Tabitha Bates: ghosts are best left alone

By Nathan Toulane

Jonathon Mayhew is afflicted with fears and phobias. However, a new terror erupts when he accepts an antique Chair.

Now dead, Tabitha Bates, the Chair's previous owner, reveals her presence. She uses malevolent visions about World War II,

Adolf Hitler, and Mankind's evil deeds—with her ethereal voice manipulating radio signals, carrying them from the world of the

dead and into the world of the living.       

 

Distraught, Jonathon seeks a psychologist, Dr Elizabeth Matthews. She's fascinated by Jonathon's case and agrees to help.

And so, with darkened atmospheric centrepieces and disturbing visions becoming profound, both are hurled into a web of

sinister secrets, murder, doomed love and left wondering if either can survive the ghostly entity, Tabitha Bates.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Nathan Toulane
• Release date: Jan 24, 2022
• ISBN: 9798201754389

Book preview

THE NIGHTMARE

The shimmering sun was a fiery blood red when it rose over the horizon, while a chill in the unclean air caused dirty marks to form on the watching crowd’s lips. The atmosphere seemed to be breathing. Developing. Thinking. Thinking like a monster, and was stirring with ideas and inventions. Then a magnificent structure came into view, like some perverse, silver religious symbol. But this wasn’t something sacred. It was a rocket. The year was 1945: a factory munitions’ facility some forty miles from the mayhem of war-ravaged Berlin.

The final throes of World War II were playing out, and Hitler’s insanity knew no bounds. Chaos, death, inhumanity and bloody destruction were everywhere.

Child soldiers were dying in droves, attempting to maintain the Third Reich’s grip on power. Then the Russian Army discovered concentration camps in Poland and Germany. The Russian Army in the East was everywhere, like multiplying cockroaches, but these cockroaches were not scavenging vermin. Instead, they were soldiers on a mission, seeking justice for the War of bloody Attrition that took place within its country’s borders since 1941.

The architect of this terrible conflict, Adolf Hitler stepped forward—surrounded by his henchmen and numerous bodyguards, dressed in their black SS uniforms—all were still willing to die for the glorious ‘Cause’, but this ‘Cause’ was a hopeless one. It was a ‘Cause’ resulting in countless defeats, mayhem, betrayal, assassinations—and in addition, swathes of lands once held by the Germans now turned into wastelands. Because of these facts, Hitler had become a shadow of his former self, with purple patched scars on his skin, a skeletal frame, trembling hands and a dry raw cough, which would intermittingly explode from his lungs amongst sprays of sputum and blood.

Abruptly though, through the backdrop of the orange and red coloured horizon, a zip-black-suited man ambled brazenly to the front of the crowd. His spirits were the opposite of Hitler’s; they were optimistic. His eyes sparkled and had life in them, and he possessed a feeling of pride—helped in no small part by the smell of jet propulsion fuel, which brought about a buzzing sensation: the man felt like he had recreational drugs streaming through his veins. 

‘Success! And revenge!’ stated the man. ‘Retribution will be sweet when London experiences the effects of this V4 rocket. A rocket unbeknown to British and US intelligence. It can carry men and weapons within its shell. They’ll be no more Winston Churchill! England will become a wilderness, fit only for subhuman hordes.  London will burn when our rockets stream down from the sky. They’ll arrive in silence to obliterate their targets. The stinkin’ British will have no more music. No more Jews. No more monuments— erected to their heroes of war. The population will become slaves to our great Fuhrer, Hitler. They will never stop us in our quest. Even their Empire will cease to exist!’ 

The man’s head rose, he screamed ‘Sieg Heil!’ (Hail victory!) And gave the Nazi salute in Hitler’s honour; this brought a wry smile from the German Fuhrer, and he articulated a rambling ‘worded sentence’ in reply. After a salute, Adolf Hitler strolled from the scene, preparing to make his final journey to his mistress Eva Braun, holed up in a blackened bunker back in war-torn Berlin. However, in the shadows, a beautiful woman lingered, with long flowing hair, pert lips, and eyes that could make a man’s desire turn into obsessions. She emerged from the darkness with grace, finesse and delightful style. Hitler glanced at her, expression warming, and he reached out his shaking left hand. He drew her to his body and kissed and embraced her. He whispered a name, the name of Tabitha. Next, thick misty darkness swept over them, and they disappeared from the scene, like a candle’s dying flame puffing out with circles of smoke. 

Two large black leather-gloved hands hit upon the zip-black-suited man’s shoulder with a loud smack. Four stout hook-nosed Nazi Stormtroopers appeared. One of them spoke firmly, ‘Are you prepared! Prepared for the showdown?’

The man snapped to attention in response.

‘Good!’ voiced the Stormtrooper firmly. His eyes fastened into a bright glare. ‘You know the plan. Disrupt the communication systems. Prepare plans for the atomic counter strike. Orchestrate a revolution. Meet up with underground contacts. Time will be different. You will be in the future. Maybe a year or so from now! You’ll be in England. In the ascendancy. The concept of time is an advantage. Be prepared for the beginnings of a new order. An order indoctrinated with the Fourth Reich. It’ll arise from the ashes. And God-willing! It will ARISEEEEE! ARISEEEEE! POWERFUL ONCE AGAIN!!!’

In a catcall of heroic chants, the words: ‘HEIL HITLER...HITLER IS DEUTSCHLAND! DEUTSCHLAND IS HITLER!’ were shouted. These words held in the heavens like furious spinning trumpets. Then the man pushed ahead to the waiting rocket—hoisted aloft by comrades in arms. He began moving on top of a crowd of well-wishers, corrupted by their own warped Nazi ideology of still being able to stem the tide—and ultimately—with their deluded insight—of winning World War II in a blaze of glory and mad patriotism.

Amongst this chaos, a whoosh of spraying steam and potent petroleum occurred, and swirling dust became like a swarm of flies as the motors of the engines from the rocket growled and angered; this was the precursor for the countdown to begin.

The man entered the rocket through a small steel hatch, and inside, the rocket’s command-shell beeping noises penetrated the man’s eardrums. Red lights danced and skipped on the rocket’s steel walls. The lights resembled angry insects—trying to avoid the indignity of being zapped. 

‘Time! The time!’ The man glanced at the control panel. The clock was set to 1946. Instantly he felt confused. He began to panic. ‘Was the time right? Shouldn’t it be 1945?’ Then, in a moment of alarm and tension, he gripped the control lever for the ‘time clock’ to be adjusted, but it was too late. A massive jolt thrust his whole body forward, and his head hit the launch button. The crowd outside scattered as the rocket lifted into the air and headed into the rumbling clouds, shooting streams of fire behind.

Suddenly my eyes settled upon this man. I was within him and experiencing his full emotions and visions. Abruptly I could see the stars blinking and flashing silver in the darkness of Space while meteor showers exploded over the moon. Then solar flares erupted from the Earth’s pulsating Sun when the V4 rocket entered some kind of orbit around the Earth. Next, with this manoeuvre occurring, the heat inside the missile became unbearable. Finally, with sweat and thirst and a gulp of swallowed oxygen, I blacked out, and the rocket entered some kind of time sphere. The clockwork chronometer on the dashboard malfunctioned, and the years began to speed up. First, 1951 clicked on the sparking console, then 1958, then 1970 and finally 2016.

Chapter One

Agasp of panic hoisted my body aloft, and my heart was beating feverishly. Immediately I cried out in terror. ‘That was a dream! Such a terrible DREAM !’

My back arched to the echoes of those words, and my head looked to the ceiling for a reason. Then, after a respite, I touched my skin with shaking hands and felt thick wetness upon me. My whole body was drenched in sweat. 

My sleep, my nightmare about Hitler and his devastating rocket program, which I’d just endured, had awoken me from my slumber. I shivered and took a deep breath to inflate my distressed lungs, and coughed croakily like a man who had smoked two hundred cigarettes a day. Following this caustic moment, only then did I relax to my present-day self. 

I, Jonathon Mayhew, sat in contemplation for twenty minutes with the remnants of this dark dream hanging onto the underbelly of my shaken mind.

My nightmare about the Second World War, Adolf Hitler, and his rocket programme brought horrifying memories. My grandparents and other family members were all wiped out by a V2 rocket strike in London: 1945, so thus, I had a deep-seated prejudice against any rocket, which I saw on television or a news broadcast.

Stupid, isn’t it. I don’t know why I persist with this prejudice. Rockets have launched Mankind into the skies, sent satellites into orbit around our Earth, and propelled probes into deep space on journeys of exploration, all to study the Planets that litter our solar system like beacons of light.

That being said, my state of mind was conditioned to the negative. Any rocket’s benefits—is always outweighed by stories of doom. This constant fear, reinforced by ‘tales’ told to me in childhood about objects from the sky, and the disaster they represented, has cursed me with a psychological affliction that cannot be undone.

And thus, despite the best efforts by any analyst, any doctor, or even those government physicians who’d periodically drag me into their office to interrogate me about my work benefits, none of them have ever been successful in treating my condition. Believe my words, I’ve tried so tirelessly to rid myself of this post-traumatic trauma—but ultimately, I’ve failed.

After an hour of morbid thinking, I arose from my bed, turned on my table lamp, and slowly strolled to a chair. There I shifted my posture on its cushioned seat and tried to concentrate on reading Margaret Mitchell’s novel GONE WITH THE WIND. I felt engrossed by her use of phrases and her descriptions about the futility of war. Her writings were still relevant today due to the modern conflicts affecting our world.

To be frank, I hate war; so many battles I’ve observed on the news with all its evils. It pain’s my stomach—like a pig’s guts roasted in an oven. I’m sick of seeing charred bodies, crying children, scorched earth and burning villages—all accompanied by weary, tearful, grief-stricken refugees fleeing the bloody anarchy of death. Wretched politicians have burned bundles of money, all for the point of human destruction. Trillions of dollars, to be exact—accumulated for the purpose of devastation. These politicians have blood on their hands. In heavens name! We could’ve put a man on the planet Mars. But, unfortunately, misery seems ingrained into Mankind’s leaders—and Mankind’s leaders’ deep-seated capacities for destruction seem to evolve decade-on-decade and century-on-century.  

The word ‘destruction’ brought Hitler’s name back into my mind. Ironically, his favourite movie was Margaret Mitchell’s, GONE WITH THE WIND. So I wonder if its story had any resonance on his crazed mind during those final days of World War II.

Before I could think for another moment, a tremendous crash sounded and shook the foundations of my house. Harry, my next-door neighbour, let out a cry and kicked his cat. A loud meow ensued. ‘Hey, lunatics! Lunatics!’ he screamed. ‘You’ve woken my cat. He’ll be out of sorts all night now.’

I cast aside my neighbour’s grievances and mumbled, ‘What the hell caused that? It wasn’t imagination. It was something real. The bang seemed close!’ I turned my head over my shoulder and glared at the window.

‘I wonder if the lousy anti-social louts and their feral comrades who congregate in the parks and streets are creating havoc as usual,’ I muttered. ‘Or could it be other types, letting off firecrackers?’ I pondered for an answer, then dismissed it. ‘Naa. Firecrackers wouldn’t make such earth-shattering noise.’

With a bark and a whimper, my large mongrel dog resting downstairs whined; he clawed on the carpet and the stairs and at the front door with his large brown claws and the dragging noises he made sequenced into a rhythmic collection of scratches.

‘Cut it out, Winston!’ I shouted. ‘I’ll give you a biscuit treat in a minute. Clever boy. You know you love them.’ I clapped my hands and did a whistle, and Winston’s barking and clawing ceased.

I shifted myself out of my chair gradually and peered out of the bedroom window. The moonlight and the concrete streetlamps shaded murky grey beams and foggy mist onto my back garden.

I twitched, and my eyes travelled to the left. I saw two grey foxes dart in different directions while crunching on discarded chicken bones, and I heard car alarms beeping—followed by countless neighbours’ cats meowing and fighting. In addition—the distressful howls of mongrels came from all directions.

‘I’m sick of being troubled,’ I lamented, my voice pained. ‘At all times of the night. I’m upset enough already. Why isn’t there any regard for people anymore? What’s wrong with society? People struggle to feed themselves these days. Yet, these filthy hooligans who plague us at night acquire countless freebies, engage in sexual deviances in cars and the alleyways and shoot up drugs outside in the streets. They are beyond hope!’

My sentence was too flippant, as police sirens wailed in the distance and a group of abrasive men shouted expletives, bringing me added misery.

Due to the disturbances of the past minutes, my eyes became tired and staring.   

I stamped my left foot. ‘I’ll be screwed tomorrow,’ I said with sadness. ‘Great! Work has no sympathy for anyone with sleep trouble. I want my sleep. Dammit! My slumber shouldn’t be cut short by idiots of the night. It’s the same process for me these days. One minute I’m asleep. The next minute I’m aroused by chaos and disorder.’

I tottered a few steps—and felt the warm shag-pile carpet tickle my bare feet. I grabbed a glass of water from my bedside cabinet and drank the water in gulps. The water felt icy cold as it surged down my throat. I walked a few more steps and thought to myself. It’s time I finally took to my bed. I’ve been up long enough. I can’t think straight anymore. By God! I desperately need sleep to soothe my raw nerves. And with that deliberation, I went to the bathroom, brushed my teeth, and retired to my bedroom.

The following morning was a rush, and after my usual ablutions, I dressed in my grey boiler suit and hurried downstairs to watch the news on the television. The glamorous female presenter presented the headlines with a harsh voice.

There have been numerous reports of an incredible explosion heard in the district around Mayfair, Central London, last night. Police would not confirm or deny the event happened. Although they would like to reassure the public, it was nothing to be concerned about. An investigation is ongoing, and if there are any further details to include—they will be confirmed in a police statement.

‘I’ve heard it all now,’ I exclaimed. ‘These government authorities hide everything from the common person. They know...they know what happened. I mean, I can’t even use my smartphone these days without Google Maps tracking what time I take a leak. Or where my van’s parked. Or what coffee shops I frequent. Or what routes I navigate or whom I’ve chatted with. Jack Barham, the American intelligence officer who defected to China, told us all about these various kinds of surveillance methods when I read an editorial about him years ago in a national newspaper.

Abruptly, on that last irate word, my smartphone rang.

‘Talk of the devil!’ I said, ‘Maybe Jack Barham overheard me.’

I tucked away my flippancy and answered the call. ‘Hello. Jonathon here, speaking hoarsely due to lack of SLEEP!’ 

‘Calm down. No need to yell!’ The voice filtering down the phone line was Mr Hudson’s, my boss.

‘Sorry,’ I replied. ‘Had a bad night. Now then. A job’s calling. Explain further...I’m wanted where? 24 Boothill Road. Whas it about?’

‘There’s an influx of rats,’ countered Hudson. ‘A big job. Looks like you’ll have to use poison and traps.’

‘Y’know poison and traps are like games against these vermin,’ I said forcefully. ‘They are a plague of pests, who’ll never be eradicated. No wonder they’re only amongst a select few of the mammal species who can survive a nuclear war.’ I scratched my nose and gave a final remark. ‘Okay, Mr Hudson, I’m on it. Tell the customer...twenty minutes—and I’ll be there.’

‘I’ll call him to confirm that.’ My boss grunted and continued. ‘No fancy work, Jonathon. Want the job finalized. Clean and quick.’

‘Consider it done!’ I answered. ‘I’m known for my ingenuity.’ I tapped my smartphone finish button and slipped it into my boiler suit pocket.

Swiftly I felt a cold sensation rush over me. The word rats triggered a deep fear. A fear of rats was yet another blight on my psychological qualities. The reason, a few years ago, I was engaged in extensive work on a dilapidated house in the East End of London. Everything seemed to be going well. The electrical wiring was rewound and working correctly—and the dampness in the scratched brickwork was coming along nicely. But yet, one hell of a shock awaited me because when I was underneath the house checking the water pipes, my torch extinguished for some reason. So, I quickly knelt on the ground and scrambled for a spare torch positioned in my toolbox.

Suddenly, I felt something quite awkwardly drop onto my neck. It seemed furry. I thought nothing of it. Then, consequently, it happened again. One. Two. Three. Four times, until it seemed like a sack was on my back. But the bag moved, squeaked and scurried in four directions, making me shudder.

Up to forty rats had dropped onto my posterior and onto the hair on my head. I went crazy with paranoia, and it was only the quick wits of a colleague—nearby —which saved my sanity that day.

I shivered at my dark recollection and yawned. I drank my caffeine packed coffee as the clock chimed and made for the front door. My dog, Winston, was waiting for me, panting as usual, with his long pink tongue poking out. It had the consistency of wet leather, and lumps of mucus sliding on it gave it the appearance of a giant pink slug. I heard him whimper, and then he crouched and prepared to jump onto me. ‘Don’t attempt it,’ I instructed sharply. ‘Don’t even...TRY IT!’

My protestations were useless. With an assault of foul breath and moulting hair, Winston’s sticky tongue immediately popped out and covered us with sticky saliva.

I grimaced. ‘Off me big hairy oaf! Don’t you ever heed instructions?’ I struggled aloft, but the dog had his paws on my shoulders and roughed me up. ‘Look! I’ve told you, I can’t play games. I’ve work!’ Immediately the dog pushed me to the ground.

‘Oh, this is ridiculous!’ I shouted with my face covered in tongue licks. And it was only after an almighty struggle and the rattling of a tin can at him did I finally become released.

After scooping out lumps of canned dog food into a bowl in the kitchen and placing the grimy bowl on the floor, did Winston’s attention leave me? He began consuming the stuff without a care, and his snorting and chomping made a sound—quite disgusting with its tone. Next, I moved my left eye to the front door, and my body followed its direction. I unfastened the latch, and before I exited the house, I could hear my dog barking. Obviously, he wanted more food. 

‘Bloody dog,’ I said. ‘He’s like a hungry monster. Nevertheless, I prefer him to people any day, even if he’s brazen and cuckoo.’ I chuckled at my notion and shut the front door, hastening to my van—parked on the damp street.

Chapter Two

Idrove the brand new company van to the address where the pest infestation occurred and made introductory notes. Then, I grabbed my work bag, exited the van, and hurried past the nearby streetlamps. My brown boots scuffed on the pavement, and the dew of the surrounding grass sparkled in the sunshine.

I stopped. I could see parts of the grass stirring. Was it earthworms? I edged closer. Then without a care in the world, a couple of grey rats with long thin tails scurried amongst the dirt and the uneaten food within the shrubbery. I shuddered. There must have been hundreds of them. Next, I noticed a soggy chewed up newspaper. ‘Huh, that figures,’ I said. ‘These rancid pests eat anything. They make me cringe. It’s stomach-churning. Christ! Their presence sickens me.’ 

I gathered my thoughts and strolled to the property’s front entrance, knocking on the door with a hard rap. A man’s left hand drew aside the dirty curtains from the downstairs’ window, and