Gap Year in Ghost Town

by Michael Pryor

  First published by Allen & Unwin in 2017

  Copyright © Michael Pryor 2017

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording or by any information storage and retrieval system, without prior permission in writing from the publisher. The Australian Copyright Act 1968 (the Act) allows a maximum of one chapter or ten per cent of this book, whichever is the greater, to be photocopied by any educational institution for its educational purposes provided that the educational institution (or body that administers it) has given a remuneration notice to the Copyright Agency (Australia) under the Act.

  Allen & Unwin

  83 Alexander Street

  Crows Nest NSW 2065

  Australia

  Phone: (61 2) 8425 0100

  Email: info@allenandunwin.com

  Web: www.allenandunwin.com

  A Cataloguing-in-Publication entry is available from the

  National Library of Australia

  www.trove.nla.gov.au

  ISBN 9781760292768

  eISBN 9781760638894

  For teaching resources, explore www.allenandunwin.com/resources/for-teachers

  Cover and text design by Ruth Grüner

  Cover illustration by Craig Phillips

  Set by Midland Typesetters

  To Jacinta di Mase, with many thanks

  CONTENTS

  CHAPTER 1

  CHAPTER 2

  CHAPTER 3

  CHAPTER 4

  CHAPTER 5

  CHAPTER 6

  CHAPTER 7

  CHAPTER 8

  CHAPTER 9

  CHAPTER 10

  CHAPTER 11

  CHAPTER 12

  CHAPTER 13

  CHAPTER 14

  CHAPTER 15

  CHAPTER 16

  CHAPTER 17

  CHAPTER 18

  CHAPTER 19

  CHAPTER 20

  CHAPTER 21

  CHAPTER 22

  CHAPTER 23

  CHAPTER 24

  CHAPTER 25

  CHAPTER 26

  CHAPTER 27

  CHAPTER 28

  ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  CHAPTER 1

  Let’s get this straight – ghosts are everywhere. I can see them. You can’t. And, see them or not, they’re dangerous.

  This is why my family has hunted ghosts for hundreds of years: to protect people like you.

  And don’t forget that this whole thing is abso-freakinglutely serious, so whatever you do, don’t mention any of those movies. Or sing the song. Especially don’t ask me who you gonna call.

  Just don’t.

  As part of a great ‘Try Before You Buy’ gap year experiment, I was out hunting ghosts one night. I was concentrating on one ghost so hard that I didn’t realise another was sneaking up behind me.

  The ghost in front of me was a Lingerer. When I first saw it, I thought it was a Weeper, but I was wrong. No tears, no sobbing. It was elderly – no surprise there, most ghosts are – male, and had those old Victorian clothes on. A bowler hat, a longish coat, high collar and tie. Nice moustache, too, as ’taches go. Melbourne has plenty of ghosts like this, being a great Victorian-era city.

  You pick up a bit of history when you hunt ghosts.

  Okay, so details like this would be tricky to make out at night, even on an ordinary living human being. That’s where the benefits of being in the family business come in.

  I can see in the dark, as long as I’m wearing the family-heirloom pendant that also helps me track down ghosts. It’s not as clear as daylight, but it’s a lot better than those night-vision goggles the military use. The world is made up of greys, blacks and silvers, but hi-def enough for me to get to work.

  The Lingerer was skittish, and I was having trouble rounding him up. Anyone watching would have thought I was having some sort of attack, standing all by myself in the darkness of the old Conservatory surrounded by fuchsias, hydrangeas and begonias (I read the signs), waving my arms around like a traffic cop on a really bad day.

  The Conservatory is a big, pink, 1930s building in the Fitzroy Gardens near the middle of the city, something like a cross between a wedding cake and an old-style fun palace. It’s heated and steamy, good for growing and displaying plants. Lots of windows, including three big arched windows at either end, meant shadows everywhere.

  And it smells. Not a bad smell – flowers and greenery and damp earth – but it’s all around, wrapping everything like a spongey blanket.

  It’s good, really, that ordinary people can’t see what I can see. Nothing would get done, otherwise. With all the ghosts around, ordinary people would be driven half out of their minds. Me? I’m used to it. I’ve been raised to be a ghost hunter. Some kids are raised to be doctors, some are raised to be firefighters. Dozens of generations of Marins behind me meant I had no real choice. It’s ghost hunting for me, like it or not.

  At least, that’s the family plan.

  This Lingerer was pretty docile, but even so, I was having to work hard to hold him there. I had my arms spread wide, hands extended, as if I was trying to herd him, which I was. I inched forward slowly so I could reach out and touch him. The thing shivered, cowering, tucking his head in and trying to cover it with an arm.

  I had to touch him. That’s how I do the easing.

  You see, my family doesn’t just hunt ghosts. We ease their passage. With a special touch, we release them, let them move on.

  Where do they go after we ease them? No idea. That’s for priests and shamans and theoreticians to argue over. We just do what we can to stop their suffering by letting them depart this place. For somewhere better? Let’s hope so.

  I crept closer, trying to hold the ghost there and stop him from vanishing. Maybe I mightn’t have been totally alert. I was pretty new to going solo, after all. I was concentrating, which was meant to be good. I was deeply into the moment, imposing myself on this ghost, preparing to help him on his way – also good. The result, though, of all this focus was that I mightn’t have been one hundred per cent keeping an eye on my surroundings.

  ‘Stay aware of your surroundings,’ my dad had drummed into me. ‘An unaware ghost hunter is a dead ghost hunter.’

  Eek.

  A noise came from behind, which is always the way with ghosts. It must be in their job description that they can’t announce themselves by marching up and waving both hands in your face. It’s all noises from behind you, slight gusts of cold air and/or a feeling of impending doom.

  It could have been the scuff of a footstep, or a rustle of clothing, but it was enough to make me break off and whirl around.

  A ghost was drifting towards me. This one was from the 1920s or ’30s – the clothes the giveaway again, particularly the hat. She was youngish, though; mid-thirties, maybe? Too young to die, and that’s what could have spawned a ghost, and an angry one at that. You see, her demented, furious face told me she was a Rager.

  She slapped at me with a clawed hand that had enough substance for me to feel the wind as it barely missed. I yelped and staggered backwards, nearly tripping over the neat brick border of the flower bed. She surged forward, both hands raised, her face a twisted mask underneath a turban-style hat. Her long, sleeveless dress was tattered and streaked with mud. And, Rager that she was, she was mad as hell.

  So this Rager lurches at me, full of spite and fury. On top of that, she was giving off the standard ghostly waves of fear. Even though I knew what I was dealing with, I felt the effects. With the first ghost, my heart had already been doing a good gallop, but now it upped its rate to the red zone. I bounced on my toes in classic fight-or-flight adrenaline o
verdrive, because this ghost was substantial enough to do me some serious damage.

  Once ghosts manifest themselves, you see, their one aim is to stay here. When they do, some of them have enough determination, or need, or longing to start gaining solidity. And the more solid they get, the more they can hurt us – in a real and physical way.

  The Lingerer wasn’t a worry. He was a cream puff compared to this newcomer. I had to get in a state to control the Rager; herd her into a corner, calm her down, then get to work on easing her the hell out of here.

  ‘Hey!’ I danced back out of her reach. ‘What’s up? Why so mad?’

  Most ghosts don’t retain much intelligence at all, being just fragments of the original person spun off at the moment of death. I didn’t really expect an answer, but talk can sometimes engage them, distract them a little.

  ‘Come on,’ I wheedled. ‘Take a deep breath or two. Count up to ten, slowly. What about meditation? Tai chi?’

  She came at me again and I wasn’t totally happy to see that she had teeth. Big, nasty, sharp ghost teeth.

  Ghosts. They mess themselves up, then they mess you up.

  The Rager hissed at me. I started looking around for a shovel, a hoe, but the parks people had been annoyingly responsible and not left anything lying around.

  I began to see headlines. ‘Vandal Youth Found Dead in Fitzroy Gardens’, ‘Prank Gone Wrong Results in Death’, ‘War Erupts in Middle East’. That last one was a media default, but if things went really bad for me I’d give it a nudge in Trending lists, surely.

  Really bad? Huh. Things got worse.

  The Rager advanced until we were only a metre apart and then the possum appeared.

  So it seems the Conservatory had at least one resident possum. I mean, the Fitzroy Gardens are full of the critters, so it’s no wonder that one found its way into the building, looked around, took in the warmth, the space and the quiet and said to itself, ‘Home sweet home!’

  The thing is, the Rager and I had disturbed the quiet. Lots of noise, possum gets grumpy. Grumpy possum wants to get away from the noise. Grumpy possum can’t just call a cab and so grumpy possum gets grumpier.

  Besides, animals are often sensitive to ghostly presences. So Mr Grumpy Possum feels ghosts are about, decides enough is enough and makes a break for it – only to freeze on a windowsill when he sees the Rager and me.

  So, a small furry animal, grumpy and paralysed with fright, catches the attention of a raging, snarling ghost. What’s going to happen next?

  The Rager swiped at the cowering beastie, and I moved fast.

  I darted under the Rager’s arm and scooped the possum from the windowsill. Oh so grateful, the possum decided I was a tree, dug its claws in and scooted up my arm. It reached my shoulders and then scuttled around to cling to my neck.

  Possum claws are made for the nice tough bark on trees, which meant that they went straight through my coat, my jacket, my shirt and my skin. I think they stopped when they hit the bone, but I wasn’t sure because ouchie. Much ouchie.

  Under attack by a furious ghost with enough substance to inflict real damage and with a frightened possum riding my shoulders, I responded pretty well, I think, by swearing, howling, and dancing a crazy jig inside a public flower house in the middle of the night.

  Just to add to the moment, one of the big glass doors opened at the end of the Conservatory. Involving civilians in the affairs of the ghostly world is a big no-no. Dad had drummed this into me, in the drummiest way possible. It’s tacky, for a start, and probably dangerous. And don’t get me started on the consequences of police showing up while ghost hunting is going on. Instead, just imagine and double it, then double it again. Then you’ll be in the ballpark. At the far end, but in the ballpark.

  This responsibility is part of the family business. It’s all about protecting the ordinary people, the civilians, the ones who can’t see what I can see. So the appearance of this stranger coming through the door was an extra worry for me, on top of two ghosts and a panicked possum.

  While I swung around, trying to dislodge my furry passenger (gently!), the newcomer came up behind the Rager, who was fixated on me.

  All in all, I was grappling with a complex situation, but handling it with a fair degree of cool.

  This newcomer, though, passed my level of cool easily because, in one neat move, she flung back her coat and drew a sword.

  A freaking sword.

  My jaw muscles gave way and my mouth hung open, Luna Park style. For a second I forgot about possum claws, which is saying something.

  The Rager knew something was up. Maybe it was the bulging of my eyes, or the way I was pointing, but she twisted just in time to meet the downswing of the sword.

  The sword ripped through the ghost from shoulder to hip with a sound like tearing paper. The wielder caught the movement, angled to one side, then slit the ghost horizontally so fast I almost missed it. After that, it was more like a kitchen demonstration (‘It slices! It dices!’) than any sort of swordsmanship. And I know swordsmanship. I’ve seen The Princess Bride about a dozen times.

  Job done, the ghost in a pile of ghost stir-fry strips that were rapidly evaporating, the stranger’s sword slid back into the sheath. I scanned the area for the Lingerer, but he had disappeared.

  I was about to turn and run, but sword-wielder didn’t really look like one of the Trespassers Dad had warned me about. The way she wasn’t attacking me was a giveaway, too.

  She frowned. ‘Did you know you have a furry animal on your head?’

  It was one of those Brit voices that made me think she’d spent a lifetime in front of bonnets-and-frocks BBC dramas. She could be earning a fortune in voiceover work, that was for certain, but it’d be upmarket stuff, no trash.

  ‘You’re not from around here,’ I said, without screaming in pain, which was a win. I reached up. Gently, I freed Mr Possum’s claws one by one. He wriggled, but I held him tightly until I lowered him to the path. ‘It’s a local custom, carrying possums around like that. It brings good luck.’

  ‘I see.’

  The possum sprinted out of the open door without a backward glance. ‘Scamper like the wind, my friend!’ I called. ‘You don’t have to thank me!’

  ‘It didn’t.’

  ‘That’s their way. Possums are shy, they live in trees, make the most awful noise in the night-time and they prefer to write thank-you notes rather than say it in person.’

  She was tall. Now, I’m tall, the sort of head-and-shoulders-over-a-crowd tall that comes in handy sometimes, but she was right up there too. I couldn’t make out much more in the dark, but she had dark hair tied back in a ponytail and she wore a dark overcoat. My night sight was amazing, but colours? Not exactly.

  ‘Nice sword,’ I said because I had to say something. ‘Where’d you get it?’

  ‘You’d be surprised.’

  ‘What, the lady of the lake, her arm clad in purest samite?’

  ‘Ebay.’

  ‘You never.’

  ‘Ebay has everything. Good, serviceable swords are just a start.’ She studied me for a moment. Her gaze was careful, the sort that would notice a dangerous move a second or two before it happened. ‘You’re a ghost hunter,’ she said. ‘I was told I’d bump into others here.’

  ‘What, here in the Conservatory?’

  ‘In Melbourne.’

  ‘I was right – you aren’t from around here.’

  ‘Rani Cross,’ she said. ‘I haven’t been here long, no.’

  ‘Hello, fellow ghost hunter Rani Cross,’ I said. ‘I’m Anton Marin.’

  ‘Oh, you’re a Marin.’

  ‘No need to say it like that.’

  ‘Like what?’

  ‘Like being a Marin is the same as having leprosy. I come from an old and respected ghost-hunting family.’

  ‘I know. About the old part, anyway. Look, we’d better get out of here before you set off an alarm.’

  ‘No chance. I took care of the locks and the alar
ms with my magicky-wagicky ways.’ Magicky-wagicky? I could have facepalmed. ‘Just the same, we should leave. You don’t want anyone finding us in here, especially with that sword.’

  She stalked towards the door, a hand on her hip. Hilt of sword, was my guess.

  Outside, she stood guard while I used my pendant to lock the door behind us and re-set the alarms. Manners.

  My pendant is multipurpose. As well as the night-sight enabling and ghost detecting, it can also crack open any lock and disable alarms. You need that sort of access when you’re hunting ghosts, believe me.

  Yes, it could get me into bank vaults. But I don’t.

  ‘You were in trouble with that ghost,’ she said. ‘And the possum, most likely.’

  ‘The Rager? Yeah, she was a handful.’ I pushed back my hair. Sweaty and curly. Bad combination. ‘You didn’t have to chop her up like that, though.’

  We were outside, in front of the Conservatory. The old government buildings were not far away. In the other direction were the gardens proper, with big elm trees looming in the dark. Plenty of lights, too, which meant that now I could see that her nose was off-centre, pushed sideways, slightly. Had it been broken at some time in the past and not fixed properly?

  Her coat was stylish, offset with pegs instead of buttons, and a scarf hung over her shoulder in a way that would have taken hours to arrange in a photo shoot.

  She was looking at me as if I was mad. ‘Of course I had to take to it with my sword. It was a ghost. I dispatched it. It’s what ghost hunters do.’

  ‘Dispatch ghosts? Got it. You’re one of them, aren’t you?’

  She frowned. ‘It depends on which them you’re referring to.’

  ‘The thingos. The whatsit.’

  ‘I’d never belong to a whatsit.’

  ‘One of those ghost-hunting orders. Or fraternities. Sororities, sorry.’

  ‘If you know that, you’ll know that the Marins are the outcasts of the ghost-hunting world. I shouldn’t be seen with you.’

  ‘Outcasts?’ I blinked. ‘Okay, sometimes my granddad was a bit rough around the edges, but outcasts is a bit harsh.’

  ‘It’s said that you don’t destroy ghosts.’

  ‘No. We don’t destroy ghosts.’ I sat on the steps. It made it easier to grab my knees and stop them trembling. From tiredness, you understand; just fatigue and the after-effects of nearly being torn apart by a very angry ghost.