The Dead Do Talk To Each Other

WPC Sally Mac was showing her colleague into the building.

"I hear the body was found here," the woman in front said, in a low, raspy voice. The Detective didn't look at the WPC, but at the floor. Then at the windows, all three vacant of glass or curtain and two without frames. Where bramble and honeysuckle had taken root, a broken bulb dangled on a twisted cord from the ceiling. Life had long since left the old, prefabricated building.

A small tremor shook through her, visible only in the way her cigarette shook between the detectives’ gloved fingers.

“He's in there,” she pointed to a doorless room off to the side. “People have been talking," the WPC said.

“What they have been saying,” The Detective asked, “Do they say who did it?” a smirk showing on her face.

“No, but..., I have a name” The WPC opened her notebook and read, “A wallet was found with a paper driving licence in it, so no photo ID. The name on the Licence is Ken Davies, 53,”

The Detective finished her sentence, “Kenton Gardens.”

“He was reported missing.”

Another sentence interrupted, “Twenty-six years ago.”

The Detective's heart raced as she recalled the day. As she leaned closer to the body, the musty scent of decay mixed with the distant smell of damp earth. She brushed aside the newspaper, revealing something she never expected to see again: someone who had haunted her and the villagers for years.

“Erm, nineteen ninety-nine, is the date on this?” she asked, her voice low, almost a whisper. The weight of the discovery pressed down like a heavy fog.

“Yes,” the WPC replied, her voice shaky. She flicked her gaze toward the dark corners of the room, as if expecting shadows to come alive. “Twenty-six years since Ken Davies vanished without a trace.”

The Detective straightened, the cold air prickling her skin, her cigarette trembling in her fingers. “Twenty-six years… and no one talked?” Her tone sharpened, laced with disbelief.

The WPC hesitated. “They talked, but not about the important things. Just rumours. They say he had enemies, people who wanted him gone.”

A chill ran down the Detective’s spine. “Enemies, do you have something that wasn’t in the report?”

The WPC opened her phone and read from a report, “His wife died years earlier, leaving a daughter who was put into the care system. He had a few convictions for bar fights, petty theft. He wasn’t a bad man, he just got mixed up with the wrong crowd,” the WPC said, her eyes darting nervously.

“Then let’s find out what really happened,” the Detective snapped, her voice rising, echoing off the crumbling walls. She could feel the tension crackle in the air, a storm brewing just beneath the surface. And not the weather.

The WPC looked down, her expression a mixture of fear and determination. “Do we want to dig up old ghosts?”

"It is already too late for that," the Detective responded, her eyes scanning the dimly lit room with focus. "Ghosts do not leave physical evidence behind. We need to confront the evidence we have."

With a deep breath, the Detective stepped back from the body, her mind racing. “If Ken Davies had enemies, they might still be out there. Just twenty-six years older, we need to tread carefully.”

The WPC nodded, tension coiling like a spring between them. As they turned to leave the room, the Detective felt a shiver run through her, a sense that they were being watched. “It happened in here,” She pointed all around. I can feel it.

As the Detective and the WPC re-entered the dimly lit hallway, a sudden crash resounded from the floor above, prompting both to react at once. The Detective elevated her flashlight, adrenaline surging. "Remain close," she instructed. They advanced toward the staircase.

As they ascended, the sounds of laughter faded, replaced by a low, haunting melody that seemed to emanate from nowhere. The Detective felt a mix of apprehension and determination. They reached the top floor, where the sound grew louder.

In a moonlit room, they found a group of four, sitting bent forward, chatting in whispers.

The Detective stepped forward, her voice slicing through the revelry. “I need to speak to anyone who knew Ken Davies!”

The talking died, replaced by uneasy glances. A woman in tattered clothing whose name was Kara sat up straight, her expression shifting from amusement to fear. “Ken? You’ve come because of him?” Her voice trembled, and the room fell silent.

“Yes,” the Detective pressed. “What happened to him?”

Kara hesitated, glancing around as if weighing the consequences of speaking out. “Ken was… different... not one of us. He had a way of getting under people’s skin.” The other three sniggered. “Some didn’t take kindly to his words.”

“There was a fight,” Agnes said. “That night it was a real nasty one.” She trailed off, eyes wide. “But no one thought he would...,”

“What? No one thought he would what?” the Detective urged, leaning closer.

“I think… wrong place, wrong time, I think they didn’t mean to hurt him.” Kara’s voice wavered, a mix of regret and fear.

“People thought he just ran off,” said Cecil.

“He wouldn’t leave his daughter,” Bernard spoke as thou he knew him.

“How do you know this?” The detective was getting anxious.

“The dead do talk to each other, Detective.” Bernard gave an uneasy smile.

Agnes jumped in with “Wrong place, wrong time, rubbish, he was a bad’en”   

“How do you know all this? Did you know him?” The WPC inquired.

“No, Dear, we are not from this time, our bodies left here many years ago, but the souls remain”

“So how do we believe what you say is correct?” The WPC was making notes.

“As Bernard said, the dead do talk to each other, dear” 

Just then, blue lights flickered, lighting up the room as more police officers arrived.

A collective gasp filled the air, followed by frantic whispers. The Detective’s heart raced as she felt something pass through her, cold and unsettling.

“We have to get out of here!” one of the voices shouted, rising a panic in the air.

The Detective turned. “Everyone, please stay calm!” she shouted, but the chaos erupted. As the four bodies lifted and swirled around, sending dust and feathers into the air.

The Detective braced herself, coughing as dust swirled around her. The four figures rose together, their features sharpening in the electric blue light, leaving the walls eerily untouched by shadow. The air crackled with tension, and for a moment, it felt as if the room itself was holding its breath.

One by one, the figures stopped in front of the Detective. One gave an evil laugh, before disappearing, into the cracks, Kara said “The truth will out..., but not today,” the Detective grabbed for her hand, there was nothing there, but she felt something her fingers tingled.

Kara stopped and turned, “You shouldn’t have come here, Dear,” Kara said, her voice low and haunting.

“But I need answers,”

Standing facing each other, as the ghost’s hand brushed her cheek, a wave of cold swept through Jane. Images flashed before her eyes: a bar fight, a child’s laughter, a man standing over him with a knife, a woman’s scream. “Your face is familiar, what’s your name...,”

A translucent face appeared on the wall “Kara, Dawn is approaching. You need to come,”

“Jane, Jane Davies, he was my father”

“I can feel it,” the figure whispered, its voice echoing with sorrow. “You carry his pain.”

Jane swallowed her voice, barely audible. “I need to know what happened. Please.”

Footsteps echoed up the stairs, each one pounding like a warning. The figure before her began to shimmer, its edges blurring as if dissolving in a sudden gust of wind. Shadows made by approaching flashlights rippled across the walls, and the air grew icy, thick with the scent of old stone and secrets.

“Please don’t go, I need to know!” Jane cried, reaching out, her fingers passing through a cold, swirling haze. The ghost’s mouth opened in a silent scream, its form collapsing inward, sucked into the cracks and crevices of the ancient bricks. For a moment, the wall glowed with a faint, sorrowful light, and then all was still.

“Wow, did that really happen?” asked the WPC.

Jane looked at her and shook her head, trying to steady herself.

 “I… I’m not sure. Maybe it was just the stress, or the atmosphere in this place. But something happened, and I can’t ignore it.”

 “I’m not waiting for answers to come to me,” she said, her voice steady. “I need to see the original case files. There must be something everyone missed.”

 Without another word, Jane strode past the swirling dust, heading for the exit.

“We’re going back to the station,” she called over her shoulder. “I want every record, every witness statement, and every scrap of evidence from twenty-six years ago. If the truth is buried, I’m going to dig it up myself.”