The Word Ghost

by Christine Paice

  Vaguely I heard the book slide to the floor with a small thud, and then I must have drifted off because the next thing I remember is my dream and in that dream a man came and sat by my bed on the floor beside me. He was bathed in a curious silver light, as if the moon was full and bright and shining just on him, his voice gentle as he read.

  ‘Bright star! Would I were stedfast as thou art—

  Not in lone splendour hung aloft the night

  And watching, with eternal lids apart,

  Like nature’s patient, sleepless Eremite.’

  What does that mean? I asked him in my dream, and it was a good dream. One where you can fly or skim over the ground and you know everything is all right and there he sat, shining in the cold air, and I asked him again, What does that mean? My hand reached out to touch him, reaching for his shimmering light and he was so familiar, like the dreams where you know the person but they look different to how you remember them and he stretched his hand up to touch mine, all in a dream, all in a dream.

  The tips of my fingers touched the tips of his fingers and a cold shiver flew up my arm and made me jump, and as I stared through my unconscious world at him I recognised his face. I knew who he was. I’d seen him before that morning and suddenly I had to sit up in bed and look hard at him. He sat up a little straighter but stayed sitting on my bedroom floor.

  I was wondering what to do.

  ‘Please accept my apologies for disturbing your night,’ he said.

  Scream for Dad? Scream for help? Scream for anyone? My head still hurt. Maybe he was a vision, a hallucination. Maybe I was still asleep despite the fact that I was sitting up in bed. There he was, in my room, hair flopping over his face, legs crossed, black boots pointing up to the ceiling. I reached for the bedroom light, but realised I didn’t need to turn it on because he was still encircled by a white band of light. Maybe he was an angel and maybe I had died in the night and gone to heaven.

  ‘Am I dead?’ I asked him. ‘Have I died and gone to heaven?’

  ‘Well, goodness, no,’ he said. ‘Miss Budde, you are not dead. Absolutely not. Quite the contrary, in fact.’

  ‘Are you sure you’re not an angel?’

  ‘Quite sure.’

  ‘What are you then? Am I awake? Who are you? I’m calling the police.’

  ‘As you wish. Be my guest,’ he said.

  ‘This is the part where you have to leave my room now,’ I said. ‘You’re some weirdo from the village, aren’t you?’ My heart was thumping, my head pounding. ‘I saw you in the mist this morning.’ I felt the weight of the words in my mouth as if I wasn’t really speaking, as if nothing was getting in and nothing was coming out. ‘I really am going to call the police. And my father.’

  He finally stood up. Good. It was an odd situation to find myself in, one I didn’t like or understand at all. Moonlight bounced around all over him, small bursts of light exploded from inside his coat, from his hair and eyes. He was twinkling like a bloody star.

  ‘This light that you are seeing now—’ and he held out his arms and silver light danced and shone from his head to his boots ‘this is new life, new energy. From you, now you have seen me. It will fade, naturally, as everything does. Then I will become.’

  ‘You will become what?’

  He smiled. ‘Myself.’

  ‘I don’t know what you’re talking about.’

  ‘Please listen. This morning you saw me, but your mind was full of other things.’

  ‘Yes, and now my mind is wondering who you are and what the hell you’re doing in my room.’

  He rubbed his hands up and down his trousers. ‘Miss Budde,’ he said, ‘this is your room, but it also happens to be mine. I do believe I was here first.’

  ‘What are you talking about? Why don’t you just leave quietly? Go out the window. Jump from the balcony. If you bugger off now I won’t tell anyone about you. Go on. Please. Get lost. You’re freaking me out.’

  He came over to me with his hand outstretched. That hand again, coming for me. And I don’t why I did it but I reached up to shake that hand and again that same cold jumped right through me. Luminous flickers of light danced up his arms, his legs, through his hair.

  ‘My name is Algernon Keats and I am very pleased to make your acquaintance.’

  ‘Well you clearly know who I am.’

  ‘Yes I do.’ He sat on the bed.

  I pulled the bedclothes up as far as they would go. ‘How do I know you won’t hurt me?’

  ‘How do I know you won’t hurt me?’ he said.

  ‘Of course I’m not going to hurt you. You’re the intruder.’

  ‘You’re the intruder,’ he said. ‘This is my room, remember?’ He started fiddling with the pen on my bedside table. ‘What is this contraption?’

  ‘It’s a pen, for goodness sake. You just press the top.’

  He began to click it on and off. ‘I have never seen this style of pen before.’ He looked intently at the nib each time it appeared. ‘Do you write with this?’

  ‘Yes I do.’ I took it from him. ‘Please stop playing with my things, Algernon. It’s late and my head hurts and you really do have to leave now.’

  ‘My apologies for disturbing you. We shall meet again soon.’

  ‘Oh shall we, Algernon?’ I checked my alarm clock. Three in the morning. ‘Algernon. That really is a terrible name.’

  ‘Mr Algernon Keats,’ he said. ‘Second cousin to the great man himself. I will read to you so you can sleep. A poem of his. Sleep now, no harm will come to you.’ His voice was so quiet, so gentle, from a deep faraway place. I didn’t know who he was or what he was saying anymore. I didn’t care. When I woke up in the morning he’d be gone and I would be telling Mum about this amazing dream. I turned on my side and shut my eyes. I was on a boat, heading out to sea, the boat was rocking, small waves lapped against the wooden sides, a man sat in the prow, an oar in each hand. I dipped my hand in the water. Wet and cold. I opened one eye. He was still there, glowing like a midnight moon. Algernon? Your name is Algernon Keats and this is your room?

  ‘It’s our room now and I will finish reading “Bright Star” by my second cousin, Mr John Keats. Read by me, Algernon Keats, to Miss Budde, at three o’clock in the morning, your time. Then sleep, for sleep will come.’ He began to read in his quietly hypnotic voice.

  ‘The moving waters at their priestlike task

  Of pure ablution round earth’s human shores

  Or gazing on the new soft-fallen mask

  Of snow upon the mountains and the moors—

  No—yet still stedfast, still unchangeable,

  Pillow’d upon my fair love’s ripening breast . . . ’

  ‘That’s what my father wrote, his dedication to my mother.’

  ‘Yes. Quiet, please. Four more lines, we are nearly at the end.’

  I was very tired now, but he continued on.

  ‘To feel for ever its soft fall and swell,

  Awake for ever in a sweet unrest,

  Still, still to hear her tender-taken breath,

  And so live ever—or else swoon to death.’

  ‘Oh, that was lovely, but it sounds so sad. Whatever it means.’

  ‘Awake for ever in a sweet unrest.’ He pulled his wide lapels tightly round his slender shoulders. ‘That is me, Miss Budde.’

  I was yawning my head off. ‘Look, just stay the night. Sleep on the floor if you want to.’ My eyes felt all gritty and sore. I threw him the eiderdown from my bed. ‘Just make sure you’re gone in the morning, won’t you, Algernon? Algernon?’

  ‘Rest for my sweet unrest. Sleep tight, Miss Budde. Goodnight.’ And he rubbed his hands together and simply disappeared. One minute there, the next gone. Odd bursts of light flashed around my room. The eiderdown looked like it was dragging itself across the floor and the door of my wardrobe swung open. I climbed out of bed reluctantly, my feet freezing. There he was, curled up in the bottom of my wardrobe, pulling the eiderdown around his neck. A few leaves and
twigs fell from his hair onto the cover.

  ‘Did you just make yourself disappear?’

  He nodded. ‘There are many things to know and there are many not to know.’

  ‘Will you show me how it’s done?’

  ‘I’m afraid I cannot. Goodnight.’

  ‘Hey, are you all right in there?’

  ‘Trust me, I have been in worse places than this. Goodnight, Miss Budde.’

  ‘Goodnight, Algernon.’ I closed the wardrobe door and jumped back into bed. Now I was Mr Rochester with a mad person in my own room. Help me, Jane. Run back across the moor and bring the spirits of the book and help me. Help me. I wanted to know more but night finally caught me and lay me down on my soft pillow. I slept deeply. No more dreams.

  MIDDLE ROOM

  Sleep now, Miss Budde.

  In darkness nothing is as nothing seems

  As you bring life to darkened dreams.

  Please note:

  This eiderdown is Thin and Does Not Warm Me.

  Lovely Eggs

  The next day I woke to absolute silence. The sun was struggling to shine. The wardrobe door was ajar and I peered in. It was empty, apart from a bit of dirt, some crumpled clothes, the usual things. I tried not to think about my strangely lucid dream, but every night I lay in bed half expecting a tall thin man to visit me. It was Saturday. Someone was ringing the Brightley Vicarage bell. Didn’t they have anything better to do? I didn’t want to answer it.

  ‘Mum! MUUUMM!’ I yelled from my bed. The house was quiet. Where was my mother? In the garden, talking to the cypress tree. I chucked on jeans and a jumper and went downstairs.

  The previous inhabitants—what do you call the last inhabitants of the house you now live in? The Previous Ones. They had left behind a hairy brown doormat on which to wipe the sludge from their boots before entering the vicar’s hallowed domain. The doormat stared at me. I stared at the person through the frosted glass, wanted to make sure it wasn’t the weirdo trying to get in. All this way and we still had frosted glass in the front door. It didn’t look like him, too short. I shoved my hands in my pockets and stood there half asleep. It didn’t occur to me that if I could see them, they could also see me. They pressed the doorbell again in a pointed, irritated kind of way. The doorbell had a hideous shrill ring to it.

  Open the door for goodness sake, Rebecca! my mother yelled at me from somewhere. What was happening to me? I was becoming so slow I’d never start up again.

  ‘Flora Shillingham, dear. Can I come in?’ said a voice, bringing a huge gust of fresh air with her into the house.

  ‘Hello.’ We stood there staring at each other.

  Her big brown eyes darted up the stairs and down the stairs as she spoke. She had the same large wicker basket on her arm as last time, same sturdy brown shoes, same jacket. If you were doing the same things every day maybe you didn’t need to worry about your clothes.

  ‘Would you like to see my parents?’

  ‘Yes and no, dear. I’ve come to see you all, see how you’re getting along. Mrs Armitage, that’s Amanda, she said you’d been at the pub the other day. Sorry I missed you.’

  ‘It’s nice there.’

  ‘Glad you like it.’

  By now my mother had appeared to see who it was. Flora produced a small bunch of sweet-smelling flowers from her basket, stalks wrapped in foil, and handed them to Mum.

  ‘Oh, lovely. Sweet peas. One of my favourites. Thank you so much, that’s very kind of you.’

  ‘Yes, that’s the last of them I’m afraid. Bit too early for frosts, but always sad when the sweet peas go. How’s everything going along then?’

  ‘Well,’ said Mum, ‘we’re still settling in really.’

  ‘Oh yes, it does take a while. Please feel free to call on me anytime, anytime; I’m always busy but the kettle likes a boil. Mine’s the white cottage with the roses, about a mile down the road from here past the green on the right. Moving is such a terrible business, I thought you could do with these.’

  She pulled from her basket an egg carton without a lid containing a dozen big brown eggs with bits of mud and poo stuck all over them. ‘Fresh eggs these are,’ she said, looking at me looking at them.

  Mum was watching a small fluffy feather still stuck to the top of one egg.

  ‘Have you time for a cup of tea?’ Mum asked.

  ‘Very kind of you, dear, if you’re sure you’re not too busy.’

  The fragrant aroma of freshly picked sweet peas quickly filled the kitchen. Flora Shillingham slurped her tea with the robust manners of a good English countrywoman.

  ‘Hens, I’ve about a dozen, but they’re flighty things. Odd, really, seeing as they don’t fly.’

  I knew nothing about hens. In Wye the only chickens I ever encountered sat covered in foil in a roasting tin. Mum was entranced by chickens, I could see that.

  ‘I think they look like little dinosaurs, long necks and beady eyes,’ said Mum.

  ‘Exactly, dear. Productive egg-laying dinosaurs. They lay roughly one egg per day in the summer. It’s the light; it does things to their cycle. The more light there is, the more eggs they lay. We’ll get half the number next month so enjoy these while we have them.’

  ‘We certainly will,’ said Mum.

  She nodded at me. ‘You can collect your own eggs, if you like. I lock the chickens up at night because of the foxes, bloody pests—pardon my French. They’re free to wander about during the day, though.’

  I nodded politely at Miss Shillingham. Chickens? What was I now, an egg inspector?

  ‘All I’ll say is, don’t buy them from the shops. Anyhow, I’ll not take up any more of your time.’ She pulled from her basket a bunch of carrots and a couple of handsome-looking red tomatoes, and deposited them on the kitchen table.

  ‘Nothing tastes as good as homegrown tomatoes,’ said Mum.

  ‘Glad you like them, dear.’ Flora Shillingham’s small sleek head had a separate life of its own and darted, like a wet shining otter, backwards and forwards on her neck. She nodded her sleek head upstairs.

  ‘Who has the middle room?’

  ‘I have,’ I said.

  ‘Be careful on the balcony, won’t you? If I remember rightly, the last person who lived here put their foot right through it. Fixed it, though. It always gets fixed.’

  She gazed at me. I had no idea what to say. I stared back at her, a fox, an otter, a badger, a pigeon, perhaps all of them. Her head grew smaller and smaller.

  ‘Fancy a walk then? I could show you round, if you’d like?’

  ‘I haven’t had breakfast yet.’ No, Mother, no.

  ‘A quick walk. We won’t be long. Then you can have an egg when you’re home.’

  Mother, please, my hunger grows and I am still weary despite the brightness of the day. Mother?

  ‘I’m sure Rebecca would like to stretch her legs. And thank you very much, Mrs Shillingham, for all these lovely things,’ my mother said.

  ‘Miss.’ She turned, empty basket dangling on one arm. ‘It’s Miss.’

  I said nothing and pulled on boots and coat like a good country girl, taking as long as I possibly could about it.

  ‘Lovely, lovely eggs. Hurry up, Rebecca,’ said Mum.

  The Swinging Leg

  ‘Rebecca—can I call you Rebecca, dear?’

  We walked on a narrow path with overgrown grass on either side. The earth was dry and cracked. The path led us away from the churchyard and around the back of the pub, with ploughed fields to the left and the right. ‘This takes you all the way to Bluebell Lane. You’ll soon find your bearings.’

  I didn’t care about my bearings. I had none. I was thinking of a privet hedge. There you are you daft girl. Each step felt awkward, uncomfortable. I kept my head down staring at my boots.

  Miss Shillingham coaxed me along as if I were a recalcitrant animal. ‘I expect you’re missing your friends, dear, well you’ll soon make some more, you’ll soon settle in, Brightley’s a most interesting village.’


  What could I say after twenty minutes on the same narrow path? We trod the fresh earth of rutted fields under our feet until the church spire rose in front of us.

  Most interesting indeed, my good woman, we are now back to where we started.

  ‘If you keep walking that way—’ and she chopped her hands through the air to show me ‘you’ll reach the top of the lane that goes to Little Hartley.’

  Can barely wait to do that.

  ‘Everything looks the same here,’ I said, staring at the brown horizon. ‘There isn’t anything to see.’

  I wanted two fried eggs, three rashers of bacon and five slices of hot buttered toast.

  ‘Well, my dear, that is where you’re wrong.’ She looked at me sharply. In the distance a tractor was rumbling through a field, a few cows were talking to each other, there was the rustle of leaves, the murmurs of country life. ‘There’s all sorts of things going on around here, dear. You just have to look for them.’

  Maybe I’ll see ghosts dancing in a beam of light?

  ‘Don’t you ever get lonely here?’

  Flora’s grey hair glistened in the morning sun. ‘Oh no, dear, why would I?’ She clicked open the latch on the church gate; we were at the far side of the churchyard. ‘This is the other way back. The long way.’

  The path wound around the back of the church, past the yew tree. A stone wall sat minding its own business in this part of the churchyard and behind that, further up the path and half hidden from view, was the house I could see from my bedroom window. I kept looking behind me, listening for footsteps, but there were none.

  ‘Expecting someone, dear?’ Flora asked.

  I shook my head.

  The path ended in a clearing with a line of moss-covered graves. The stones were green and grey and had discoloured streaks all over them. The graves were marked by a narrow line of horizontal stones, instead of newer upright headstones like the other graves in the churchyard cemetery.

  ‘Most of these are two hundred years old, at the very least.’