Breathe: A Ghost Story (Fiction - Middle Grade)

by Cliff McNish

  The Ghost Mother bowed her head. “But sometimes I wished she would give in. That she might have died sooner, faster, to lessen her suffering. Was that wrong of me?”

  Jack had no idea what to say. He sat there, only wanting to comfort the Ghost Mother.

  “Winter was worst,” she said. “When we could afford wood or furze, we’d sometimes sit by the hearth all day as a treat, and have a warm, just as you and your own mother did this afternoon. But after my husband passed away, I could not look after an invalid daughter and a farm as well, and things went badly for us. I was forced to sell the land and take whatever work I could get. Apprenticed once to a seamstress, I knew darning and patching and a maid’s tasks well enough. I’d run errands, too, clean, mend shoes, man’s work they say, but I took it, whatever was offered, and, well . . .” She spread her pale hands. “All of that made no difference in the end, did it? No amount of hard work or love can stop the Captain taking what he will.”

  The Ghost Mother slumped on the bed, her hair drifting vertically on a breeze. “I am sorry,” she murmured. “As a first conversation between strangers, these are cheerless words. I will take my leave now. But—” she glanced at Jack with sudden desperation and hope “—may I have your permission for a second visit? Will you keep an old dead Ghost Mother company for a while?”

  “Yes,” Jack said.

  “In that case I will trouble you no further tonight.”

  “Don’t go yet,” he said. “Tell me . . . please tell me one thing.”

  “One thing? Very well. I might tell you one thing.”

  “Did you die here, in this house?”

  “I did,” she replied without hesitation.

  “How did you die?”

  “That is two questions, Jack.”

  “Please answer.”

  “I cannot bear to tell you that yet. I may never be able to.” She stared at him thoughtfully. “I have one request to ask of you, Jack. It is only a small one. I ask that you do not tell your mother about me. She will only think you are lying, and try to take you away. I do not want that to happen, so soon after meeting you. Will you keep your silence?”

  Jack slowly nodded, and the Ghost Mother smiled, properly relaxing for the first time.

  “In that case, good night, Jack. Good night, lovely boy.”

  She departed without a backward glance, sliding noiselessly under the door.

  After she left, Jack lay on his bed, staring up at the ceiling. The way the Ghost Mother had moved! He was frightened, exhilarated, full of sadness for her, enthralled by her. A ghost in the house! The idea thrilled him. She thrilled him. And she would visit again. What could have happened that was so awful that she couldn’t talk about it? Well, he would ask more about that next time he saw her. . . .

  Closing his eyes, Jack tried to imagine what it might be like to spend all that time in the house without ever talking to anyone. One hundred and fifty years! Wouldn’t you go mad? A Ghost Mother, he thought. Two mothers under one roof. One alive, one dead.

  Jack’s last thoughts before he fell asleep, however, had nothing to do with mothers. At first he decided he must be dreaming about Isabella, because it was a girl’s voice he was hearing. But he soon realized that it was a song. A kind of comfort song. Like a lullaby from an older child to soothe a younger one. And it made no sense to him at all.

  When children are playing alone on the green,

  In comes the playmate that never was seen.

  When children are happy and lonely and good,

  The Friend of the children comes out of the wood.

  Deep in the darkness of the house, Ann finished singing the strange verse Gwyneth had always liked so much and looked down at her small, sleeping face. It was good that Gwyneth slept. Now that the Ghost Mother was awake, there would be little sleep in the days to come for any of them.

  Charlie floated near Ann, thinking about his own death. Seeing Sarah’s concern over Jack had stirred up all sorts of memories for him again, including the way his mother had held his hand at the end of his life—that last touch at the hospital. For the first time in as long as he could remember, Charlie wondered if she might still be alive. He’d only been trapped in the house for thirty-five years. It was possible.

  He gave Ann a wistful half-glance, and she smiled reassuringly back.

  Oliver grunted and put his ear to the scullery door, impatient to find out what was going on in the rest of the house. Normally, when she woke, the Ghost Mother came straight to find the ghost children. What was keeping her this time?

  “I’m off to see what she’s up to,” he told Ann.

  “No,” she answered. “You stay here. I’ll go.”

  Oliver stared at her curiously. Each time the Ghost Mother woke, Ann was always anxious to see her before the rest of them. Oliver wasn’t sure why, but he knew it was dangerous. He could tell that because Ann usually returned so weak that she could barely speak.

  “Not this time,” Oliver said. “Anyway, it’s been a while since she chased me. I need the practice.”

  Before the others could object, he slipped out of the scullery, drifted along the corridor, and found a curl of dry air to glide him up into the warmth of the upper house.

  When Jack woke the next morning the memory of his conversation with the Ghost Mother was still fresh in his mind. He wanted to go straight downstairs and tell his mum, then remembered his promise.

  Rolling out of bed, he rubbed his head, still feeling a bit woozy—the usual light-headedness he always experienced after an asthma attack. He took his time getting dressed and inhaled the dosage of anti-inflammatory drugs his mum had made up for him last night. Entering the kitchen, he found her already sitting at the dining table, sipping a cappuccino. Coffee was all she ever had for breakfast.

  “Sleep all right?” she asked, eyeing him over the rim of her cup.

  “Like a baby,” Jack replied, a bit too quickly.

  “Mm.” Sarah popped four slices of bread in the toaster. While she waited for the slices to burn—Jack preferred them blackened at the edges—she poured him out some tea, wincing as Jack ladled in three heaped spoonfuls of sugar.

  “I’ve phoned the doctor,” she said. “He’s coming tomorrow morning. Nothing to worry about. Only a checkup to make sure you’re all right after last night. Better stay inside today, though, just to be safe. Take it easy and keep your medication handy. Okay?”

  Jack nodded, desperate to tell her about the Ghost Mother. She glanced sidelong at him, able to tell at once that he was hiding something.

  “So,” she said, watching him closely, “have you thought any more about what happened last night?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I mean the woman, of course.”

  Jack squirmed. “No, must’ve just dreamed her. I was asleep, and—”

  “You don’t really believe that, do you?”

  Jack bit his lip and half turned away. Something about the way he did it made Sarah realize that the rest of the night had not been uneventful.

  “Jack, tell me.”

  “No, I . . . ”

  But he knew she’d never stop now until she dragged it out of him, so he did: about Isabella, about the Ghost Mother, everything. And it was a mistake. He knew almost immediately that she didn’t believe one word. And why should she? Even he could hardly believe his own story, it sounded so weird. He couldn’t stop his fingers fluttering against the wall next to him as he told her, either, the same nervous trait he’d shown over and over in the days after his dad died.

  Sarah’s heart sank. So that’s why you wanted to come to this old house so much, she thought. You hoped being around even older things might give you a different way to bring your dad back again, didn’t you. It’s all about him. It’s still all about him. We haven’t gotten away at all.

  While Jack continued to talk, at some point she stopped listening altogether, and said softly, “Was anyone else in the room with the Ghost Mother, Jack?”

&nb
sp; “No. Why should there have been?” Jack shrugged the remark aside. “She was . . . she was . . . just talking and touching me gently on the throat and face. Like this.” He showed her, brushing his skin. “I was scared, but it was all right. It didn’t hurt. I didn’t mind. I freaked out that first time I saw her, but I shouldn’t have. I realize that now. She wasn’t trying to harm me.”

  Sarah gazed at him intently, saying nothing.

  “Her touch was light,” Jack said, “but it was still like this.” He took his mum’s hand and drew it against his neck. “It wasn’t cold.” He smiled.

  Sarah licked her dry lips. “You liked that? A dead person touching you? Was anyone with the woman, Jack?” Very quietly.

  “No.”

  “Are you sure? Are you sure your dad wasn’t there as well?”

  “What?”

  “Or somewhere nearby? Isn’t that what you were thinking about or hoping before you went to sleep? That you’d be able to find him again? That the house being so old, he might come here, or something like that?”

  Jack stepped back, suddenly realizing what she meant.

  “No, Mum. Listen to me! Dad wasn’t with her. This has nothing to do with Dad. Nothing.” He stared at her. “Mum, I wasn’t even thinking about him. But I did see the woman. She kept drifting up off the bed, like this. . . .” He demonstrated, his arms rising slightly. “But you know something weird? She’s a ghost, but I’m not afraid of her, not really. If you’d heard the way she talked about Isabella, you wouldn’t be scared of her, either. She’s alone, Mum. She’s been alone for ages.”

  Sarah, with no idea how to deal with this yet, let the conversation end. Jack could tell she didn’t believe him, and the more he tried to persuade her the less she listened, fixing him with a confused stare. He finally left her standing in the kitchen, the coffee cup shaking slightly in her hand, and returned in frustration to his own room.

  Jack lay on his bed, playing a video game, but secretly keeping a close lookout for the Ghost Mother. How could he find her again? Perhaps he didn’t need to. If he was alone, maybe she’d come to him, like the first time. A haunting! he thought. That’s what this is like. What did you do to encourage ghosts to haunt you? Did they need encouragement?

  First Jack shut his door, closed the curtains and simply waited. When that didn’t work, he lay down on the bed in the same position as before, anticipating the feel of her hand on his face. But the Ghost Mother surprised him. She didn’t sneak in under the door this time. Instead, she lifted a hand out from underneath him, beneath the pillow on which his head rested. As both her arms emerged, swaying over his head, Jack realized that he must have been lying partially against her, half inside her arms, for a long time without realizing it. It was only when he twisted to look down at her that she broke the embrace.

  “Good morrow, Jack,” she said, thrusting herself into the room. “I trust you are well rested?”

  Her shape condensed against a wall briefly, then rebounded off it toward him again.

  Jack said nothing, still recovering from the thought of how close she’d been, furtively encircling him in her arms. He didn’t like that, and it was also unnerving to watch her shape flowing in and out of the shadows of the room. A quietly confident smile broke over her face. She settled once more on the edge of his bed, grinning at him with her uneven teeth.

  “I notice that you told your mother all about me.”

  “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean—”

  “It does not matter,” the Ghost Mother said dismissively. “I forgive you. Let us talk no further of her. I prefer to talk about us.” She gave a little sigh. “It is good to imagine being of the living world once more, Jack. A mother talking to her son. I like it, even if it is only make-believing.”

  She seemed much more self-assured today, though every small gesture still showed Jack how desperate she was for him to like her.

  “Isabella,” he said. “I—”

  “You want to know more about her?”

  “Yes.”

  “Then do you believe in miracles, Jack?” She folded her arms across her chest, anger edging her voice. “For I was offered them aplenty. If I could show you all the quack cures I purchased to cure Isabella’s consumption! Marvels, we were promised, if I paid enough. Once, God forgive me, I even rubbed salt in Isabella’s gums, for that was said to be a restorative.” The Ghost Mother’s neck drifted slightly toward Jack, caught in a breeze flowing under the door. “Nothing worked. But at least Isabella never saw my tears. I wept them bitterly enough when that first dash of blood sprang forth out of her lovely mouth, but kept them from her sight thereafter.”

  Jack told her what he’d seen when he felt the window frame and floor in Isabella’s room.

  “Touch, then?” the Ghost Mother mused. “Memories springing from touch?” Her hand fluttered toward Jack for support, and he took it, gently at first, interlinking each of her wispy, insubstantial fingers in his own.

  “You want to know more?” she asked, her expression suddenly more calculating. “Oh, I think you should.”

  Her grip tightened.

  “What’s going on?” Jack said.

  She did not reply. She merely stared at him, licking her lips in concentration. She held his hand—seeking the memory she wanted Jack to see.

  “Stop it,” Jack whispered.

  “You want to understand what happened, don’t you?”

  “Yes . . . but . . .”

  “But you’re afraid, Jack? Is that what you’re trying to say? Well, no matter. So was I. Fear and death: good friends they are. But to know Isabella you must see how the horror ended, as well as how it began.”

  “Don’t,” Jack said. “Please . . .” He stared at the Ghost Mother, almost yanked his hand away, but didn’t, kept it there, let her fingers envelop his.

  “Do not be frightened,” she said. “You want to understand, don’t you? To do that you must stare our good friend the Captain in the face.”

  A death room. It was many years later, and the carefree young Isabella was gone. The Isabella Jack saw now was close to his own age, closer still to her last breath. She sat in her old bedroom, looking out onto the garden. Four pillows propped her up on a wooden rocking chair, and she was like an emaciated doll, hunched up and almost lost amongst them. There was a permanent breathlessness to her now, a coarse crackle that never left her throat. Sweat drenched her face and clothes, and Jack saw that she barely had the strength left even to lever up her neck.

  Her lips were unnaturally full and red, her eyes bruised, her face appallingly gaunt. But it was the way Isabella breathed that was the most terrifying thing. Every breath came into her light and horribly fast—like someone frantically catching their wind after a long run.

  Her final breaths were like this, Jack realized. Snatched desperately from the air. This is what she looked like just before she died.

  As he watched, Isabella cleared her throat several times, trying to free it so that she could breathe more easily, but a cough interrupted her. It was a startling cough, reminding Jack of the one when she was a little girl, but much worse, racking her whole body like a branch in the wind. Jack had coughed many times when his asthma was bad, but never like this. He knew a cough half as severe would have sent him crawling to his mum’s room for help. Isabella, however, just clenched her fists, dealing with it as if she had done so many times before.

  It was cold outside, the sky heavy with a winter rain that had not yet begun to fall. The Ghost Mother, looking thin and frail herself, entered the room and knelt beside Isabella, draping a shawl across her feet. Isabella thanked her, then gazed disconsolately out of the window. Her hand rested limply on the terrier’s head. He was an older dog now, gray around his muzzle and legs. “Sam,” she murmured. “Sam, Sam.”

  Outside, the first drops of rain fell and Isabella was carried by her mother from the chair to the iron bedstead. A white linen nightgown waited there, neatly folded. There were no mirrors in the room, but ther
e were a few cut winter flowers. Some food lay untouched on the floor. Closer still, there was a pitcher and bowl.

  “Here, drink this.”

  Her mother held a tumbler of water to Isabella’s lips. Isabella drank in small, jerky sips, like a bird drinking. When she put out a hand to hold the tumbler herself, the weight of it seemed to pull her. She dropped it with a clatter onto the tray, and laughed breathlessly.

  The rain fell more heavily, big drops raking the house. Without moving her head, Isabella watched a flight of wood pigeons sweep past the window.

  “Rain, rain, go away,” she murmured.

  “Spring will soon be here,” her mother said. “Not long now, not long at all.”

  “I know.”

  But Isabella had a resigned look, as if she had only said it for her mother’s sake. She closed her eyes and lifted her hand. Her mother caught it, pressed the palm against her lips and drew Isabella toward her.

  The Ghost Mother slowly released her grip. For a while she and Jack sat together in silence in the bedroom, the Ghost Mother quietly weeping, but also glancing up sharply now and again from her lowered eyes to see how Jack was taking it all.

  Jack had no idea what to say or think. He was entirely lost in the Ghost Mother’s despair. But then something new happened that made him gasp. It was his gift, reaching out. It wasn’t the same as before, feeding itself on a few paltry scraps of memories embedded in old furniture. It had been quickened, deepened, by whatever the Ghost Mother had done to him. His dad’s death, the more recent death of the old woman in the house, Isabella’s window, and now this, especially this, had awakened it beyond anything he’d known before.

  Jack reeled, his head spinning.

  There were more ghosts in this house.

  He sensed them—only vaguely, but he knew they were there. The Ghost Mother wasn’t the only spirit still living here. She was merely the strongest, the most visible.

  Children, he realized. Somewhere in the house, huddled together. No. Wait. One was on the move—a single ghost meandering toward his bedroom, whisked on a breeze from downstairs. It had to be another ghost. No ordinary child could move like that.