by Cliff McNish
Mary Eloise returned to Isabella’s room and unlatched the window. She pushed it wide, wedging it open. Then she removed all her clothing and instead put on only a thin black mourning dress that would be no protection against the cold. She tore that dress at the collar and crammed herself into Isabella’s wooden rocking chair. It was still freezing outside, snowflakes drifting through the window.
Mary Eloise Rosewood sat there, willing herself to die. It took longer than she expected. Although she starved herself, and did not drink, and she was already half-dead anyway from malnutrition, her body was not as willing as her mind. It clung onto life, refusing to die. It was three days before her heart finally gave up.
And then, of course, the moment her final breath was gone, they came—her loved ones flying from the skies. They arrived with eagerness, and they tried to draw her out gently with them, but she would not go. They begged her, but she refused. What right had she to be drawn gently anywhere after causing Isabella’s suicide? Denying herself even a glimpse of Isabella, racked with guilt, her soul drifted away from them all. Her dress was black and her mind was black, and she floated like a dense black patch through the wintry rooms, screaming at them to go. Fighting off the pleading arms clutching at her, she sank into the depths of the house until she reached the cellar. There she waited for the loved ones to leave. A single presence stayed with her for the longest time. Mary Eloise turned aside, weeping, ignoring it.
Later, after the wind died down, she drifted back up to Isabella’s room again. She sat there, atop her own dead body, and stared out of the window. She saw the fields, the horizon, the edge of the wood. It was still snowing slightly, but milder. She didn’t want that. She wanted to be back in the chair, freezing to death. She hadn’t been punished enough.
She gazed out, longing for the hurt of snow.
A neighbor of Mary Eloise found her stiffening body half-frozen to the arms of the rocking chair. To ensure she got a proper Christian burial on consecrated ground she prized her off the chair, closed the window, carried her body to the top of the stairs, and let her fall, as if it had been an accident. To anyone investigating the death of the mother and daughter the circumstances would have been suspicious, but they were poor and no one investigated. An elderly relative neither Isabella nor Mary Eloise ever liked took all their possessions and sold them for what he could get. The wooden rocking chair was overused and worth little, so he dragged it to the cellar and left it there. Business affairs kept him from staying for the burial.
The funeral was attended by two pallbearers and the local priest. Mary Eloise’s spirit watched from the house, denying herself even the right to attend. The pallbearers lowered two coffins into the ground. One was small. Five feet by two was enough for Isabella. The mother’s was larger, but they were not placed side by side, because there was not enough room. The pallbearers were the only witnesses to hear the local priest say prayers and see the bodies interred, except for an old white-and-brown terrier that wagged its tail uncertainly at so many strangers.
The Ghost Mother, in the living room, slowly released her grip on Jack’s hand.
“Well,” she said huskily, “so there it is. Now you understand it all. Everything a poor wretched mother has to show.” She sighed. “I did not deserve to leave with my loved ones, you see that, don’t you, Jack? Not until I’d been punished further. How could I let Isabella whisper me away to the Other Side so soon, when but for my neglect she would have been with me still?” She smiled sadly. “It cost one pound and ten shillings in my day to bury a child cheaply. At least I was spared the torment of gathering that sum together.”
Jack stared out of the window, his feelings still being stirred by everything she’d shown him.
“I see you are quite emotional about it all,” the Ghost Mother said. “You should not be, Jack. After all your time in this house, by now you are quite used to seeing the dead, surely, and children of that time were also. It was nothing remarkable for a boy or girl to find their best friend too ill to play one morning, and dying the next. To most, Isabella was just another such child. Sam did not forget her, though. After the funeral he howled outside the house for three days before he left. I have no idea what happened to him. I hope he found a home.”
Jack stared thoughtfully at the Ghost Mother.
He knew the memories she’d shown him were true ones—but something was missing. There was nothing about the ghost children in what she’d revealed. Those memories clearly weren’t ones she wanted him to see.
He faced her. “You never told me your name,” he said. “Not once. Not even when I asked you. When did you stop feeling you deserved a name, Mary Eloise Rosewood?”
The Ghost Mother caught her breath and stepped back.
“You don’t like being reminded of what you were before, do you? Why? How much has living in this house changed you?”
“Jack, go no further with this.”
She gave him a warning glance. Jack ignored it.
“The ghost children think you’re a monster. What you’ve shown me isn’t everything, is it? What are you hiding from me, Mary Eloise? What happened to you after Isabella died?”
The Ghost Mother chewed her lip.
“Jack, please . . . can’t we make a new start now? I’ll be whatever kind of mother you want. If you don’t want me to look like this—”
“I want my real mother back! Not you. My real mother! Why can’t you understand that?”
“I am your real mother now.”
Jack stared at her, dumbfounded.
“You’re not!”
“I am.” She stood still, smiling at him helplessly.
“You don’t even look like her! You think you do, but you don’t! Your face is all wrong.”
“I can change that. Give me time.”
“No, you’ll never be her! Never! Tell me, what did you do to the ghost children!”
She stared at him, suddenly furious, all patience gone.
“The ghost children! The ghost children! Will you never cease to thrust them at me?” She raked her fingers against her robe. “I do not want to hear mention of them again. Do I make myself plain?”
She marched him to his bedroom. Jack did not hide his look of hatred before she shut the door in his face. Then she went downstairs, and there was a brief jingling of keys. Was she going out? His hopes were raised until he heard her tramp back up. From outside his room she sorted through a bunch of keys until she found the one she wanted. Jack didn’t even know his room could be locked until she inserted the key and turned it.
“Anyone there? Oliver! Are you in there?”
A whisper outside the wardrobe. At first Oliver thought it must be the Ghost Mother, come in the night for her third meal. Then, through the crack in the keyhole, he saw a boy floating in the bedroom darkness.
“Charlie! What’s going on? You shouldn’t be anywhere near this place! She’ll find you! Get back to Gwyneth!”
“I’m here, too,” Gwyneth’s voice piped up.
“What?” Oliver hissed. “Charlie, you idiot, what are you doing?”
“I had to bring her! She wouldn’t stay there on her own.”
“Go now! Get out! Both of you!”
“I’m not leaving you here!” Charlie shouted back.
“You have to! There’s nothing you can do for me. Just get out before—”
“Before what?” A more seductive voice.
Gwyneth cringed and Oliver looked through the keyhole to see the Ghost Mother standing at the threshold of the room, casually leaning against the door frame.
“All three of you together,” she said. “I knew if I waited long enough you’d come, Charlie. Oliver’s right. You should have stayed hidden.”
She walked rapidly across the room and opened the wardrobe. A shaft of moonlight briefly blinded Oliver, then he saw the Ghost Mother picking Charlie and Gwyneth up. For a moment she held them both close to her face, as if choosing which to feed upon.
“What ab
out me?” Oliver shouted. “Forgotten me, have you? You think I’m finished?”
The Ghost Mother ignored him. Gwyneth screamed as her head was bent forward and lifted. Then the Ghost Mother changed her mind, dropped Gwyneth and turned instead to Charlie. Gwyneth wafted aimlessly above the floor, petrified.
Oliver shouted, “Gwyneth, get out! Get out now!”
Stung into action, she caught a backdraft out of the room and fled—but slowly. It was the best she could do.
The Ghost Mother followed her. Oliver concentrated, swearing and taunting her as richly as he could. Eventually, she reacted.
“You really want me to feed off you again?” she challenged him from the doorway. “You know what will happen if I take any more of your soul? Is that what you truly want, Oliver?”
“Come on, if you dare!” Remembering what she’d done before, he crooked his finger invitingly.
The Ghost Mother hesitated, then pulled not Oliver’s but Charlie’s face toward her. Making sure Oliver got a good view, she planted a full seal around Charlie’s lips and took a long drink of his soul. Oliver swore and tried to float toward her, but he was now so weak that every tiny breeze in the room blew him wherever it wanted.
“Leave him alone! I’ve still got more to give than Charlie!”
“Very well.” The Ghost Mother took two steps toward the wardrobe, and plucked Oliver out of the air. She held both boys at head height. Charlie stared at her, panting with shock. He had been in the house much longer than Oliver, and his soul was already precariously close to the Nightmare Passage.
Oliver felt a shadow block out the moon, then an uncomfortable pressure as the Ghost Mother’s lips pressed expertly against his.
Go on, he thought. Drink deep. Take it all.
But she only took a morsel this time before withdrawing. The Nightmare Passage clung to every part of him.
“I see what you are trying to do, Oliver. You’ll not get me that way.”
She pushed him back inside the wardrobe, along with Charlie.
“Afraid to get close to me now?” Oliver said. “Come on, one more sip!”
The Ghost Mother kept her distance, staring at him.
Oliver stared back. He felt the Nightmare Passage fully now, almost ready to claim him. There were already holes in the palms of both his hands. He reached out with them to the Ghost Mother, and she jerked back.
“Scared?” Oliver whispered. “Come here!”
With the last of his strength he thrust himself forward.
An air current carried him toward the Ghost Mother— and she ran to the door. Following close behind, the coldness of the Nightmare Passage fully entered the room. It passed swiftly through the gaps of Oliver’s hands, then wrapped itself around his left leg, smashing a hole in his thigh. The Ghost Mother screamed as something numb broke over her face.
“No,” she said. “I won’t let you take me as well!”
She backed out to the landing. A moment later she hurriedly pushed a bathroom towel up against the bottom of the door.
“Come back here!” Oliver shouted. Floating about the room, he felt free for a few seconds, cold but free. “I’ll take you with me! I will!”
The Nightmare Passage was ready to claim him, but Oliver resisted it. He ignored the moon shining through his chest, and his disappearing hands. With everything he had, he screamed and held the Nightmare Passage back.
On the landing, the Ghost Mother stood against one of the walls, shaking with fear. She stared at the bottom of Sarah’s door, terrified that even with the towel in position Oliver would find a way out.
I’ll . . . leave him there, she thought. Even Oliver can’t fight off the Nightmare Passage for long. I won’t go back in until I’m sure he’s gone.
She trembled, collecting her thoughts. I need more energy, she decided. Jack won’t love me yet. I need more energy to get through the difficult days ahead. I need Gwyneth. Which way had she gone? Toward the lower house?
The Ghost Mother rushed down the stairs and searched the kitchen. No sign there. She checked the living room, then backtracked to the scullery, in time to catch a glimpse of yellow nightie floating toward a crack between the floor and the wall. She ran toward it, clutching at the trailing ends of Gwyneth’s hair, but with a shriek Gwyneth squeezed the last of herself into the crack.
Poking around in the kitchen cutlery drawer, the Ghost Mother picked out a steel skewer and tried to jab Gwyneth out, but by then she was deep down under the joists.
“I won’t hurt you,” the Ghost Mother said gently. “Come out. I only want to talk to you. Come on, let’s talk, Gwyneth. I promise I won’t do anything to you. You can hear me, can’t you? Why won’t you come out?” She listened, thought she heard whispering. “Gwyneth? Please come out. . . .”
A mouse, hidden until now, made a break for it, scrambling into the same gap Gwyneth entered. There was a squeal from inside, and this time the Ghost Mother could clearly hear Gwyneth feverishly whispering.
“Six, seven, eight—”
The mouse scuttled along the joist, and Gwyneth squealed again.
“Come back here,” the Ghost Mother said. “I’ll help you, Gwyneth. I’ll protect you from it. Come out and be with me.”
Inside the crack, Gwyneth closed her eyes as something swift and hairy brushed past her. She continued to count.
Jack listened at his locked bedroom door, hearing terrible things going on. He had no idea what was happening, but he knew he had to get out of the house quickly. Isabella had said that the longer the Ghost Mother remained inside his mum, the more damage she did. Waiting, biding his time to sneak away, was probably the course of action, but what use was that to his mum? I’ll let the Ghost Mother kiss me as often as she wants, he thought, but I have to get help fast for mum from somewhere.
How could he gain the Ghost Mother’s trust? By being more obedient, of course. It was the only way. So stop yelling, he thought. Stop fighting her. Give her the respectful son she wants, until she relaxes and you can slip out.
About an hour later the Ghost Mother unlocked his door—but did not come in.
Jack waited a decent interval, practicing queasy smiles in his mirror, then slowly made his way downstairs. He found the Ghost Mother in the living room, sitting on a chair in the darkness. When she didn’t respond to one of his fake new smiles he complimented her instead, and that worked better, because he didn’t go too far with his praise. He said he enjoyed her plainer appearance and some, not all, of her new food. Knowing what she’d like best of all, he cleared away the ashes from the last fire and got a new one underway. Once the sticks were alight, he made himself sit on the sofa beside the Ghost Mother. He sat very close.
She gave him a tender look and gazed into the fire.
Jack gazed tenderly back. To make her feel more comfortable he took her arm and wrapped it around his waist.
Her eyes misted over a little.
“I would like to hope,” she said, “that the small difficulties between us will soon be matters of the past. I do not wish to play games forever, where we force ourselves into smiles and every manner of pretense.” She stared meaningfully at him.
“I’m not pretending,” Jack said, looking directly at her. “I’m tired of fighting you, that’s all.”
Enduring the sweltering fire, he stayed close by her until the early hours of the morning. He watched TV with her, chatted amiably. He made sure no silly new arguments flared up between them. Before he went to bed he even screwed up his nerve and made a point of giving the Ghost Mother a goodnight kiss. It was a proper son-tomother kiss, the best he could manage, and afterwards he made his way somewhat unsteadily to his room. Changing into his pajamas, he murmured a final “good night” down the hall, shut his door, and collapsed on his bed, exhausted.
Once he’d calmed down, he carried out his peak flow number test. The asthma reading veered between yellow and red—extreme danger. Looking at the gauge, Jack knew he wasn’t going to be able to keep up t
he good-boy act after all. But she’s probably just as likely to be watching me closely tomorrow or the next day, he thought. I should do it tonight, if I can. That’s better for mum, anyway. Get out before morning.
At 2:48 a.m. the Ghost Mother put the guard up against the fire, came up the stairs, and listened outside his door a moment. Then she went into Isabella’s room. Jack heard the rocking chair gently creaking on the floorboards for about an hour, followed by silence. He waited another hour before getting dressed in the darkness. No outdoor clothes to start with, nothing he couldn’t explain if she caught him. He padded down to the kitchen, made a ham sandwich, and sat at the dining table munching mechanically away, waiting to see if she appeared.
Outside it was already a little brighter than he expected. A fading crescent moon peeped out from a cloud, as if encouraging him, and dawn was waking the birds.
Was she asleep? Surely even she had to sleep sometimes. . . .
He returned to his bedroom, more quietly this time, slung his shoes in a gym bag, and tiptoed back downstairs. No way of explaining it away if she caught him now, of course.
The double-bolted front door was locked, but the keys were in the door.
Would it be as simple as unlocking it and walking away?
Or was she testing him?
No way to tell.
Jack eased his shoes and coat on before turning his attention to the lock. He winced at the noisy, complex sound as the old mechanism cranked open. Still no sound from the rest of the house, except the perpetual loud ticking of the grandfather clock.
He undid the double bolts of the door, using tiny jiggling motions.
Holding his breath, he put his hand on the catch.
The door opened surprisingly quietly.
He pushed it wide and looked out into the night.
Then—he couldn’t help it—he glanced one more time over his shoulder.
And there she was.
The Ghost Mother stood at the end of the hall, fully dressed. Her arms were folded. The rising dawn cast a straight bar of light across her throat.