The Case of the Haunted Cot

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Sixteen

Joseph Miller sat at his desk, staring at the computer screen, at the blank document, with no idea where to start. It didn’t help that he couldn’t stop thinking about the Fullwoods, despite having decided he wouldn’t write about them. It wasn’t that he didn’t think their story was relevant; even without it being proof of the paranormal, their experiences were very much relevant. But, even with altered names, Miller doubted the Fullwoods would want their story told to the public.

So what to write about? Several people had spoken to him about writing something more personal, about his own salvation. He had no doubt that it would make a great and inspirational story for somebody, but he didn’t know where to begin, or whether he wanted to.

Standing up from the desk, Miller went to get a glass of water. As he ran the tap, he stared out of the kitchen window, barely able to see anything through the heavy downpour, nor hear anything over the belting the building took from it.

A knock at the door interrupted his thoughts. Miller put his glass to the side of the sink and went to answer it, wondering how soaked they must be in this weather.

As he opened the door, Miller was met with … nothing. Nobody was there. About to shut the door, a faint rustling made Miller look down, and there, kneeling in the dirt with one hand raised as if proposing, was Price.

‘Will you be my moron?’

He was truly soaked, having forgone an umbrella or even a waterproof coat, but he appeared unperturbed. It was an all too perfectly dramatic moment, and it stunk of being rehearsed.

‘Did you actually wait until it was raining to do this?’ Miller asked.

‘It’s London; it wasn’t a long wait,’ Price said, shrugging. ‘I want you to write a book with me.’

‘I don’t think that’s a good idea somehow,’ said Miller.

Price pulled himself up. His knees were covered in mud and rainwater.

‘It’s a perfect idea,’ said Price. ‘We’re exact opposites. We tell the stories from both points of view. With my current sales, I need someone like you to get more people to buy my books, to reach a larger audience.’

‘To turn them into people like you?’ Miller asked.

‘We investigate mysteries together, write up our opinions, and people get to see it from both sides.’

‘Do we get a mini-van and a snack-obsessed dog, too?’

‘I’m serious! Although, for future reference, I’m the flippant one, you’re the polite and nice one.’

There was a certain appeal there. All those people he could reach out to that might otherwise start to think like Price. Maybe Price’s wasn’t the only soul God intended Miller to help. But that didn’t mean this deal was completely sincere; Miller found it hard to believe that Price would risk losing any of his diminutive fan base. Unless, of course, he was so sure in himself that he really expected to never come across anything unexplainable.

‘Let’s talk about this inside,’ Miller said, motioning for Price to enter the flat.

Price backed off into the rain.

‘No, you come outside, it’s more atmospheric.’

Miller sighed, slipping on his shoes. He found himself complying simply because he didn’t want Price to have the satisfaction of an argument. The deluge slapped against him all at once the second he was outside. He could already feel it in his shoes.

‘Yes, lovely out here,’ said Miller. ‘So why me?’

‘You accepted the possibility that I could be right. You were that open-minded at least.’

‘You’re going to lecture me on open-mindedness?’ said Miller, accompanying it with a questioning glance, which went utterly ignored.

‘My mind is open to whatever the evidence points to.’

‘I believed in the possibility of it being real,’ said Miller. ‘I just didn’t want it to be.’

‘Exactly!’ Price said, as if this proved his point. Miller didn’t follow, but he didn’t bother asking either; Price would hardly remain quiet on the matter. ‘That was why you saw reason. People that believe in the paranormal do so simply because they want to. Confirmation bias does the rest.’

‘Confirmation bias works both ways.’

‘And then,’ Price said, his expression turning smug, ‘there’s the prison tattoos.’

Unable to help himself, Miller’s eyes shot up to accuse Price — how did he know? And in doing so, he confirmed Price’s suspicions. Not that he’d needed much more confirmation. Price gently lifted Miller’s arm. There was no point in fighting it now. Miller could see how the rain had quickly soaked through his shirt to make it nearly invisible. The prison tattoo down his arm was on full display.

‘Do you do anything without an ulterior motive?’ Miller asked.

‘Couldn’t have been anything too juicy like murder, or you’d still be in jail. But must have been bad enough to give you a lifetime’s worth of guilt.’

‘What has this got to do with anything?’ Miller asked, trying to keep the anger out of his voice.

‘It has to do with the point in the book. Give me the chance to prove to you that being good does not have to go hand-in-hand with being holy.’

‘I was saved. You cannot take that away from me.’

Price was openly staring at Miller now as if he were a challenge to overcome. But Miller’s anger had already subsided, and was being replaced by pity. If ever anybody needed God in their life, if anybody ever was truly in need of being saved, it was Trenton Price.

‘I’ll do it,’ said Miller.

‘What?’

It was immensely satisfying to see shock on the face of a man that prided himself on knowing everything.

‘Seriously?’ Price said, suspicious. ‘That easy?’

Now Price was studying Miller’s face, trying to read it. Miller made no attempt to hide his thoughts.

‘No, please, no, seriously?’ Price said. ‘You pity me?’

‘You don’t think you need help?’

‘So you want to try and save my immortal soul, is that it?’

‘And you want to take mine away from me.’

That made Price smile, in a challenge accepted kind of way. He proffered his hand to Miller. Miller, half expecting a hand-buzzer, accepted it cautiously.

‘Quite the battle,’ said Price. ‘The prize: our souls … I don’t suppose there’s a cash alternative?’

***

Price and Miller will return in: The Case of the Exploding Granny