The Swallow

by Charis Cotter

  My heart sank. I hadn’t seen one ghost since I’d got home from the hospital, and I had really hoped they were gone forever. And now here was a ghost, right in my attic, in my own special nest. Where one came, the rest would follow, and I just knew I’d go stark raving mad if I couldn’t keep them away from me.

  “Tell me,” said the ghost, “did you die a horrible death? Are you doomed to wander the ghostly regions between the land of the living and the life beyond?”

  “Stop playing games,” I said. “You know I’m not a ghost. You’re the ghost, and you’re pretending to think I’m a ghost to drive me crazy. It isn’t going to work. Go away. All I want to do is sit in my attic and read my books and sing my songs in peace. Is that too much to ask?”

  “Do ghosts read?” asked the ghost. “That’s very interesting. Do you have to turn the pages or can you sort of absorb the story by holding the book and pulling the words into your head?”

  “I—am—not—a—ghost!” I said slowly and firmly. “Ghosts don’t read! They’re ethereal. They haunt people. They follow them down the street, they watch them when they’re doing their homework, they lurk behind gravestones, they hide in people’s attics—”

  “For someone who says they’re not a ghost, you seem to know an awful lot about them,” said the ghost.

  I opened my mouth but no words came out. This was the most infuriating ghost I had ever met.

  THE DISEMBODIED VOICE

  Polly

  It felt so good to have a chance to put my ghost lore to work.

  “I can prove you’re a ghost,” I said. “I’ve just experienced four—no, five—classic signs of a ghostly presence. One—it’s freezing cold—”

  “We’re in an attic!” said the ghost. “It’s October! Of course it’s cold.”

  “Two—I felt a draft but there was nowhere a draft could get in.”

  “We’re in an ATTIC!” repeated the ghost. “Attics are drafty!”

  “Three—I smelled an unusual smell, the smell of fresh roses, and there are no roses in this attic.”

  “My grandmother’s perfume,” said the ghost. “I put it on just before I came up here. I’m telling you, I’m not a ghost!”

  “Four—I heard ghostly footsteps.” The ghost tried to say something but I hurried on. “And five—I heard a disembodied voice singing a sad song.”

  “I am not a disembodied voice!” said the ghost. “I am a live girl, sitting in my attic, minding my own business until some crazy invisible ghost arrived and started tormenting me. You’re not the first ghost I’ve ever met, you know! I’m not scared of you. Just leave me alone!”

  “Look,” I said. “It’s okay. I understand. I’ve read all about this. Maybe you lived here long ago, and you died—and your spirit has been trapped in this attic ever since, and now I’ve been sent here to help you break free, and—”

  There was a scrambling noise and then a THUMP! THUMP! on the wall behind me and the floor began to shake as if someone was stamping their feet.

  “I—AM—NOT—A—GHOST!!” yelled the ghost. “MY NAME IS ROSE MCPHERSON AND I LIVE AT 43 CEMETERY LANE AND I AM TWELVE YEARS OLD AND I AM NOT DEAD!”

  This ghost was angry.

  Rose

  It felt good to lose my temper. I made a lot of noise, but the ghost didn’t seem at all put out.

  “Wait. Where did you say you live?” she asked calmly.

  “43 CEMETERY LANE!” I repeated.

  Silence.

  “Hit the wall again,” suggested the ghost.

  THUMP.

  “Umm … Ghost?” she said.

  “My name is Rose!”

  “Ummm … Rose?” she said.

  “What?”

  “I live at 41 Cemetery Lane. Next door.”

  It took me a minute to figure it out. “You mean you’re in your own attic? On the other side of this wall?”

  “Yes,” replied the ghost. “I guess you’re not a ghost after all.” She sounded disappointed.

  “But why is it I can hear you so clearly?” I asked. “As if you were right here beside me?”

  “I am right here beside you,” she said, starting to tap against the wall. “This wall must be really thin, not like the brick walls downstairs.”

  “That must be it,” I said. A great feeling of relief swept over me and I spoke without thinking. “So you’re not a ghost either. You must be one of the dreadful Lacey children who live next door.”

  “Who says we’re dreadful?” asked the girl.

  Oops. “Um—my mother.”

  “Oh,” said the girl. “Well—she’s right. We are.”

  GHOST GIRL

  Polly

  My mind was ticking over pretty fast. If she really wasn’t a ghost, how come I’d never seen her? How could a girl just my age live next door and me not know about it?

  “Hang on … how come I’ve never seen you?” I asked.

  “Not this again,” said the ghost.

  “It’s a fair question,” I said. “If you’re not a ghost, and you really do live next door, don’t you think I’d know?”

  “Not necessarily,” replied the ghost. “I’m an invisible kind of person.”

  WOW. An invisible person. But not a ghost?

  “What do you mean, invisible?”

  “People don’t notice me. I’m quiet.”

  “Quiet is one thing but invisible is something else. I think I’d be the first to know if a girl my age moved in next door.”

  The ghost sighed. “I haven’t seen you either, but I’ve seen your brothers and several teenage girls, and your mother, who is always rushing in and out with a small child, and I saw your father when he had the fight with my father.”

  “Fight? What fight?”

  “The day we moved in. Your father flew into a rage because our moving van was taking up all the parking space and he had to park on the next street.”

  “I never heard about that.”

  “My father thought your dad was going to hit him. He told me to keep away from your family, and my mother said you were all savages.”

  That got me worried. I was used to my dad losing his temper with us, but if he was starting to yell at the neighbors too, that was bad. I didn’t know what was wrong with him.

  “Yeah, well, I guess you have stayed away from us pretty good, since I’ve never seen you. When did you move in?”

  “The beginning of July.”

  “I must have been away at camp. I never heard about new people moving in. What happened to the old lady who used to live there?”

  “She was my grandmother and she died last spring.”

  “Oh. Sorry.”

  There was a silence. I still felt there was something fishy about her. She had an odd way of speaking, sort of old-fashioned.

  “What school do you go to? Why don’t I see you leaving in the morning?”

  “St. Ursula’s Academy. Private school. They start early. I leave at seven o’clock and I return by three.”

  “That explains it,” I said slowly. “My bedroom’s at the back—”

  “So is mine,” chimed in the ghost.

  “I leave later than you do and I don’t get home till about four.”

  “Satisfied?” said the ghost in a rather sarcastic tone.

  “I guess so.”

  But there was definitely something weird about this girl. I wasn’t really going to be satisfied until I saw her in the flesh and gave her a good pinch.

  Rose

  It was strange that I’d never seen her and she’d never seen me. Unless I really am invisible. Sometimes I wonder. Especially since I got back from the hospital. I feel so floaty and detached, and sometimes things start bleaching out and turning white again. But maybe that’s because I’ve been calling on white light for protection, ever since I found that book in the attic.

  It was called Ghostly Phenomena, written by a man named Roger Priestley. The last chapter was about protecting yourself from ghosts. One method is to use w
hite light to keep them away. Apparently white light is pure, good energy that can block out bad spirits. The book provided instructions.

  This is the way it works: I close my eyes and imagine white light washing over me and through me, and shining out around me like a suit of armor. It is so bright that it blocks out every little bit of darkness, so nothing is left but this shining, brilliant white.

  I do this in the morning when I wake up, and at night before I go to sleep, and at odd times during the day. It makes me feel peaceful and safe. I think it might be helping to keep the ghosts away.

  I have to say, I was relieved to discover that the Lacey girl was a living, breathing person and not a dead one. And she did know a lot about ghosts, which could be useful.

  By a rather strange coincidence, I had run into her brothers the day before I heard her in the attic.

  I’d come around the corner at the end of our block, walking fast, and bumped right into them. I dropped my schoolbooks.

  “Pardon me,” I mumbled.

  I must have really startled them, because they jumped, yelled, and then stared at me in horror with their mouths hanging open and their eyes bulging. Then they recovered themselves and started in on me.

  “Watch where you’re going, why don’t ya?” said one.

  “Why are you sneaking up on us?” said the other. They both looked exactly the same, wearing matching blue zip-up jackets and brown pants. I found it a bit unnerving, as if I were seeing double.

  “I apologized for bumping into you. Go away,” I said, pushing past them.

  “Yeah, well, YOU go away,” said one, and “Keep your distance, Ghost Girl,” shouted the other.

  What could have scared them so much? I went home and looked at myself in the hall mirror. Ghost Girl?

  Pale face, big dark eyes with hollows under them, dark gray school coat, hair all over the place. And a sad mouth.

  I did look like a ghost.

  PLAY DATE

  Polly

  “So, do you want to get together and play?” I asked the ghost. If she really was a ghost she’d make some excuse.

  “I’m not allowed to play with you,” replied the ghost in a tight little voice. “I told you, my mother thinks you’re all savages, like your father. And your brothers, I might add.”

  “I won’t argue with that, ghostie,” I said cheerfully. “Your mother has the right idea. But we could meet in the cemetery and she’d never know.”

  “The cemetery?” said the ghost, her voice faltering. “Why the cemetery? Why not the park?”

  “Because the cemetery is my favorite place. It’s so spooky and mysterious, and it’s deserted, and your mother would never run into us there.”

  “Well—”

  “If you’re really not a ghost, prove it. Come and meet me and show me that you’re not dead.”

  Silence.

  “I knew it!” I said. I couldn’t help myself. “You ARE a ghost.”

  “Oh, very well,” said the ghost. “I’ll meet you tomorrow. By the big mausoleum with the angel on top. What’s your name?”

  “Polly,” I replied. For someone who claimed not to be a ghost, she sure knew that cemetery pretty good. That mausoleum was way down at the bottom of the hill, and you couldn’t see it until you were right up to it because it was built into the hill and there were lots of bushes around it.

  “Polly. Fine. I’ll see you there at two o’clock. I have to go to church in the morning.”

  “Me too. Then we have a big Sunday dinner, but I should be able to make it by two.”

  “Oh, and Polly?”

  “Yes?”

  “If you call me ghostie one more time you’ll be really, really sorry. My name is Rose.”

  Rose

  The really pathetic part of all this is that I did want to meet her. I never get asked to play by other girls. Never. Once in a while my mother sets something up with her society ladies who have children, but it never works. We sit staring at each other until the grown-ups finish talking. I never have a word to say.

  I don’t think I’ve ever really had a friend. I find it too hard to talk to people. Polly was different. Maybe it was easier to talk to her because I couldn’t see her. And she was kind of funny, though annoying at the same time.

  She certainly was dying to see a ghost. If only she’d known what seeing ghosts was really like, she would have run away from me as far and as fast as she could. Which is what she’d probably do anyway, once she met me and saw how weird I was.

  CRYING

  Polly

  That night I woke up to the sound of my mother crying. It was very dark. She was lying beside me on my bed, the way she used to when I was little and had a bad dream. I rolled over and put my arm around her.

  “Mum?” I whispered. “Mum, what’s wrong?”

  “Oh, Polly,” she said. “I’m sorry about the eggs, I should have remembered.” Then she hiccuped and started crying again and rocking back and forth.

  “Never mind, Mum,” I said softly. “It’s okay. I’m sorry too.”

  And I was. I knew she meant well. She really does want to help all those children, because she has a good heart, but she gets too much to do and then she forgets about me. She always thinks I can manage, but sometimes I need her and she just isn’t there. I wish it could always be like it was that night, with both of us sorry and both of us understanding what the other one needs, but I knew that the next day it would be business as usual, and Mum would be back to saying, “Polly, you have so much and so many children have so little and you need to learn to share,” etcetera, etcetera.

  But for the moment it was different. The house was very quiet. I could almost hear everyone breathing. Mum finally stopped crying. I think we both fell asleep, because I don’t remember her leaving. But in the morning she was gone.

  Rose

  I woke up to the sound of my mother crying. It was very dark. I could hear her in her room, sobbing as if her heart would break. My father was away in Montreal on business, so she was all alone. Crying.

  I got out of bed and walked to the doorway of her room.

  “Mother?” I said, but my voice was swallowed up by the sadness in the room.

  “My baby,” she moaned. “My poor, poor baby. I’ve lost my baby.”

  I walked over to the bed. I hated to hear her cry. She was sitting up, her head in her hands. I touched her shoulder.

  “Mother, don’t,” I whispered.

  She looked up then, but I think she must have been crying in her sleep, because even though she was looking right at me, she didn’t see me.

  “I want my baby,” she cried, “I want her back. Don’t take my baby away.”

  Suddenly I caught a glimpse of something moving, something white, in the oval mirror above my mother’s dressing table. I turned to look at it. Just then the moon must have come out from behind some clouds, because an eerie, cold light filled the room and I could see what was in the mirror.

  It was me. I was wearing a white nightgown and my wild hair was tousled over my shoulders. My eyes were ringed with dark shadows. I seemed to float there, suspended in the glass.

  I looked more like a ghost than ever.

  GLOOM

  Polly

  It was the perfect day to meet a ghost in a cemetery. The gray sky felt heavy and foreboding. A chill wind sighed mournfully through the naked branches of the trees.

  I shivered in the cold and stuck my hands deep into my pockets. I was wearing my red in-between coat and it wasn’t really warm enough. The damp seeped through.

  The cemetery was deserted. I shuffled through the drifts of crispy leaves past my favorite graves: Gower, Phyllis, age 8, 1853, with the fat little angel carved on the stone. Sharpe, Percy, age 12, 1906, guarded by two stone lions. Bakeapple, Victoria, age 2, 1873, with a wreath of stone flowers. Bakeapple, Anna, age 36, 1879. Victoria’s mother, I guess. Their gravestones were blackened with age.

  I had the feeling I always had in the cemetery: ghosts were
all around me, but I couldn’t quite reach them and I couldn’t quite see them. Many of the gravestones were about my height, and when I turned my head quickly it looked like an army of people were filling up the hillsides behind me, watching me.

  I could almost hear a murmuring of voices, I could almost see the dead children stretching out their arms to me, I could almost hear them whispering round my head—but there was no one there.

  But maybe, finally, today would be the day.

  I rounded the hillside and caught my first glimpse of the mausoleum. The angel loomed overhead, its enormous wings spread wide as if it wanted to block out the light.

  Sure enough, someone was sitting on the steps below the barred gate to the tomb. A small, dark figure with a hood shadowing its pale face. As I drew closer, it raised its head to look at me.

  A girl. A girl with a sharp little face, big dark eyes and a funny twisted mouth. She had shadows under her eyes, and she looked like … well, she looked like a ghost!

  Rose

  It was the gloomy, dark kind of afternoon that ghosts love best. When the whole world seems miserable, sad and empty.

  I had come to the cemetery early, knowing how difficult it would be for me to go in. I stood outside the iron gates, trying to find the courage to walk through. I had said my white light prayers before I left home, but the weight of the ghosts beyond the gates pressed down on my chest so I could barely breathe.

  The name of the cemetery, NECROPOLIS, was carved into the stone archway above my head. It meant “City of the Dead.” People had been buried here for nearly two hundred years.

  Famous rebels, writers, politicians, and ordinary people too: whole families, children, mothers and babies. Too many babies. Hundreds of ghosts, all clamoring for attention.

  I peered in. The road lined with gravestones wound through tall old trees. There was no sign of the girl. There was no sign of anyone living.

  I closed my eyes and tried to imagine the white light forming a suit of armor around me, a hard shell that would keep the ghosts out. My fingers and toes began to tingle with warmth.