Ghosts

by Tess McLennan

  After lying in the darkness for what seemed like hours, and fading in and out of sleep, I turned on the desk light, which illuminated the photographs above my desk. I had arranged the photographs on a board on the wall, and people often complimented me on my keen artistic eye for them. I had taken many pictures of Clem whilst dancing, but also of my musician friends, actors and actresses, all in their element. I hadn’t printed the photographs from my recent overseas trip yet, but I’d made plans to turn them into a postcard collection, and maybe even try to have them exhibited. I had photographs of beautiful European architecture, from both Eastern and Western, street artists at work, people whose stories I’d listened to for hours and hours.

  The photographs on the wall always soothed my anxiety, better than alcohol or cigarettes ever could. I’d dealt with the cataclysm of fear, disgust, and nightmares ever since Jim. Jim, Jim, Jim. He had burned in the way I’d always expected, now probably in hell, staring up from below, wishing he’d been better. Kinder.

  I moved a pile of papers on the desk to the side, uncovering the ones I needed.

  My plane tickets back to Melbourne. I chose Menkin University because a friend had recommended it for its reputable photography course. The Melbourne architecture made for some fantastic photos, but what appealed to me most of all was the distance. I hated the idea of being away from Clem, but in regards to Marella, it was a welcome vacation, for at least nine months of the year.

  I got up from the desk, and settled myself on the windowsill, intending to lose myself in my book, NightFilm by Marisha Pessl, as images of Ruby began to swell in my mind again. I had planned a decent night of reading and solitude, and I intended not to be disturbed. I surprised myself often with how irritable I became if someone interrupted my quiet time.

  I had barely finished the chapter I was in before I noticed something moving on the street outside. Ruby, who always barked at the first sign of a visitor, was oddly silent, and wild animals were rare on the suburban side of Miller Creek. Instinctively, I pulled myself behind the curtain, shielding myself from direct view, peeking around the corner through the sheer layer of fabric.

  Two men I didn’t recognise entered the yard, throwing open the gate as though they’d been around dozens of times before. They left it unlatched, and it swung back and forth in the breeze, creaking slowly with every movement. One of them was incredibly tall, the other small and podgy, and seemed uncomfortable in his too-tight skinny jeans. They walked around the side of the house, entering through the kitchen door. Even this realisation did nothing to calm the feeling of impending dread in my stomach.

  I slipped quietly off the windowsill, and took careful steps down the stairs and into the dark hallway. The door from the hall to the kitchen was shut, and like a spy from a Victorian era novel, I kneeled down and peeked through the keyhole through to the other side. I blessed Marella at that moment for her fascination with what she called ‘vintage houses’.

  The images from my dream were non-existent – Ruby was gone from sight, the candles had disappeared and the lights were turned back on. The tall man took the seat closest to the window, while the other sat in the one facing the kitchen door that I had placed myself behind. Tall-man began talking, my mother answering him calmly. She obviously knew them, the way she poured their tea with such care. Any other woman would have taken the opportunity to throw the boiling water in the face of an intruder. Marella taught me well and my state of alarm momentarily faded. Self-defence had always been a regular topic of conversation in our family. Tight-pants kept nodding in silent agreement to the conversation. He had obviously been instructed to keep his chatter to a minimum, and he kept looking around the kitchen at all the trinkets, appliances and other organized junk that Marella used to keep so immaculately clean. Suddenly, his eyes fell to the keyhole, and his gaze fixed on mine. I shivered, feeling as though the door were suddenly invisible. He stared for what seemed like forever, and then looked away, unfazed by somebody listening in on the conversation. Small potatoes, I imagined him thinking.

  Without warning, Tall-man suddenly raised his hand, swiping the teapot and cups across the table and onto the floor. Marella’s favourite tea set lay in pieces, and as she leant down to scrape up the broken pieces of crockery into her hands, I noticed her face streaked with tears in the kitchen light. Tall-man’s expression was of malice and contempt, as he barked something at her, before rising with Tight-pants and marching out of the kitchen door. A night’s work done for both of them.

  I sat leaning against the kitchen door for what seemed like hours after the men exited the kitchen. I could hear their footsteps outside, and I kept waiting for the sound of a car engine roaring to life. I had to give them credit for being clued in, coming in on foot.

  The door behind me then gave way, and I fell backwards onto the dirty carpet. Marella stood over me. She had stopped crying, and now looked tired and withdrawn.

  “Go to bed, Imogene.”

  I didn’t have the energy to argue, and I skittered up the stairs like a scolded animal.

  The next morning, I made my way downstairs, armed with the questions I’d spent all night pondering. I hadn’t slept much, and my head pounded with fatigue. Clem was sitting on the couch staring at the television, home from her friend’s house earlier than expected, not saying anything as I sat down beside her. I wished then that we could just be normal. There was always some chaos or disaster waiting for us, and sometimes I almost felt as though our paths had been chosen for us in advance. We were just pawns in Fate’s little chess game.

  Clem finally looked away from the television and at me, pretty little Clem, my little sister, who always made me feel like we’d been completely raised by wolves. She handed me the note in her hand, torn from a pad I gave Marella for Christmas one year. Tiny drawings of cats and dogs lined the edges. It was the pad she always used to leave us notes.

  Had to go away for a while, took Ruby with me. Don’t know when I’ll be back. Milk in the fridge is bad, have to get more.

  I balled it up tightly in my hand, and rose from the couch, and made my way to the kitchen, calling out to Clem about getting a start on the house cleaning. No more living like pigs in a sty, I announced. I tossed the note into the garbage, and began reaching for the cleaning products. Clem entered the kitchen after me, and began telling me about her week, as she grabbed a mop and started scrubbing the floor furiously. As she scrubbed, Clem told me about her audition for a dancing role in a town theatre company production ballet, and how she’d eaten a really excellent burrito. Marella’s newest wayfaring adventure was soon forgotten amongst our chatter.

  Meanwhile outside, the ground began to echo with the rhythm of pounding feet. Clem and I stopped our cleaning, and looked at each other, puzzled at the increasing sound. Left, right, left, right. We stood up from the floor, leaving our scour pads lying in a bubbling puddle of detergent, and turned towards the window to find hundreds of men, women and children descending down the street past our house, like soldiers marching into ambush. Movements like slaves, eyes completely soulless. Clem and I made our way over to the window, and I grabbed her trembling hand, as we gaped at the sight outside. A toddler turned her head to stare coldly through the glass window as she past by in the arms of her mother. Suddenly, a man stepped in front of the window, pushing aside the long grass to get as close to the glass as possible. He pressed a long scaly finger to his lips as he looked at us from the outside, his mouth curled into a grim smile behind his outstretched finger.

  Then, they were gone as soon as they’d arrived. Outside, our neighbour mowed his lawn, the sound of the blades getting louder as he came closer to our fence line, and fading as he rode away behind the brick walls of his house. A dog barked manically in the distance. The dull sounds of aimless weekend suburban life. All the while, a cold, and dark silence descended upon our house. The sun went behind a cloud, and the shadows crept in, climbing up the walls, locking us in.

  2

  THE VOYEUR />
  I want you to ponder something for a moment. You, were in the right place at the right time.

  You might think how lucky you were, breathe a sigh of relief at the stroke of good fortune bestowed upon you. Things worked out pretty good for you. But then, you give a thought to how things could have gone, perhaps if you’d stepped into the room five minutes later, or had been stuck in traffic, or overslept that day. Or maybe you just simply decided not to show up. You had to muster up the courage to even get out of bed that day. Would you otherwise be dead because an out-of-control car came crashing through the wall of your bedroom? Would you have landed that job because you made a good impression on a stranger? Would you have met your best friend, or lover because you accepted an invitation to the bar that evening? Would you be somewhere else entirely? A choose your own adventure novel… the possibility of a completely different story, a completely different life. And it only takes a mere few minutes for history to be made, or in the case of this story, completely re-written.

  What a peculiarity it is, that domino effect. One incident, one decision, and perhaps several subsequent disasters… or several subsequent triumphs. Perhaps, more often than not, people find themselves in the wrong place, at the wrong time, rather than the satisfaction of being in that elusive right place. Because the world always favours the disaster story, rather than that of a triumph.

  Then, there is the disastrous combination of being in both the right and wrong place at one time. And that is where the story of Imogene and Aggie, and my work, all began. Imogene and Aggie, who came to find their lives incomparably intertwined, like constricting vines, climbing up an old and desperate tree. And me, The Voyeur, the one who watched and waited, licking my lips with delight at the chaos. After a series of events, bad decisions and impulsive choices on her part, I watched as Imogene woke up in a large room, not unlike that of a museum, gasping for breath, trying to recollect her surroundings. I watched with satisfaction as Imogene began to panic, her innate fear of losing control kicking in. I loved watching people panic. She stared at the blood on her hands, and then looked up at the ceiling. She admired the artwork briefly, Adam reaching for the hand of God, the Twelve Apostles and Jonah over the altar. I imagined her thinking of the likeness to the Sistine Chapel ceiling, which she visited in the past, but wasn’t able to photograph, much to her dismay. I knew Imogene better than she could have ever fathomed. I had been watching her for quite some time, always shrouded in darkness, always expertly out of sight.

  Meanwhile, Aggie sat in another dark corner, also watching, waiting, and calculating. She saw Imogene rise from the bench, and flee to the door. Imogene’s utter terror delighted Aggie, she could taste the fear in the air. She then moved in the shadows towards the exit, as Imogene walked out onto the crowded street and caught sight of herself in the glass windows of the building. She was a mess, her hair matted with mud, her face streaked with dirt and blood. Yet, she attracted no attention. Imogene walked further onto the street. Still, nobody stopped for her. She walked out in front of a taxi and banged hard on the bonnet, but received no attention, or even outrage from the driver, a young Indian man who dreamed of the day his wife and children could join him in this country. Imogene moved aside for the driver, who then sped off into the distance. Aggie stood in the doorway of the museum, laughing and relishing at the chaos. Imogene shook the shoulders of pedestrians, screaming for help. She then noticed a figure standing on the other side of the road, just metres away from where Aggie was hiding herself in the shadow of an archway. Imogene looked back across the street, her eyes falling on the figure, clad in a coat of black and grey. He was tall, with long dark hair, thick theatre makeup around his eyes and exquisite jewellery adorning his fingers. He looked her dead in the eyes, and pressed his long finger to his ruby red lips. He smirked behind his finger, an all-knowing, terrifying smile, sending a chill down Imogene’s spine. His gaze was so piercing, she wondered if he knew every thought she’d ever had.

  Imogene blinked and then, he was gone. She was alone. Aggie laughed again, and set off in the same direction as the cab, lost amongst the throng of people, too busy to notice, too busy to care.

  Meanwhile, I watched her disappear into the crowd. My work was done. I parked my cab, and returned to the bar. I sat alone, drinking my whiskey, watching and waiting. Always waiting, always watching.

  3

  IMOGENE

  2013

  “Who was next in line? What can I get for you today?”

  While the customer answered, indistinguishable against the background of the supermarket rumble, I tried not to rub my tired eyes, redder under the fluorescent lights, those that make people look sallow and unhealthy, in an attempt to make them buy more products as a remedy. She was standing with a feeble looking woman who was a quarter of her size, with a greasy shock of hair protruding from her head like grass from the ground.

  “No, not that one… the one next to it. Look where I’m pointing!”

  Her tone was sharp and impatient, as she rapped on the glass with her long fingernails. I bit my tongue and grabbed the pile of ham next to the tray the customer was pointing at with her wayward finger.

  “Anything else today ma’am?”

  She stared at me for a second. It was a stare of pity, of angst, and of relief. Her face was perspiring, despite the air-conditioning set above freezing, tiny hairs clinging to her upper lip for dear life. I desperately wanted to tweeze them out one by one.

  The lady snatched her ham, her friend smirking as they walked slowly away from the counter together.

  “That girl, and her sister… Poor things, dead father, mother off God knows where. All I can say is, I’d probably wish I was dead too. No wonder she’s so sour.” The woman spoke in a loud, obnoxious voice, one that could probably be heard two stores down the street.

  “I know… that poor girl. The mother, a bit of a scoundrel, often saw her down at the tavern, hanging off the men like a leech. Heard she went insane and drowned herself.”

  “And the father!”

  “Poor girls… poor girls.”

  They both nodded their heads in agreement of their pity for me. I was still within their sight and earshot. Not that they cared. This was Miller Creek, after all.

  “Moustache Maria again,” I complained, leaning back against the workbench after the last lot of customers had disappeared. Jess scrubbed a tray in the sink furiously. The tray was already spotless. “You think she’d have better things to do in her day than torment us.”

  I eyed the lady I had so affectionately dubbed Moustache Maria and her friend, as they strolled by again, knocking several packets of biscuits into their trolley.

  Jess suddenly stopped scrubbing and put down the tray, ignoring my complaints about Moustache Maria. “Now tell me about Michael.”

  Jess was one of those people who absolutely thrived on the gossip and intricate happenings in the lives of others, an absolute born and bred Miller Creek girl. I always wondered if was because she was completely bored with her own life, and wanted to fill it with the fantasies of her friends, pretending they were her own, or if she just got a thrill out of always being the one ‘in the know’. Jess often began her sentences with “Well, actually… what I heard was…”.

  Truth was, the situation with Michael made me feel dirty and cheap. The way that I snuck him through the window of the flat late at night, quiet enough so that Clem wouldn’t hear him, the way I kicked him out before she’d woken up in the morning. I did this four times, and he still hung on, patiently waiting for each time I sent him an alcohol fuelled text message, asking if he wanted to hang out. I couldn’t even admit that the whole experience gave me a rush. It was like the movies, but more tiring and time-consuming. However, as I’d gotten older, I’d begun to realise that sometimes you have to get your kicks where you can.

  I told all this to Jess, eyes wide with the new information, and developments in my story. It was the only real gossip I had to tell, and I hung onto the fe
w minutes where I had her attention, before somebody else took her fancy. I liked being thought of as interesting, even for a moment.

  Clem always told me I was an interesting person. She said that it was because I read a lot, it gave me a unique perspective on the world. Books were not so much in the pursuit of knowledge for me, as they were an escape. But I agreed with Clem, that the knowledge I acquired while reading them gave me an edge, particularly when it came to the conversations in my everyday life. It was the one aspect of my personality that I didn’t feel was completely numbed by my job. All creative impulses and artistic pursuits were left at the door when you entered Johnny’s Mega Market in Miller Creek.

  “I thought you only had a half day today.”

  I looked up to see Clem standing before me, and I smiled, as I pulled my apron off over my head, calling out to Jess that I was taking my break, to which she responded with a wave of her hand. Clem was dressed in tights and a midnight blue singlet, with her Latin dance shoes on her feet. $107.09 on OzSale, minus postage.

  “You really need to take a holiday, you work so much. I think we’d be okay if you took a day off once in a while,” Clem stated, as she followed me into the lunchroom. I pulled open the fridge and found my leftover lunch buried under a pile of other people’s shopping. I shoved it in the microwave and turned around to face her.

  “You need new ballet shoes, and your registration is due soon, so I stayed back when they asked.”

  Clem raised her eyebrows at me, tilting her head to the side. A slight smile played on her lips. “You know I’ve finished school now, shouldn’t that be my responsibility?”