they’ve come up with.
Mia had found a whole pile of the kind of pens that Sam uses in the back of a desk drawer, and she and John uncapped them all last night while they were plotting.
Every chance John gets, he’ll swap Sam’s working pens with the dried-out ones.
It’s a silly little thing, but seeing Mia’s delight at Sam’s bewilderment will make it more than worth the slight headache he got from the pen fumes as they met their demise.
After swapping the pen, John swipes the Bluetooth speaker off the desk and tucks it carefully under the wardrobe before fading back against the wall and clearing his throat surreptitiously.
How does the song begin? He and Mia spent over an hour last night selecting which carol John should begin with today.
Ah yes. He straightens up, recalling his old music teacher’s voice training from the early seventies.
He lowers his diaphragm and mentally finds the note.
Everything is set. It’s showtime. John’s going for a nice, melodic voice, with just a touch of creepiness.
Nat King Cole with a ghostly essence, if you will.
He draws in a deep breath and begins. Chestnuts roasting on an open fire.
Jack Frost nipping at your nose. Yuletide carols, being sung by a choir and folks dressed up like Eskimos …
Sam rolls over and moans, burrowing deeper into the covers. Well, that will never do. John raises his voice slightly and launches into the next line … Everybody knows a turkey and some mistletoe help to make the season bright …
‘Argh!’ With a groan, Sam launches himself out of bed and over to the desk where he stands bleary-eyed, blinking down at the empty surface. ‘Where’s it gone?’
John continues to sing, snickering under his breath. Sam searches the room, his movements becoming more frantic as the song continues. When he gets down on his hands and knees to peer under the wardrobe, John hurries through the next line … To see if reindeer really know how to fly …
‘Got you!’ Sam mumbles, fumbling to pull out the palm-sized speaker. ‘How did you get down there, anyway?’ He jabs the power button and returns the speaker to the desk, sighing impressively.
John snickers once more, and continues to sing … And so, I’m offering this simple phrase …
‘No!’ Sam stabs futilely at the power button and John pretends to have the device respond each time, only to continue the song again when Sam sets the speaker down.
Sam is growing increasingly agitated, pressing all the buttons on the control panel, whacking it on the desk surface and running over to check the settings on his phone.
As John reaches the end of the song, he has to work hard to control his laughter.
Merry Christmas … to Sam.
Sam freezes, eyes wide and wild as he stands in the middle of the room. ‘Wait, what?’ John leaves him there to ruminate and slips back into the corridor, chuckling as he goes. He’s now confirmed his theory. There is definitely fun he’s been missing out on.
Later that morning, when Sam stumbles down the corridor and into the bathroom, John grabs the speaker and hurries after him.
Bracing himself, John launches through the walls and the porcelain sink, pausing just long enough to plant the speaker on the top of the medicine cabinet.
Then he plunges back into the corridor, pressing a hand to his belly and working to calm his breathing.
Once the nausea has settled down again, he takes this opportunity to wander back into Sam’s room and snoop around.
His initial thought is to find other ways they might be able to mess with Sam.
He could always resort to Mia’s idea – tying shoelaces together – or mismatching socks.
Then it occurs to him – better to simply hide one of each of Sam’s outrageously patterned socks so that pairs cannot be made.
After he removes one sock from each pair, John hides them on the top of the wardrobe and looks around the room.
His gaze lands on the small brown notebook on the desk.
What exactly does Sam jot down every two seconds anyway?
Flipping through a couple of pages, he scans the scribbled lines.
Gently drifting from the sky,
A quiet descent, soft breath.
The world lies still.
Each flake unique, fleeting,
Carrying the weight of winter’s silence.
So, Sam fancies himself a poet. Interesting. And actually, the poems aren’t bad. Poetry is very much a matter of personal taste, but John can appreciate the construction and play of the words.
Down the corridor, the water turns on, and John gently closes the notebook before swiftly heading out of Sam’s room to the landing and takes up his station just outside the closed bathroom door.
He readies himself once again and begins to sing.
Only this time, he adds a bit of personal flair.
Chestnuts roasting on an open fire. Jack Frost nipping at Sam’s nose.
‘Oh, come on!’ Sam’s shout is muffled by the sound of the shower, but it still makes John laugh.
He continues singing, sending his voice through the speaker and personalizing the song at every opportunity.
When the line becomes Sam Williams knows a turkey and some mistletoe …
the water shuts off abruptly. Sam starts swearing profusely.
Amused, John takes a seat beside the Christmas tree that someone carted up here last night.
It’s still barren, waiting to be decked out in all its festive finery, but it’s a lush, healthy tree with symmetrical branches and a deep, rich colour.
As John sits admiring the tree, Sam comes barrelling out of the bathroom in nothing more than a towel.
His feet slap wetly on the wood floor as he stomps down to Charlie’s room and throws open the door.
‘All right, man, enough!’
‘What on earth – what is your problem, Sam? Sorry, babe. I’ll have to call you back.’ Charlie tosses his phone on to the bed and extricates himself from the covers. ‘Have you lost your mind, Sam?’
‘Just about, and I’m sure that’s the intention. Enough with the music.’ Sam is wild-eyed. ‘I don’t know how you’re doing it, but well done. Very funny.’
‘Mate, I literally have no idea what you are talking about. Do you know how unhinged you sound right now? And also, you’re dripping all over my floor. Do you mind?’
Sam glances around the room, and then back at Charlie. ‘So, it’s not you?’
Charlie raises his eyebrows and screws up his lips. ‘Considering I have absolutely no idea what you are talking about, I’m going to take a wild guess and say it’s one hundred per cent not me.’
Sam backs out of the room, shaking his head.
John smiles at the look on his face – he’s never seen someone so bewildered.
Sam takes a couple of deep breaths and then stomps back down to the bathroom.
There’s a clatter and a sizzle, and then he continues on to his room, his clothes bundled against his chest. Curious, John peeks into the bathroom.
The Bluetooth speaker is bobbing in a few inches of water, a slight smoky smell wafting up from the contraption.
Snickering, John leaves Sam to his own devices and heads downstairs in search of Mia.
He finds her in the kitchen, assembling some sort of collection of meats and cheeses on a wooden board. ‘Well, hello there, what are we up to this morning?’
Mia smiles at him, brown eyes sparkling. Beneath her apron, she’s wearing jeans and a fuzzy grey sweater, and those ridiculous slippers are on her feet again. ‘I’m putting together a charcuterie board for lunch.’
John gives her a blank stare, and she giggles softly to herself.
‘Basically, you just place meats and cheeses and crackers in a pleasing design on a board. Everyone can snack to their hearts’ content after oohing and aahing over how pretty it looks.
I can make the salami into little flowers, see?
And then I’m going to do some sugared cranberries. And maybe a baked brie.’
John leans back against the counter, crossing his legs at the ankles. ‘You really like this stuff, don’t you? Cooking and what not.’
Mia looks up from her flower assembly. ‘I’m never happier than when I’m in a kitchen.’
‘Which is why you work at a hospital gift shop,’ John observes. ‘The connection is obvious. I don’t know why I didn’t see it before.’
Mia shrugs. ‘I considered culinary school. But I don’t want to work food service hours. That’s no kind of life. Working at the gift shop, my evenings are my own. It means I have the time to get creative.’
John sucks on a tooth. ‘Makes sense. By the way, I’ve had some fun of my own this morning.’
‘Now where did I put my glasses? I swear, I’d misplace my head if it wasn’t attached.’ Aunt Gertie shuffles through the room, patting Mia on the back and then continuing in her search. Mia waits until she’s round the corner and then whirls back to John.
‘How’s it going?’ she asks in a hurried whisper.
John smiles broadly. ‘Better than expected. I’m having a blast, for starters. And Sam pitched his speaker into the sink. It was spectacularly dramatic. Five star experience.’
Mia’s eyes grow huge, and her smile is even wider.
She’s about to respond when Aunt Gertie makes her way back into the room, glasses now located.
‘Mia dear, I’ve just come home from visiting Mr Thrumble.
The man’s pantry and fridge are basically empty.
I don’t suppose you’d mix up a few pot pies that I could take over to the man?
I feel bad, it being Christmas and all.’
‘I’d love to.’
‘Wonderful. I’ll bake some biscuits to take over. And then we’ll have some for the ghosts as well.’
John startles, and Mia cocks her head, looking down at her aunt. ‘Sorry, what?’
Aunt Gertie gives her a patronizing smile. ‘You heard me right. This time of year, the ghosts appreciate a little attention and love. What?’ She sighs, rubbing at a spot beside her eye with a gnarled finger. ‘I can assure you there are more than a few unexpected guests here at Willowby Manor.’
‘Oh, I don’t believe in ghosts.’
‘No one does, dearie, till they do.’ And with that vague comment, Aunt Gertie nips a piece of pepperoni and pads away, humming to herself. John and Mia swap amused glances, and Mia is about to comment when Sam tumbles into the kitchen, a wild look on his face.
‘Oh, hey, Mia. Ah, good morning.’
Mia gives him a sullen grunt, focusing instead on her charcuterie.
Sam watches her for a beat with a regretful look on his face.
Then he turns away and pulls out sliced ham from the fridge and a loaf of bread from the pantry.
He rummages through a drawer and locates a knife, and gets to work.
John’s gaze flicks between the two of them, amused by the concerted effort Mia is making to completely ignore Sam.
‘So,’ Sam begins tentatively. ‘Any chance you’ve heard any music this morning?’
Mia lifts her head slowly, lips screwed up in a sarcastic grin. ‘Nope. In fact, it was blissfully silent until you barged your way in here.’
‘Oh.’ Sam’s face falls, and he returns his attention to his sandwich making. Mia sneaks a glance at John, who has straightened up and is clearing his throat. John waits until Sam has scooped out a large spoonful of mayonnaise, and then begins to sing once again.
… Tiny tots, with their eyes all aglow, will find it hard to sleep tonight …
Sam jumps a mile, launching the spoonful of mayonnaise with a screech. Mia drops her head, the curtain of her hair obscuring her face and hiding her laughter. ‘Mia, you hear that, right?’
In an impressive display of self-control, Mia meets Sam’s gaze with a perfectly calm expression. ‘Sorry? Hear what?’ She avoids looking at John, who’s continuing like he hasn’t a care in the world.
… They know that Santa’s on his way, he’s loaded lots of toys and goodies on his sleigh …
Sam’s eyes are wild. ‘You really don’t hear that?’
Mia’s tone is gloriously sarcastic. ‘I hear you getting all hysterical. And I see you making a mess of my kitchen.’
Sam grimaces at the splattered mayonnaise. He grabs a towel and wipes it up, hands shaking. Over his bent head, Mia meets John’s gaze, and he shoots her a wink.
… and Sam Williams is gonna spy, to see if reindeer really know how to fly …
‘For the love of God,’ Sam groans. ‘Make it stop. Please.’
‘Well, since you said please,’ Mia quips, eyes sparkling now. ‘Let me see if I can help.’ She raps on the counter with a wooden spoon three times. ‘Attention all ghosts of Willowby Manor, can you give Sam Williams a break?’ Mia crosses her arms and spears Sam with a glance. ‘Happy now?’
Sam waits for a beat, listening intently.
When no music continues, he sighs and takes a bite of his sandwich.
‘Yes. Much better. Thank you, Mia.’ He sags against the counter and doesn’t say another word until he finishes eating.
John gives Mia a conspiratorial nod and she mouths ‘thank you’ to him as he walks out of the room.