The Girl and the Ghost

by Ebony McKenna

  Home alone with her overactive imagination, the hairs on her arms pricked up. The skin around her neck felt unusually tender, susceptible to the slightest brush of air as she moved. Morgan told herself off for being foolish, but it made no difference as she stared at the clock, willing her mother to come home and fill the cavernous quiet.

  Last night she’d slept in the same room as a ghost. Earlier tonight she’d argued with him. But now she sat, two floors below, her pulse thumping in her ears at the mere thought of going back up the stairs by herself.

  I can’t let this beat me.

  For the next few minutes she stared at her phone, willing it to ring. Maybe a text might come through. Anything to break the insidious stillness.

  When her phone vibrated, she yelped in shock. She got out of her chair and gave herself a shake. She’d really let her friends get to her this time. Checking the message, her heart dropped a beat. It was her mother, delayed in traffic. Could be another half hour.

  Gack!

  For the next few minutes she cursed Dave, and her mother, and her friends. Then she cursed herself for good measure, for being so stupid. Yes, there was a ghost in her room, but it was her room and she had to claim it back.

  She raided the refrigerator for Masala sauce, then the pantry for slices of bread and a packet of salt and vinegar crisps. Crunchy Masala sandwich. Perfect. Almost as good as hot chips in curry.

  Right, that took care of ten minutes. Her mother was bound to be home soon. Or Dave might get back. Oh, that’s right, he was going via the supermarket. He’d be a while yet.

  She walked to the bottom of the stairs. Heart pounding, she took the first step. There, nothing bad happened, she’d be fine. She would face this ghost, as she had before. She’d stand her ground and get her room back.

  Another step. Not so bad. Three more steps. Only five more to the landing. It was foolish to be scared, but the more she tried to steady her breathing, the more her pulse kicked in her neck.

  Another few steps. One more flight of stairs to conquer. The light in her room wasn’t on. Thanks to the sensors, the house lights switched themselves off if they detected no movement after ten minutes.

  She had to be strong. She had to deal with this ghost right now, or she’d never live it down. With a rush of adrenalin, she ran up the last few steps. She practically flew across the landing and smacked the light switch with her hand. For a heartbeat nothing happened. Had the bulb blown?

  Nothing.

  Oh that’s right, the light switch was for the chandelier, which was broken.

  The side lamp stood at least three paces away. The glow from street lamps bled into her room, casting strange shadows. No sign of George yet, but he had to be around.

  ‘Hey George! Show yourself!’ She yelled to the darkened room.

  No response. Damn him!

  In three leaps, she reached the lamp and tapped it on to the highest setting. A giggle formed in her throat at how silly she’d become. She sat on the side of her bed and slowed her breathing in an effort to get her heartbeat back under control.

  It felt colder up here, but that was probably because they didn’t have the heating on. Hang on, shouldn’t heat rise? Shouldn’t it be warmer up here?

  ‘Do you mind?’ George’s voice pierced the silence.

  Morgan jumped in fright. She spun around to see him, sitting in her bed, wearing a cream coloured shirt. Except it looked slightly pink because she could see right through him to the (pink) sheet below.

  ‘It is bad enough to be in the same room without a third party present, let alone in the same bed. Unless your plan is to create a scandal to force me into parson’s noose. In which case I extend my congratulations to your mother for engineering such an ambush.’

  Head buzzing like a hornet’s nest, Morgan stared at the ghostly young man lying in her bed in his open-neck shirt. Her heart pounded against her ribs, but there was no similar activity from George. Probably because he didn’t have a heartbeat, so he didn’t get flustered.

  A smooth, lightly-defined, completely immobile chest. A chest she stared at for goodness knew how long.

  How strange to think she’d been so scared of him a moment ago. Not being able to see him had her mind conjuring up all sorts of frightening things. Looking at him for real now, it shut her brain down.

  He said, ‘You may wish to employ a photographic device. I hear they take quite the likeness.’

  That snapped her out of the trance. Heat spread over her cheeks, starting at the nose and marching back to her ears. How embarrassing! The first thought she’d had about a ghost in her bed was how great he’d looked with his shirt open.

  ‘Does your mother know of your whereabouts?’

  Morgan took a steadying breath, putting her hands on her hips for good measure. ‘This is getting old George. You’re the one in my room.’

  ‘Yes. Yes, of course it is.’ He looked puzzled. ‘As I recall, my choice of abode is severely limited.’ At which point he slid his ghostly form out of the bed – without the sheets moving one bit – and strode to the open doorway. It looked as if he might walk from the room, but the moment his back foot crossed the threshold, he vanished.

  Morgan jumped in fright.

  ‘There, you see,’ he said.

  Her head snapped back to the chaise, where he sat, fully clothed in his riding gear.

  Morgan rubbed the side of her head. Thanks to her friends, she’d done no homework at all tonight. That history assignment was due soon and her teacher had insisted they source their material from at least three approved textbooks and Morgan hadn’t even read one of them yet.

  The ghost had to go.

  ‘Right, I’ve got this.’ Steeling herself for the effort, she bent down and grabbed the end of the chaise and dragged it across the bedroom floor.

  ‘What in heaven’s name . . . ?’

  ‘You could help, you know.’ Morgan grunted as she dragged it towards the doorway.

  George remained sitting, a bemused look on his transparent face. ‘I say! What sport!’

  Strain burned across her shoulders. The ghostly George didn’t weigh anything, but him sitting there still made it feel heavier. Not that she’d stop. If the chaise was the place he kept returning to, then it made sense to remove it from her room. Then she’d get some peace and quiet.

  And she’d have one less pink piece of furniture into the bargain.

  Crack! She smacked the chaise into the doorframe and split the timber. But she wouldn’t stop; not now she was so close to her goal. With a few more grunts, she had the front legs on the landing, then one more pull and the whole thing was out. It blocked the entrance completely, but at least it was out of her room.

  Noises came from downstairs. A key in the lock. Footsteps in the mudroom. Fantastic, Mum was home!

  ‘Up here!’ Morgan called out. She wiped her brow, light-headed with relief. ‘I’m just getting rid of the ghost!’

  Morgan climbed over the furniture to get back into her room.

  Her spirits crumpled. There stood George where the chaise used to be.

  ‘Hullo!’ He gave her a little wave.

  ‘I give up.’ All that effort for nothing! From below, she heard Rachelle call out her shorthand ‘what’s going on’ greeting. ‘Scarnon?’

  Turning her head in the direction of the open doorway, Morgan replied with a, ‘Whassat Mum?’

  No response for a moment, until her mother’s compressed voice come through the wall unit beside her bed. ‘Use the intercom, sweetheart.’

  George folded his arms across his chest. ‘I find myself needing to reassess my earlier opinion of you. Such strength, Tom! You have the blood of an Amazon!’

  Tom? ‘You’re calling me a tomboy?’

  George smiled – his parted lips gave her a glimpse of endearingly crooked teeth. Not a busted-picket-fence, merely off-kilter. A bit like hers used to be before the braces sorted them out. Which made her feel guilty for staring at them, because braces probabl
y weren’t invented when he was growing up.

  ‘Whatsis doing out here?’ Rachelle said from the doorway.

  Morgan turned to see her mother trying to budge the chaise with her hip. ‘I’m re-decorating.’

  ‘You can’t leave it out here. Hold this.’ Rachelle handed Morgan her half-glass of white wine, then she climbed over the chaise to get into her room.

  Mentally Morgan counted to five, expecting her mother to scream the moment she saw the ghost. But no scream came.

  ‘You can’t see him?’

  ‘Excuse me?’

  ‘George. The ghost. You can’t see him?’

  Rachelle took her glass of wine back. ‘Please Morgan, I’ve had an awful day.’

  ‘I believe introductions are in order,’ George said.

  ‘What’s that noise?’ Rachelle’s eyes turned wide in fear. ‘It’s like moaning or something.’

  ‘It appears I’m going nowhere. I can wait for eternity,’ George said.

  ‘There is it again. Like wind howling in the distance,’ Mum said.

  ‘Mum, this is George Sebastian Wallace of the Brandenfield Wallaces. George, this is my mother, Rachelle Parker.’

  ‘Donupset me like this!’ Mum took another sip. That explained her merged words. They’d be slurred soon. ‘The main sponsor has dropped out and if we don’t get another one they’ll cancel the show.’

  Hooray, the show might not go on. Oh dear, I should be more loyal. Ever since Rachelle’s Rubies on The Shop Till You Drop channel had fallen through, the cooking show was something her mother’d had her heart set on.

  ‘Didn’t quite catch that,’ George said.

  Rachelle gasped in fright. ‘It sounded like crying this time!’

  ‘I have never cried in my life!’ George said.

  Confusion rippled in Morgan’s head. ‘Mum, I’m really sorry you’ve had a bad day, but there is something you need to know. There really is a ghost in my room, and he’s standing right beside you.’

  The lights flickered. Rachelle and Morgan yelped in unison. When the lights returned, George looked pleased with himself.

  When she got her breath back, Morgan said, ‘That’s not very nice, George.’

  ‘Nevertheless, it gained her attention. Now perhaps she will acknowledge me?’ He said.

  Rachelle said, ‘Christ on a stick! Morgan, you can’t stay up here.’ Her eyes widened as she looked about the room.

  She was standing so close to George they could have touched each other.

  ‘He wants to say hello. He’s not a bad ghost, he’s just really new at it.’ She turned to George. ‘And he he’s forgotten his manners.’

  George put his hand to where his heart would have been. ‘You wound me.’

  Rachelle pulled Morgan’s arm. ‘This room gives me the creeps. Come down stairs.’

  ‘On that last point, I agree. You should leave,’ George said.

  Taking a deep breath, Morgan stood firm. ‘Both of you be quiet. This is my room and I’m staying. Now Mum, pull yourself together. I’m sorry you had a bad day but that’s no reason to crawl into a bottle. If you need a new sponsor, get Dad to do it. George, say sorry for scaring my mother. You’re a guest in this house and you’ll behave yourself. Now if you don’t mind, I have homework to do. And it’s history. Thanks to you, George, you’ve scared off my study-buddy and I have to do it all by myself.’ As if watching a tennis rally, Morgan glared at her mother first, then George, then back to her mother, waiting for one of them to acknowledge her and do what she asked of them.

  ‘I say . . .’ George started. But then he didn’t say anything.

  Morgan’s shoulders tensed in frustration. ‘I know you’re both thinking I’m not handling this very well, but that’s because I didn’t get enough sleep last night. That was your fault as well, George.’

  ‘I can’t stay in this room.’ Rachelle stumbled to the doorway.

  ‘It’s worse for you because you can’t see him.’

  Rachelle shook her head and turned to leave. Thump! Smack-bang into the chaise. The wine sloshed out in a stunning arc before splattering onto the carpet.

  Laughter caught in Morgan’s throat. Rachelle turned white and screamed, ‘something pushed me!’ Leaving the empty glass for Dave to pick up, she climbed over the furniture and staggered down the stairs.

  George splayed his palms in surrender. ‘I laid not one finger upon her person.’

  With a shake of her head, Morgan said, ‘sure you didn’t.’

  6

  History Lessons

  The mood for doing homework had long passed, but the fear of not getting it done weighed heavily. ‘Can you please leave so I can do my history essay?’

  ‘History you say?’

  Ignoring him, she grabbed the laptop from her bedside table and sat on the floor. The reassuring start-up chime sounded too loud in the quiet room.

  ‘What is this device?’

  Morgan’s pulse kicked. ‘It’s a laptop. Look, if you want someone to explain the twenty-first century, speak to Dave.’

  ‘This looks fascinating.’ George settled on the floor beside her. ‘What period are we studying? Ancient Rome? The Renaissance?’

  Morgan turned to him. This close, his handsome features were aglow with interest. How was she supposed to get anything done with him sitting right next to her?

  ‘Child labour during the Industrial Revolution,’ she said.

  ‘What a singularly unpleasant topic.’

  ‘Exactly, and it’s due soon, so be quiet.’ She opened the textbook to skim through the chapters and find what she needed.

  ‘Your teacher must be a reformist, yes?’ George said. ‘If every child was out working, they would not be in school, ergo she would be lacking in position.’

  Morgan rubbed the bridge of her nose. ‘Children should be in school, not down a mine.’

  ‘In theory, yes.’

  ‘You’re winding me up again.’ The blank screen mocked her. She hadn’t typed a single word.

  ‘The topic is unpalatable, but there are many occupations for which children are most definitely suitable. Tasks requiring work in cramped spaces or those delicate operations which can only be prepared by small fingers. Don’t look at me in disgust. If children are unable to work, how do they support their families?’

  His attitude was so . . . Victorian. She shook her head. ‘I get it. It’s what you’re used to, but we’re . . . more enlightened now. All children go to school so they get a good education. Later on, they can support themselves or their families.’

  ‘And what if their parents are ill, or otherwise incapacitated. How do parents support their families if they cannot work?’

  ‘They get disability payments I guess.’

  George gave her a puzzled look.

  ‘They get welfare,’ Morgan started. Judging from his still-confused face, he wasn’t any closer to understanding. ‘Government handouts. That sort of thing?’

  ‘Welfare from the government? My dear we are talking in riddles. Welfare is the reason children are born in the first place.’

  Indignation had Morgan on the cusp of giving George a right ticking off, but then her brain zig-zagged back to eighteen-whatever to see things from a different angle. ‘You know what, George? Sometimes you make sense, even when you don’t mean to. Welfare is probably why people had such large families in your day. Because there was no government assistance. I guess the more children you had, the more family members you could send out to work to support the rest of the family.’

  ‘Of course it is,’ he said, looking triumphant.

  ‘Still doesn’t make it right,’ Morgan said. ‘Children deserve a childhood.’

  ‘The ones with money do. For everyone else, there’s work. It’s the way of the world.’

  Morgan sighed. ‘You have so much catching up to do.’

  His lips quirked as if he might say something, then he picked up one of her text books. A studious look came over him as he thumb
ed the pages. Morgan didn’t dare mention his ability to pick up a book, lest he drop it and they start all over again with what he could or couldn’t do when he was or wasn’t thinking about it.

  At least he’d stopped prattling on.

  Tapping away at the keyboard, she pushed on with the assignment. She added a picture clipping of dirty-faced child workers. A chill spread through her, and this time it was nothing to do with the ghost in her room. How awful to spend your daylight hours down a coal mine! At least they had Sundays off, although that would have been spent in church, probably praying for a better life. But this was mostly about British history. What about children in Australia? Did they have the equivalent of coal mines during the gold rush?

  Maybe they were sent down gold mines? She’d look that up too. Morgan wondered if the teachers set these social justice assignments to make students stop complaining about their school workload? Sure, she had a stack of books to read and essays coming out of her ears, but at least she didn’t have to scrape out a living ‘down pit’.

  ‘This is enthralling,’ George said, breaking the silence.

  ‘What is?’

  ‘The Americas. How quickly people flocked there for yet another gold rush. By Jove, I think I –’ A stricken look came over him. His eyes peeled wide, his mouth fell open in shock.

  He dropped the book.

  Dread poured through Morgan. She looked behind her, checking the room. Doing her best to sound perky-and-not-at-all-terrified, she said, ‘you look like you’ve seen a ghost. Don’t tell me there’s another one in here?’

  In a lost voice, George repeated, ‘The Americas.’

  ‘What about them?’

  ‘I . . . believe I was to journey there. But for the life of me I have no notion why.’

  ‘Odd that you’d go all that way to join the gold rush when there was one up the road from you in Ballarat.’

  ‘I . . .’ he started, but failed to finish.