by Cliff McNish
Her smile could not have been falser.
Only one person I know talks like that, Jack thought.
Not my mother. It came like a quick stab, and he tried to deny it, but couldn’t. Not my mother. Not my mother. Not my mother. I know who you are! The whole of him wanted to scream it out loud, but the horror of what it meant held him back.
Because if it was true, where was his real mum?
He had to be sure. How do you test if your mother is really your mother?
She sat there, watching him. She didn’t speak, didn’t offer him any more clues, merely studied him, her hands squirming in her lap.
“Is it a relief not to talk?” Jack asked. “It must be. That way you make fewer mistakes, don’t you?”
She said nothing.
“Mum?” he whispered. “Mum, are you in there? Can you hear me?”
He watched the smile slip, followed by a grimace. Then the smile clicked smoothly back into place.
“Too late,” Jack said quietly. “I saw.”
The Ghost Mother wailed with frustration, her head suddenly jerking to the left.
“GET OUT!” his real mother’s voice screamed from her. “JACK, ANY WAY YOU CAN, GET OUT OF—”
The head whipped back into place.
“I . . . I . . . always wanted a son,” the Ghost Mother stuttered, trying to recover. “I always . . . always . . .” She took a step toward Jack, but he backed away. “Please,” she pleaded. “Why won’t you love me?”
The words made Jack spin. They hung in the air like a direct challenge. Love her! How could she expect that? She gazed at him, her expression full of need. What should he do until he could get away? Play the part of the dutiful son? Pretend? Is that what she expected?
“Is it so hard to care for me, Jack? Is it?”
“You’re not my mother!” The words came out in a hoarse rasp. “Not my real mother. I know you’re not. How can I love you? Not my mother! Not my mother!”
Her eyes locked with his.
“Where is she?” Jack yelled. “What have you done to her?”
The Ghost Mother sighed and strolled into the living room. She lay on the sofa and gazed at a wall.
Jack stayed where he was, his breathing a mess. Then he took a deep lungful of air and walked into the living room, prepared to bolt if she moved a step toward him. The Ghost Mother was positioned lengthways across the sofa, her legs drawn up, hugging herself. When she picked at the collar of her shirt, a speck of foundation cream flicked onto her neck.
Jack seethed with rage as she wiped it off with her hand.
“You’re wearing her clothes! You’re wearing her makeup! Take them off!”
The Ghost Mother gazed back at him serenely.
“I want her back!” Jack screamed.
“Do you truly and honestly want her back, Jack?”
“Yes!”
“Well, I am not surprised.” She sounded disappointed in him. “We all have only one mother, and must unfortunately make do with that and grasp what love we can. You are only a boy, Jack, and do not understand everything. I cannot countenance allowing her back when I can bring you at least as much love as she can. More love, in fact.”
“What?”
“If you give me a chance, I will be a more loving mother to you than she ever was.”
Jack stared at her. “If you love me, if you mean that, bring her back now.”
The Ghost Mother paused, licking her lips. “Very well. I will.” Her face convulsed, then relaxed, and when she next looked up again it was with a milder expression.
“Jack? Jack, is that you?”
He leaned toward her, but the second her lips made contact with his cheek he drew back. He could tell it wasn’t his mum who’d kissed him. He knew it was the Ghost Mother, and all ideas of pretending to be the dutiful son left his mind.
Stepping away from her, he rubbed his hand dismissively across his cheek, and made sure she saw him do it.
The Ghost Mother blinked uncertainly. “There. I have . . . have given you what you wanted. Given you . . . your mother. Any time you want her again, I will return Sarah to you . . . as I have just done. Do you see how good I am to you, Jack? I’m your mother. I won’t ever allow anything to harm you.”
Jack said, “That wasn’t my mum. Anyway, you’re lying. How can you take care of me when you couldn’t even take care of your own daughter?”
He had no idea what reaction he’d get to that, but he knew the words would get some response, and they did.
Her mouth dropped open. “How could you . . . ”
“I’ve seen her!” Jack said. “Here, in this house. Isabella! I’ve talked to her!”
“You have not!” Instantly furious, the Ghost Mother lunged toward him. Jack hit out at her, but she flipped him onto his back and stood over his chest. “How dare you mention her in such a casual way, playing frivolous games with me! Her name is mine alone to call upon in my periods of private grief!”
“She’s alive! No, not alive, but she’s—”
The Ghost Mother put her hand across his mouth. “She is not! She is not! I have been in this house for years. Do you think I would have missed any sign?” Her face was white with anger. “My daughter is gone. Dead. Dead.” She dragged Jack out of the living room. When he tried speaking again she raised her arm as if to strike him. “Enough!” she screamed. “I am in earnest!” Seizing his collar, she hauled him along the corridor.
Jack fought her, but stopped when his breathing became tight.
“Where . . . are you taking me?”
She lugged him up the staircase and onto the landing. Pushing him into his bedroom, she dumped him on the floor.
“You will stay here!” she screamed. “In your room . . . until . . . until you learn to behave like a proper son! I will not tolerate this kind of behavior! Do you hear me? Are these the manners you were taught? Is this the behavior your own mother allowed?” She glanced at the rocking chair. “And I shall take this back!” She yanked the chair up and carried it into Isabella’s old room. When she returned, she announced, “Jack, there is only one requirement I have of you at this moment, and that is patience. I ask at least a modicum of that, and I do not think I ask too much. It is not easy for me to be a mother in this strange new world. But I am trying.” She beat her breast passionately. “I am trying my heart out! A little patience, and tender enough mercy upon my soul not to reject me before you even know me. Is that so much to ask?”
Jack thought about pushing past her, then changed his mind. If he tried to run from the farmhouse, who knew what she’d do? He couldn’t outrun her anyway. Running would only set off another asthma attack. There was a better way. Use the phone. Call in a burglary, or murder. Anything to get the police to the house.
“I think I have reason to believe I can be a better mother than yours ever was,” the Ghost Mother told him, calming down slightly. “Let us speak no further on this subject now. We are both weary, and you need to rest. I request only one thing for the present: stay in your room, Jack. That is all I ask.”
What does she want to hear? he thought. I’ve got to get her to trust me for long enough to make that phone call.
“I’ll give you time,” he muttered. “I’ll give you time to prove you can be a mother. But I have a condition.”
She gazed at him warily. “Well?”
“You have to give me longer to get used to you, without expecting too much in return. I’m just . . . it’s . . . it’s difficult for me.”
She nodded—surprised, grateful.
“In the meantime,” Jack reassured her, “I won’t leave you. I won’t leave the house.” He saw her doubting look. “I promise.”
“Thank you, Jack. Thank . . .” A huge pent-up welling of emotion shot up in the Ghost Mother’s chest, and she fell to her knees in front of him. “Oh Jack, thank you. Thank you. Thank you so much!” She stayed like that on the floor, and when she rose again it was as if a great weight were lifting from her.
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br /> “And since we are being honest with one another,” she noted, looking down with disdain at her clothing, “I will be honest also, and remove these garments. You are right: they are your mother’s and do not look appropriate on me. I am a woman of plainer tastes, as you will discover, Jack. I make this additional promise to you also. I will not ask you to love me. There. That is hard for a mother to say, but I will not ask it. Not until you are ready.”
She left and swept across the landing to Sarah’s bedroom.
Jack remained where he was. Several times he thought of scurrying downstairs, but it was too risky. Who knew what reaction the Ghost Mother would have if she saw him holding the phone?
She soon returned, knocking timidly on his bedroom door. As she stepped inside, Jack saw that she’d scrubbed off any last touches of makeup. She’d also changed into Sarah’s simplest dress—a plain dark brown one. “Until I can find more appropriate attire, I have to wear something,” she said apologetically. Her hair was tied back in a severe bun. “Suitably different from Sarah’s,” she said, fixing it in position with a few steel grips. “If, that is, you approve this look?”
Jack nodded, wanting to scream, but managing to keep a neutral expression on his face.
It began raining outside, a light pitter-patter.
They both listened.
“I will not keep you here, comparing the differences between Sarah and me,” the Ghost Mother said brightly. The anxious smile was gone. She was in complete control again now. “You may stay in your room, Jack. Rest your chest awhile, and take some time to consider what we have discussed. And consider also the promises we have made solemnly to one another.”
She closed his door. He heard her tramp downstairs. Shortly after, she came back upstairs, her feet crossing the landing. Heading toward Isabella’s room, he realized. Of course. Where else would she go? He soon noticed the unmistakable creak of the rocking chair on the floorboards.
For the rest of the afternoon Jack remained in his room, hoping for an opportunity to use the phone. He decided to delay until she went to the bathroom. The wait was interminable, but at last she did, and he slipped downstairs. When he picked up the phone receiver there was no dial tone. The line was dead. Following the connecting wires, he saw where the Ghost Mother had pulled them out of the wall. He checked all the windows in the living room and dining room. They wouldn’t budge—painted shut. He’d forgotten about that. Hurrying back upstairs, he barely made it to his bedroom before the Ghost Mother made sure he was inside. She gave him a frozen smile, before retreating back into Sarah’s room.
Until sunset spread its fulsome rays over the house, the Ghost Mother sat on Sarah’s bed, wondering how to strengthen her fragile bond with Jack. Ah, ungrateful children! Ungrateful, complicated children! Why did they all have to be this way? Why was it always such a trial to gain their love?
But at least everything was out in the open now. No more pretending. Given time, he’d grow used to her and start to call her Mother, at first resentfully, then with more affection. She’d get him to love her, but not by force. She’d make him love her by being a beacon of love herself.
Plumping the pillows under her chin, she tried to relax, perhaps get some sleep. Sarah, of course, wouldn’t let her. Isabella’s death was all she wanted to talk about. Death. Death. There had to be a way to stop her from doing that.
“So, how do you think Jack is taking to me?” she asked Sarah conversationally. “He’s a practical and intelligent boy. It can only be a matter of time before he comes to an acceptance of matters.”
“He’ll never love you, if that’s what you mean.”
“You think not? Better hope he does.” The Ghost Mother let her mind drift to the old swing in the garden; to knives in the kitchen, assorted sharp dangerous things; to accidental deaths, hints at murder.
“You wouldn’t do that,” Sarah murmured.
“Wouldn’t I? But didn’t you yourself say I had already murdered my Isabella? If that is true, why should I not murder another child? And I have the means, now. I have your hands. . . .”
“I can’t believe—”
“That I’d hurt him? Are you sure? Perhaps I should kill him anyway. If Jack is dead, as long as I stop his loved ones from taking him away, I’ll have his soul all to myself, won’t I? He’ll have no way of getting away from me then. And he’ll be a fresh soul, full of energy. It will be a long while before the Nightmare Passage comes to take him into its dark heart. I’ll have all the time any mother could possibly need to wait for his love to flower. Of course, eventually, the Nightmare Passage will claim him. That will be a terrible moment, but I have lived through such moments before, and no doubt can again. Give me some peace or I will do it, Sarah. Don’t force me to harm him. Don’t make me harm our son.”
Sarah’s voice fell quiet.
At last, the Ghost Mother thought, at last! A way to silence her!
Sighing, she stretched out her arms, wriggling against the sheets of the bed. She enjoyed their clean, soft feel. It was the first time she had been able to relax in her new body without Sarah’s thoughts jabbing at her mind, and it was such a relief. Yawning, she massaged her stiff neck muscles. Then she realized that she felt tired—but not for sleep. All the battles with Sarah had worn her out.
Time for another meal.
The Ghost Mother walked across to the wardrobe. For a moment she stood there, idly scratching an itch on her wrist. Then she used the pretty brass key to unlock the wardrobe door.
She stared through the keyhole.
Oliver, of course, poked her eye—a perfect aim.
Followed by a tirade of insults.
Still plenty of soul-energy left, the Ghost Mother thought. Good. She would need that to strengthen her over the next few days, until Jack came to accept her. After that it would be easier, though in the coming weeks and months there would obviously be further difficulties and trials. Fortunately, she had Charlie’s and Gwyneth’s souls in reserve. They were hiding somewhere, but they could not stay hidden forever. With the chill of the Nightmare Passage passing like a warning across her fingers, the Ghost Mother reached into the depths of the wardrobe. She fought off Oliver’s arms, and his well-aimed kicks, and forced his mouth open wide.
At first Ann did not know where she was. The light was too dim to see anything. There was no way to tell sky from ground, if those terms had any meaning here in the Nightmare Passage. She was aware only of ice crackling under her bare feet, and the howl of a searing, relentless wind. The wind blew in a single direction and it was unbearable.
Pulling her cotton slip over her feet, Ann hugged her knees. It made no difference. The wind drove into her, making her scream. For as long as she could she resisted, covering herself up, petrified about where the wind would take her if she gave in to it. Then she could hold on no longer—and the wind took her.
As soon as she was in motion she toppled headlong.
“No!” she cried, throwing her arms out wide.
The impact on the icy ground nearly broke her hands.
In terror, she realized that she no longer had the light, disembodied presence her soul had possessed in the farmhouse. That soul could easily have swept through the Nightmare Passage’s winds and bounced harmlessly off the ground. Here she was heavy. Here she was the weight of a real body again. Her skin felt the raw sting of the ice. When she breathed every intake of air froze her lungs.
A shudder passed through her. We can’t die here, she realized. We can’t die again. We are souls. We’re already dead. But we can feel everything. The Nightmare Passage gives us a flesh-and-blood body back, and the rules of pain are the same as for those with living bodies.
“Help me!” she shrieked.
Her voice swept up and away into the murk.
Was this the future for her now? A lost soul endlessly screaming from the darkness?
Then there was a rumble of thunder, and a brilliant flash—lightning—registered above her. It lasted only a fracti
on of a second, but that was all it took to see the Nightmare Passage for what it was.
It was nothingness. There were no objects to hide behind. There were no mountains or hills. There were no places that were better or worse. There was only a great empty featureless plain. The plain stretched on and on, endlessly in all directions. Even if she gave in to the wind, let it carry her for days, Ann sensed she would be no nearer or farther from the Nightmare Passage’s end, because there was no end. There was no point at which all the dead souls finally came crashing together, and were annihilated. There was just the journey across the plain, a journey without a purpose except to cause pain.
The Nightmare Passage was the journey.
It was the wind and the plain and the journey across it, and it went on forever.
The sky—if it was a sky—soared miles above her head. In that brief flash of lightning she’d seen clouds, but they were so immense that they hardly seemed like clouds at all. Ann heard a further rumble of thunder, and the wind picked up, whipping around her. She couldn’t believe it could get any colder, but it did, and she screamed again because that at least gave a little relief from the pain.
A third rumble, and through watering eyes Ann began to adjust to the feeble light illuminating the Nightmare Passage.
That’s when she saw the first of the other lost souls.
It was a woman—wasn’t it?
Ann couldn’t be sure. Only a scrag end of colorless hair suggested it. Her face and body were too badly damaged for Ann to tell what age she might be. Apart from undergarments she was naked, except for a black legging hanging off one foot. Any other clothes she’d entered the Nightmare Passage with had obviously been ripped from her body by the rub of the ground. She didn’t even move like a human being. She rolled across the plain toward Ann like a piece of discarded rubbish, making no effort to protect herself. As she toppled forward one of her kneecaps struck the hard ground, then a shoulder blade, then a soft part of her face.
Ann screamed, but the woman did not.
Next the woman’s left forearm got caught awkwardly under her chest. For a moment, Ann saw it bend. Then the forearm snapped. Even over the wind, the break was audible. Ann screamed again, but the woman did not. Her eyes, however, opened when the bone cracked, and Ann noticed life of a kind there, a slow blink.