‘It feels solid enou –’ He fell through the carpet and vanished from the room.
Morgan gasped with fright. Then she rubbed her eyes and stared at the spot on the floor where George should have been.
2
Boo!
Just as Morgan became used to the idea of having a ghost in her room, he’d vanished. Ghost? She should be screaming the house down but . . . somehow feeling sorry for him took precedence. Perhaps she wasn’t as scared as she should be because George Sebastian Wallace was so easy to look at? If he’d been hideous, she’d be yelling for Dave to get back here with the vacuum cleaner.
Now that he’d gone, those scary feelings multiplied through her system like a virus. Where had he gone? What if he returned and became angry? What if he came back and brought more ghosts with him?
In the silence, she raced back to bed, grabbed her screen and conducted a quick search for pages about friendly ghosts. Discounting all the movie tie-ins, she found a page that made her blood churn. The first line of text said:
‘There is no such thing as a ‘friendly’ ghost. All ghosts are either troubled spirits or trouble makers.’
Morgan pulled the covers over her head in a futile attempt to hide. Then she remembered her door was still open. She breathed a few times and urged herself with a ‘ready, set, go,’ then sprang out of bed, ran to the door and shut it.
The rush of air brought a strong whiff of freshly-dried paint. Maybe the walls weren’t entirely dry yet and she was getting high off the fumes? That could explain her craziness.
It was also crazy to think a piece of timber would protect her.
A moment later, she heard a soft grunt of exasperation and turned to see George standing in her room again, near the chaise longue, adjusting his cuffs.
‘Most disconcerting,’ he said with a shake of his head. ‘I do believe I have taken complete leave of my senses. Is it possible one might mistake laudanum for a sip of port before retiring for the night?’
If the web page spoke the truth, then George could not be a friendly ghost and she needed to get rid of him.
But how?
And also, just because someone on the web laid down the rules about friendly or unfriendly ghosts, didn’t mean it was true for all of them. George seemed so nice. If a little confused. Perhaps he needed help? Yes, that was it.
‘I really am sorry, but you’ve passed away, George. You need to cross over.’
In that calm, melodic tone of his, he said, ‘I do not wish it to be that way.’
Did anyone? ‘I’m not sure you get much of a say in it.’
This time when he sat, the furniture held him. Morgan flinched with confusion and shock. How could he fall through the floor one moment and sit in a chair the next?
‘I cannot have passed away. Mayhap I have a fever and am perilously close to entering the Lord’s eternal embrace. At this very moment, a maid is dabbing a cloth to my brow. I shall fight it and recover triumphant.’
That had to be denial speaking. Maybe there was another way to get through to him? ‘When were you born George?’
‘In the year of Our Lord eighteen hundred and sixty-four. There, you see, I have not taken complete leave of my senses . . . yet.’
Tapping her phone, Morgan called up her calendar. ‘I hate to break it to you, but you’ve been gone for about a hundred and . . .’ she added in her head ‘. . . forty-something years? This is today’s date.’ She held the screen out so he could see it. As he peered at it, the light from the phone put his features into stark relief. His eyes shone with a mix of fear and wonderment, light green with flecks of brown. Or maybe that was just the light glinting off the screen.
Concerned pangs went off inside Morgan. He looked more troubled than trouble-maker.
‘That is a fearsome-strange brooch.’
‘It’s not a brooch, it’s a phone.’
His eyebrows creased together. ‘I beg your pardon?’
Morgan rummaged her brain for a description he’d understand. ‘It’s the daily news.’
‘Truly? How does one’s butler iron it of a morning?’
A giggle escaped as she imagined a phone melting under a hot iron. ‘You’re pretty freaked, I get that. I’m not sure why I’m not screaming the house down myself. But George? You’ve passed on and . . . now it’s time to move on.’
A pained expression creased his forehead. ‘Delirium is making comprehension difficult, but I shall fight it. At moments like this, one is tested to the limit of one’s endurance. You are a comely apparition to lure me to the world below. The pinch of the game has arrived.’
Morgan had no idea what he was talking about. The only thing she knew for certain was that she wouldn’t be getting any sleep tonight.
She sat on the edge of her bed, leaning her head against the corner post. She held her breath, half expecting George to start ranting in his outdated way, half expecting him to vanish and half expecting him to fall through the floor. She mentally shook her head and realised she’d made three halves and must be really, really tired.
The time display on her phone showed half past midnight. No wonder her eyes were gritty and dry as she rubbed them.
From the chaise, George mumbled a short prayer about resisting temptation. When he finished he looked up at her and added, ‘The devil hath power to assume a pleasing shape.’
‘What’s that from?’
‘Hamlet. Much good it will do me.’
‘Say ‘hi’ to Shakespeare for me.’
George sat bolt upright. ‘This is no laughing matter. A man’s soul is at stake here.’
She shook her head, her hair falling in a curtain around her face. She pushed it back over her shoulders and sighed. It turned into a yawn.
George removed his hat and sat it beside him. Then he scraped his hands through his wavy hair. Hair long enough to get him in a boy band. Morgan’s fingers twitched at the thought of touching it. She rubbed her eyes again and said, ‘I am so tired.’ She must be completely zonked to have even the slightest romantic thoughts about a ghost.
Even though he was a bit cute.
OK, really cute.
But dead. So, no chance of a future there, obviously.
‘Watch over this lost soul, my angel,’ George said.
‘Pardon?’
‘I do not comprehend all you say. However, some things make a modicum of sense. I do not think I am fighting off a fever, as previously thought.’
‘R-i-i-i-ight . . .’
‘However . . .’ George made a dramatic pause. If he’d made a noise, it might have sounded like a sigh. But of course, he wasn’t a breather anymore, so he couldn’t. ‘If, as you say, I am . . . deceased . . . then I must face up to mortality and accept it.’
‘Sorry for sounding so harsh. I’ve never had to tell anyone they’re dead before.’ Nerves twisted her tummy at the use of such a blunt word. A too-loud sigh came out.
‘Then, there is your role in this,’ George said.
‘What have I done?’
‘You can only be one of two things,’ he continued. ‘An angel sent to guide me to heaven, or a temptress to lure me to the other place.’
Brain in a jumble. ‘I’m just a girl.’
George shook his head. ‘There is nothing ‘just’ about you at all.’
Something laced tighter in her tummy. Time stood still as they looked at each other. A strange sense of calm slowly unfurled. Perhaps because George had calmed down from his earlier jumpiness. Perhaps they’d simply got all the shock and fear out the way, so that they could start to be sensible?
‘I really have to get some sleep, I have school tomorrow.’
‘Of course. One must not upset the governess. How odd that I should not feel tired.’
Morgan shook her head. A governess? Hardly. ‘We’re doing that thing again, confusing each other.’ Dropping her dressing gown on the floor, she crawled into bed and pulled up the covers.
‘That is hardly appropriate.’
<
br /> A groan mixed with a yawn. ‘You’re right. You should leave.’
‘Yet this is my room,’ George said.
‘We’ve been through this. It was your room a hundred years ago, but it’s mine now.’
‘Then we are at an impasse.’
‘Whatever that means, goodnight.’ Morgan wrenched the covers over her head. How bizarre that she’d been ready to scream the house down when he’d first appeared, now she felt comfortable turning her back on him.
‘Goodnight,’ she heard him say.
Of course, she couldn’t sleep. Even though she couldn’t see him, she knew he had to be sitting there, dressed in his weird old clothes. She threw the covers back. ‘You’re still here.’
‘Your observation does you credit.’
‘Well? Can you please leave so I can get some sleep? There’s a kitchen downstairs if you’re hungry and a spare room you can sleep in.’ The guest room she’d slept in until this room was ready. It might still be made up. The paint fumes wouldn’t be as strong in there either.
‘Yet I am neither hungry nor tired.’
Cheek twitching with frustration, Morgan said, ‘Can you please leave me alone?’
‘As you wish,’ George said, walking towards the door. His body vanished into the wood and he blinked out. Morgan’s breath hitched. There was only so much crazy a girl could cope with in one evening. In the space of a heartbeat, he reappeared on the chaise longue. Morgan choked out a cough of surprise.
George examined his nails and said, ‘It appears I am unable to leave this room.’
Frustrated, Morgan reached for the pink curtains at the bedposts and yanked them closed. It turned her bed into a tent and gave her a smidgen of privacy.
With a note of finality, she said, ‘Goodnight George.’
For the count of four breaths she heard nothing. Then George said, ‘Goodnight, Princess.’
A full bladder in the middle of the night cannot be ignored. Morgan tried convincing her body she didn’t need to get up so she could stay warm and toasty in her bed. It didn’t work. It never had in the past either.
With a wince of pain – she’d let it go that long – she slipped out of bed.
And saw George sitting on the chaise, reading one of her textbooks. Which was seriously bizarre because he’d fallen through the door and the floor, but he could sit on furniture and hold a book? As much as she’d love to question his newfound ability, she absolutely had to go to the bathroom first.
When she came back, she found he’d taken out more books from her (pink) bookshelves and had them spread out on the floor.
‘Fascinating,’ he said, turning the pages and looking at the pictures, ‘Absolutely fascinating.’
‘You’re reading.’ Morgan wiped the grit out of her eyes.
‘Of course. I am the product of an excellent education.’
‘No, I don’t mean you can read, I mean you’re holding the books and turning the pages and you’re not –’
– Blink! –
He fell straight through the floor.
Taking the book with him.
‘I can’t handle this,’ Morgan cried out. With a stagger, she reached for the corner post of her bed and held on to it for support. ‘I’m never going to get a moment’s peace up here.’
And then he was back. Sitting on the chaise again, as if he were a game character respawning. He had her book in his hand.
‘Where did you go just then?’
George shook his head. ‘I’m not entirely sure. All I know is that your books pleasantly diverted me. The next moment I was in some kind of . . . half-place. I don’t know what else to call it. And I do so wish you’d dress more appropriately, I have no clue where to place my eyes.’
With a heavy sigh, Morgan reached for her dressing gown again and shrugged it on. ‘You took my book with you?’
‘My sincerest apologies. I had no intention of taking your property.’
‘No, no. You can read whatever you like. But just then, you physically took something from this room with you, into that half-place, as you call it.’
‘I see!’ The moment George looked down to the book in his hand, it fell through his fingers and plopped on the floor. ‘I do so wish that would stop happening.’ He looked frustrated as he bent down to pick the book up, and failed.
‘Maybe . . .’ Morgan rubbed the side of her head, ‘Maybe you should stop thinking about it. You seem to be able to do things if you don’t think too much about it, but when I tell you you’re doing it, you can’t.’
‘There is logic somewhere in that statement.’
‘It’s like tweeting. Once you get good at it, you hardly think about what you’re doing. But if you think too much while you’re doing it, you hit all the wrong keys.’
‘Tweeting?’
‘Forget it. Anyway, what were you reading?’
‘A book calling itself history. Except one feels as if one is looking into the future.’
Morgan picked up the book. Victorian Empire. Progress and Politics, 1837 to 1901. She had an assignment due Monday and she hadn’t even started. ‘You’re welcome to read it. Maybe you can make sense of it and help me out. I’m hopeless at history. Wait a minute!’ Her brain finally caught up to the situation. ‘You were born in the middle of this. You’re a Victorian, you can help me with my essay.’
He gave her a shy smile. It made her feel strange and a bit glowy on the inside. As if they were two students talking about homework and getting to know each other.
And flirting a bit.
Somehow in the course of their conversation, the paranormal had become normal.
‘A great deal of this information is new to me.’ George picked up the book again, sat on the chaise and opened the pages. ‘I’m not sure your governess would approve if I became your new tutor.’
Morgan laughed. ‘I don’t have a governess, I go to school like everyone else.’
‘My goodness.’ He gave her a self-conscious wink, which made things swirl in her tummy. ‘I have so much to learn about you.’
Warmth moved up her neck to her face. Blushing? The more she tried to stop it, the warmer she became. She had to think of something to say or she’d burn up. ‘If you want to get up to date, I can stream the Mega Moves episode.’
He made a quirk with the corners of his mouth and said, ‘Let’s start from the beginning. How old are you?’
‘Nearly sixteen.’ Why did I add the nearly? ‘How old are you?’
‘Ah,’ he looked down, remembering, ‘I’m in my eighteenth year. Alas, the date on that brooch would have me closer to one hundred and fifty.’
‘Oh,’ she said, but then had nothing to follow it with. Every other boy she met already knew everything about her, because they’d Googled her name and read the gossip. Talking to George was . . . different. A strange silence fell over the room. George slipped down from the chaise and sat on the floor, handing over the book.
Their fingers touched – except hers went straight through his, as if he weren’t there.
‘You say you are nearly sixteen. Does that mean you’re out?’
Morgan’s mouth dropped open in shock. ‘I’m not out . . . not that there’s anything wrong with . . . wait, what do you mean by ‘out’?’
George cleared his throat. ‘I merely ask if you have been presented into society yet. Have you attended balls and social events with a view to . . .’ and here it was his turn to blush, as much as a ghost could blush, ‘. . . securing a marriage.’
Laughter burst free and Morgan held her stomach.
‘You find me amusing?’
‘Yeah, but . . . nah.’ She reigned it in. ‘Nobody gets married at sixteen.’
‘Interesting. At what age should a woman marry?’
That had her stumped. ‘Twenty-seven maybe? Thirty?’
‘Thirty! How is that conducive to breeding?’
‘Ew, gross!’ Morgan picked up a book and hurled it at George. He flinched in anticipation but
the book sailed right through him and hit the chaise instead.
‘Interesting,’ he said. ‘At least I shan’t have to fear your temper.’
‘I don’t have a temper.’
‘The thrown book indicates otherwise.’
He had her there. ‘OK, OK, look. You’re a product of your generation. You can’t help being who you are. But if you’re going to hang out here, you need to know that times have changed. Women aren’t just for breeding any more. Gah, I feel gross even saying that. People don’t have to get married. They can be de facto, like my older brothers are. They’ve got families of their own and they’re fine.’
‘De-facto? I take it that means their children would be illegitimate? Is this what society has come to?’
A laugh burst free. ‘You are so old fashioned.’
She’d never really thought of herself as a feminist before, because it hadn’t really come up that much. But then, she’d never had to deal with a chauvinist like George. He couldn’t help being the way he was, but the sooner she brought him up to speed with the real world, the better. ‘You should read some more history and catch up to the rest of us,’ she said. ‘You’re going to love the chapters on suffragettes.’ A huge yawn took her by surprise. ‘And I really have to get some more sleep.’
‘Suffrage-ettes?’
‘I won’t spoil it for you. Happy reading.’
3
Sleeping Through School
‘For the umpteenth time, get up!’ Rachelle said.
Something shoved Morgan’s arm. The floor rushed towards her. ‘Whoa!’ She hit the carpet with a soft thud and waited for the pain to come. It didn’t. Her father must have chosen the thickest plush pile so it cushioned her fall. Thank you, Dad. Then she remembered she should be furious with her mother for being so brutal. ‘What was that for?’
‘For not waking up an hour ago when I first came in. You need to be up and dressed and out of here, right now.’
The Girl and the Ghost Page 2