by Paul Roscoe
Stepping ahead, Buddy asked Alex, “So how did it go with your folks?”
Despite, or perhaps because of, the real concern on Buddy’s face, Alex just shook his head.
Buddy grunted his sympathy and stepped back in place alongside Mary.
As they approached the Townsends’, two separate groups emerged from their respective cars. On the left, from across the street, Craig Anderson walked with his parents; and from a car on the right, Angela Welch appeared with her mother. Craig waved at Angela, who waited for him by the short wall at the top of the drive. They approached the house together, and their parents followed after, trading sympathetic looks. Mary and her bodyguards fell in with the parents and followed them through the open doorway and into the hallway. As the group before her turned into the living room, a shudder of panic rippled through Mary. The floor felt spongy beneath her feet. I’ll just carry on into the kitchen, she thought. Let the others check out my body. I know what my body looks like, I don’t need to...
But with a series of assured, though unconscious, steps, she soon found herself in her old living room. Only it bore no resemblance to the living room she remembered. The furniture was missing, and there was hardly any wallpaper visible behind the endless array of photographs. Mary Townsend looked down at herself from the walls, and she looked back, knowing every photograph by heart. Mary at the beach. Mary in nappies. Mary in her school uniform. Mary in a blue swimming pool, wearing bright red armbands. Mary blowing candles on a cake. Mary posing with her mother. Mary posing with no one.
It’s like a Warhol silkscreen, she thought, and almost chuckled. I’m Elizabeth Taylor. I’m Marilyn Monroe.
Barely aware of the three boys dropping back into single file behind her, she approached the coffin, knowing she must.
The girl who lay there looked like the slightly dopey younger sister she never had. Despite the thick make up job, the neck still wore a band of green markings, and the whites of her eyes glimmered beneath lids that threatened to pull apart at any minute. Mary stood at the head of the coffin, with Buddy, Tom, and Alex to her left. Angela Welch, dabbing her eyes with a tissue more or less continuously, stood directly opposite. Standing next to her was Craig. Mary looked at him and felt a surge of pity and guilt. Had she really wanted him to come?
Yes.
The thought was obscene.
So there was her date at last, all scrubbed and ready for action. Only instead of wearing his jeans and rock group teeshirt, he was trussed into a pair of grey nylon trousers and a navy blue shirt, done all the way up to the neck to compensate for the lack of tie. Mary watched his face struggle with the conflicting emotions of embarrassment and confusion, and finally felt touched that he had come after all. In fact, now she was here, being at her own funeral didn’t seem so scary. She recognised most people – her grandparents, aunties and uncles, a few cousins: the usual crowd – but like most family parties she had attended, there were some unfamiliar faces. Instead of trying to figure out how she knew these people, she began to wonder what motivated almost total strangers to go to the trouble of dusting off their best mourning gear to turn up to a do like this.
At least I don’t have to talk to anyone, she thought.
“You okay?” Alex whispered.
The fact that Alex still felt the need to keep his voice down made her smile. “Yes, thank you, Alex.”
Angela and Craig faded away from the coffin, almost walking backwards, separating then regrouping at a coffee table laden with framed photographs.
“Good,” Alex said. “Do you mind if I go and stand over there?” He thumbed over his shoulder to a corner where the television usually was.
Mary frowned at this strange request for permission, this sudden politeness, and a small sarcasm – Be my guest – almost escaped her lips. But that was just it, wasn’t it? Alex was being her guest.
Everybody was.
She shuddered at the idea, but instinctively decided to respect it as best she could. “Not at all. In fact I’ll join you. Just give me another minute.”
Unsure if she had given him leave to go, Alex stayed put.
Mary took one last look at the corpse, or rather she gave the whole package a final once-over. The coffin was an okay choice, she guessed. Buttoned cream padding inside a box that looked far too good to be buried – she couldn’t help but bristle at the thought of its cost. And despite the green rub marks around her neck, she considered her make up an overwhelming success. It had been an irrational thought, but she had been expecting to find something more akin to a skeleton lying there, rather than this waxwork dummy. Most of all, she was gratified that her parents had provided the undertakers with a fair representation of the clothes she actually liked to wear: her new black Levis; one of her many black teeshirts; and of course, her Docs, which some kindly soul had even taken the trouble to shine. And had the laces taken a spin in a washing machine? She suspected they had. It was all really quite—
Suddenly the room flashed away from her, turning itself into a negative image. The coffin, the dead stranger lying before her, the could-have-been boyfriend over by the coffee table, and the never-was-quite one beside her were all just shapes, outlines. She tilted her head in order to concentrate on the body in the coffin. Slowly, she could make out the eyes, then the nose.
Then everything was gone.
In its place appeared a memory so real it was hardly a memory at all but more a living moment, a bright, glaring slab of reality. Other than the small matter of it already having happened, it was totally convincing in every aspect:
Golden light filters through the treetops, streams across the playing field, and pours in through the large window. Her hand already has paint on it, but she doesn’t really mind because it is moving in time with her eyes, sweeping back and forth across the canvas. In one movement, it suggests the tiniest of details whilst also creating thick, wide channels of colour; not the colour outside, as it really is, but the colour that her brush sees. The field isn’t green, not really. It is a floating golden yellow...but first the relief must be put in its place. And so green rises from the land, smears up the fences, catches on the pupils’ legs, highlights their javelins, is reflected in the windows, and climbs the tree trunks. Pretty soon her whole canvas is green, and that’s when she feels his eyes on her.
Her first thought is that he will comment on her colour choice, her over-use of one particular tone. He’s done that before.
But this is an exam, isn’t it? She can do what the hell she pleases.
And then her second thought is that he is just looking at her. For enjoyment. Her skin prickles, and she tries to shrug it off, tries to concentrate on her picture. Remember, this is an exam, she tells herself, time is short...
The world flashed into another negative photograph: her funeral again. Gradually, the colours reversed themselves once more, blooming everything into three easily recognisable dimensions. And just like that, her old Art class was gone.
The sensation of being watched, however, lingered.
Mary let her hands fall to the side of the coffin; she gripped it.
“What’s wrong?” Alex asked.
Mary forced herself to release the coffin, which felt shiny and smooth against her thumbs, and soft and yielding against her fingers. “Nothing. It’s just...” She fixed Alex with a look which said, Ready!, took a deep breath, and turned around.
Alex followed her gaze and spotted Mr Ermey immediately.
Standing in front of the mantel with his eyes shut, his arms wrapping something that might be a clipboard, Mr Ermey was oblivious to his surroundings. Alex’s first thought was that there was something essentially wrong about him. It wasn’t the fact that he was here – there were a handful of teachers present, more than Alex had expected, in fact – rather it was something about the man himself that didn’t seem to fit. Maybe it was just the way he looked totally wrapped up in himself. Aside from how he was acting, he didn’t look any different from anyone else. But he was
marked somehow.
“Look what he’s holding.” It was Buddy, closing in from the right, jabbing his finger in Mr Ermey’s direction. “Do you see what he’s got?”
Was that it? Alex focused on the clipboard in Mr Ermey’s hands, immediately realising what it was.
“It’s your painting, Mare,” Buddy said. “The last one you did.”
Buddy was grinning inanely. And slowly, Mary was nodding. As if they needed further proof, the Art teacher turned and placed the painting on the mantel, positioning it in a waiting gap. There was the old shelter, looking like something out of a horror movie: a beast with shiny, bloody teeth, a dark chasm in which to fall forever.
One word pushed out all other thought.
Hide!
Tom’s voice. He was already moving.
In retrospect, none of them could be sure if Tom had actually spoken aloud, but for now that didn’t matter. Mary ducked down on all fours and crawled over to the bay window. Buddy and Alex exited the room and headed for the kitchen. Meanwhile, Tom had pressed himself into a small space on the opposite side of the hearth.
Mary watched Mr Ermey. Relieved of his burden, he had started to inch towards the door. His right hand clawed at his collar and his left hand hung by his side. Mary noticed it was clenched into a tight fist. As he drew nearer to the door, his efforts at an inconspicuous exit crumbled, and he bolted out of the room, clipping at least two other mourners’ shoulders with his own. Mary stood up and slowly walked towards the door, ignoring Tom’s gestures of caution. She paused, then peered into the hall. Her Art teacher had joined a group of people she didn’t recognise; they stood at the coat rack, pretending to be interested in some Christmas photos. Mary ducked back into the living room, where the funeral director had started to lead everyone in prayer, and beckoned Tom over.
“Has he gone?” Tom asked.
“Almost.”
Mary leaned against the door and took another peek. The group of mourners by the coat rack had lost their most recent member. Craning her neck to see beyond the group and through the open front door, Mary caught a flicker of black cloth escape behind the hearse. She stepped into the hall and turned back to Tom. “He’s gone now.”
“Good.”
Mary studied Tom. He was breathing hard; hot swatches of red grew from his collar, finding his cheeks. Despite Mary’s glare, his eyes stayed lowered.
“What was all that about? Why did you want us to hide?”
Tom cast a glance back at where Mr Ermey had stood. “He would have seen us.”
“Why do you think that? No one else can.”
Tom met her gaze. “He’s different.”
Mary felt her head nod in agreement. She marvelled on how her understanding of what was going on here had changed so much. Until now, she had treated everything so lightly. Bored of waiting around for her friends to die, she had hurried things along for Alex. I may not have meant for that to happen, but whichever way you look at it, with all that messing around trying to move stuff, I murdered him. In finally allowing the seriousness of her actions, she felt an overwhelming sense of disbelief. For not only were Alex and the others still talking to her, they had come to her funeral. And here was Tom, being his usual nervy, nerdy self, but trying to protect her all the same.
Trying to protect the murdering bitch.
“Come on,” she said. “Let’s find the others.”
“No need.” Alex emerged from the kitchen with Buddy close behind.
The four of them found a space at the foot of the stairs where no one else was standing, and formed a tight circle. The house was filled with the soft drone of hesitant prayer; it sounded like a giant mumbling in its sleep. Alex was the first to speak:
“Well, I can honestly say that was a first for me. Tell me, Tom, exactly why did I just run away from that teacher?”
Mary cut in, “Tom says he’s different. That he would’ve seen us.”
“And why would that be such a problem. Surely it would be nice for people to see us.”
“Woah, woah, Al,” Buddy said, raising his hands. “You don’t see it do you? Mind if I smoke, Mare?”
“Not at all, but you can stop calling me that.”
“And my name’s Alex, in case you forgot.”
“Okay. Fine, Alex. You’re just a tad too new to this. You seem to be forgetting the fact that you’re dead. Now I know I’ve only been at this for a day, but I reckon a day breaks you in just nicely.”
“Buddy, just what the hell are you talking about?” Alex asked, but more out of annoyance than real puzzlement: the message was already starting to sink in.
“The point is, although we’re surrounded by people, this is a ghost town for us. Someone seeing us is like a stranger moving into town. It means something.” Buddy shook out a cigarette. “Something big.”
Tom watched Alex digest this information.
“Okay,” Alex said. “So what do we do?”
The snap of Buddy’s Zippo sounded close and dull. He took a drag and spoke through the smoke. “I say we’ve found our man. I say we start acting like real ghosts and start haunting someone.”
“Only he isn’t just someone,” Tom said, glancing to his right. “Is he, Mary?”
Mary appeared to be searched for the right words. Eventually she said, “No, Tom. He was my Art teacher.”
“And Art’s your big thing nowadays,” Buddy said.
“Pretty much my only thing, Buddy.”
“Of course, I could be wrong about him being able to see us,” Tom said, shrugging his shoulders. “But there was something definitely different about him.”
“How different?”
“He seemed more there, if you follow.”
“Tom, you’re a genius,” Buddy said, nodding frantically and sputtering smoke, “I knew there was something, but I couldn’t put my finger on it. More there. Christ, that’s right.”
The house became quiet, filled only with the sound of people together in a confined space. People breathed, floorboards squeaked, someone coughed.
“I think it’s time to go,” Tom said.
“Go where?” Buddy said.
“Outside for a start.” Tom gestured towards the living room behind him. “I think everyone’s getting ready for the big event.”
One of Mary’s cousins appeared at the living room doorway. Maureen Townsend’s younger sister followed the small boy closely. Without further discussion, the old gang headed for the front door.
Once safely back on Sycamore Drive, they stood and watched the funeral procession slowly organise itself. Black suits and dresses disappeared into cars. Eventually, a pale, angular shape emerged from the Townsends’ front door, and Mary froze. Watching the awful thing materialise from the shadows, noticing the jerky way it was carried, seeing the reality of its weight, filled her with a coldness that bordered on terror. These things, Mary realised, can not be. She began to shake.
Alex put an arm around her, pulling her close, and she tried to steady herself.
At length, the sound of closing car doors subsided, replaced by the cough and heavy thrum of engines. A long, black automobile rose from the Townsends’ driveway and floated onto the road. Her parents’ car followed, and Mary turned away. One by one, all the other cars gently drifted away from their moorings. The street was emptier than Mary could ever remember it.
Buddy spread a hand in the direction the cars had taken. “Shall we?”
Tom started to walk with him, and Alex moved as if to go, but Mary remained still.
“What is it?” Alex asked, wondering whether or not to lower his arm now that Mary had stopped shaking. Sensing this, Mary stepped forward, releasing herself.
“I think we should get haunting,” she said.
Buddy opened his mouth, and then closed it without saying anything. He approached Mary with his head slightly lowered, looked at her from beneath his eyebrows. “So no funeral?”
“They’ll bury her…I mean me.” Mary shook her head. “
But that’s not me, is it? I think I’ve had enough of my death for one day. But thanks everyone. It meant a lot you all coming, and I’m sorry not to go through with the whole thing but...”
Tom and Alex looked at each other, and then looked away.
“But I really don’t see the need any more, and there’s something about Mr Ermey that needs sorting out. If we’re here to haunt someone, then I guess it’s him. Just then, at the coffin, it was as if I could sense him. I saw myself back in his Art class and...I just knew he was behind me.”
“He had your painting,” Buddy added.
Mary nodded. “But I don’t know wh-”
“What was that painting about, Mary?” Alex asked.
“About?”
“Me and Buddy checked it out in your garage, remember? At first it looks like a picture of the old shelter, then you notice these little details in it: a bicycle wheel, a baseball cap. Things that reminded us of the old gang.”
“So what’s your question? Is my painting about the old gang?”
“Well is it?”
Mary took a deep breath and was filled with the uncanny sensation of having forgotten something. Absently, she looked at the pavement on either side of her, as if she might find it there. As she did, she tried to think back to the previous Saturday.
“That morning, all I knew was that I was going to draw, and maybe paint, the old shelter. I saw it in my mind the moment I woke up, and I saw the finished painting, complete. That doesn’t happen very often, and when it does, the end result hardly ever matches my imagination. I would say that my painting of the old shelter came the closest, but I didn’t set out to put all those little details in there. They just sort of happened. The thing is, I don’t actually remember much about painting that picture. Most of it was done when I was getting ready to...to do the thing that got me here. I mean, of course, it’s us lot in the picture – those little bits and pieces – but if I had any deliberate motivation for painting those things, I’ve forgotten it. And that’s the stone cold truth, I’m afraid. Much of that painting was not really of my doing. But yes, I think it’s about us. And the morning we met David Hartman there.”