by Cliff McNish
“You had a daughter who loved you once,” she said. “Tell me about that. What really happened to her? She didn’t just die of consumption, did she?”
No reply.
“What are you hiding? Did you do something to her?”
The Ghost Mother held her breath.
“What did you do?”
“Be quiet.”
“Did you . . . did you kill her?”
Total silence.
“Oh, so that’s it. You killed her. Oh, you did, didn’t you? You killed Isabella. You killed your own daughter.”
The Ghost Mother silently screamed. “That’s what you want, isn’t it?” she hissed. “For Jack to see me like this— wild, out of control.”
“Yes. The way you really are. Why did you kill Isabella?”
“Leave me alone!”
“There is no worse crime for a mother than that,” Sarah murmured. “Oh, and she loved you, didn’t she? Isabella loved you very much.”
“No. I . . . I did not kill her!”
“No? Then why the guilt? I think you did. I wonder if Isabella blamed you? Do you think so? In those final moments, before she died, do you think she hated you as much as Oliver does now? As much as all the ghost children do? As much as Jack will?”
“Stop your mouth!” the Ghost Mother wailed.
“Is it because you killed Isabella that you’ve found it easier to take the souls of so many other children? Did one death make it easier?”
“I was lonely. The Nightmare Passage . . . I never meant—”
“ To harm them? I see. So that is your excuse. Isabella, I think, would have been so proud of you for that.”
The Ghost Mother clenched her fists, fighting down the nausea threatening to overwhelm her. Ignoring Sarah as best she could, she finally managed to fill her mind again with loving thoughts about Jack. I will not harm him, she thought. I will love him, and he will love me.
Staring at her reflection in the mirror, she decided that she hated the makeup. Jack will have to get used to you as you are sooner or later, she thought. Take it all off. If he queries anything, say you are ill. Yes, if anything goes wrong today, just tell him you are ill. Blame the ghosts; they’ve frazzled your nerves. He’ll accept that.
She permitted herself a small smile. It was good to think about Jack, to behave like a real mother again. True, her mind kept wandering away from the present, but she’d make up for any minor forgetfulnesses and mistakes by smothering Jack with love. Not that she would expect too much from him in return. Not yet. Just sitting with him by the fire was enough for now. Later, perhaps, she might dare to hope that he’d regard her with some measure of genuine affection.
Should she dress to impress him? No. Nothing showy. Just be natural, she thought. Laugh if he makes a joke. Show an interest in whatever he does. Compliment him. Let him know that you have a sense of humor.
Wiping the makeup off her face, the Ghost Mother grinned into the mirror. No mistakes today, she thought. The toast. The tea. Get them right. Jack likes his breakfast just so.
As soon as Jack woke that morning, thoughts of Oliver and Ann flashed straight into his mind. I’m going to find you both today, he decided. I won’t stop searching until I do.
Downstairs, the Ghost Mother was waiting for him, armed with a radiant smile. Jack noticed a tiny smudge of pink lipstick at the side of her mouth. Her hair looked as if it had been curled, then slept on.
“Going out somewhere?” he asked.
The smile faded, and she shook her head.
The breakfast table was set immaculately. There were four slices of toast on Jack’s plate, each with a perfectly burned edge. A spreading knife gleamed beside the jam. His cup of tea was nice and hot and sugared just right. While he sipped it, the Ghost Mother also poured herself a cup from the pot.
“Tea?” Jack said. “When did you start drinking that, Mum?”
She hesitated. “I . . . wanted a change.”
“But you hate tea. You’ve always hated it.”
“No need to be so bold.”
“Bold? What does that mean?”
When she did not answer, Jack felt the tension suddenly rise between them.
He glanced away. A faint smell of more burning drew his attention to the trash. Six blackened slices of bread stuck out, ones she’d obviously overdone before he came down. There was also a slightly stale, musty smell coming from the trash can itself—yesterday’s old food leftovers hadn’t been thrown out. The kitchen blinds were still closed as well. An apple core, at least a day old, festered on the counter.
With Sarah muttering destructively in her ear, the Ghost Mother turned to the sink. She picked up the nearest utensil—a bread knife—and set about rapidly peeling potatoes. She cut her finger almost immediately, but did not cry out, hoping Jack wouldn’t notice. The blood ran from her finger onto the potato peelings.
“Mum, are you okay?”
She turned to him, smiled, and wiped the blood on her apron.
“It’s nothing.”
“No, it’s a bad cut. Let me see.”
She snatched her hand away when he went to touch her—she didn’t want him learning any truths that way.
“Hey!” he protested. “I was only trying to help. What’s the matter?”
She left the bleeding finger under the cold tap for a minute, then wrapped it in a kitchen towel.
“Mum,” Jack said, wanting to reach out to her in some way through all this awkwardness. “What’s the matter? Are you all right? You’re not, are you?”
“What is wrong exactly? What am I doing wr–” She twisted away. “No,” she said, trying to smile. “I’m . . . not well, nor have I been for days. All these sightings of the ghosts, and the way the Ghost Mother talked. I’ve tried to hide the strain I’m under, but you can see it. Of course you can. You’re my son.”
As she stepped toward him, Jack saw a smudge of foundation cream on the lobe of one of her ears. She also smelled faintly. Hadn’t she washed? What was wrong with her?
“I’m a good mother, aren’t I?” she suddenly burst out.
“Of course you are!” Jack answered. “Mum, don’t be stupid, of course you are!”
She stood there, a few tears misting her eyes, nodding at him.
“I’ll go look for the ghost children on my own,” he said. “You don’t have to get involved if it bothers you. It’s okay.”
“Oh, Jack, I really don’t think we should trouble ourselves about the ghost children any longer.” The Ghost Mother straightened up, the tears gone instantly. “It has been some time since you saw them, after all. If they wish to contact us, they can. Hunting for them could be dangerous.”
“Is that what the Ghost Mother told you?”
“Yes.”
“Mum, we can’t believe her. The girl—”
“Must we continue to discuss this? Have you seen the ghosts recently? Have you? Well?”
“No.”
“So why do we need to keep looking for them? I don’t understand. What is the matter with you?”
“What’s the matter with me? Mum it’s you—”
“Jack, enough!” The Ghost Mother stabbed the knife into the bread board. “Must you query every remark of mine? Is it too much to ask that you do not do so? Is that really too much for your mother to ask? To expect a little peace and tranquillity in this house?”
“No. No . . . Of course not.”
Jack said it automatically, too amazed by her outburst to think of anything else. He half expected her to break out laughing, to show she was joking. Instead, she gazed solemnly at him. Jack looked at her hands. The nails on most of her fingers were bitten almost to the quick. When she caught him staring, she hid them.
“Eat up,” she said brightly. “A good breakfast keeps up your strength. Isn’t this what you like?” She turned away from him, sipping her tea. No milk, he noticed. He’d never seen her drink anything hot without milk. Standing up from the table, he backed away from her.
“I’d like to go to my room,” he said.
“Why?” Instantly, suspicion on her face.
“ To play a video game, that’s all. Something wrong with that?”
“No . . . of course you may. Very well. Yes, that’s fine. Go to your room if you’re finished eating. I’m not keeping you here. Go and play.”
For a while, stomach churning, Jack sat in his room just trying to understand what was happening. Go and play! He could hardly believe she’d said that. What on earth was wrong with her? He wanted to phone someone, maybe their doctor, but there was no credit on his cell phone. He’d have to use the main telephone in the living room. He didn’t want to do that, because his mum was bound to be in there.
I’m scared of her, he realized. How can I be scared of her?
Was she annoyed with him about something he’d done? That’s ridiculous, he thought. Even so, he felt an unusually strong impulse to tidy up his room, just in case she came in and found fault with it.
He was still reeling, attempting to make sense of it all, when she knocked on his door.
“Come in,” he said thickly.
She stood there, smiling away from the threshold.
“I’m sorry, Jack. Sorry I shouted at you. This farmhouse . . . the ghosts—” she made a face “—it’s made me really jittery. I shouldn’t have scolded you like that. The important thing is that we’re together. Nothing else matters.”
She served up lunch shortly afterwards. Some kind of meat dish, with boiled cabbage and potatoes. Jack had no idea what it was. He didn’t ask because he wasn’t in the mood for unnecessary conversations. She also seemed content for them to sit together without talking.
“You’re very quiet,” she said at one point during the meal.
“So are you.”
“Just so. It is not necessary to talk all the time, is it?”
“No.”
“We can sit here and be happy just doing that, can’t we?”
“Yes.”
He picked up a magazine and pretended to be doing a crossword so he could avoid her constant, unnerving gaze.
“Show me,” the Ghost Mother said.
“You’re not normally interested in crosswords.”
“Of course I’m interested. I’m interested in everything you do, Jack.”
“Here.” Jack shoved the magazine over. “I’m going back to my room.”
As soon as he left, the Ghost Mother slumped down in one of the kitchen chairs. What a disastrous morning! One foolish blunder after another! If the afternoon went as badly, Jack was bound to discover the truth. That mustn’t happen. It’s your fault, she thought, turning her attention inward to Sarah. Why won’t you leave me alone? Why won’t you stop screaming?
There had to be a way to prevent Sarah’s endless interference. In fact, if she had more soul-energy to fight her with, perhaps Sarah’s resistance could be overcome once and for all. The Ghost Mother considered where she could find a lot more energy, a great burst of it.
Of course.
She checked first in all the usual places for the ghost children, but Oliver had concealed their tracks well. No matter; one of them, at least, had nowhere to hide. She strolled upstairs to Sarah’s bedroom. Once inside, she reached up to a shelf for the pretty bronze key that opened the wardrobe.
Ann prepared herself. Hearing the Ghost Mother quietly crossing the room, she sat up as best she could. There was a soft rasp as the masking tape was removed from the keyhole, followed by sunlight. Then she saw the Ghost Mother’s eye, filling the space, making sure she was still there.
All day Ann had encouraged the Nightmare Passage to take her, dreading the arrival of this moment. When the Nightmare Passage did not take her, she had rehearsed over and over the arguments she would use to save herself, to persuade the Ghost Mother not to do this. But when that hungry eye appeared in the keyhole, and the Ghost Mother stood there tapping the key impatiently against her palm, Ann knew in her heart that nothing she said would make any difference.
Stay away, Oliver, she thought. Please, whatever happens, don’t interfere now.
The Ghost Mother refused to meet her stare.
“If you are going to take the rest of my soul, look at me,” Ann dared her. “At least do that.”
The Ghost Mother held the key rigid in her hands. There was no yielding in her gaze, no late spark of compassion.
“Do you want to know,” Ann whispered, “what the Nightmare Passage feels like when you are this close to it?”
The Ghost Mother said nothing.
“No? You don’t wish to hear? You coward. Now that you are sending me into it, I didn’t think you would.”
“If there was another way . . .”
“There is. Give me back some of the energy you’ve stolen over the years.”
“No.” The Ghost Mother reached into the wardrobe and lifted Ann’s body off the clothes. She picked her up gently, the way a daughter might be lifted, and Ann couldn’t help a sudden, desperate hope that she would stop. But then the Ghost Mother tilted her face in the disgusting way Ann knew only too well.
“It won’t hurt,” the Ghost Mother promised. “I’ll make it swift.”
“You were a good mother once,” Ann pleaded. “You were. When you sent Daniel into the Nightmare Passage it was an accident. I know it was. You never meant for it to happen. But this time you know what will happen to me. Please don’t send me there.”
“I have no choice.”
“You have. Help me instead.”
The Ghost Mother lifted Ann toward her face. When Ann resisted, she forced her lips wide. Then the Ghost Mother bent down, and the gesture was like that of a kiss being offered, but of course it was nothing like a kiss.
This time, however, Ann’s eyes did not widen with the usual horror.
At first the Ghost Mother did not understand what was wrong. She kept pressing herself closer, changing her grip on Ann’s face, aware that barely a trace of soul was entering her throat. Then she detached herself.
Ann smiled triumphantly. “Can’t find anything? That’s because I’ve nothing left to give. You’ve already taken it all.”
“No!” the Ghost Mother wailed. She clutched Ann, trying to force her lips to offer up more. Then she screamed with pain and dropped her, because suddenly Ann was too cold to hold.
Something terrifying had invaded the room.
Shrieking, the Ghost Mother hauled herself away, weeping with fear for her own safety.
Ann’s face darkened. Ice crystals formed in her throat. Her hair froze.
The Nightmare Passage was here to snatch her away at last.
Over recent hours, Ann had longed for this. She had even begged the Nightmare Passage to take her. But now that the moment had come, she couldn’t help herself; she resisted it. Like every soul that had been claimed before her, with whatever strength she still had left, she fought its pull, holding desperately on to this world.
For a few seconds she was successful. The lower part of her body was wrenched away, but her upper half remained in the wardrobe, illuminated by sunshine. While it was still there, Ann reached out blindly to anyone, even the Ghost Mother, for help.
And found, instead—Oliver.
He’d arrived in the room in time to clutch one of her arms.
“Get away!” Ann screamed.
But it was too late. The Ghost Mother saw him. She lunged and seized Oliver from the air.
Ann had never seen anything like the way Oliver fought her. His nails tore at her cheeks. His fingers gouged her eyes. His legs kicked out, striking her time and again. But soon the Ghost Mother found his face, and attached herself. Then her lips sought his, making a seal, and after that Oliver’s legs kicked less. His hands continued to scratch her for a time, but gradually they fell limp as well, until finally even his neck slumped. It slumped so low that the Ghost Mother had to reach down to hold it up to stay attached to his face.
The last thing Ann saw before the Nightmare
Passage stole her from this world was the Ghost Mother stop to take a breath, obscenely wipe her hand across her mouth, then turn back to Oliver for more.
When Jack returned downstairs that afternoon the blinds were still closed, the apple core still festering on the counter. There was even a fresh whiff of burned bread hanging in the air. More attempts to get the toast right, he thought. What’s the matter with her?
She’s ill. She told you herself. That’s all it is. She’s ill.
He desperately wanted to believe that.
The Ghost Mother stood at the stove, stirring yet another pan of food Jack did not recognize.
“Did you enjoy your time alone, son?”
As she twisted toward him, Jack saw foundation cream still on her earlobe. A cursory glance in the mirror and she’d have spotted it. How could she have missed something so obvious? Perhaps it was that—the badly applied makeup. Or perhaps it was the state of the kitchen. Maybe it was the false smile, or the burned toast, just way too much burning. Whatever it was, Jack knew that nothing was right about this. It was all wrong.
Part of him wanted to get his mum to a hospital. The other part wanted to flee.
“I’ve seen the ghost children again,” he lied, watching her reaction closely. “I’ve seen Oliver. I like Oliver. I like him a lot.”
The Ghost Mother stirred the pan.
“Don’t ignore me,” Jack said.
“I’m not ignoring you.”
“Yes, you are. You don’t like hearing about Oliver, do you? Not one bit.”
Her body, poised over the stove, tensed.
“Jack,” she said, in a deliberate, controlled tone, “I am trying to make a home for us here. I am trying, yet you continue to be ungrateful. I can tell you are lying about seeing Oliver. I am prepared to indulge many things, but not lies. It upsets me to hear them from my own son. I do not like to see you lying, and I do not wish to have to punish you.”
Jack’s heart thudded. He took a puff from his inhaler, restraining an impulse to run.
The Ghost Mother stared at him uncertainly.
“There are indications,” she said, “that the weather will be fine later. Perhaps the outside air will alleviate your lungs.”