Breathe: A Ghost Story (Fiction - Middle Grade)

by Cliff McNish

  First American edition published in 2006 by Carolrhoda Books

  Published by arrangement with Orion Children’s Books, a division

  of Orion Publishing Group Ltd., London, England

  Copyright © 2006 by Cliff McNish

  Front cover photograph copyright © 2006 by Todd Strand/Independent Picture Service

  The right of Cliff McNish to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted.

  The quotation on p. 51 is from “The Unseen Playmate” by Robert Louis Stevenson.

  The quotation on p. 145 is from “A Nonsense Rhyme” by Charles Henry Ross.

  All U.S. rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means—electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise—without the prior written permission of Lerner Publishing Group, Inc., except for the inclusion of brief quotations in an acknowledged review.

  Carolrhoda Books

  A division of Lerner Publishing Group, Inc.

  241 First Avenue North

  Minneapolis, MN 55401 U.S.A.

  Website address: www.lernerbooks.com

  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

  McNish, Cliff.

  Breathe : a ghost story / by Cliff McNish. — 1st American ed.

  p. cm.

  Summary: When he and his mother move into an old farmhouse in the English countryside, asthmatic, twelve-year-old Jack discovers that he can communicate with the ghosts inhabiting the house and inadvertently establishes a relationship with a tormented, malevolent spirit that threatens to destroy both his mother and himself.

  ISBN-13: 978–0–8225–6443–0 (lib. bdg. : alk. paper)

  ISBN-10: 0–8225–6443–2 (lib. bdg. : alk. paper)

  [1. Ghosts—Fiction. 2. Extrasensory perception—Fiction. 3. Asthma—Fiction.

  4. Single-parent families—Fiction. 5. Death—Fiction. 6. Grief—Fiction. 7. England—Fiction.] I. Title.

  PZ7.M478797 Br 2006

  [Fic]—dc22 2006000513

  Manufactured in the United States of America

  7 – BP – 3/1/10

  eISBN: 978-0-7613-8274-4 (pdf)

  eISBN: 978-1-4677-3205-5 (ePub)

  eISBN: 978-1-4677-3204-8 (mobi)

  For the Dani family

  Contents

  1 The Ghost Children

  2 The Drop Of Blood

  3 The Allure Of The Dead

  4 Attack

  5 The Ghost Mother

  6 The Death Room

  7 Flight

  8 The Rocking Chair

  9 Isabella

  10 Bargaining For Souls

  11 Between The Lips

  12 A New, Fast Body

  13 A Proper Little Man

  14 Ringlety-Jing

  15 I’m a Good Mother, Aren’t I?

  16 A Mother Who Is Not a Mother

  17 The Nightmare Passage

  18 Bruised

  19 Snow

  20 The Knife

  21 The Wardrobe

  22 Only Darkness

  23 The Everlasting Twilight

  24 The Pillow

  25 The Loved Ones

  Lonely, invisible, and still wearing the clothes they had died in: the ghosts of four children were in this house. Something had disturbed their spirits, and now they were rising slowly up from the cool darkness of the cellar.

  The cellar was closed, but that did not stop them; their bodies, though unable to pass through solid objects, could squeeze into small spaces or under the crack of an old door.

  Ann, the eldest, fourteen when she’d died, emerged ahead of the others. The first thing she did was shield her eyes against the intense glare of summer sunshine. As she raised her arm, the light reflected off her thin white cotton slip. It was her death shroud—the only item of clothing she’d been able to bear against her feverish skin in the last days before scarlatina killed her sixty-five years earlier.

  Once Ann was sure the corridor was safe to enter, she called the others out of the cellar gloom. Oliver floated ahead, while the youngsters, Charlie and Gwyneth, held her hands.

  Ann led them in a slow-motion, stately drift toward the front of the house. The ghosts never walked. They couldn’t. Being almost weightless, the moment they pushed off with their feet the least little draft wafted their bodies to and fro like dry, dizzy leaves around the house. With patience, they’d learned to guide themselves on the breezes stirred whenever a door or window was opened. But the house had been locked up and empty for weeks, making today’s journey a particularly tricky one. Only Oliver could easily ride the sluggish tides of air around the rooms at such times.

  Gliding along the corridor, Ann remained alert to danger. She never stopped calculating the fastest escape route if they had to hide from her. Oliver, twelve years old when he’d died, was less careful. Part of him enjoyed the risk of traveling between rooms, knowing he was quick enough to flee if he had to. Drifting impatiently ahead of the others, he rose halfway up the pane of glass in the front door.

  “Don’t rush,” Ann hissed. “You know it’s dangerous. You’re stirring up too much air. She’ll notice.”

  “Keep up then,” Oliver hissed back. “If you want to miss whoever’s arriving, that’s up to you. Anyway, stop worrying. She’s asleep. She hasn’t woken for ages.”

  “But if someone new is coming, sooner or later she’s bound to want to see who it is. You know that. Especially if it’s a child.”

  “So what. Let her wake. Let her freak out for all I care. She’ll never catch me.”

  “But she might catch us,” Ann growled. “And you know what she’ll do to us if she does.”

  Seven-year-old Gwyneth wasn’t listening to this argument. She couldn’t wait to see who the new arrivals would be.

  “Girls! Make it girls!” she whispered, squeezing Ann’s hand. “If there are girls this time, will I be able to play with them?”

  “Shush now,” Ann said gently. “You know you can’t play with the living.”

  Gwyneth crossed her fingers anyway, adjusted her yellow nightie, and shook the worst of the cellar dust out of her mousy hair. Her spirit had been stuck in the house for forty years, waiting for someone new to play with. “Please be a girl,” she chanted. “Please be a girl. . . .”

  The second ghost boy, Charlie, looked small and weak, even next to Gwyneth. Aged eight, a disease in his final months had taken so much weight off him that now, in death, his blue paisley pajamas hung like baggy drapes from his narrow shoulders. Trying not to sound desperate, he asked, “Is there a boy, Oliver? Can you see yet?”

  From the door, Oliver winked playfully at Ann.

  “Nah. Just girls, I reckon. Disappointing, eh?”

  “Girls?” Frustrated, but not wanting to show it, Charlie waited for more information.

  “Yeah,” Oliver said. “Unusually ugly ones as well. I’m not sure you’ll even want to see them, Charlie boy. They’re skipping toward the house.”

  “Really?” Charlie blinked. He always believed everything Oliver said. “I can’t hear them. . . .”

  “How many, Oliver?” Ann demanded. No one was skipping, and it couldn’t only be girls. There had to be at least one adult; she’d heard the car pulling into the drive.

  Oliver laughed. “Just as eager to know as the little ’uns, eh?”

  Secretly, though, the sound of the car’s engine unnerved him. He’d been in the rear seat of his father’s Audi when it veered off the road all those years ago. Not the biggest of crashes, but Oliver hadn’t been wearing a seat belt and his short blond curls weren’t sufficient to prot
ect his skull. He’d been dressed in a red T-shirt and sandals for the beach that day. Once he was dead he discarded the sandals. No need for them. Like the other ghost children, he couldn’t leave; he was imprisoned in the house. Oliver was the most recent dead arrival. He’d only been in the house eleven years—hardly any time at all.

  Staring nonchalantly out of the window, he said, “Well, since you’re all so excited, let’s see what we’ve got then. They’re just getting out of the car now. Mm. Could be anything. Wait!” He slapped his head in mock surprise, knocking himself back from the door. “Well, hey, I was completely wrong. It’s not a bunch of skipping girlies at all. It’s a hell of a lot better than that. Get ready for some fun, Charlie.”

  “A boy!” Charlie exulted.

  Gwyneth squealed with disappointment, and demanded that Ann sing her a rhyme—her usual response to frustration or fear.

  “Not now,” Ann said. “Quickly, jump up with me.” Feeling a current of air seep under her that only Oliver had been skillful enough to catch earlier, she gathered Gwyneth and Charlie in her arms, and they wafted up the front door. Oliver made room for them alongside him, and the four ghosts pressed their bodies against the glass.

  Ann was just as excited as the others. It had been years since any young people had come to stay. The last person in the house, an elderly woman, had lived alone for more than twenty years, leading a quiet, bookish life. The ghost children had grown fond of her, but it wasn’t the same as having a real living child around.

  “Here he comes,” Oliver whispered.

  A boy was approaching the house.

  Ann drank him in: longish auburn hair, medium height, what looked like green eyes. About twelve years old, she estimated. Not bad looking. He sauntered down the garden path, idly kicking the frame of the garden’s rusted old swing.

  “Don’t even think about it,” a woman, obviously his mother, warned. “I mean it, Jack. That thing’s falling to bits.”

  Jack, Ann thought. She turned the name around in her mind, getting used to it. Then she glanced at the swing. Was it dangerous? Possibly. No one had bothered using it for at least a generation. Since the seat was still attached to its ancient rotted ropes, Jack was sure to try it. Boys were like that. He’d pretend not to be interested, but one day, when he had nothing better to do, and his mum wasn’t looking, he was bound to sit on it. Ann hoped the swing was safer than it looked. She didn’t want Jack dying and suffering the same fate she and the others had. Whatever you do, please don’t have an accident, she thought. Don’t die anywhere near this house.

  She shook her head, studying Jack’s features again. Nice eyes, she decided. Definitely green. Thick lashes. He looked interesting. Of course, after the acute boredom of the last twenty years, anyone new would be interesting.

  Oliver studied Jack’s mother. He’d never admitted to the others how much he missed his own mum, but he did miss her, and as this one stepped closer he partially hid his face from Charlie to conceal his emotions. Stupid, he thought. Ridiculous. She’s not like your old mum at all. Taller for a start. Slimmer too, and younger—mid-thirties, he guessed. Her dark brown hair was arranged in a loose ponytail. Oliver watched it bob up and down as she trod carefully up the small loose stones of the footpath. I’ve seen you before, he murmured to himself. Oh yes.

  Six weeks earlier he’d been floating around the house when Jack’s mother first came to view the property with the real estate agent. The second time he saw her she was carrying a few boxes of personal possessions into the house, and a stiff breeze followed her inside. The doors and windows had been shut for so many weeks since the old woman’s death that Oliver hadn’t expected anything like that—the rapture of a breeze. It blew like a blessing in through the front door and out into the corridor beyond, the dust rising up from the floorboards like a vapor and Oliver, rising with it, rippling and fluttering, wafting back and forth as if he had been blown in like an accident from outside, rather than stuck here all these years. In that moment, Oliver had briefly remembered what it felt like to be alive again.

  He turned his attention back to Jack, sizing him up. White sneakers. Jeans. No dad with him, either—interesting. As they made their way down the garden path, Oliver noted the easygoing, close relationship Jack obviously had with his mum, and felt envious.

  “He looks like an idiot,” he whispered to Charlie. “Don’t you reckon?”

  “Definitely,” Charlie answered.

  While Gwyneth was around, Charlie kept up a grin, but actually he felt deflated. Jack was more Oliver’s age, rather than his. Not only that, but Oliver was bound to ignore him for weeks, until he got bored with following Jack around. That meant he’d have to make do with playing with Gwyneth. Charlie didn’t mind that, but he hated it when Oliver excluded him from anything.

  Gwyneth rested her chin on Ann’s arm, feeling sorry for herself. Not fair, she thought, glancing jealously at Charlie. Not one girl to play with or even look at!

  Then something made Gwyneth gasp and forget all about other girls. Because when Jack reached the front door he did an odd thing: he twisted his head and glanced up toward them.

  All the ghosts noticed it. Ann shrank instinctively against the magnolia-painted wall, then laughed at herself. She knew they couldn’t be seen or heard. Oliver had once proved it beyond any doubt, spending hours amusing the others by drifting up and down the old woman’s legs, yelling at the top of his voice.

  “He . . . didn’t see us,” Charlie gasped. “He couldn’t have . . . could he?”

  “No, I think he just looked up in our general direction,” Ann replied, trying to stay calm.

  “But let’s make sure, eh?” Oliver said. “I’ll nip in front of him when he comes through the door. Right in front of his eyes. See what happens.”

  More excited than she could remember being for years, Ann nodded. The rest of the ghost children positioned themselves with her against the wall behind the door, away from any drafts, and waited.

  Voices outside. A key turned in the lock.

  Oliver clung tightly to the door frame, judging the right time to let go.

  The mother came in first. Jack, wiping his sneakers on the mat, kept the ghosts waiting a little longer. Then he stepped over the threshold.

  Oliver, letting go of the door frame, saluted him. “Hiya!” he said loudly, blowing past Jack and waving his arms. The breeze instantly picked Oliver up and threw him into the wall at the back of the corridor, but he used every trick he knew to navigate back fast. He couldn’t wait to see Jack’s reaction. Nor could the others.

  The four of them avidly watched Jack’s expression as he stepped into the house.

  Jack blinked a few times, gazing around the hallway, sure he’d seen something. Then he shrugged, dismissing it. A shadow. Or nothing at all.

  Trudging inside, he walked straight into one of the exposed wooden ceiling beams.

  “Who used to live here, anyway?” he groaned. “Midgets?”

  His mother, Sarah, laughed. “I warned you about the low ceilings.” In one long glance she took in the narrow corridor and smelled a certain distinctive odor she always associated with old houses. The real estate agents haven’t even bothered cleaning the place properly, she thought. Typical.

  A living room opened up to the left of the hallway. Jack walked straight inside, knelt beside one of the low-backed sofas, and caressed it in several places. Sarah smiled. Just Jack being Jack. She watched as he wandered happily around the room, stroking the cracked mosaic tiles of the open fireplace and everything else in sight, lightly running his fingers across the surfaces, getting to know the place.

  “I love it,” he said, brushing the back of his hand against a threadbare stool. “Mum, I really do.”

  “Thought you might.”

  The way people who had once lived in houses conveyed themselves to Jack—through tiny, fleeting trace memories left in furniture—was an oddity Sarah didn’t pretend to understand. Nor had she ever grown used to it. As
she led him into the dining room, Jack let his fingernails linger and scrape against the door frame before he went inside, and when he saw the antique table and chairs he reacted as if they were Christmas presents. Sarah grinned. A dilapidated farmhouse, creaking on its shaky two-hundred-year-old foundations. Yes, it was absolutely perfect for Jack. And that was good, because she’d wanted to spoil him. He’d been through enough stress lately; three huge asthma attacks in one year—and then what happened to his dad.

  She nudged him up a steep flight of stairs leading from the ground-floor corridor to the first-floor landing.

  “Three bedrooms,” she announced. “Originally four— one’s been converted into a bathroom, but the others haven’t been modernized much. And this room”—she tapped the door—“is all yours.”

  Jack reached out to grip the door’s brass handle. As soon as he did there shot through him a sensation of hard, arthritic hands. An old person’s hands? It was an unusually clear feeling. Generally he just got a vague impression of who’d last been in a room, not their age.

  Fascinated, he went inside. He fingered the soft, heavy folds of the velveteen curtains, then stepped across to the pine bed. He kneaded the slightly lumpy mattress. The impressions were incredibly vivid. The only time he’d experienced anything like this was when he’d touched the wall his dad had been slumped against, just before the ambulance took him away.

  Did someone die here recently? Jack wondered. Is that why I’m sensing this all so clearly?

  He glanced across at the small bedside table and saw a photo of his dad. His mum had obviously put it there, knowing he’d ask for it. It was the snapshot of the three of them together, standing on the porch, about seven months ago, just before it happened. Stephen, Jack’s dad, was smiling. He looked healthy. He had been healthy. There’d been no warning of the heart attack to come.