Too Ghoul For School

by Barry Hutchison

  “Uh… Like you’ve had a drink in a while,” said Denzel. “I’ll go and get you some water.”

  He tried to pull his arm away, but the woman’s grip was like a vice clamped around him. The old lady began to laugh, a high-pitched witchy shriek that came mostly through her nose.

  “Denzel, step away,” Quinn instructed, her voice clipped and urgent.

  “Trying!” Denzel said, gritting his teeth and heaving against the cackling pensioner’s grip. “Can’t … break … free!”

  Quinn didn’t panic or shout or look in any way like she was under stress. She just tutted and sighed, like she’d done this one too many times before.

  She brought the hand out from behind her back. It was holding a futuristic-looking pistol with a barrel the size of a tin can. The old woman stopped laughing as Quinn took aim at her forehead and squeezed the trigger.

  There was a whumpf sound, like a tiny thunderclap, and what had until very recently been a pensioner’s head became a snarling, thrashing mass of ghostly tentacles.

  “Um…” said Denzel, now trying even more frantically to free his trapped arm. “Um… Um…”

  “Don’t worry, Denzel, it’s all under control,” said Quinn. She pushed forwards with her empty hand and the tentacle-headed old lady flew backwards and slammed against the invisible barrier.

  The woman – or whatever it was – slid to the floor and lay still. Quinn muttered something below her breath, then smiled at Denzel.

  “Walk with me a moment,” she said. “You look like you could use some fresh air.”

  Denzel followed Quinn towards the door, being sure to give the motionless tentacle-lady as wide a berth as possible. As they neared the spot where Denzel knew the barrier to be, Quinn held a hand out to him.

  After a moment, he took it. The air seemed to ripple around them as Denzel was led out through the front door.

  The noise caught him off-guard. Honking. Engines. Snapshots of conversations. The sounds of a busy city street.

  And it was busy. Pedestrians passed the door in their hundreds. Cars, vans and buses were snarled in the road, with the occasional cyclist whizzing smugly past them.

  Denzel looked back towards the supermarket door. “But… But… None of this was here a minute ago.”

  “Yes, it was,” said Quinn, inhaling deeply through her nose. “It’s always here. All … this.” She gestured around at the packed city centre, and Denzel thought he saw her nostrils flaring with distaste. “We surround each incident with … well, let’s call it a bubble. It keeps the outside world at bay while we get on with the task at hand.”

  “But how?” said Denzel. “I mean, the shop’s still there. The door’s open. What if someone walks in?”

  “They never do,” said Quinn. She nodded along the pavement. “Observe.”

  Denzel watched as a harassed-looking woman with three children and a “Bag for Life” approached the supermarket front door, looked briefly confused, then diverted and carried on along the street.

  “She doesn’t know why she did that,” Quinn explained, as the woman walked off. “She had every intention of going inside, but something told her not to. Something that affected her on a fundamental, primal level, but without her even noticing.”

  “You can do that to people?” Denzel asked.

  “Ha!” said Quinn, but without any real humour in it. “People are easy. With a bit of effort, you can make anyone do or think whatever you want.” She turned away from the noise and the traffic and looked at Denzel for the first time since they’d left the shop. “Or you could, were you so inclined.”

  She turned away again, and looked both ways along the pavement. “Look at them. They have no idea about the dangers lurking beneath the surface of this world. They have no idea what we do to keep them safe.” She rocked on her heels and clicked her tongue against the roof of her mouth. “I used to envy them that. Their ignorance.”

  “And now?” asked Denzel.

  Quinn didn’t say anything for a few seconds. Instead, she about-turned and took Denzel’s hand again. “Now I pity them,” she said, then the sound of the city was replaced by the howling of ghosts and the crackle of magic as they stepped back inside the shop.

  The old woman was no longer lying on the floor. That was the first thing Denzel noticed. The next thing he noticed was that she was clinging to the ceiling like Spider-Man, her tentacle head whipping at the air.

  “I thought you said you had plastic hips!” Denzel cried. Beside him, Quinn raised a hand and muttered something below her breath. The ceiling tiles rippled like water, and the ghost lost its grip.

  Denzel leapt clear as the old woman’s body hit the floor with a damp-sounding thwap. “Ooh, that had to hurt,” he whispered, then he yelped in fright as one of her hands pulled itself free from her sleeve and began scurrying towards him on its fingertips.

  The tentacle head made a grab for Quinn, forcing her backwards. Denzel hopped and stamped his foot as the hand scrambled for him. “Argh! Back off! Stop it!”

  The fingers crouched low at the knuckles, then the hand launched itself at him like a jumping spider. It landed on his chest, and he frantically tried to flick it away. “Aah! Get off!” he yelped, but the hand darted around his back, and up on to his shoulder.

  “Help!” he cried, but Quinn was busy dodging the old woman’s tentacle-head. Denzel hissed as the hand yanked his hair and sent him stumbling into a rack of tabloid newspapers.

  “Ow, ow, ow!” he protested. He grabbed for the hand and heaved at it, but only succeeded in pulling his own hair. “Ooh, worse, worse, worse!”

  He spun. He twisted. He dug his fingernails into the detached hand’s wrist, but with no effect.

  “Denzel, don’t move!” barked a familiar voice. Completely ignoring the suggestion, he turned to find Boyle and Knightley both closing in on him, guns raised. “You’ve got something in your hair.”

  “I know I’ve got something in my hair!” Denzel cried. “Get it out of my hair.”

  “Done!” sneered Knightley, looking along the sight of her rifle.

  “No, wait!” said Boyle, but then Knightley’s gun let out a loud, high-pitched screech. Denzel felt a sensation, like the whole world had taken one step to the left and not bothered to tell him.

  And everything went dark.

  Denzel woke with a start. Or, more accurately, a scream.

  He spent a panicky few seconds thrashing and kicking, and it was only thanks to some impressively fast reflexes that Director Quinn managed to avoid a flailing fist to the face.

  “Ah, there you are,” she said from the bottom of his bed, once he’d stopped trying to beat up thin air. “We were starting to worry you were never going to wake up.”

  Denzel’s hands shot to his hair. He was relieved to find nothing holding on to it, and let out a breath he seemed to have been holding even in his sleep.

  “How long was I out for?” he asked.

  “About nine hours,” said Samara. She was sitting in a chair near the head of the bed. She smiled as Denzel noticed her, then unscrewed the cap on a bottle of water and passed it to him. “You went down pretty hard.”

  Denzel took a gulp of the water, then pressed the cool plastic against his cheek. “Did Knightley shoot me?”

  “She shot near you,” said Quinn. “Too near, obviously. She has been reprimanded.”

  “Right. OK. I suppose that’s fair enough, then,” said Denzel. He cricked his neck, then smoothed down his hair. “What was that thing? The old woman, I mean.”

  “Not really an old woman, for one,” said Quinn.

  “Yeah, I guessed that,” said Denzel. “You know, with the way her head turned into an octopus, and everything.”

  “Well spotted,” said Quinn. “If you want to get technical about it, it was a Corporeal Four-Dimensional Non-Mortal Entity.”

  Denzel went through all those words in his head, trying to figure out what any of them meant. One phrase jumped out. “Four-Dimensional
?”

  “It means they’re fully formed in the physical realm, and are also capable of tactile interaction,” said Samara.

  Denzel nodded. “Right. And in English…?”

  “Three-dimensional Corporeals look like they’re really there, but can’t touch you,” Quinn explained. “Four-dimensional ones can.”

  “And you don’t want to know about the five-dimensional ones,” said Samara. “Trust me.”

  “So … it’s a ghost?” said Denzel.

  “Yes,” said Quinn.

  “But it’s solid?”

  “Yes,” said Samara.

  “Then, I mean… How is it a ghost?” Denzel asked. “I mean, the other ones – the things that looked like sheets? They’re ghosts, I get that. But that old woman looked just like … well, like an old woman. To start with, anyway.”

  “In some ways, she was an old woman,” said Quinn. “Or as close to one as it’s possible to be, at least, without actually being one. If that makes sense?”

  “Not really,” said Denzel.

  Quinn smiled her not-quite smile. “Even our equipment can’t always detect a Corporeal. We have no idea how many are out there, living among us. Well, not living, obviously. Existing. Luckily for you I was observing. I wanted to see how you’d do out in the field.”

  “And how did I do?” Denzel asked, although he could probably guess.

  “You’re alive,” said Quinn. “That’s a pretty positive result. There’s no saying what the Corporeal might have done to you, had I not intervened.”

  “She didn’t really seem to be trying to hurt me or anything,” Denzel said. “She just said she wanted my help.”

  He thought back to the poltergeist, and those two words snaking in the air.

  “Yes, well, they’ll say anything,” Quinn said. “They can’t be trusted.”

  She smoothed the cover of Denzel’s bed, then stood up. “Anyway, good to see you awake. Samara, please make sure Denzel has everything he needs, then best leave him to rest.” She smiled down at Denzel. “I want you wide awake for training tomorrow.”

  “But … I’m going home tomorrow,” said Denzel.

  “Twenty-four hours. That’s what you promised us,” said Quinn, heading for the door. “So training. With Boyle. Tomorrow morning.”

  Samara stood up and did something that was sort of half a bow and half a curtsey to the director, then the door closed, leaving the two of them alone.

  “I’m really sorry about what happened,” Samara said. “It’s my fault. I should’ve been keeping a closer watch on you.”

  “It’s fine, don’t worry about it. You had ghosts to catch and all that stuff,” said Denzel. “Get them all?”

  “Yeah, we got them,” Samara replied. “Well, except the Corporeal. It got away. The others are all gemmed up and locked in Spectral Storage.”

  “And what happens to them then?” Denzel asked, shimmying himself into an upright position on the bed. “What do you do with them? Do you send them to the Spectre Realm?”

  “Spectral Realm, and no,” said Samara. “For that, we’d have to open a gateway, and that’s too dangerous.”

  “How do they get out? From the Spectral Realm, I mean?” Denzel asked. “That’s how they get here, right?”

  Samara shook her head. “No. Once something’s in there, we don’t think it can get out. It’s a one-way street. The ghosts that show up here on this side have never found their way to the Spectral Realm, for some reason. Or have decided they prefer it here, maybe.”

  “And you just keep them locked up?” said Denzel. “Forever?”

  Samara stood up. “Well, it’s that or we let them go free,” she said, shrugging. “And you’ve seen what happens then.”

  “Yeah. Suppose,” said Denzel. “Sounds like whatever Quinn’s got planned will make life more simple for everyone.”

  Samara turned. “Got planned?”

  “Yeah. To get rid of all the ghosts, or something?” Denzel said. “Said the Spectre Collectors wouldn’t be needed after that.”

  Samara nodded slowly. “Right. Yeah. Of course. Did she say anything else?”

  “No,” said Denzel. “No, I don’t think so… Um, except, now I think about it, when she asked me to keep it to myself.”

  “Don’t worry, I won’t tell her you told me,” Samara said. She hung back for a moment, like she was about to say something else, but then shook her head. “Goodnight, Denzel.”

  “Night,” said Denzel, as Samara left and closed the door.

  He slid back down in the bed, too tired to even take off his clothes. He needed the toilet. It wasn’t a pressing urge, but he knew if he fell asleep now he’d wake up with his bladder screaming at him in a couple of hours.

  He should go find the bathroom. It wouldn’t be far away.

  Yes, he thought, closing his eyes, he should definitely go and find the bathroom.

  Next morning, Denzel woke up not needing the toilet at all. At first, he panicked that he’d wet himself during the night, but was relieved to discover the sheets were bone dry.

  He did almost wet himself a few moments later, however, when Boyle came bursting into his room, shouting at him to get up and get ready for training.

  Denzel stood across from Boyle now, chewing on a cereal bar and gazing down at the gun in his hand, quietly trying to figure out where the trigger was. It wasn’t that he couldn’t see a trigger on it, it was more that he could see too many of them. There were three sticking out of various parts of the barrel, and at least another one tucked round the back.

  “Get all that?” asked Boyle.

  Denzel swallowed the last of the cereal bar and looked up. “Hmm?”

  Boyle twitched with irritation. “Did you get everything I just said?”

  “I got the general gist of it,” Denzel lied. “But it might be worth going over it again, just to be on the safe side.”

  Boyle shook his head and muttered below his breath. “OK, short version,” he snapped. “As you saw yesterday, ghosts come in lots of different forms. Some are invisible – to most of us, anyway – some are semi-transparent, some are glowing balls of energy, some are solid, whatever…”

  “I still don’t get how they can be solid,” said Denzel.

  “Because they’re supernatural spirit energy, they can be whatever they want,” Boyle said. “Which reminds me. Did you take the Plasmic Disruptor yesterday?”

  “Not that I know of,” said Denzel. “What is it?”

  “That box you picked up when I was showing you the Spook Suit,” said Boyle, his eyes narrowing. “You seemed awfully interested in it, and now it’s gone.”

  “Oh. No,” said Denzel. “Why would I take it?”

  “You tell me,” said Boyle.

  “Well … I can’t, because I didn’t take it,” said Denzel.

  Boyle advanced. “Is that right?”

  “Uh, yes. That’s right.”

  Boyle stopped just a few centimetres closer than Denzel was completely comfortable with. Denzel could hear Boyle’s breath going in and out through his nose as the Vulteron glared down at him.

  “Fair enough, then,” Boyle finally said. He stepped back and gestured to the gun in Denzel’s hands. “The Mark 4 Vapourshaker. Standard kit for agents in the field, before it was replaced by the newer model. Still an effective piece of weaponry, though.”

  “It looks it,” said Denzel. “With all the triggers and knobbly bits and everything.”

  “Knobbly bits?” Boyle scowled, then he shook his head and continued. “Forget it, doesn’t matter. Just point and shoot, it’s all set up.”

  He indicated a door at the other end of the small room. There was a window beside it, showing a theatre-style street scene set on the other side, complete with painted city backdrop and a couple of two-dimensional bins made of wood standing in front.

  “Head through there and wait for the targets to pop up. Once you’re sure they’re ghosts, you open fire. If they aren’t ghosts, or you’re n
ot sure, you don’t. Got it?”

  Denzel nodded. “Got it. Shoot the ghosts, don’t shoot the other stuff.”

  He stepped through the door and it swung closed behind him. Boyle appeared at the window. “OK, beginning program,” he said. “Good luck.”

  Denzel clutched the gun close to him, his finger on one of its many triggers. His eyes darted around the set, searching for some clue as to where the ghosts were going to come from. “I can do this,” he whispered.

  There was a sudden movement from behind the bin, and something terrifying snapped up on a spring.

  Denzel screamed, shut his eyes, then opened fire.

  “So, how did it go?”

  Director Quinn sat behind her desk, her fingers steepled in front of her. Denzel stood between Samara and Boyle, shuffling awkwardly.

  “It didn’t go brilliantly,” he admitted.

  “He shot a little girl in the face,” said Boyle.

  “Accidentally,” said Denzel.

  “Eleven times,” added Boyle.

  “Not a real little girl, though, just a cardboard cut-out.”

  “Ah. I see,” said Quinn, leaning back in her chair. She turned her attention to Samara. “Any more luck with you?”

  “Not really,” Samara said. “I tried him with a Feurety Ring, but it didn’t go well.”

  “How ‘not well’?”

  “He almost set me on fire.”

  Quinn nodded. “I see,” she said. “Still, not to worry. I’m convinced you can fit in here, Denzel. We just have to—”

  “No,” said Denzel.

  Quinn’s smile faltered. “I’m sorry?”

  “I mean, thanks for the offer and everything, it’s been really interesting, but I think I’d like to go home now.”

  “Home?” said Quinn, as if it was a word she wasn’t familiar with.

  “Yeah,” said Denzel. “You know? Home.”

  For a long time, no one spoke. Denzel had just reached the point of feeling so uncomfortable he was about to say something himself, when Quinn nodded. “Of course,” she said, standing up. She held a hand out. “It’s a shame it didn’t work out. I think we could’ve learned a lot from each other, Denzel, but you must do what you feel is right, of course.”