That was a scream that could time-travel.
I was dead relieved.
It was drama rehearsal!
Still, a good guy doesn’t just assume that a scream’s part of a play. Waited a few moments, to be sure.
Heard voices somewhere. Two people laughing — a girl and a guy. A door closing. Quiet again.
Decided I was right about the drama practice.
Headed back into the woodwork room, got out the power saw and switched it on.
It can’t have been more than half a minute later, there’s this weird, creepy feeling in my shoulders, like something’s not right with the world.
I switched off the power saw.
Something was fiercely wrong with the world.
It was a world of screaming, shouting, pounding footsteps and slamming doors.
Once again, I’m ashamed to say, my first instinct was to drop to the floor and hide underneath the workbench.
I resisted the instinct, but did put both hands over my head for a moment.
And then, the silence again.
The clamour of noise can’t have lasted for more than a few seconds, but the silence that followed was beyond terrifying.
Where was my dad and his committee? Hadn’t they heard the noise too?
Got out my phone.
Decided the police would not respect me if I didn’t at least open the door and check things out.
Cos what if it was still just drama practice?
Who’d look like an idiot then?
Leaned into the corridor again. This time I was trembling all over. Still nothing.
And then, once again, the sound of laughter. Distant, murmuring laughter — a girl and a guy once again.
Must be one kick-arse drama they’re working on, I thought. Audience are going to need earplugs.
Went back to work, but I’ve gotta say I didn’t feel so peaceful. Also didn’t use the power saw. Didn’t want that clamour creeping up on me again.
Nothing happened — only the silence — and then it was time to go out front and meet my dad.
I have one more thing to report about this night.
As I headed to the exit I remembered that the Art Rooms were haunted.
It was just a fleeting thought. Gave me a laugh. Kept walking.
Caught up with the committee members all heading out to their cars. Seemed they’d had a good meeting. All very buddy-like with each other. Dad was talking with the other parent rep on the committee. Roberto was off to the side on his own, hands in his pockets looking for his cigarettes.
First thing I said was, ‘How about that noise?’
Roberto looked around him at the still, starry night.
‘What noise?’
I pointed to the building: ‘Blood-curdling screams and pounding footsteps?’
Roberto grinned. Thought I was kidding: referring to the ghost stories.
Funny that I hadn’t thought of ghosts myself right away.
‘You telling me you couldn’t hear that noise?’ I said.
He lit his cigarette, smiled around it.
I remembered that the committee met way up on the third floor. Too far away maybe.
But something else — all the time I was talking to Roberto — something else was bothering me.
Then I remembered.
Roberto is director of the drama production.
Can you have rehearsal without the director? Didn’t have a clue how drama rehearsals worked. Maybe you could.
I looked back at the building. The windows deep in darkness. The building like a hulking pool of silence.
Looked out at the parking lot. A handful of cars. Committee members opening car doors.
‘There was a drama rehearsal tonight, right?’ I said.
Roberto wasn’t paying much attention. He was searching through his pockets again. ‘No,’ he said. ‘No rehearsal tonight. What makes you ask?’
And that, as I mentioned, is the last thing I have to say about that night.
You can draw your own conclusions.
Last day of term, I had breakfast with my mother again.
Nice poetic parallel, no?
Back in the Blue Danish Café. Mum down for work for the day.
I was telling her about the episode the night before. The screams and running footsteps, me thinking it was drama rehearsal, there not being a rehearsal, and so on. She was right into the story, believing the ghost theory, laughing at me for not.
But while she was talking, my mind started drifting.
I started thinking how, while I was talking to Roberto, I was half watching Dad in the parking lot. He was talking to the other parent rep, like I said. She’s a nice woman, the mother of my friend Cass. I know for a fact that this woman is single. Her husband died a few years back.
And she’s talking to Dad, but he’s doing his thing. Playing with his car keys. Almost dropping them. Catching them. Picking them up. Not looking at her. Talking through her talk. Saying, ‘Yeah, yeah. Really?’ Even from where I was standing I could see that his ‘yeahs’ and his ‘reallys’ were cutting through her words. Next thing he starts talking fast himself and I see something fall in her face.
So now, here with Mum, I thought about black holes again. Thought about too much stuff being crammed into one small space. How the space implodes. How it collapses under the weight of its own gravity. How my dad never said a single angry word to Mum when she moved out. How he smiled and joked and carried cardboard boxes.
Having stuffed his shirt into his mouth.
I interrupted Mum.
I said, ‘You know how you said he was a black hole?’
‘Who?’
‘Dad.’
Mum goes: ‘I said your dad was a black hole? I don’t think so. No. I never said that. I wouldn’t say a thing like that. He’s not a black hole.’
Then she reflected a minute: ‘He’s more a ghost.’ And here concludes my story.
For if only my mother had said this on the first day of term, if only she had said that my dad was a ghost, well I could have spent the term researching ghosts.
And this would be a ghost story.
As it is, it’s not.
And this is where it ends.
Catch ya later.
2.
Lydia Jaackson-Oberman
THE STORY OF TERM 2 AS A GHOST STORY
The following is a transcript of an actual exchange of correspondence.
The correspondents are myself (Lydia Jaackson-Oberman) and some other person/entity unknown.
The exchange commenced at approximately 11.35 pm last night and concluded at 4.30 am today.
It is important that I preface this transcript by saying that I am not, and never have been, a believer in ghosts. Nor, for that matter, do I believe in anything pertaining to the supernatural. I cannot emphasise this strongly enough. It is true that the opening letter was drafted by myself. (It was typed at the computer in my bedroom — I was home alone.) But it was written as an exercise in invention; designed for my own entertainment.
What happened next amazed me.
The exchange is set out below exactly as it occurred (annotated wherever I think helpful).
In the cold light of day, I have no doubt that there is a rational explanation for this exchange. I simply do not know what it is.
The Exchange of Correspondence
To All Ghosts Reading Over My Shoulder Right Now,
BOO!!
Ha ha.
Anyway, seriously.
The situation is, I have to write about what happened last term. And it has to be a ghost story. I’m thinking: that’s too much for just one girl. I’m thinking: what if I do last term and someone else does the ghost? So then I’m thinking, who? Who could do the ghost?
A ghost. It’s gotta be a ghost.
That’s obvious.
(Assuming I can get one at short notice. If not, maybe I’ll ask my dog.)
So, if there are any ghosts in this room right now —
well, first, I guess, how are you? nice to meet you! you sure haunt quietly — I appreciate that; never hear a sound! — how’s the afterlife treating you these days? (etc, etc) — and second, I need a volunteer.
Could one of you please step up and help? Here’s how I think it could work: I write a letter in which I talk about last term, and you reply with a shriek.
Then I write some more about last term. You shriek straight back. More narrative. More shrieking. And so on, back and forth, until the term is done.
Here’s something else. Every now and then, in response to a letter from me, you should be silent. Let the silence build and build. Every corner of this room should fill with silence. A great blank stare of it; the whole house should throb with it. Nothing but the escalating pounding of my heartbeat. Nothing. Nothing at all.
And then, suddenly?
BANG!
Break the silence with a bang. Like a window shutter crashing in the wind. That kind of bang.
That might be scary.
(After which we’d get right back to talking about last term.)
I know it’s a lot to ask, but I’d be very grateful. And once I’m dead, I’ll look you up and take you out for coffee.
Thanks,
And best wishes,
Lydia Jaackson-Oberman
[After typing the above letter, I stood up, left the room, ran downstairs to the kitchen, stared at the fridge, decided I wasn’t hungry, noticed the dog, remembered I hadn’t fed him. Fed the dog. Ran back upstairs and sat at the computer. On the screen, directly below my letter, was the following.]
Dear Lydia!
I volunteer! Eagerly!
And are you not delighted with this GHOSTLY font? Certainly, I never so much as touched a ‘word processor’ when I was in the living-being realm. But these last few years I try to practise whenever your house is living-being free. (Which is often!) (I do not count your parents amongst the living.) (No, neither your dog. Too small and fluffy.)
Well! To the point! Shall we begin? Pray tell. What sort of a term did you have? It was Term 2 of Year 12 for you, I take it. A time of much academic rigour! (Ha ha! Ha ha! Ha haha! hahahaha!),
Yours in Excited Anticipation (for rare it is that an opportunity presents itself for direct communion with living beings),
A Ghost
[As you can imagine, as soon as I saw this letter — before I had read beyond its opening lines, in fact — I looked around and spoke aloud.
‘Yeah, ha ha,’ I said. ‘Where are you?’
Or something like that. There might have been stronger language.
Of course, my immediate assumption was that somebody — a friend of mine — was in the room. This friend must have emerged while I was downstairs, typed the above, and then hidden him or herself again. I laughed as I called for this person, and yet I also felt annoyed — the privacy intrusion — and mildly uneasy. Just knowing that someone is in the room with you, without knowing where (or who), can be very disconcerting.
I walked away from the computer and began opening wardrobe doors, looking under the bed, leaning out into the hallway, checking nearby rooms.
I searched the entire house.
Every door I opened, every ledge I peered beneath, every light switch I turned on — at each, I expected a tap on my shoulder. The cumulative, physical suspense of this became wearing. Small sounds took on startling significance. (And my dog, Pumpernickel, didn’t help. His stomach kept gurgling weirdly. I should have fed him earlier.)
I returned to my room, searched it thoroughly again. Stood before the computer. Spoke in a voice that, in the hollow quiet of an empty house, seemed childish to my ears: ‘Okay. That’s enough. Where are you?’
There followed a long stretch of silence.
I will replicate it here.
BANG!
My wireless keyboard had crashed from my desk to the floorboards.
It happened just as the silence had become too much, just as it was throbbing in my heartbeat, gathering me tightly in its clasp.
I stared at the keyboard on the floor while the BANG reverberated in my ears.
Then I picked it up and put it back.
I tried not to shake.
Objects often fall from furniture with no apparent cause. (Or sometimes, anyway.) Probably, the keyboard had been inching towards the edge of the desk for some time, so that it only took the slightest movement from me (as I stood, overcome by that silence) to shift the room’s equilibrium and cause it to topple.
I looked at the keyboard, now back on my desk where it belonged.
It seemed so harmless.
And then — there is no way to say this other than simply to say it — the keys began to move.
The appearance, at first, was a sort of shivering, or jiggling — along with, most disturbingly, that busy clittering sound of a keyboard at work.
I moved closer. Keys were rapidly leaping up and down, the space bar jumping frequently.
Even as my mind rushed to explain this — some kind of defect in the keyboard brought on by the fall to the floor — still, a terrible fear washed over me.
I could hardly lift my eyes; but I did.
I looked up at the screen.
And there it was.
Unfurling onto the screen in time with the clatter:]
Lydia!
Ahoy there! I’m still here! Still waiting for your reply! This truly is unexpected — you call upon a ghost and then, when one replies, you rush around searching for a living being! As if an elaborate prank by a hidden friend were more likely than, well, a GHOST responding to your call for a GHOST!!
(When you hear the sound of galloping hooves, think HORSES, my girl, not zebras!) (Especially when you’ve whistled for a horse.)
Still, I hope I have not alarmed you. You seem horrible pale. Do you get enough spinach in your diet? No. You don’t, actually. Never see you touch the stuff.
Anyhow, please! Do respond so we can get started!
Yours,
The Ghost
[I felt pure terror. The clattering keyboard. Words melting onto the screen. My eyes washed over white with fear. Escalating horror at this vision . . . and then, suddenly, I laughed. My vision cleared. I understood. I laughed even harder. (I admit my laughter verged on hysteria for a few moments but even that subsided.) I sat at my computer, thought for a few moments, and then I wrote:]
Dear Ghost,
Well, it’s an honour to meet you.
You are my first ever ghost.
I have so many questions! What’s your name? When did you come from? How did you d—
Wait.
I think that question might breach ghost etiquette.
Moving on smoothly:
What do you eat? Why? Why do you eat?
And most important of all: Why are you here?
I mean, why don’t you just, you know, cross over?
GO TO THE LIGHT!
GO INTO THE LIGHT!!
THERE IS NOTHING HERE FOR YOU ANY LONGER!
YOU ARE DEAD AND HAVE NO PLACE AMONGST THE LIVING!!!
(No offence.)
Lots of love,
Lydia
My Dearest Lydia,
What a lively letter! I feel as if a gust of wind has very nearly blown me from the room!
(I am rather insubstantial of form, so gusts of wind do this all the time.)
My dear, I would be very glad to answer your questions — but is this the time? Do you really want to ask me questions when you should be working on your assessment task? Recall, you must narrate the tale of your life last term, and I must do my bit!
Do begin.
Fondly,
The Ghost
PS Near forgot! No standing on etiquette here! How did I die? I think that’s the question you wished to ask. Well, they’ll tell you I died of typhoid fever but, you know, it was a fish hook in the eye.
Dear Ghost,
Hmm.
On the one hand, a unique opportunity to interrogate the af
terlife about the mysteries of the universe and how it got a fish hook in the eye.
On the other hand, homework.
What’s a girl to do?
I guess the homework is due tomorrow.
Life, eh? It’s a balancing act. (Sorry. That reference to ‘life’ was insensitive.)
Anyway, the story of last term. Well, here it is. Last term:
I met three different people who hated avocado.
Em got obsessed with a ghost haunting the Art Rooms.
I kicked my toe twice.
The weather was kick-arse cold.
I was here alone. I paid the household bills online.
I paid myself a generous management fee for paying the household bills online.
I went to school. Not all the days, but a generous number of days.
(Not on the days when it was kick-arse cold.)
I went to drama rehearsals.
There were a couple of parties here.
I drank a lot of coffee and ate a lot of dry-roasted almonds, Magnums and pecan cookies.
That’s about it. My story of last term. Back to you, Ghost.
Love,
Lydia
My Dear Lydia,
SHRIEK! SHRIEK! SHRIEK, SHRIEK, SHRIEK, SHRIEK, SHRIEK, SHRIEK, SHRIEK!
SHRIEK!
SHRIEK!!
SHRIEK.
Yours,
The Ghost
Dear Ghost,
Huh.
Unexpected.
You just went ahead and obeyed me.
Well, I now feel all-powerful but I’m also thinking that my story could become repetitious. Maybe, if you feel like mixing it up a bit, you could howl sometimes instead of shrieking? And if you’ve got any chains? Clank them.
Love,
Lydia
PS You know what, even with howling and clanking, this story’s going to end up unbalanced. Just go ahead and talk if you want.
Dearest Lydia,
As you’ve released me from my former obligation (which I did not mind at all! Who amongst us does not love a little idle shrieking?) and I am now at liberty to speak my mind, I will!
And THAT’s your story of last term?
Has it not occurred to you, Lydia, that I was here?!!! That I witnessed it all!! (Hence, my earlier manic, ghostly laughter at the idea of your ‘academic rigour’.)
Dreaming of Amelia Page 12