Jay, Lizzie and the Tale of the Stairs

Chapter 1

There's Something Under My Bed

With a clatter of knives and forks my Dad tossed his cutlery onto his empty dinner plate. Then he folded his arms, leant back and stared at me.

What the hell do you mean ‘there’s something under my bed?

I didn’t answer straight away. The words just wouldn’t come. While Dad waited he impatiently uncrossed then re-crossed his arms, somehow managing to tip up his plate in the process, his knife and fork skittering across the table. With a grunt Dad shoved everything aside. Somewhere in the kitchen a clock ticked and outside the bin men were shouting to one another.

On Tuesday night, I told him sheepishly, I got up for a glass of milk.

Dad was unimpressed. He shrugged, looked at me blankly. I had to get on with it.

Well, I got up because something frightened me.

I could see Dad wasn't impressed. Frightened you?

Yes. It really did.

Now tell me, Jay Webber, he asked me quietly, what could possibly frighten a young adult at three in the morning?

Dad was being sarcastic. I had to get to the point. I had to tell him the truth.

Well… I was a little embarrassed, "…it’s been going on now for weeks, but on Tuesday night, it was the only time…you know…the only time it really frightened me."

"I understand that, but what, exactly, is it that’s frightening?"

I picked some rice crispies off of the table-top and placed them back into my cereal bowl. Well, I’ve started hearing people shouting.

Shouting?

Yes.

But from underneath your bed.

Yes.

Mmmm.

There are! I insisted. I had to try harder to convince Dad. I was losing him. It’s been going on for a while now, lots of people shouting lots of things. It’s all mixed up and not very pleasant and, like I said, these voices are coming from underneath my bed, but it wasn’t that bad because they seemed far away. But then, on Tuesday night, I was just lying there and listening to these voices, when suddenly… I looked at Dad. He had his arms folded again and was frowning. But he was still listening so I carried on. Suddenly they got really close and then this one voice…one voice…seemed right beside me, you know, up close, and it whispered…it whispered… I stared down at the cereal bowl in front of me with its handful of remaining rice crispies. Isn’t it funny how the snap, crackle and pop eventually stops. But I was avoiding telling him again. I had to get it done. Now! "It whispered…help me."

There was a long silence. I needed Dad to say something.

Is that all it said?

Well, yes.

Then, with a scrape of his chair, Dad got up and turned to look out the kitchen window. It took him a while to answer. When he did he kept his eyes firmly on our back garden.

Jay, I’ll go and take a look. OK?

Now?

In a minute, Jay. Just give me a second.

Something told me that Dad needed a bit of space.

"I’ll just go and watch some telly, Dad, OK?

Yes. Fine. I’ll call you when I need you.

OK.

Chapter 2

I’ll go and check!

We seem to forget how important stairs are. I mean, most buildings have at least one and they can lead, well, just about anywhere. Soon we were stood looking up at our own set of stairs. And Dad had brought a bread knife.

You’ve gotta be prepared, he said with a smile. I just thought he was being sarcastic again. He must have been because he left it on the bottom of the stairs when he realised there was an unopened letter on the Welcome mat just inside the front door. I waited for Dad to toss the letter onto the hall table then I let him start climbing the stairs. I remember thinking how odd it was that I’d been playing and messing about in my bedroom like any normal Saturday morning. Until I told my Dad about the voices and noises, that is. Now my bedroom and the bed in it had become a monster’s lair and I was scared. What would we find when we moved the bed? I know there was stuff under there, like my old transformers, socks and PC games, but what would we find when we moved all that? Dad didn’t seem bothered though. He pushed open my bedroom door and made a comment on the state of it.

Look at the state of it, he said and kicked a cushion that was lying quietly, minding its own business, on the floor. A cushion that was meant to be on the swivel chair by my desk. It was a bean-type thing and it whispered through the air and shushed against my bookcase, a bookcase that didn’t have any books on it, just some comics, football magazines and more PC games.

Dad stood over my bed and put his hands on his hips. "When did we last change this bed?

I shrugged. Can’t remember.

Well, we’d better do it soon or it’ll eat you a… Dad stopped and looked at me. He was smiling from one corner of his mouth like he knew he had said the wrong thing.

Alive? I filled-in for him.

Well, who knows. He reached under the bed, grabbed its metal frame and pulled. The bed was heavy and the green carpet didn’t help. So I grabbed the frame too and helped Dad pull the bed away from the wall towards the opposite wall. The bed left a trail of odds and ends. Things stuffed under there long forgotten. I knew that Dad was going to have a go at me.

Look at it, Jay, he whined, it’s a tip under there. That’s probably what the noise is. There’s people trying to get out. Where is Kyle anyway? Dad pretended to look around. I haven’t seen him lately.

Kyle is my best friend.

Shut up, Dad!

We made sure there was enough room to move around then Dad asked me to clear all the stuff off of the floor and put it on the bed. Then he went to fetch one of the old boxes from the garage. I picked up two wheels joined by an axel from an old skateboard I used to have and placed them on my bed with other stuff. Then I stopped. I picked them up again, studied them closely. Once they were red but because they had been used a lot they had become grey from concrete and tarmac. There were tiny little stones in the plastic. As I turned them in my hands the wheels clinked. One of them span smoothly.

It was then I thought of Mum and my eighth birthday. My birthday’s in August so it was the summer holidays. It was raining. I remember not sleeping very well and being awake long before Dad came in to wake me up. He was frying some bacon and the smell burst in when Dad opened the door.

Happy birthday, Jay! C’mon, I’m cooking some bacon.

I ran out to the kitchen still in my blue patterned piranhas (pyjamas – Dad calls them piranhas). The word 'presents' must have been written all over my face because Dad, holding the pan with the frying bacon, nodded towards the front room. I doubled back pretty smartly and shot into our lounge.

And there, on the mat in front of the fireplace, were three parcels. One was wrapped in last year’s leftover Christmas paper. The other two were blue. One had a skateboard inside. I could tell.

I poked and prodded at the wrapping paper that snapped and crackled back. It took Mum and Dad ages to get themselves organised and get to the front room. When they eventually arrived I had a quick slurp of tea and then tore into my presents. I had another new PC game, a big wooden chess set…and a skateboard! The skateboard was black with cool words on it and it had the red wheels that I’d been talking about. I got up excitedly and was about to climb aboard but Dad said I’d ‘ruin the carpet’ and ‘get outside’. But when I looked I realised that the rain was worse. I remembered that I couldn’t use my skateboard until tea-time, when bits of sunshine reflected off the wet pavements like a huge torch. I didn’t want to get my new skateboard too wet and dirty so I got on it outside our front door. I flapped my arms about to try and keep my balance and I quickly realised that skateboarding isn’t easy. But I’d had a go and was pleased with going up our pavement a short distance, then back again. After a few trips I wiped the skateboard down with the sleeve of my jumper and took it carefully up to my room. I leant it beside my wardrobe, where it would live and where I could see it and keep an eye on it.

Brilliant. At last I had a skateboard. I would be so cool at school.

That was a good memory.

My Mum’s in St Mary’s hospital. She’s not well.

I miss my Mum.

Then Dad came back with the box and began stuffing things in it and didn’t seem bothered that there wasn’t anything horrible under the bed. At one point I was sure I heard a distant crackle and a hiss like a hidden snake. But I couldn’t be sure.

When we finished I looked at the bit of green carpet that had recently been under my bed. It was brighter and less worn than the carpet elsewhere in my bedroom. But I was disappointed. There would be no adventures with monsters this Saturday morning.

Dad came and stood beside me. That carpet needs a good hoover. I’ll change your sheets while I’m at it. Then he lifted the box from my bed and squeezed,’ oohing’ and ‘aahing’, out of my bedroom door and I was left alone with the new patch of green carpet thinking of Mum. I thought of how pretty she is, how she’s got really long brown hair that always smells sweet and dark eyes that Dad says turn to cats’ eyes whenever she's angry. My Mum is very slim despite having had a big fat baby. I think they mean me. Dad always says to people that I was ‘nine pound odd, which is cheap for a baby." Yeah, Mum is pretty. I remember when they used to talk about the evening they met. Mum always says Dad was lucky to have met her but Dad always replies that his luck ran out of the pub door and came back in as Mum.

Later Dad took me for burger and chips and on the way back he said he’d book a doctor’s appointment for me. I said I was fine but he insisted. He said that I might be dreaming the voices because of Mum and that I might need some tablets. That made me unhappy. I know that I didn’t imagine the noises and voices. They were real. Still, I said that I’d go. Just to make Dad happy.

Chapter 3

The Front Room of Somebody Else

A dream. I think.

It’s the room again. The front room with the old settee.

I’m sat cross-legged. I’m in the corner and on the floor with my back to the wall. Beside me, on my right, is what seems to be a dining table. A brown tablecloth brushes close to my face and there is a settee which is also a brown, a small two-seater with arm rests. It has white arm protectors that I know my Nan sometimes uses. Close to the sofa is a pair of net curtains that hides a wooden framed window and the grey street outside. Beside the settee is something silver on a tall black stand. On the wall facing me is a cream cabinet that has ornaments and china plates and cups arranged neatly. Near that is a fireplace with a dark, sooty mouth and the walls are covered in wallpaper, faded with time. A large picture shows a group of horses and red-cloaked horsemen gathered for the hunt. Dogs and handlers fuss around the edges. There are smaller pictures here and there. A mirror hung up somewhere else.

But what catches my eye is the portrait of what I guess was an important soldier from the past. I recognised the union jack hiding his stomach.

The scene is quiet and still.

The nets at the old sash window are stirred. Ever-so-slightly. There must be a draught from somewhere.

The room feels familiar.

I have visited it in my dreams more than once.

I sit alone then hear a door open. It makes a swishing sound. Although I can’t see it, it must one of those doors that open sideways. By sliding. Then someone enters the room. I hear the soft clump of slippered feet on thin carpet and the ssh-ssh, ssh-ssh of trouser fabric rubbing as this person walks into view. I only see the back of him and the back of his head as he walks, from left to right, to stand over the black stand with the silver top. He wears grey trousers, a white shirt and a grey jumper without any arms. I also recognise that he has an old smoking pipe in his hand. The man taps it loudly on the silver top of the black stand. I suddenly realise that the silver thing is an ashtray. Then the man pulls a tin from his pocket and begins to patiently fill the bowl of the pipe with what I think is tobacco. He pushes the tobacco in neatly. He presses the tobacco into the bowl with his fingers. Every now and then he glances towards the window as if expecting someone and I watch as he moves behind the old settee to stand directly in front of the window. Looking out, he continues to fill the bowl of his pipe.

It occurs to me, alone and in my corner, that at any moment he may turn. Pipe in hand. He may notice me sat quietly beside his table. I feel scared. I’m intruding. I shouldn’t be here. If the man sees me what will he say or do? I’m suddenly agitated and uncomfortable.

But the man doesn’t see me.

He never does.

I watch him at the window for some time before he backs away from the net curtains. He continues to back away, past where I hide, still looking longingly towards the window. It’s almost as if he doesn’t want to look at me. But I know he's focussed on something beyond the cloudy grey of the net curtains. I still only see the back of him as he passes out of the room. I only hear the ssh-ssh, ssh-ssh of his trousers.

The sliding door closes behind him.

And I’m left with the settee, the old soldier on the wall, the sash window and whatever lies beyond.

It’s usually then that I wake up. I’m never really sure. But I know I’m in bed and not in a stranger’s front room anymore. I turn and pull the duvet further over my head to try and keep the warmth in.

That’s when I hear them. The noises and voices from underneath my bed.

To begin with they are far away, faded like memories of being small or a baby. But then they get louder and more forceful.

They get nearer.

It sounds like a bundle of people muttering together. Like a small room tightly packed with people who don’t really want to be there. Or a crowded bus stop. Sometimes I hear a distant shout or what seems like a sob. A cough here. A tut there. Then someone telling somebody else off and the other person crying. Someone else is calling out a name and someone else is singing. All this is coming to me from under my bed and getting nearer and nearer.

Suddenly, directly beside my ear, I feel the warm breath of a person. A girl. Close. Very close. Then, those words, still muffled but getting clearer, like a ship suddenly looming out of the mist.

‘…help me…help me…please…’

As usual I turn on all the lights and make my frightened way down to the kitchen for a drink.

Chapter 4

The Little Girl

The following night I couldn’t sleep.

I tried and tried but just couldn’t. I read my book of ghosts for a while but reading about a ghostly innkeeper in a Somerset village got me thinking about the noises and voices and the dream of the old man. So I put the book down. Although I left my bedside lamp switched on I covered my head with my football duvet. Because I hadn’t done much during the day it took me ages to finally doze. I thought about Mum for a while and settled on a few happy memories such as a caravan holiday in Cornwall we once had, and going to the fair at Easter. I remembered getting told off by a man for dropping my candy floss onto the dodgems and Dad telling him off for telling me off.

When I did fall sleep I was sat on the floor in the old man’s room again, near the dining table with the thin table cloth brushing my face and the nets moving at the window. The mirrors and pictures were all there as before but the old man didn’t appear. But I heard the voice of the girl. Not frightening, but soft and cute. I listened and the voice seemed to become clearer and I realised it was saying the same thing over and over in a sort of loop. It was slightly different than before.

I held myself still and listened hard.

It was two words.

I listened still harder.

And then I caught them like fish in a net.

"Help Him...Help Him...Help Him...Help Him..."

Then I was back in my bedroom and staring up at my white ceiling. I wasn't sure if I was awake or not. I know I was shocked and frightened. I thought that I was still dreaming so I lay completely still.

Slowly, I realised I was awake.

And I also realised that I wasn’t alone.

I was listening to the pleading voice of the girl again. But what she had been saying was said differently now. Not quickly over and over, it was said slowly and with other words and with an accent.

"Help him. Please help him. Please."

And the words were close.

Very close.

I was confused and dizzy. I wasn’t sure what was dream and what was for real. By now I had the duvet pulled over my head so I was surrounded by complete darkness. I listened to the girl that seemed so close, so close I could touch her.

"Can you help him? Can you? Please help."

What was going on? My dreams had been invaded by a little girl!

"Can you help him? Please can you? Please!"

Again I could feel her breath on me. Like before the voice seemed soft and young. Younger than me. I also recognised a kind of West Country accent. Like fishermen have or farmers in childrens’ TV programmes.

"Can you? You must!"

At last I decided to be brave - I would come out from under my duvet!

Slowly I turned over and the duvet slid away from my head. Orange light from my bedside lamp made me squint but the voice must have seen me move as it suddenly stopped. The silence frightened me even more. The duvet was still covering the lower half of my face and I peered through narrowed eyes over the top of the parapet I had made.

My bedroom had suddenly become a place you wouldn't want to go to after dark. The weak, lucozade light from my bedside lamp had left the corners of my room in gloomy darkness so now the looming shadow of my wardrobe had changed into a thick oak tree, books and odds-and-ends strewn about the floor had suddenly become rats and giant spiders, and pictures hung up windows where faces would look in.

But I saw the little girl as I looked slowly towards the bottom of my bed. A little girl, sat patiently on my swivel chair, staring back at me.

I never realised what people really mean when they say ‘my heart was in my mouth’. But I do now. Kevin from number 21 had made me jump one Halloween by leaping out on me in a cloak and skeleton mask and Kyle always made me scared when we visited the old derelict house on King’s Street.

But this was different. Although I was ready to see something, I guess you can never be totally ready to actually see something. The shock was like an electric shock. I shouted out and covered my head again.

I hadn’t been running but I found myself panting hard in the darkness under my duvet. I really wanted to shout to my Dad to come and help. This was just too scary. I was only eleven.

I just want to talk to you, I heard her whisper and she said it so sweetly that my mouth closed and my panting slowed. Gradually I grew calmer and a little braver. Only gradually.

"Can you talk to me? she said, I won’t hurt you."

I was scared so I’m not proud of what I said next. It just came out. I really didn’t think about it.

"If you don’t go away I’ll...I’ll get my Dad!"

I waited for a reply. I clearly heard the little girl at the end of my bed give a deep sigh.

"I will! I Iistened for a response. He’ll be angry."

Your Dad can’t hear you silly, said the girl.

Under the duvet I didn’t understand. "Why? Why can’t he hear me?"

"Because I’m here," she answered.

This was weird but somehow I didn’t feel frightened. What makes you so special? That’s stupid nonsense, I told her. There was a spark of anger now. Who did she think she was? Barging into my room, uninvited, telling me that my Dad can’t hear me. I listened but the girl didn’t answer.

Hello? Why can’t my Dad hear me? What have you done to him?

What if she had murdered him in cold blood with a bread knife or something? Left him pale and dead. It happens. I’ve seen the news.

Outside my duvet the girl gave another sigh.

Boys. Why are they so scared of girls? They act so brave all the time yet look at you. Hiding under your duvet. You look silly.

Out on the street and in broad daylight her accent would have been funny. But in the middle of the night it all seemed so stupid.

And I was still angry.

If I come out will you go away?

I only want your help.

OK. I’m coming out. My voice was a little bit shaky. But you’ve got to tell me what you’ve done to my Dad and then leave.

I suppose so.

I came out from under my football duvet. This time to stay. I sat up and squinted towards the end of my bed.

She was a girl. That was certain. Around about eight or nine years old. She was dressed in a skirt with socks pulled up tightly just below the knee. She wore a thick jumper and what looked like a cardigan. I say cardigan because I’ve seen Granddad wear one. She also wore a scarf and gloves. She was prettily plain with a dainty chin and thin lips. Her long hair was done into pig-tails and she seemed to have some sort of beret on her head. She was still sat on my swivel chair and she looked at me curiously, her head cocked to one side like a cat, hands placed respectfully on knees that were drawn together.

Now, the way the girl was dressed and held herself was odd. But odder still was her colour. The girl was completely grey. Hair, skin, clothes, shoes. All grey. I can only describe her colour as like looking at a bad picture on an old black and white television set. She shimmered slightly, as if she were some sort of projected image.

For a moment this is what I thought she was.

But, I said without trying to upset the stranger too much, you’re...

Grey?

Yeah.

I also noticed that her voice didn’t match up with the way her lips moved. It was like - what’s the expression? - like she was out of sync. It reminded me of the delay you get sometimes when a digital TV channel isn’t tuned in properly. Then the girl put a grey hand to her mouth and giggled.

What are you laughing at? I was getting annoyed again now.

It’s your pyjamas, she smirked. They’re funny.

I suddenly became aware that I was just lying there in my old Spiderman pyjamas in front of a stranger. I was immediately embarrassed. I quickly covered myself with the duvet again, brought it up to my neck.

I want you to leave now, I told her.

The girl became upset at this and instantly stopped smiling. She looked down at the floor. The way girls do when they want you to know that they’re sad and want you to change your mind. Of course I felt sorry for her. I’m a boy. Boys can’t help it.

You can only stay if you tell me who you are, how you got in and what you’ve done to my Dad.

I was getting braver by the second.

The girl smiled, her lips moved and then the words came. Your Dad’s fine. The words straggled my way. He just can’t hear us.

Why? Have you covered his ears?

Again the girl giggled. No, he’s fine, believe me. It’s just that I can do that.

Do what?

The girl shrugged. Things.

That’s it! I decided she was a ghost.

Are you a ghost? I was really brave now.

Sort of.

The stranger pulled a white handkerchief from the front pocket of her cardigan. She wiped her nose and replaced it. Then she looked hard at me.

My name is Elizabeth Raynor, or Lizzie for short and Raynor with an ‘O’. I live here in this house with you.

I don’t mind saying I was speechless. Tonight was just getting better and better.

What do you mean ‘live here in this house with you’? Only me and my Dad live here... Then I thought about what I’d just said. …and Mum sometimes.

Elizabeth seemed to be expecting this. She looked up at the ceiling, seemed impatient. I live here in this house with you but in a different time, silly!

Now I was completely confused.

A different time! How come?

Well, you know time, Lizzie said sarcastically, you live in one and I live in another.

"So you’re saying that you’ve travelled through time?"

Yes, she answered.

Now this was just too far-fetched. I felt afraid again and cold. How was I to know who or what she was? I pulled my duvet close. I decided to be polite and maybe she’d go.

So what are you doing here, Elizabeth?

Lizzie’s fine.

So what are you doing here, Lizzie.

I’ve come for your help. You should have recognised my voice. I’ve been calling you for months now. You just didn’t hear me.

This little slice of information suddenly made sense.

My dreams. Have you been in my dreams?

Yes and I don’t know. Sometimes it just works out like that. When we realise that someone could be listening we just keep trying to make them hear us and understand.

Us? There’s more of you?

Yes, said Lizzie, a few.

What, ghosts?

Who can be sure? We just felt that you were listening so we called out for help. Now here I am.

The way Lizzie was talking about time and ghosts and calling for help was so casual and normal that I just couldn’t believe her.

I’m sure this is a wind-up.

Lizzie seemed confused. Wind-up? Like a clock you mean?

I didn’t answer. What was she going on about?. In my bedroom, in the middle of the night and saying these strange things. She was waiting for a reply but I couldn’t think of what to say. I just wanted her to go.

You want me to go, don’t you? Lizzie completely read my thoughts.

I nodded and Lizzie got up from the swivel chair by my computer. I’ll be on my way then. She looked around the room as if seeing it for the first time. But I’ll jolly well be back. Goodnight, Jay.

And Elizabeth Raynor, with an ‘O,’ climbed down invisible stairs and disappeared through my bedroom floor.

Chapter 5

Telling Bethany

The next morning I was tired and grumpy. Dad shouted that it was seven thirty. Like he always does. I heard him but I went back to sleep and don’t remember anything else until Dad was stood over me,