13 Days of Halloween

by Jerry eBooks

  “These are my clothes. The head stableman gave them to me. They were once his.”

  “Why are you still pretending you lived at the castle?”

  “I’m not pretending, friend Mark. I’ve helped look after the horses there since my ninth year.”

  Mark stopped Charlie by putting his hand on the boy’s shoulder. The boy looked at him with sad eyes. The skin of his face was stretched so tightly that the shape of the bones poked through. Charlie was calm. He seemed to be expecting Mark to say something. In fact, it appeared as if he’d prepared himself to hear important news that would change everything for him.

  Suddenly, Mark decided to ask a question. It would seem a strange one but he realized he could prove a suspicion that had crept into his mind.

  “Charlie. Will you open your mouth so I can see your teeth?”

  Charlie didn’t seem to find this at all odd and opened his mouth wide. Mark looked at the teeth. A couple were brown. There were gaps where several teeth were missing.

  Mark said, “You don’t have any fillings.”

  “I am filled with bones and blood and gut.”

  “No, Charlie. I mean you don’t have any fillings in your teeth. You know, fillings done by a dentist?”

  “I don’t know what you mean.”

  “Everyone has fillings in their teeth.”

  “I still don’t understand.”

  “I’m beginning to understand, Charlie.” Mark looked at the boy in a direct way.He felt so sorry for him when he said, “You know something, Charlie? I don’t like saying this, but I think you’re dead.”

  Charlie kept his eyes on Mark’s face. He said nothing.

  Mark went on, “I think . . . no, I’m sure you’re a ghost. No one’s lived at the castle for hundreds of years. But you say you work and sleep in the stables, and you told me that those are your real clothes that you’re wearing. They’re like something from a film.”

  Charlie didn’t say anything for a long time. People still walked by in the direction of the pubs. No one noticed yet another couple of kids in fancy dress. Not even Mark’s monkey onesie got so much as a single comment from a bunch of teenagers who pedalled by on bikes. Instead, they laughed and pointed atsome guy made up like a zombie, complete with a plastic eyeball dangling down one cheek.

  “Did you hear me?” Mark whispered. “I think you’re a—”

  “A ghost? I thought it was something like that. I wondered why I walked around that place with the ruins. And just as I’d decide it was time to find my way home I . . . I . . . seemed to forget where I should be going. Then I’d find myself standing on top of a wall, or sitting on the grass. It was only tonight, when I talked to you, that I started to think properly again . . . like I used to do before . . . ” He shrugged—it seemed he couldn’t find the words to describe what had happened to him.

  “I don’t know what to do now,” Mark said. “I mean, do I take you to the police? Or . . . or a priest?”

  “I don’t think it matters where I go or what I do.” Charlie shivered. He was cold and unhappy. “People can’t see me.”

  “I can.”

  “Perhaps you have miraculous sight.”

  “I shouldn’t think so.” Suddenly, Mark had an idea that filled him with hope. “But you’re like a solid person. I mean, you seem real. Maybe you’re turning from a ghost to a living human being? I can see you. I could feel you when we were fighting back there in the castle. You were flipping solid then. You hurt my ear. And when you jumped on me it felt like you almost broke my arm. I bet it’s bruised as well. Look.”

  Mark pulled the sleeve up above his elbow. There was no bruise, but what he did see there on his arm filled him with surprise. More than that, it shocked him. He stared, his mouth dropped open; his heart pounded so hard it hurt.

  Charlie asked, “What is that fixed to your arm?”

  Mark stared with horror at what was embedded in his skin. It startled him as much as if a giant spider had stuck its fangs into his arm.

  “A pin.” Charlie leaned closer to examine it. “Someone has pricked your flesh with a pin and left it there.”

  Mark shook his head. He didn’t believe what his eyes were telling him. “That’s a needle. It’s what they put into your arm sometimes when you’re in hospital.” He stared at the silver hypodermic that had been pushed into the skin on the inner side of his arm nearthe elbow. White tape—that sterile medical tape they use—had been stuck over the needle to hold it in place. He saw the valve at the end where the plastic tube would be fitted.

  “Wait, just wait.” Mark’s chest heaved with shock. “This isn’t right. They put needles into your arm when you’re in hospital. My uncle had one like this after he had his heart attack.”

  Charlie looked worried. “What does this mean?”

  “It means I’ve been in hospital.” He shook his head. “But I’ve never been in hospital before. I mean, not because I was ill. I’ve visited people, and . . . wait . . . what’s this?”

  Mark pulled back the other sleeve. He saw a bracelet made from white plastic around his wrist. His blood ran cold as he held up his arm to examine the white strip. He saw his name written there: Mark Whitby. Today’s date was written under his name.

  “Mark, you look frightened.”

  Mark felt fear running through him like lots of tingling electric shocks. “They put these around your wrist in hospitals, too. The nurse writes your name on it, so they don’t muddle you up with other patients.” He rubbed his stomach as he began to feel sick. “I’ve been in hospital. Why can’t I remember going there?”

  “And why can you see me?” asked Charlie. “Why can you see me, a ghost, when nobody else has ever seen me?”

  “I’ve got to go home.” His heart was pounding like it was about to explode. “I’ll go home and find out from my mum and dad what’s been happening to me.”

  “Friend Mark is, methinks, a ghost, too.”

  “Don’t say that, Charlie. It’s not funny.”

  Mark turned around to find that he stood near a group of men and women that had come out of a pub. They were laughing and joking. Mark deliberately tried to block their way. Somehow they passed by him without noticing. Even though he was sure he’d stood right in front of a tall man in a denim shirt.

  Charlie walked up to him. “Nobody sees you. They don’t see me, either.” He turned to look at the sad-eyed child in the brown suit and the bowtie. “They don’t see him. And they don’t see the lost boys and girls who are standing at the doors of the church.”

  “No, don’t be stupid. They’re just Trick-or-treating. Look, they’re wearing costumes.”

  Mark saw they were dressed in strange clothes, but not witch or monster costumes. Some girls were in long nineteenth century style dresses. One youth of seventeen, or so, wore an army uniform made from brown cloth. All the front of the jacket was ripped and covered in blood. He didn’t have any eyes.

  “I’ll go home,” Mark insisted. “Everything will be alright then. Just you see.”

  Charlie frowned. He raised his hand to his face and pushed up thick curls of hair that formed a fringe.

  “Friend Mark. What’s this? Something is making my forehead sting.”

  For a moment, Mark forgot his own fear. He saw a blue mark betweenCharlie’s left eyebrow and his hairline. The mark was small enough to be covered by a fingertip. Mark looked closely.

  “It looks like a little bruise,” Mark told him.

  He touched the blue mark. It was soft—spongy. For some reason he couldn’t feel the hardness of the skull under the skin.

  “Turn round,” said Mark.

  He examined the back of the boy’s head. The hair had become sticky and wet. It was like someone had poured liquid onto it. Mark suddenly understood. He realized he was looking at a head wound that was nearly all covered by hair. Quickly, he turned away before he saw anymore. Even so, he knew what had happened to Charlie. He thought: A bullet’s hit him in the forehead. The blue mark is
where the bullet entered. It’s gone right through and come out of the back of his skull.Mark knew that if he parted the hair to look at the scalp he would see . . .

  Mark swallowed. He didn’t want to see the wound in more detail. It would be sickening.

  Charlie pointed. “See them over yonder? There are more.”

  Mark was grateful to have his attention taken away from the blood on the back of Charlie’s head. He looked back at the church. More people stood near the door. He didn’t know if they wanted to get into the church, or whether this was just a place to meet up. He saw lots of young people. None of them were speaking to each other, however. Come to that, they didn’t even seem to notice they were part of a group. They were dressed in clothes from all different times. A long flowing dress reminded him of pictures of women from Roman times. A boy stood there in a long black cloak. He had silver buckles on his shoes. And there were young people dressed in clothes that he hadn’t seen at all before. These children were unusually tall and thin. They had long manes of hair. Their faces were beautiful and shaped like hearts.

  “Those are ghosts,” Charlie told him.

  “You’re right. Some are from further back than you. There are also ghosts from the future . . . or at least that’s what I’m guessing.” He frowned. “I wonder if ghosts aren’t stuck in a particular time, but can exist simultaneously in all different times. Like a needle that’s pushed through the pages of a book . . . or a diary . . . or a Bible. So a little bit of the needle can touch every page.” His skin tingled as he stared at the eerie figures. “A single ghost can be in the past and present and future all at once.”

  Mark closed his eyes. Suddenly, he felt tired. This was like falling asleep. When he opened his eyes again a moment later he was still standing in the middle of Pontefract, but something had changed. He saw people laughing, talking, having a good time. Cars passed along the road. Children, living children, ran across the precinct in their Halloween costumes. Mark could see all that. Yet the difference now was that he didn’t feel as if he was actually there in Pontefract. Not fully. Not completely.Mark seemed to be looking at the town from far away. He closed his eyes again. Then he heard a boy’s voice.

  “Hello . . . I said, ‘Hello.’”

  Mark opened his eyes. He was standing in a muddy lane where people rode on horseback. He recognised the church in front of him. It was St.Giles that stood in the center of Pontefract. The buildings were different, though. They were smaller, lower, with little windows, and had roofs covered in thick red tiles. A few of the buildings were thatched with straw. Smoke rose from masses of chimneysthat sprouted from the rooftops. A man herded cows into a yard. Mark could smell freshly baked bread. This was Pontefract as it was hundreds of years ago. He didn’t know how he knew, but he was certain of it. Somehow he’d travelled back into the past. This was all too much to take in. Mark felt numb. All he could do was stare at thecottages, shopsand taverns that had vanished long before he was even born.

  “Hello, can you hear me?”

  Mark turned to the owner of the voice. A boy stood there in a green jacket.

  “Charlie?”

  “Aye, it is,” said the boy in surprise. “How did you know my name?”

  “We were talking and you . . . ” Mark’s voice faded as he saw the puzzled expression on Charlie’s face.

  “We have met before?” asked Charlie.

  “Yes.”

  “When?”

  “We met at the . . . ” Once again Mark couldn’t finish the sentence. He looked at Charlie’s pink face that was, without doubt, a living face.

  “You’re wearing strange garb.” Charlie smiled. “Are you going to perform as a monkey? Or is it for a jest?”

  Mark glanced down at the furry brown sleeves of the onesie. “Something like that, friend Charlie.”

  “Ha. We must know each other, yet I cannot remember meeting.”

  “You worked in the stables at Pontefract Castle.”

  “And still do. I have the horses of the king’s men to care for,” he said proudly.

  “Then you have found your way home?”

  “Ha! You wear monkey garb in jest, and you talk in jest. I have never lost my way from home.”

  “I’m glad to hear it.” Mark held out his hand. “Will you shake?”

  “Of course, my friend.” Charlie wore a happy smile as he shook Mark’s hand.

  Charlie glanced back as a horseman came galloping into town. The rider shouted something that Mark couldn’t understand.

  Charlie looked shocked. “It’s Cromwell’s men.They have brought their guns closer!”

  “This must be the start of the siege.”

  Mark saw the castle, which stood two hundred yards away. It looked like it did in the old paintings. Its massive walls were in perfect condition. Banners and flags fluttered from poles on top ofits towers. He also saw the ghosts that had congregated near the church. Around twenty or so figuresmoved slowly toward him along the dirt track that led from the castle gates—there was the boy in the bowtie, the soldier, the girls in long dresses, and the tall children with the heart-shaped faces that had such long, pointed chins.

  Then Mark Whitby heard what sounded like a soft rumble of thunder coming from the distance. Men and women dressed in seventeenth century clothes began running. A moment later,Mark heard a whooshing noise. Abruptly, a house collapsed with a loud bang.

  “Cannon!” shouted Charlie. “They are bombarding the town.”

  “We have to take cover.” Mark grabbed Charlie’s arm, and dragged him toward a house.

  “No! It’s safer in the castle. We have to go now or they’ll close the gates and we’ll be left outside.”

  The sound came again. A whoosh that grew louder and louder. A canon ball bounced on the lane nearby, sending up a spray of mud before it smashed through the window of a tavern. More of those iron balls, which had been fired from artillery, fell onto the town—smashing roofs, knocking down chimneys. The townsfolk scattered, shouting in fear.

  “Cromwell’s men! Look!”

  Charlie pointed at a group of menas they marched into the street from an alleyway. These were Roundheads, the enemy of the Royalist forces that occupied the castle. The Roundheads wore metal breastplates and helmets. They all carried muskets. Whenthey saw Royalist horsemen riding toward them, with their sabres drawn, they raised the rifles and fired.

  Charlie gave a loud cry. Clutching at his forehead, he fell against Mark. Mark pulled the boy aside, so he wouldn’t be trampled by the galloping horses. Mark then carefully moved the hair back from Charlie’s forehead. He saw a small blue mark on his forehead above the eyebrow. When he sat Charlie down on the ground with his back to the wall and took his hand from behind Charlie’s head he saw that his fingers were covered with blood. Charlie didn’t move. He was absolutely still. The boy’s eyes were closed.

  *

  Mark opened his eyes. His mother and father quickly rose from their chairs. They leaned over him to look anxiously into his face. His mother smiled warmly when she saw him look up into her eyes.

  Mark said, “I’m in hospital, aren’t I?”

  She squeezed his hand. “Everything’s alright.”

  “There’s nothing to worry about,” added his father.

  Mark turned his head to one side and saw the white strip around his wrist with his name written on it. In his left arm was a needle connected to an IV drip.

  “Did I have an accident?”

  His father shook his head. “Don’t you remember? You were up at the Buttercross. You were Trick-or-treating in that monkey onesie your mother bought you.”

  “There’s nothing to worry about.” His mother smiled, although tears glittered in her eyes. “Jacob told us you started coughing, then . . . well, he said you looked poorly so he phoned for an ambulance.”

  “What made me ill?”

  “Just something going a bit skew-whiff with your lungs,” said his dad, downplaying everything in his usual way. “You’ll
be alright. Might need an inhaler for a month or two.”

  “I’d like to go to the castle.”

  “The castle? Whatever for?”

  “I’d just like to go there, that’s all.”

  His mother squeezed his hand. “You won’t be able to just yet. The doctors want you to stay in hospital for another day or two. Then you can come home. Okay?”

  “Okay. But I do want to go the castle as soon as I can.”

  *

  It was the middle of November. Mark Whitby had returned home from hospital. The doctor told him that he’d make a complete recovery, although he’d still need plenty of rest before he was back to his usual self and could return to school. On a breezy Sunday afternoon Mark’s parents took him to Pontefract Castle. He’d been asking to go back ever since he woke up in the hospital bed the day after Halloween.

  While his mother and father sat on a bench, his ten-year-old sister pushed him around the castle grounds. He didn’t like having to use the wheelchair, but his parents had insisted. He also wore layers of fleeces, a thick winter coat, and a cap.

  The wind blew through the trees. A crow sat on one of the branches and kept making a harsh Cawww sound as it called out.

  His sister pushed the wheelchair along a path that led between the stumpy remains of castle buildings.

  Rachel asked, “You know on Halloween night? What was it like?”

  “When I passed out? I don’t remember.”

  “No,” she said in a small voice. “When you died.”

  “What?”

  “I heard Dad talking to Auntie Cath. He said that you died in hospital.”

  Mark turned back to look at her as she pushed the wheelchair. His sister wore a troubled expression. He realized that this had been preying on her mind.

  “What did Dad say?” he asked.

  “You were dead. Not for long. You were only dead for a short time.”

  “Uh. I didn’t know.” He paused for a moment. “Rachel. Do you believe in ghosts?”

  “Yes.”

  The ten year old answered in such a matter-of-fact way: it was almost like he’d asked her if she believed in the existence of rabbits or tomato soup. So he told her about a boy called Charlie that he met on Halloween night, here at the castle, and that Charlie had looked after horses in the stables long ago. He asked her to stop by the high section of wall where he’d first seen Charlie.