Eleven New Ghost Stories by David Paul Nixon

the bathroom. The
door was half open, light off. All just a dream.
    I tried to calm down. Relax. But
then, just as my heart starts to go and beat like normal, I hear
something. I get up and walk back to the bathroom, slowly.
    The carpet was dry now. So was
the bathroom floor. But the hot water tap was running in the sink.
The water running straight down the drain.
    Slept the rest of the night on
the sofa. But didn’t sleep much. I thought I must’ve left the tap
on. The rest was just a dream and dreams can’t hurt you. Even if…
even if there was this pain, this throbbing pain, on the side of my
head. I had to be imagining it because I hadn’t hit my head, not in
reality.
    I couldn’t face staying there
all day again. The place was messing with my head. But just as I
was leaving. Just as I was about to go out, I noticed there was
this dark patch on the wall. The wallpaper was messed up and out of
shape. It was coming off the wall. Just close to the ceiling, near
the bedroom I’d slept in that last night.
    I knew it. I knew something was
up with that place. The fucking plumber. There was water leaking in
the walls. I was right, right all along.
    I went to the office. I couldn’t
take being at home. I tried to take my mind off the place, but it
wasn’t working. It started to rain and I could see the water
pouring down the glass windows. And out of the corners of my eyes,
I kept thinking I could see something. Someone standing there,
watching me. I tried to focus on my targets, getting my quarterly
figures. But even going to the toilet, the sound of the water
dripping in the urinals; it gave me the shivers. Made me sick in my
stomach.
    The thing in the bathtub. The
person. The man. I didn’t see him, I didn’t know him. But I did
know him. I mean, when I was dreaming, I knew that person. When he
went at me, when he grabbed me… I was frightened because I knew who
he was. But now I didn’t know who the fuck he was. None of this
shit was making sense to me.
    But it was a dream. Dreams are
weird. I was angry, furious. I called up the plumber, like 20
times. Yelled at him on his answer phone. Then I tried to call
round other plumbers, but because it was Sunday no one would take
the call. I emailed the estate agents, the fuckers who sold the
place to me. Threatened to sue their asses for breach of contract.
That place was falling to bits. They were gonna pay to get it
fixed, not me.
    It got late and I decided I was
going to go back. I got some pizza, some beers, and headed home. As
I got back I had a go at the doorman; he recommended those pricks
to come and have a look at my place. I dragged him up to my flat to
show him the damage. I showed it to him, but he kept coming out
with this shit, said it wasn’t damp.
    I asked him: “What the fuck is
wrong with you! It’s coming off the wall because of the water.” He
said he couldn’t feel any water. He reckoned it had been torn off.
I couldn’t believe what he was telling me. Said he was going to
complain about me. About me! The nerve! I said I’d like to see him
fucking try!
    Went to sleep on the sofa. I was
asleep for, I dunno, a few hours, before I started dreaming. I was
out driving again. I was tearing up the lanes again, in the Jag.
But I was tense this time, nervous. I was trying to get somewhere
in a hurry. And when it started to rain, I didn’t slow down, I
started to speed. I was trying to beat it. Beat the rain by going
faster.
    But I couldn’t; the water came
down so hard the wipers did nothing. It poured down over the
windscreen so thick I couldn’t see a thing. Just water. There was
so much water it started to come through the windscreen. Water
washed down over the dashboard, over the steering wheel, onto the
seats, onto my knees…
    Something leapt at the
windscreen. A man, arms out, smashed against the glass and the
bonnet.
    I woke up with another shock. I
was in bed – in bed! I’d fallen asleep on the sofa, but now I was
in bed!
    It was the same