The air was thick with tension. Mary had arrived looking sombre and otherworldly, as though she’d just been beamed down on to the doorstep from her mothership. She’d changed ever so slightly from her attire at school, black lipstick shifting to blood red while a big silver hoop had appeared through her nostrils. Standing to one side, Dougie had ushered her in, checking her preference for drinks. When he’d told her Southern Comfort was not actually an option, she’d reluctantly agreed to try some Dandelion and Burdock, before stomping up the stairs and into Dougie’s room. And there she waited, as my friend climbed the stairs towards her, his hands trembling with trepidation at the evening ahead.
‘What are you worried about? She’s only here for a bit of light exorcism,’ I joked as Dougie headed upstairs. He stumbled as he climbed, almost dropping the cans as he regathered his footing.
‘I’ve never had a girl in my bedroom before,’ he hissed before arriving on the landing, nudging his door open with a tentative toe-poke.
‘You’ve never had a girl in your house,’ I corrected him sympathetically.
The first thing to hit us as we entered his bedroom was the pall of smoke that now hung in the air, Mary having wasted no time in sparking up. She was sitting at the foot of his bed, back against the wall, casting her eyes over the plethora of Warhammer posters that cluttered his walls. To my horror, I spied her using one of Dougie’s chess club cups as an ash tray. I knew how dear those old tin trophies were to him. Biting his lip, Dougie made his way around the bed, sitting at the head end some distance from Mary, placing the cans of pop on to his bedside table.
‘Don’t worry, mate,’ I whispered. ‘She doesn’t bite. Much.’
Mary closed the remaining distance, bumping up against him. That was all it took to propel Dougie forward off the bed.
‘So, I’ve been reading up on it,’ he said to her, crossing to his computer desk and hitting the monitor button.
‘What’s that?’ she asked, a twinge of disappointment in her voice as he sat down in front of his PC.
‘Seances,’ he replied as the screen pinged into life, revealing a world of internet pages on spooks.
Mary’s feet thumped the floor as she crossed the room, coming to a halt behind him. Dougie was immersed in shadows as she leaned forward, her white face appearing across his shoulder. Any hopes that his personal space might remain safe from invasion had been scuttled; the queen of the goths was not giving up so easily.
‘You have been busy,’ she said, clearly impressed.
‘You probably know more than any of the clowns I’ve been speaking to, but there seem to be a few things that are constants. I snaffled some candles from my dad’s garage – apparently spirits are drawn to heat and light.’ He looked at me. ‘Am I right so far?’
‘Can’t say I’ve given it much thought, but if it helps then tell her what she needs to hear.’
‘You’re speaking to him right now?’ she asked, once again staring straight through me.
‘Course,’ Dougie replied. ‘Like I said, he’s here all the time. Right, what else is there . . .’ He started scrolling through one of the web pages that had proved especially helpful. Mary continued to glance around the room, at no point registering my existence.
While there was no arguing with her gothic credentials – she certainly looked the part with her clothes, make-up and constantly surly attitude – I was finding it difficult to believe that this girl had any real occult powers. If she was a spiritualist as she claimed to be, then surely she’d have seen me by now, or at the very least acknowledged I was present? As a lifelong disbeliever in anything supernatural – especially so-called mediums – it was hard enough for me to believe in ghosts, and I was one! I noticed she was now staring at Dougie, her eyes lingering over his still-spiky hair.
She clearly wasn’t listening as he rattled on enthusiastically, expounding his theories on what they needed to do in order for her to speak with me. Her eyes were now on the nape of his neck, pale and exposed where his collar was open. Did she just lick her lips? I was beginning to get a bad feeling about this.
‘Um . . . Dougie,’ I said, but he was utterly in the zone as he imparted his newfound wisdom and paid me no attention.
‘Since you never actually met Will, you don’t know who you’re looking for,’ he said, tapping a shoebox beside the keyboard. ‘I’ve got some of his personal artefacts here: school photographs, a couple of CDs he lent me, roleplay dice, a pair of shades I nicked off him in the summer, that kinda thing. I’ve also turned off my mobile phone – you might want to do the same – as that’s just the kind of distraction I’d imagine might screw things up for you. Sorry – this is probably like teaching your granny how to suck eggs, isn’t—’
Mary’s lips were suddenly on Dougie’s neck, her mouth clamped to his flesh. He let loose a yowl, tearing himself free and squirming out of his chair and on to the floor, the vacated seat spinning behind him like an abandoned kiddie’s roundabout.
‘Did you just bite me?’ exclaimed Dougie in disbelief, checking that his neck was still intact. I snorted, torn between feelings of sympathy and hilarity as he scrambled clear of Bloody Mary.
‘Oh come on, Nosebleed,’ she said, stepping closer to him, her voice now light and giggly. ‘I thought you were into the vampire stuff?’
‘Yeah, on the telly and in a book, not in real life!’ he laughed nervously, his face now flushed with colour. He backed on to the bed, his eyes panicked as she sat near him.
‘Sorry,’ Mary said, her husky voice at its flirty best. It really wasn’t working. ‘I didn’t mean to startle you. Do you want me to take a look at that? See if I’ve . . . broken the skin . . .’
She leaned forward, her black fingernails reached for his collar. Did she actually think she was a vampire?
Dougie dodged out of her grasp once more. ‘There’s been a misunderstanding,’ he gasped. ‘I thought we were here to get you to communicate with Will!’
‘Oh give it up, there’s no such thing as ghosts!’
‘But . . . but I thought you could speak to the dead!’ he stammered frantically.
‘Give over. Who really believes in any of that nonsense? Stop playing games, Nosebleed. I know why you invited me here tonight,’ she whispered, craning closer for a kiss.
‘Wait!’ he shrieked, making one last desperate bid to avoid snogging the most feared girl in school. ‘I’m not a goth and my name’s not Nosebleed! I’m Dougie, I like Dungeons and Dragons, comics, cartoons and Eighties indie! My hair’s spiky because it’s full of flippin’ glue, and using a Sharpie for eyeliner wasn’t hardcore – it was good old-fashioned haplessness! I’m really not into vampires!’
Mary glanced each way conspiratorially. ‘I’ll let you into a couple of secrets: neither am I! My favourite film is Seven Brides for Seven Brothers and my iPod’s full of Michael Buble.’
The panic was rising on Dougie’s face as he realised he was out of his depth, his face drained of colour. A ghost I may have been, but my insides were knotted, my friend’s anxiety seemingly crossing over. Whatever discomfort he felt, I was getting it too, coming off him in waves. He seemed paralysed in the presence of Mary, but I wasn’t. I could have left him there to his fate, with the older girl having clearly dramatically misread Dougie’s signals, but I couldn’t do it. He was my best mate. I did what any friend would do. I intervened.
‘Come on, Nosebleed,’ she whispered, puckering her lips. ‘Gimme some sugar.’
I lashed out, striking one of the cans of pop and propelling it through the air. How did I do it? I couldn’t tell you, I wasn’t even sure I could replicate it. The can exploded as it hit the wall, ring pull rupturing and sending Dandelion and Burdock across the two of them. That wasn’t the alarming part though. A clear viscous gel oozed from the wall where the can had impacted, rolling down the paper in slow, sticky trails. We were all big enough Ghostbusters fans to recognise ectoplasm when we saw it.
That was enough for Bloody Mary. Sh
e trampled Dougie on her way to the door, crashing out of the bedroom and down the stairs as she fled the Hancock house in quick time. We looked out of his window, watching her go, wailing as she ran down the street, before turning our attention back to the wall and the ghostly goo.
‘How—’
‘I have no idea,’ I said, cutting Dougie off. ‘Sorry about the wallpaper, pal. That might take some explaining to your old man.’
‘Thanks, mate,’ he said with a sheepish shrug.
I put my arm around my friend to comfort him, only for it to pass right through.
I cursed. He laughed.
ELEVEN
Live and Learn
‘Well, I think it’s fair to say that my flirtation with the Dark Side’s been a total disaster,’ said Dougie, his voice laden with all the gloom a failed goth could muster.
My mum had a well-worn proverb: If you’ve nothing nice to say, best say nothing at all. I was sticking with this at present. Ordinarily, Dougie would’ve been ripe for the ribbing that only best friends can hand out, but even my wicked sense of humour opted out on this occasion. Don’t get me wrong, I was itching to say something, but nothing I could’ve said would have been funnier than how Dougie already looked.
His hair was gone, shorn off that very morning once it had become clear that the PVA glue had been a distinctly bad idea. Bad because he hadn’t used PVA after all: the bottle he’d swiped from his dad’s garage had actually contained wood glue. His hair had been the least embarrassing problem to resolve, though. A good half-hour had been spent in the bathroom before he left the house, going through roughly five sink-loads of hot, soapy water as he relentlessly scrubbed at his eyelids to no effect. Two perfect black rings encircled his bleary peepers, giving him the fixed expression of a world-weary panda. The pair of sunglasses he’d resorted to only drew more attention, especially with the grey November skies hanging overhead. And the humiliating pièce de résistance was the love bite on his neck. I’d seen this before in school, usually relatively subtle, but Dougie’s wasn’t subtle in the least. The enormous circular suckered spot made it look like he’d lost a fight with the Kraken.
‘Where does this leave us?’ I asked, shadowing my friend as he trudged toward school, scuffing his shoes with each miserable step.
‘Well, I’ve got a new chapter to write in my Rules of Ghosting handbook, specifically on older girls and the merits of speaking to so-called psychics. Bloody Mary’s typical of that lot. Charlatans, all of them, preying on the hopeless and helpless. I believe the expression is “comforting lies for the criminally gullible” where mediums are concerned.’
‘Dunno, mate,’ I said. ‘Try not to be too closed-minded. You may meet the real McCoy one day. After all, your best friend’s a ghost, isn’t he?’
Dougie grunted and tugged the fur-trimmed snorkel of his parka about his face.
‘I’m really not digging the new me. The bald head and sunglasses make me look like Nosferatu’s lovechild,’ replied Dougie, scratching his smooth scalp beneath the hood.
‘I’d have said you were rocking the Uncle Fester look myself, but I won’t argue.’ Dougie shot me a glare. ‘And now I’m done. Promise.’
‘You do realise this is entirely down to you?’
‘Let’s not start a peeing contest! I’m the one who’s dead!’
‘Fair point,’ he grumbled. ‘I’ll give you that. You should be thankful you’ve got a mate like me who’ll do this to himself,’ he said, gesturing from his head to his toes. ‘There aren’t many friends who’d Frankenweenie themselves for their best buddy.’
I burst out laughing, and thankfully Dougie joined me. The mood instantly lifted, my friend wiping a tear from the corner of his eye as he shook his head.
‘I am thankful, mate,’ I said. ‘I appreciate it more than words. At least we’ve ruled out Bloody Mary as an answer to my problems. I’ve seen more psychic ability on Scooby-Doo.’
‘And we still don’t know why I’m the only one who can see you,’ added Dougie. ‘Perhaps the problem does lie with me after all.’
‘I don’t follow.’
‘You could be a figment of my fevered imagination. Perhaps my mind’s rustled you up as a way of dealing with the loss.’
‘Aw, I never realised you loved me so much,’ I said, batting my lashes at him.
‘Shut your rattle,’ he replied, instinctively lashing out and falling straight through my ghostly form, landing in a hedge. ‘What about Rev. Singer?’ Dougie asked, brushing the leaves and twigs off his parka as he righted himself on the footpath once more. ‘D’you think it’s worth seeing Stu’s dad?’
‘Not if you’re hoping he can exorcise me, it’s not! He’s a vicar, what can he really do?’
‘I dunno, but he’ll know more than us. Where else can we go?’
‘What about Lucy Carpenter?’
‘No way, mate,’ said Dougie. ‘Encounters with the opposite sex? Been there, done that. Bloody Mary’s put me off that nonsense for life.’
‘But the kiss we shared—’
‘The kiss you say you shared,’ he corrected me.
‘Isn’t it worth at least talking to her?’
‘As a last resort, perhaps,’ sighed Dougie, ‘but I really can’t imagine she’ll be able to help. At least Rev. Singer’s a vicar. If anyone knows what’s what, surely it’s him? Let’s call round to the church at lunch break, see if Stu’s old man can help.’
‘And then what?’
‘I’m out of ideas. I want to get to the bottom of this just as much as you, Will. We’re in this together: you might be the one who’s dead but you’re still here with me, every minute of the day and night. Don’t get me wrong, I miss you something awful and it breaks my heart knowing you’re a ghost. But this is no way to live, having you follow me around like a shadow. I want to help you move on, mate, for both our sakes. I want to know what the deal is.’
‘The deal?’
‘Yeah,’ he replied, animated now. ‘Will you be around for long? Will you just fade away? I know that sounds horrible, but I’ve got so many questions, like you probably do too. How long does this go on, you haunting me? Who has the answers to something like this? If you’ve any ideas I’m all ears.’
Dougie stopped and turned when he realised I wasn’t with him any more. I was standing beside a pair of wrought-iron gates that were chained and padlocked shut. A yellow warning sign bore the legend CONDEMNED in bold black print, the panel fixed to the rusting bars. Beyond, a gravel driveway disappeared into the trees. I was quiet for a moment before answering him.
‘There’s always the House. I don’t know why we didn’t think of it sooner.’
Dougie shivered, and it wasn’t the cold that had got to him. Red Brook House dated back to the 1800s, once a boarding school before becoming a state school, but that was about as much as any of us knew about its history. One thing everybody in the neighbourhood did know, however, was that it was haunted. The fact it was surrounded by skeletal black woodland, its gravel road was overgrown with brambles, and it had a set of monstrous gothic gates only emphasised that point.
‘I know why we didn’t think of it sooner,’ Dougie said. ‘Because it’s a bloody scary place.’
‘Scarier than the graveyard outside your bedroom window?’
‘I grew up in sight of those graves, mate. Played among them enough times, fetching back footballs that disappeared over the fence. There was never really anything to be scared of there.’
‘Your Hulk underpants would tell a different story.’
‘But the House,’ he continued, ignoring my jibe, ‘that place reeks of bad news. It’s got more horror stories than Stephen King.’
He didn’t need to further explain what he meant. In our brief lifetimes a number of tragedies had taken place in or near the old red building. There’d been a suicide in the surrounding woods – a bank manager who’d been a bit overzealous with other people’s money. And when we were both in primary school, a couple
of senior lads had broken into the House one Halloween as a dare. One had apparently fallen from the main staircase and died, while the other now resided in a mental hospital. How much of this was true was hard to say – stories like that get added to over time – but even if they were just spooky folktales, they’d taken on mythical proportions throughout the school.
‘Do you believe any of those stories?’ I asked.
‘Dunno,’ Dougie bravely replied. ‘But if anywhere is haunted, then it has to be the House.’
‘Oi oi! Humpty Dumpty!’
We both turned, looking back down the road to where Vinnie Savage and his mates were following us, or more specifically, following Dougie. Vinnie Savage: he was Lucy Carpenter’s boyfriend, or had been. I found myself wondering whether he ever got wind of the kiss I’d stolen from her. Either way, it didn’t presently matter. That kiss was unconnected to this encounter. This was just Vinnie’s regular name-calling, and not for the first time Dougie was the target. That was one thing I didn’t miss: the bullying.
It had been Vinnie who had shouted, his gang joining in, shouting other obscenities Dougie’s way. With dismay, my friend realised his hood had fallen down when he’d tumbled into the bushes. Grabbing the fur-trimmed flap of green khaki, he tugged it back over his head, covering his bare scalp once more. I sensed Dougie pick up his pace, trying to put some distance between himself and the mob of morons.
‘Don’t cover it up, baldy!’ shouted another of Vinnie’s mates.
‘Is he running away?’ called a third. ‘Oi, Egghead! Come back!’
My heart ached for Dougie as he now began to jog, the pursuing pack of idiots laughing and jeering as they gave chase.
‘I never tire of this,’ I grumbled as my friend decided to run the remaining distance to school.
Dead Scared Page 5