Secrets - Haunted

I sleep badly, coming to often in the dark to the sound of banging pipes behind the walls and the night wind. Your mum's words to me at the house on Headersleigh Bridge replay each time I drift off, disturbing me again. You know perfectly well why the police came to see us, Alan. They had news for us. I wander over to the sink for a glass of water and switch on the television, leaving the volume on silent to avoid disturbing Robert. I sit wrapped in an old jacket, shivering.  I wish Lana were here. I'm too tired to sleep, too tired to concentrate. I feel old.

I drift off again. All night, I keep waking to the sounds of pipes and the wind and your mother's voice, reproaching me for having taken you to Whaley Hill that day when we were boys of ten. I dream that I'm in the woods at the bottom of Whaley Hill in the rain and fog, waiting for Vince Macarthur to show up. He appears, slithering through the mud towards me, but it's not really him. Instead, it's your dad dressed in a set of pyjamas, and I dare not make eye contact. Sneering, he points at me, then to a tree.  'Alan, lad, you took our lad, so now I'm going to take yours. Then, me and my wife are going to do ourselves in. We've got the noose in the van.' When I next look, Robert is hanging from the tree.

Someone screams.
      
I bolt forward in bed, heart hammering in my chest.

Silence.

It's three-thirty in the morning.

I reach for the reading lamp.

A dream, that's all. Turning on the lamp, I get up to fetch a glass of water from the sink. 

Stop.

Someone's on the upper balcony.

Footsteps.

Silence again.

How do I handle this?

First thing, I check on Robert, who's asleep, his long eyelashes pressed firmly together. Tiptoeing back to the tiny hallway, I go to the main door of the flat, put the chain on the lock and look out.

Silent.'

Hello?' I say, keeping my voice down. 'Anyone there?'

No one replies.

'Hello?'

Just the dark.

Macarthur couldn't send someone to get me. Who'd obey him, anyway? And how would he fund it?
I spend a few more moments staring out.

This is silly. There was no one on the balcony. I must have still been asleep. Or half asleep. PTSD can play havoc with the imagination, creating weird dreamlike states.

After making a strong coffee, I fetch the laptop and open the my secret journal, knowing full well that I will punish myself all over again.