Blood Red Dreams
'There's no such things as ghosts.' Patrick has said it thousands of times and he believes it, for the most part.
They exist in his home. In a room up the stairs and at the end of the hall, where a painted face of blood keeps watch. The face is fading but even if it dissappeared it would remain, watching, waiting, a reminder, a presence. A mark to remind him - he crossed a line and they paid for it.
He doesn't spend much time at the house anymore. A woman and child still reside there, in dark shady places, in the corner of his eye. If he sits still long enough and waits they appear, by the window playing or setting the table for dinner. Smiling at him as they cross a room. Sometimes he hears them, the chink of dishes in the kitchen, the tinkling of laughter from the garden, a voice calling out to him from above.
They don't exist of course, he knows that, tells himself it's all in his mind. A mind plagued by guilt and loss and a man named Red John. But he allows himself to indulge in the ghosts because he needs to remember them, who they were and what his life meant before murder, death, breakdowns and the CBI. Before Red John came and made his life into a haunted house of ghosts, ghouls and dreams tinged blood red.