Breathe: A Ghost Story (Fiction - Middle Grade)

by Cliff McNish

  The Ghost Mother hadn’t mentioned them. Why? Wasn’t she aware of them? If not, should he tell her?

  “What is it, Jack?”

  “This isn’t right,” he said, feeling his way toward the truth. “Somehow it isn’t. You shouldn’t be here at all, should you? I’ve never found anyone’s spirit left behind in a house before. You’re . . . you’re meant to have passed on somewhere else, aren’t you? Why are you stuck in this house?”

  “I . . .” The Ghost Mother gazed away, her body drifting toward the window.

  Jack glanced at her sharply.

  “Did any other children die here apart from Isabella?” he demanded.

  “Other children?”

  “There are more ghosts here.”

  “More?” The Ghost Mother tried to look surprised, but Jack could tell at once she was lying.

  “So you do know about the children!”

  She appraised him a moment, as if deciding how much to reveal.

  “You seem to have a gift for finding the dead, Jack. I wonder where it will lead you?” She ran her hands through her hair, and something about the calculating way she appraised him suddenly made Jack nervous. For the first time he became conscious that he was alone with her, and how far away his mum was.

  “One of the ghost children is heading toward us,” he said.

  “They have . . . they have been in the house for many years,” she answered reluctantly, waving her arms as if to dismiss them.

  “Tell me more,” Jack insisted.

  “You don’t need to know about them. Better you don’t. Little of their energy is left, thankfully.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “As spirits we are constantly fading, Jack, the longer we remain.”

  “But you’re not fading.”

  “I am—only more slowly. Pay no attention to them, Jack. Ignore them. They are mere wisps.” The Ghost Mother’s voice was choked with irritation. “They are, in fact, spiteful and vindictive, young but far from innocent. And not to be trusted, not one word. I had hoped to shield you from them if I could. No doubt they will try to spout their lies at you.”

  “Lies about what?”

  “Why, about me, of course.” The Ghost Mother drifted closer to Jack, deeply agitated. “Will you ignore them if they attempt to speak with you? I do not wish to share you, Jack, with blackened souls such as theirs. I love you too much already for that.”

  Love? The word threw him totally.

  “Forgive me,” she recovered at once. “I mean, of course, the idea of having a son after all these years. That is what I love. Perhaps . . . perhaps, if you permit it, I really can be a kind of second mother to you. We can pretend. I will call you son, and you will call me Mother. Is that too much to ask?”

  Jack could see how much she wanted it. He nodded uncertainly.

  “Good,” she said. “You will not tell Sarah any more about me, I hope? Mothers are passionate, jealous creatures. She might not like having a second mother in the house. She will make you leave. We don’t want that, do we?” He could see her lips trembling, obviously trying to hold back deeper feelings, but unable to.

  “Call me Mother,” she burst out. “Will you . . . will you do that?”

  “What?”

  “Call me Mother.”

  “Mother,” Jack whispered, his throat dry.

  “Say it again.”

  “Mother.”

  “Once more.”

  “Mother.”

  “Thank you.” She bent down to kiss him. Jack shrank back a little. He didn’t want her kissing him again. He was suddenly afraid of her touch.

  “This is how Sarah kisses you, isn’t it?” she said. “On the cheek, or forehead. I have watched her. So our greeting and leave-taking will be different. I will kiss your neck. That will be our way.” She smiled. “And if you will give me a chance,” she went on brightly, “I believe that I may in time become as good a mother to you as Sarah has ever been. Who knows, a better one, perhaps? One you prefer. Do you think that is possible? Do you think I could replace your mother?”

  The thought repelled Jack. As he struggled even to take it in, the Ghost Mother put her fingers to his lips.

  “No, no, I see it is too soon to ask that. I understand. I should not have mentioned it. Naturally your loyalties are to your own mother, as any good son’s ought to be. That itself warms me to you. It is how I would want my own son to be. I—”

  She stopped, her eyes glinting coldly.

  Jack knew why. One of the other ghosts was now in the room with them. Jack couldn’t see whoever it was, but he knew the child was nearby.

  The Ghost Mother glanced at Jack, obviously hoping that he couldn’t detect anything. When she saw he could, a flash of anger crossed her face, and she shouted to the room at large, “Don’t you dare, Oliver! Stay back! Stay away!”

  “Oliver?” Jack whispered. “A boy?”

  He sensed the ghost child better now that he was close: yes, definitely a boy—in the room, at the entrance, defiant.

  “Stay here, Jack, I beg you!” the Ghost Mother implored him. “It is dangerous to follow. He will hurt you!”

  With a final warning look, she floated rapidly toward the door.

  Oliver fled. Normally he’d have tried to hide from the Ghost Mother in a crack or shadow, but she was so close that it was too late to hide.

  Slipping under Jack’s door, he floated onto the landing, anxiously searching for a descending air flow. There was none. Oliver found himself rising, caught in a drift of warm air rushing up the staircase. The Ghost Mother was behind him, trapped in the same air current. Her hair spilled forward over her face in long sinuous waves.

  “For interfering, I’m going to punish you, Oliver,” she told him. “Unless you give in to me now. Unless you do it voluntarily.”

  The updraft jammed Oliver up against the landing ceiling. When he couldn’t find a cross breeze to escape on, he had no choice except to wait for the Ghost Mother. Conserving his energy, he planted his feet firmly on the plaster, ready to push off.

  Never before had the Ghost Mother been so close to catching Oliver. For years she’d ridden the breezes of the house after him, hoping for a chance like this. Concentrating, she moderated her speed, checked her trajectory, and took dead aim for him. No deviation. No allowing perturbations of the updraft to deflect her. Oliver had avoided her all too often by exploiting such tiny miscalculations on her part.

  “There’s no escape this time,” she called up to him. “I’ve learned a lot by studying you, Oliver. Especially the way you cup your hands to use the breezes. You shouldn’t have shown me that.”

  Oliver had never attempted such a dangerous maneuver as he did now, but he had no choice. Waiting until the Ghost Mother was almost upon him, he kicked hard off the ceiling and jackknifed under her. Barely scraping past her clutching arms, he grasped her legs and pulled hard, thrusting himself downward.

  It gave him just enough momentum to overcome the updraft.

  The Ghost Mother searched frantically for a sinking wisp of air, found one near the wall, and followed him. Oliver headed for the cellar. It was the deepest part of the house. If he could reach it first, there might be a place to hide. The chase was close, but part of that was Oliver deliberately hanging back. At the last second he surprised the Ghost Mother. Just as he entered the cellar, letting her almost catch him, he seized the door frame and reversed direction—ascending the staircase again.

  The Ghost Mother hadn’t expected that. Unable to snatch Oliver in time, she sailed into the partially open doorway, and once within the cellar continued to gradually plummet, sinking into the darkness.

  Oliver swore cheerfully at her over his shoulder, then rode the warm updraft all the way into Isabella’s old room. The rest of the ghost children were waiting for him there.

  “You did it!” Charlie cried. “You got away!”

  Oliver smirked. “Never mind that, Charlie boy. Wait till you hear what our new boy Jac
k’s been up to. Listen: he saw old Weepy! He saw her and then, get this, he talked to her! He sat up in bed, duvet tucked up over his knees, chatting away as if he talked to dead people like her all the time!”

  There was stunned silence, while the others took this in.

  “Wasn’t he scared?” Gwyneth asked at last.

  “Not a bit!” Oliver said. “He doesn’t know her like we do. He let her do whatever she liked. Even let her do this!”

  Gwyneth shrank back as Oliver kissed her neck.

  Ann tried to take all this in. Impossible: a living boy who could see a ghost! She could only imagine the lengths the Ghost Mother would go to have him to herself.

  “What was her reaction?” she asked.

  “Oh, she absolutely loved it, of course!” Oliver said. “In her element, wasn’t she? Jack’s everything she’s ever wanted, and all the usual stuff came out, her crying her eyes out, how she didn’t like to compare any child to another, but oh let me tell you about my sweet darling Isabell-a! Oh yes, old Weepy loved it, all right. A living child who can see her. Someone able to hold her dead old hand without feeling sick! She was practically begging Jack to be her son from the second he opened his mouth.”

  “Could Jack see you?”

  “I’m sure he did, absolutely certain.” Oliver grinned at Charlie, still elated by the chase. “We’d better decide quick what we’re going to do. Weepy’ll soon get out of the cellar, and she’s not exactly going to be happy if she finds any of us right now. We’ve spoiled her day. She wanted nice Jack all to herself.”

  Charlie floated closer to Oliver. “Maybe,” he said, “Maybe . . . she’ll leave us alone now.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “You know, if she’s got Jack. If we let her have him. If she’s got a live boy, she won’t hurt us for a while. She won’t . . . won’t feed on us.”

  Charlie’s words affected them all. Oliver was the only one of the children who hadn’t been caught in recent years by the Ghost Mother. Each of the others had vivid memories of being cornered, and the feeling as the Ghost Mother clamped her face onto theirs—followed by the usual screaming. It was the way she nourished herself, kept her spirit strong.

  “Do you think you could get a message to Jack?” Ann asked Oliver.

  “What kind of message?”

  “One telling him how much danger he’s in. To get out of the house.”

  “But Jack’s alive. He’s not like us, Ann. How can she hurt him?”

  “She’ll find a way,” Ann said. “It’s just a matter of time.”

  “But she likes him!”

  Ann smiled darkly. “Oh yes. She likes him now. And she’ll be nice enough until Jack rejects her. Then she’ll go berserk, just like with us. Jack’s flesh and blood, so she might not be able to harm him, but when he doesn’t do what she wants, she’ll try. You know that. We’ve got to get him out of here.”

  “No!” Charlie blurted. “Don’t go, Oliver. She’ll really be after you now! It’s dangerous leaving messages.”

  Gwyneth tapped Ann’s shoulder. “If Jack can see us, can we play with him?”

  Ann sighed. It would certainly have been nice to have had a conversation with Jack. Someone new. And a chance at last of contact with the world outside as well. It was deeply tempting. But every moment Jack was exposed to the Ghost Mother, they risked something appalling happening.

  “I’ll get the message to him,” Oliver said.

  “She’ll be waiting for you!” Charlie wailed.

  “So what? She’s always waiting for me somewhere.”

  “Charlie’s right,” Ann said. “You’ll have to be especially careful this time, Oliver. And it’s not going to be easy leaving a message, either. It’s got to be a message not seen by her, or she’ll punish us. Even if she can’t catch you, you know what she’ll do to the rest of us.”

  Oliver nodded somberly. “She won’t know I was there. I’ll make sure.”

  “How?”

  “I don’t know yet! Depends on the situation.” He made a move to leave, but Charlie held his arm.

  “Surprised you’re making such a fuss,” Oliver said, removing it gently. “Old Weepy’s not caught me in years. She’s probably down there in the cellar right now, scared stiff, wetting her old pants at the thought that I might get to Jack first. Either that, or she’s in his room, the fraud, perched on his bed, waiting to chat to him like she’s his real mummy. Don’t worry, I’ll be ready for her, wherever she is.”

  “Just tell Jack to get out,” Ann said firmly. “Just tell him that.”

  Oliver grinned. “A message that’ll frighten him to death, you mean?”

  “Yes.”

  “Something that’ll make him grab his mum’s hand right away and run off screaming into the night? That the sort of thing you’ve got in mind?”

  “Yes.”

  “All right. Where will you be after I tell him?”

  Ann thought about that. “In the scullery, if we can get there without being seen. If she comes after us we’ll scatter, and I’ll meet you wherever I can.”

  “Better hope I’m not spotted talking to Jack,” he whispered in her ear. “If I am, Weepy won’t rest till she gets a bit of revenge. And she’ll come straight for you, Ann, like she always does.”

  “Don’t worry about me,” Ann said. “I can take care of myself, if I have to. Just be careful. Don’t take any stupid risks.”

  Oliver gave her a quick smile, winked at Charlie, and skimmed under the door.

  Jack sat back on his bed, still stunned by the explosive surge of anger from the Ghost Mother. The ghost children were mischievous, apparently. They were liars, dangerous, definitely not to be trusted. Was that true? He wished now he’d ignored the Ghost Mother’s warning and followed the boy. By the time he did start searching, all the ghosts, including the mother, seemed to have gone into hiding.

  What was going on in this house? Jack shook his head, wondering if there was a way he could use his gift to get to the bottom of the mystery. Well, perhaps there was. Taking a quick squirt from his inhaler, he hurried down the staircase. His mum was in the kitchen, the radio on, preparing lunch. Jack eased the cellar door open as quietly as possible. At first all he could see was darkness. Then the outline of the old rocking chair filtered through the shadows. There you are, Jack thought. Filthy and forgotten. But not by me. Let’s see what you’ve got to say for yourself. Taking a relatively clean breath of air from outside the cellar, he trod carefully down the steps.

  The Ghost Mother watched Jack. Crouched in the deepest shadow of the cellar, where he could not see her, she observed him fondly. She preferred it this way, staring at him without him knowing, free to look at his every move without him becoming self-conscious about being watched. As Jack descended the steps, she feasted her eyes on the arch of his neck—a neck he had so recently allowed her to kiss.

  Everything about Jack consumed and excited her. A live boy to spend time with at last! So much better than the ghost children. They never allowed themselves to be kissed by her the way Jack had. And hadn’t she already given him the perfect memory to fully open up his heart to her—a dying Isabella? Jack already felt sorry for her, she was certain of that. Sympathy would do for now, until she could find a way to deepen his affection.

  The Ghost Mother suppressed a sigh. Given the chance, she would happily have stayed no more than inches from Jack’s face, following him everywhere. But one thing bothered her. As Jack fumbled around the cellar floor, she found it odd that he should take such an interest in Isabella’s old chair. That disturbed her. She didn’t like him touching it.

  Jack hauled the rocking chair out of the cellar as quietly as he could, and carried it up to Isabella’s old bedroom. Wheezing and suppressing a cough, he positioned it near the window. There, he thought, making a final adjustment of the angle. Right here—overlooking the garden, able to look out onto the flowers. That’s the way you preferred the chair, wasn’t it?

  He ran his pa
lm over one of the wooden arms. Instantly the shape of Isabella’s ever-weakening hand tingled under his. A painfully thin hand. She had weighed virtually nothing by the end. Thinking back to the memory the Ghost Mother gave him, he remembered how easy it had been for Isabella to be lifted from the chair onto the iron bed in her final days.

  Jack tiptoed around the chair, still not quite ready to sit in it, nervous about what he might discover. Outside, a cloud blew across the sun.

  “Lunch in five minutes!” Sarah’s voice yelled up the stairs.

  “Okay!” Jack shouted back.

  The rocking chair had a broken strut. The joints were infested with woodworm.

  Never mind, Jack thought, easing himself down into the seat.

  The second he did so the Ghost Mother rose up next to his face. Jack had never seen anything like her expression before: a gaze full of possessive loathing, like an angel of vengeance.

  “Get out!” she wailed. “Out of her chair! Get out! Get out!”

  Shocked, Jack fell from the seat to the floor.

  “I . . .” He couldn’t talk. His chest was instantly tight, going into spasm. Quickly reaching into his jeans, he took two squirts from his reliever inhaler, then turned back to the Ghost Mother.

  She floated above the chair, guarding it, her mouth twitching with anger.

  “Why did you sit there?” she shrieked. “How could you? It was Isabella’s alone, not yours! Is this the gratitude I deserve for becoming a mother again, and pretending I have a son? Is this the thanklessness I deserve after unburdening my heart to you?”

  Jack tried to explain, to apologize, since that’s what she wanted, but he couldn’t catch his breath. In any case, the Ghost Mother wasn’t listening. She drifted in agitation around the room, tearing at her own hair, repeatedly striking her chest. Eventually she composed herself and settled near Jack.

  He edged away from her, frightened of what she might do next.

  “I didn’t mean,” he began, “. . . didn’t mean to . . .”