Breathe: A Ghost Story (Fiction - Middle Grade)

by Cliff McNish

  Why not closer still? Easing herself down, the Ghost Mother wrapped herself like a close-fitting cloak over the arch of Sarah’s spine. Then under her hair, against her scalp. Lightly up against her cheek.

  Direct contact with the skin.

  And—this time—Sarah reacted. She jumped. For the first time she felt something graze her face. Automatically wiping her cheek to be rid of it, she laughed uncertainly, stood up, and walked across the kitchen to put the kettle on. Get a grip, she thought, her hands shaking. All this ghost talk’s spooked you. She even thought she could feel cool traces of air darting around her body, brushing against her like tiny winds.

  Warm milk, she decided. No more coffee. One small cup before bed.

  It was an accident. The Ghost Mother hadn’t meant to touch Sarah’s skin. She’d done it almost as a passing thought. But all that warmth tingling through her left the Ghost Mother feeling curiously moved.

  Experimentally, she placed her face back against Sarah’s. Then, as Sarah opened her mouth in surprise, the Ghost Mother slipped a spirit-finger past her lips.

  This time Sarah gasped—a cooler essence touching her.

  The Ghost Mother swiftly pushed her fingers even deeper inside Sarah’s mouth.

  Sarah breathed out heavily, and the Ghost Mother cursed as she was blown out into the corridor.

  Inside his room, Jack coughed several times.

  Sarah, her heart racing, listened, resisting an impulse to wake him. When she was satisfied the coughing fit had died down, she went back into the living room, turning her shoulders this way and that. “Don’t be stupid,” she told herself, though even as she said it something made her jerk her head up to the nearest mirror.

  The Ghost Mother floated next to Sarah’s face. Could she get further inside? She’d never tried going inside living tissue before. Imagine all the extra strength she’d gain if she could actually take control! Strength to really work again. Strength to do anything. To become, for instance, Jack’s mother.

  The thought rose like a tantalizing, almost crushing hope.

  Was it possible? If so, the beauty was that Jack need never know. She could pretend to be Sarah, at least until he was ready to hear the truth.

  The Ghost Mother clenched her teeth, hardly able to contain her excitement. The other children had rejected her because she wasn’t their true mother. But if she could do this . . .

  Floating toward Sarah’s mouth, she condensed her spirit body into its smallest size, determined to find a way past the lips. The mouth was a real barrier. Sarah’s breath kept blowing her out before she could get far enough inside the throat to be safe from it. Circling her, the Ghost Mother searched for a way. She watched Sarah drinking her milk, making jittery twists and turns. She waited patiently until she calmed down, was quieter in her breathing, less likely to expel her.

  From Jack’s room, both women heard him cough again.

  As Sarah lifted her head, the Ghost Mother squeezed against her lips. Then, wriggling her way inside, she felt a new presence drifting into the room.

  Only one other spirit could have crept up on her so deftly.

  “What are you doing?” Oliver shouted.

  The Ghost Mother cursed and lashed out at him. “Get out!” she demanded. “This is none of your affair!”

  He swayed away from her grasp. The Ghost Mother used the opportunity to steer herself toward Sarah’s lips again.

  From Oliver’s position the breezes were light and tricky. Taking a risk, he let one of them carry him into the Ghost Mother. Slamming into her back, he knocked her away from Sarah.

  “Leave us!” the Ghost Mother shrieked. “Or I will take your soul!”

  “Take it, then!”

  Oliver challenged the Ghost Mother, risking himself. Every time she approached Sarah, he hit out at her. Then an unexpectedly strong current of air from the corridor picked him up and whirled him out of the room. “Leave her alone!” he screamed, struggling in vain against it.

  Sarah was standing near the mantelpiece when she felt something distinctly enter her. “Jack?” she murmured, far too quietly for him to hear. Shivering, she put down her milk. She gazed around the room. She was suddenly aware of the chime of the grandfather clock, of wind rustling in the upper chimney.

  A coldness gathered near her mouth. Sarah passed her hand across her face to brush it away, and, as she did so, she might have been aware of a shadowy weight, except that it was already so far inside her that there was no difference between her and that weight. Sarah blinked, and the weight was behind her eyes.

  She shuddered. Felt a pressure. A movement. A will.

  Oliver watched in horror as Sarah tried to regain control.

  She jerked like a puppet, limbs twitching, her left arm fighting her right as each mother temporarily ruled different parts of her body. Then Sarah briefly wrestled control back and managed to get to the living-room door. She wrenched it open, tried to scream, to warn Jack, but her left hand slapped her mouth shut before any sound emerged. The same hand yanked her back inside the room.

  For several minutes she lay on her side, half in and half out of the doorway, panting like a dog caught for too long in the sun.

  Then the panting stopped. Her mouth relaxed and a small shiver ran down her legs. She propped herself up on one arm. Gingerly touching the tender part of her chin where it had been slapped, she slowly stood up. There was dust all over her skirt where she’d rolled around on the carpet. Carefully picking the dust particles off, she looked blearily around. It was what she did next, however, that made Oliver shudder. She looked at him—right at him—raised a single finger and crooked it, as if to reel him in. Then she gave him a spectacular smile, full of Sarah’s white teeth.

  “We have some old scores to settle, don’t we?” she said knowingly. “Let’s see you get away from this new, fast body, Oliver. It won’t be easy. The house breezes won’t affect me anymore. I’ll give you a head start, shall I?”

  Oliver swore and glided as fast as he could toward the doorway. The Ghost Mother let him go. She lay flat on her belly, resting her chin playfully in her hands, watching him leave, enjoying the anticipation of the chase.

  Then she came after him.

  From the physical struggle earlier, there was a breeze assisting Oliver through the living-room doorway, but little beyond it. Riding a cushion of barely rising air, using every maneuver he knew, Oliver made it to the staircase and ascended. The ceiling above him was the highest in the house.

  Seeing where he was going, the Ghost Mother attempted to swipe him down before he could get too high, but he stayed just ahead of her. Shrieking, she ran for a chair. By the time she returned Oliver was high up against the landing ceiling, out of reach. The Ghost Mother folded her arms and nodded irritably.

  “Well,” she said, “I see I shall have to postpone my pleasure until later. But I’m afraid I cannot allow you to warn my new son about what has happened, Oliver. I could extract a promise from you not to tell him, but I doubt you’d honor it, would you? I’ll have to do something else to keep you quiet.” She cocked a hand to her ear. “That’s Gwyneth, counting too loudly again. I can always hear her. She never learns. They’re in the kitchen, aren’t they? Let’s take my new body in there to show them.”

  She strode across the corridor and kicked the kitchen door wide open.

  The ghost children were hidden, but as soon as the door opened Gwyneth screamed, giving her position away. Charlie stayed concealed beneath the fridge. Ann floated across the floor, trying to get to Gwyneth before the Ghost Mother, but there was no chance of that. With no breezes to contend with, the Ghost Mother ran straight across the room and picked Ann up. Holding her by the neck, she turned her effortlessly this way and that, testing out the strength of her new hands, making sure they didn’t do any permanent damage.

  Oliver floated back down the staircase.

  “Stay away!” Ann told him. “Oliver, there’s no fighting her like this! Are you listening to me? Y
ou have to take care of Charlie and Gwyneth. They’re your responsibility now. Are you listening?”

  Oliver nodded in a stunned way, but Ann knew he was a fighter, not someone patient enough to look after the others. Charlie would follow him anywhere, but how would he cope with a frightened Gwyneth? “If you hurt any of us, our agreement is over,” she told the Ghost Mother. “I’ll never cooperate with you again. Think about that.”

  The Ghost Mother shrugged. “I do not need your cooperation anymore, Ann. I’ll take whatever energy I require from your soul. Jack will give me everything else a mother needs.” She glanced at Oliver. “If you tell him anything I will drain Ann completely. She won’t survive that. Do you understand?”

  “Don’t listen to her!” Ann shouted. “Tell Jack! You must—”

  The Ghost Mother covered Ann’s mouth. “Oliver, if you say one syllable to Jack, I’ll destroy her. Do you believe me?”

  Oliver slowly nodded.

  “Good. Then we understand each other.”

  Tucking Ann under one arm, the Ghost Mother strolled out of the kitchen. It was the early hours of the morning, and very dark, as she made her way up the staircase. Once inside Sarah’s bedroom, she spent a few moments studying Ann, deciding what to do with her. Then she opened the large wardrobe against the rear wall of the bedroom and placed Ann inside. “I can’t take any chances, I’m afraid. I’ll have to lock you in.” Shutting the wardrobe door, she sealed the keyhole shut with masking tape, making sure there were no gaps. Then she went back downstairs and sat by the cold fireplace.

  Oliver and the other children were gone, hiding somewhere, but the Ghost Mother suspected she could find them if she really tried. For now there were more important things to attend to. Preparing, for instance, for those first delicate and risky exchanges of conversation with Jack.

  It was 1:45 a.m. and there was much to do to get ready for her new son. Starting with words. Her old style of conversation wouldn’t convince anyone. Jack would know something was wrong right away. It was necessary to speak like Sarah. Looking into her mind, the Ghost Mother plucked out the modern phrases she might need. Sarah fought to deny her every last one, of course, but the Ghost Mother was persistent.

  “Let me out!” Sarah whispered.

  “No, I’ll not do that,” the Ghost Mother thought. “I can’t share Jack with you. I’ve waited too long for a chance like this. Stop fighting me. It’ll be simpler that way. Give me what I need.”

  “No.” Sarah screamed to break the Ghost Mother’s concentration.

  Ignoring the screams as best she could, the Ghost Mother took several sharp deep breaths—how wonderful to have a body that could breathe again!—and went into the kitchen. She’d seen people in the house using contemporary kitchen equipment, so she knew roughly how it all worked. However, she wanted to experiment fully with the oven, so that by morning she could manage it without awkwardness. After all, she would be using the oven a great deal. Jack was a growing boy. It was going to be a pleasure cooking for him. What were his favorite dishes? No idea, but never mind. Given enough time, she’d force Sarah to tell her all about them.

  Opening the utensil drawer, the Ghost Mother ran her hand over one of the stainless steel spoons. In her own day, she’d scoured spoons with brick dust, the knives with emery paper, and the old cooking range had been a labor in itself, needing the hard graft of regular blackleading to prevent it from rusting up. It was going to be so much easier being a mother now.

  Once she was satisfied she knew her way around the kitchen, the Ghost Mother wandered around the other rooms. She checked complex devices like the telephone, recalling how Sarah had used it and how to disconnect it if she needed to. She made sure she was able to use the matches, so she and Jack could be cozy together beside a friendly fire. She played with the TV controls until she could deftly flick between the channels. Wandering into the bathroom, she applied a little of Sarah’s deodorant. Easy to forget small details like that—getting the smells right. No doubt, in this hygienic age, Jack would be far more sensitive to odors than her own Isabella had been.

  She tested out other bottles and hairsprays, then examined Sarah’s toothbrush. In the Ghost Mother’s own time a salted cloth had sufficed, but this thin-bristled object was obviously what Jack would expect her to use. She familiarized herself with it, brushing her teeth up and down, round and round, copying the way she’d seen Sarah doing it. Mm. Yes. Definitely better than a salted cloth. Smiling, she squeezed the spearmint toothpaste between her teeth.

  After rinsing, she ambled back downstairs, humming a tune to herself. She made a hot drink. A cup of tea, no milk. It was the first taste that had passed her lips in over a hundred and fifty years, and she drank it down in slow sips, making it last, enjoying it immensely. Looking in the fridge, she saw that there were many other appetizing things to reacquaint herself with or try for the first time. It was going to be interesting being a mother in this more affluent world.

  Only one thing was wrong: she was tired. With Sarah constantly fighting her to get back control, she was having to use a great deal of her soul energy. Well, perhaps that didn’t matter. She’d take as much as she needed from Ann for the time being.

  Selecting a ripe green apple, she carried it with her into the living room. How was she going to get Jack to accept her? That was the big question. It wouldn’t be easy. She had to come up with an explanation to account for any clumsiness on her part. As she bit through to the core of the apple, she glanced in the mirror and grinned, practicing her smiles. It was important to find the right one for greeting Jack in the morning.

  Jack woke late again. He always felt drowsy in the days following an asthma attack, and generally slept for longer. Going into the bathroom, he was surprised to find the house quiet. His mum was usually up before him. She probably sat around most of the night listening out for me, he thought. Feeling guilty, and not wanting to wake her, he slipped quietly into the bathroom.

  In the shower he had a good soak, knowing from past experience that the doctor would be giving him a thorough poking. Afterward, dressing in jeans and a T-shirt, he listened, but there was only silence from his mum’s room. Must still be asleep, he thought. He decided to surprise her by making filter coffee and serving it to her in bed. She’d like that. And it would give him one more chance to talk her into staying in the house. Not much chance of success, but he had to try. He couldn’t get the thought of the girl attached to the Ghost Mother’s mouth out of his head.

  Trudging down to the kitchen, he was looking for the coffee filters when he saw her. The door to the living room was partially open, and she was perched on the edge of the sofa, like a visitor. She sat with a perfectly straight back, gazing vacantly at the ashes of the dead fire.

  “Mum!” Jack said, going inside. “You were quiet enough. I thought you were still in bed.”

  The Ghost Mother’s head jerked back. “J-Jack!” A smile like a great gash of pride spread across her face. Sighing deeply, one hand on the arm of the sofa to steady herself, she rose, walked across the room and enfolded him deep in her arms.

  “Hey, what’s that for?”

  She was reluctant to let him go. Finally, after a mild protest from Jack, she turned away, her face full of emotion.

  Jack laughed to cover his embarrassment. “Well, hey, good morning! I’ll make some breakfast, eh?”

  He switched the kettle on and popped four slices of bread in the toaster. The Ghost Mother stood behind him, watching his movements intently, saying nothing. As Jack spread jam on his toast and took a bite, he glanced up at her.

  “Mum, you look like you’ve never seen anyone eating a bit of bread before.”

  “Is that always the way you prefer the jam?” she asked. “From the fridge? Cold?”

  “You know it is. What’s the matter? You’re looking a bit spooked.”

  She offered him a brittle smile.

  “Spooked? No, I . . . yes . . . yes, I am. I saw one of them.”

 
“A ghost?” Jack threw the toast down. “You saw one! One of the ghost children, or—”

  “No,” she said, hesitating. “It was the Ghost Mother. Only briefly, but I spoke with her.”

  “Where?”

  “In here. This room. She floated in. She was angry about something—someone. A boy.”

  “Oliver!” Jack cried. “I told you! I told you they were here!”

  “Yes, Jack. I doubted you. I didn’t believe . . . I’m so sorry.” She smiled. “Later I will help you look for them, but first, I am . . . not feeling too well. The shock—”

  “I know! It was the same for me the first time!” Jack grinned, so happy she believed him at last that nothing else mattered. “Do you need to go for a rest? It’s okay, go on. Oh, Mum, this is great. You saw her, and—”

  “Jack, please, I am not well.”

  “Sorry. Here . . .” He helped guide her through the kitchen. “You go and lie down. I’m all ready for the doctor, anyway. I’ll wake you when he gets here. What time’s he coming?”

  “The doctor?”

  “Yes.” Jack grinned. “You know, the man who examines people. The doctor.”

  “Oh yes. Him.” She said it with venom. “Doctors, Jack. I’ve never trusted doctors. When you are truly ill what use are they? I have used”—she struggled to get the word out—“the telephone to tell him that he will not be needed. I think it best if you just stay here and rest.”

  “Really?” Jack stood by the kitchen table, stirring sugar into his tea. “Mum, you’re talking weirdly.”

  “Am I?” She sighed. “I’m sorry, Jack. Speaking with the Ghost Mother was a . . . strange experience.”

  “I’ll bet. So no doctor, then?”

  “I think I can look after you far better than any doctor.”

  Jack glanced up to see if she was joking. She didn’t seem to be, but at that moment he didn’t care.

  “Mum, this is fantastic! You’ll be miles better at talking to the Ghost Mother than me. You’ll really be able to understand her, and—”