Dead Scared (13 page)

He looked up, eyes bulging.

‘Well, lad? Why are you still here?’

‘That’s your cue to go, mate,’ I said, hovering by the door and waiting for Dougie to join me. He wasted no more time, hopping to his feet. Instantly he winced, the pain of his
bandaged thigh catching him unawares again.

‘Nasty business, that cramp,’ said Goodman quietly as Dougie limped gingerly to the door. ‘Maybe get Mrs Jolly to take a look at it, eh? Give your thigh a massage.
That’ll get you moving again.’

I chuckled at the thought of that, my laughter for Dougie’s ears alone as he turned the door handle.

‘One last thing, Hancock,’ came Goodman’s voice from behind. Dougie turned, hovering in the doorway. The headmaster was looking down as his big red pen marked the papers on his
desk, his bald pate reflecting the glow of the ceiling light.

‘Yes, sir?’

‘What business do you have at the House?’

‘Beg your pardon, sir?’

Dougie and I looked at one another in horror. He
knew
my friend had been there, and he’d waited until now to say something. Had Borley grassed Dougie up? Goodman continued without
looking up.

‘I think you heard me well enough. What’s your fascination with the House?’

‘Don’t mention Borley,’ I hissed. ‘Not yet! Not until you’ve got more evidence!’

Dougie cleared his throat as Goodman’s red pen squeaked across the paperwork.

‘I think . . . the place is haunted.’

‘Nice one,’ I said, slow handclapping beside him. ‘That won’t send alarm bells ringing.’

Goodman snorted. ‘Haunted houses? I’ve heard the stories, but I thought you’d have more sense than to hold with that rot, Hancock. You believe what you want, but how gullible
do you think I am?’

‘I saw the ghost of a girl, sir,’ said Dougie, irked by the headmaster’s dismissive tone. ‘Her name’s Phyllis.’

‘Shut up blabbing, you cretin,’ I gasped as Goodman stopped scribbling. He looked up slowly, eyes fixed on my pal.

‘It sounds to me, Hancock, that you’re still not right after that bad business with Will Underwood.’

I jumped at the mention of my name. Goodman was still glaring coldly at my friend.

‘I get that you miss your friend, but this has to stop. Chasing non-existent ghosts, looking for answers where you’ll only put yourself in danger? Do I need to get you referred to a
child psychologist, Hancock? I’ve a letter lying in my desk drawer just waiting for my signature. Must I have you removed from the school until you’re well enough to return? If
ever?’

‘No, sir,’ Dougie replied with a nervous shudder.

‘Don’t you dare let me find you’ve been back to the House. That place has been condemned, for good reason too: it’s dangerous, understand?’

‘Yes, sir.’

‘Grand,’ replied Goodman. ‘Now get going, Hancock. And remember: I’ll be watching you.’

‘You’re risking a lot, being back here tonight after what Goodman said today.’

Dougie turned on the stairs, shining his torch towards me out of habit. Dazzling though the light was, the beam cut straight through me, illuminating the tattered walls of the entrance hall.

‘You’d rather I turned back?’

‘God, no. I appreciate you returning, especially if Goodman is keeping an eye on you. Do you think he really does have a letter there that can get you sectioned? You have to admit your
actions must look pretty odd to others, ever since I died. People are talking and Goodman is listening.’

Dougie shivered, his breath clouding before the snorkel of his parka.

‘It’s not Goodman I’m worried about. Keep your eyes peeled for Borley.’

‘Phyllis!’ I called up the flight of steps, waiting for her to appear on the landing, but she didn’t show.

‘I don’t like this,’ said Dougie.

‘Let’s keep moving. Head to the classroom. Perhaps we’ll find her there.’

We passed the first floor, moving on up to the second. The House transformed once again from the daylight ruin to a twilight nightmare. Intermittently we’d call out her name, pausing to
see if she’d answer back or materialise, but there was no sign of her. The torch’s light penetrated the gloom, the glow keeping the darkness at bay momentarily before it swallowed us
once more. Indistinct scuttling and scratching sounds emanated from all around; beneath the floorboards, from in the attic, behind the rotting panels that clung to the walls.

‘I hate rats. I’ve told you that before, right? I kid you not, Will, if you ever fancy becoming a hardcore ghost, you could move into this place tomorrow,’ said Dougie, his
unblinking eyes focusing on the path ahead. ‘It’s a ready-made haunted house, complete with resident rodents!’

‘Can’t see that ever happening,’ I replied as we arrived on the top floor. ‘I’m still jumping at my own shadow. Don’t think I’ve got what it takes to
genuinely scare anyone.’

‘Boo!’

Dougie hit the deck, with me alongside him, the pair of us taken by surprise as Phyllis appeared suddenly through the wall of the corridor, her ethereal shimmer lighting the room. While my
friend clutched his chest, his torch rolling across the floorboards, I drifted back to my feet and confronted her.

‘You know, for someone who’s been starved of human contact, you’re not making much effort to ingratiate yourself. We nearly ended up with
three
ghosts there.’

‘Oh don’t be such a silly,’ replied Phyllis. ‘I was only playing. What’s the point of being a ghost if you can’t dish out a scare every now and
again?’

‘Putting the frights on folk?’

‘It’s there in the job description,’ she said. ‘Seems you never received your handbook.’

‘There’s a handbook?’

‘Good grief. Of course there isn’t!’

She floated off down the corridor, her pale smoky feet brushing the ground as she went.

‘Hang on a minute,’ I said, rushing after her. I grabbed her by the arm, the connection solid, at least between the two of us. She turned, wide-eyed, as I pulled her back towards me.
‘You need to be nicer to people.’

‘Who are you to tell me what I should or shouldn’t do?’ she replied, tugging herself free. ‘You’re lucky, you have your friend there. I’ve got
nobody.’

‘You’ve got us,’ I said.

We stared at one another as Dougie stomped down the corridor after us.

‘I’m sorry,’ she said, her voice a whisper. ‘I didn’t mean to upset anyone. You’re the first people I’ve been able to speak to since . . . well, for
ever. I guess I might be a little stir-crazy, locked up in here for who knows how many years.’

‘Let me get this straight, then,’ said Dougie as we entered the classroom. ‘Will seems to be connected to me, for whatever reason—’

‘Love,’ I cut in with a grin as he waved me to be silent.

‘But it’s the House that you’re tied to. You haunt this place, right?’

‘Well, I’ve never tried to leave,’ she said, thinking on that for a moment. ‘Never saw the need to or felt the desire. I’m bound to the House.’

‘Another one for your
Rules of Ghosting
handbook, chum,’ I said with a smile. I turned to Phyllis. ‘I’m not joking, by the way. He’s been taking
notes.’ I was keeping things light, but it was clear that Dougie was into this now. My friend continued.

‘And do all ghosts have the same connections to people and places?’

‘Don’t know,’ she answered. ‘You’d have to ask them.’

‘Do you know . . . others?’ asked Dougie, excitedly.

‘I know they’re out there, just as I detected Will.’ She paused and looked out of the window. ‘You know the old train station, beyond the woods?’ She pointed in the
direction she meant. ‘I remember hearing that was haunted when
I
was a child. A Victorian lamplighter, they said. Went crazy and started snuffing out lives instead of lanterns. Threw
himself under a train when the police tried to catch him.’

Dougie and I both shivered.

‘I know he’s there,’ she whispered. ‘I can . . . sense him.’

‘That’s one thing I meant to ask, Phyllis,’ said Dougie. ‘How is it you can talk to me? Do I have a connection with you like I’ve got with Will or what?’

‘It’s not about me, Dougie,’ said Phyllis. ‘It’s about you. You’ve got something special with Will, you can see and hear him with zero effort. I reckon
that’s left you tuned in.’

‘Tuned in?’

‘I think I’ve got this,’ I replied, turning to my mate as the three of us walked into Phyllis’ classroom. ‘Since you got used to talking to me, it’s left you
open to everything else out there that might be ghostly. You’re on the same wavelength now. You can pick up on things regular people can’t. I bet you can hear dog-whistles
too!’

Dougie glowered at me as Phyllis continued.

‘You can sense activity from the other side, the spirit world. Your perception has shifted. I’ve no idea how long it’ll last, but for now you’re getting the best of both
worlds.’

‘If this is the best, I’d hate to see the worst,’ muttered Dougie grumpily, scuffing the floor with his foot.

‘So how do you manage to scare regular people?’ I said, ignoring him. ‘If they can’t actually see you, how does that work?’

Phyllis sat herself down at a desk. I joined her, while Dougie walked over to the window.

‘If I concentrate, I can affect things in his world,’ she said, pointing at Dougie. ‘If I focus on a desired effect, I can sometimes make it happen. Temperature shifts, rising
wind, eerie noises and that – they’re what I can control. It usually happens when I feel threatened. Emotion seems to be the trigger.’

‘Can I do this too?’ I asked.

‘I don’t know; have you tried?’

‘Well, I’ve sort of made things move when I was really angry, but not very well.’

‘Your dad punches kittens,’ Dougie called over, ‘and your nan’s got a moustache like a walrus!’

‘What the—?’

‘I’m trying to help, give you that little push to get you mad.’

‘Sounds like you’ve kissed my nan,’ I replied, suspiciously. ‘Seriously, mate, I think it needs to be more natural than that. Right, Phyllis?’

The girl nodded, her red ribbons bobbing as her blonde pigtails fluttered. I thought back to striking out, hitting things when Dougie or I felt emotional: back in the woodwork room, the can of
pop with Bloody Mary, Dougie’s bedside lamp, the branches when we were being chased by Borley.

‘Come to think of it, when I
have
been upset, certain things have happened.’

‘Like what?’ Phyllis asked, keen to hear more. ‘Cold? Wind? What?’

‘I was able to connect with things, physically.’

‘You can manipulate solid objects in the real world, by touch?’

‘Can’t you do that?’

‘No,’ she said excitedly. ‘And I thought I knew all there was to know about this ghostly lark! Perhaps it’s you who should be teaching me!’

‘I’ll warn you now,’ said Dougie, ‘he comes with added ectoplasm. It ain’t pretty.’

I thought back to the business in the woods, the fear I’d felt for Dougie. I worried about what Borley might do if he caught my friend. Maybe Phyllis knew something more about the old
caretaker?

‘You say you’ve been stuck here, in the House, for years,’ I said. ‘How many exactly?’

‘It all blurs really. I kept count at first but soon the days merged into weeks, then became months and years. I stopped counting after a while.’ Her voice was quiet now, wistful as
she thought back to a time well past.

‘What year were you born in?’ I asked her.

‘Nineteen fifty-one,’ she replied.

Both Dougie and I gasped, suddenly realising her age.

‘You’d be in your sixties if you were still alive today,’ said my friend.

‘Sharp, Dougie,’ I said. ‘You always were a wizard at counting. Did you work that out without taking your socks off?’

Dougie looked at Phyllis as an antique dealer might appraise an auction item. ‘You must be, what, twelve years old?’

‘I was thirteen when I died,’ said Phyllis indignantly, clearly proud of the fact she’d reached her teenage years. ‘I remember that much. The Beatles were number one in
the charts again, the third time that year:
I Feel Fine.
It was snowing . . .’

Dougie and I looked at one another. We were getting somewhere. She was starting to piece the jigsaw together, thinking about stuff that had been long forgotten. Her death and Borley were
connected somehow, I was sure of it. I moved in front of her, catching her attention.

‘Three number one hits that year?’ I said, trying to guess the rest. ‘Reckon that puts us at the back end of the year. So that was probably around December time if it was
snowing. It’s winter now, Phyllis, which means we’re approaching the anniversary.’

‘Anniversary?’ she whispered.

‘Of your death,’ replied Dougie quietly.

She was silent, her eyes staring off into space as we waited for her to speak. Dougie’s teeth chattered as he raised his hands to his lips, cupping them and blowing into them. I watched as
the glass wall of the murky fish tank seemed to crystallise, a spider’s web of frost spreading across the surface.

‘Perhaps it’s already been and gone?’ I said, holding her hands in my own as I searched her face for answers.

‘No,’ she said, her brow knitted as she tried to think. ‘It was before Christmas. It was at the end of the year.’

She looked around the classroom, as if someone had entered.

‘What is it?’ I asked, following her gaze as it flitted between the tables and back toward the teacher’s desk. ‘What’s the matter?’

‘It was here . . .’ she whispered.

‘What do you know about Mr Borley?’ said Dougie, unable to stifle the question any longer.

She snapped back to us suddenly, her pale face trembling.

‘Borley?’

‘What’s his secret, Phyllis?’ Dougie asked. ‘What did he do to you?’

The ghostly girl vanished in the blink of an eye. The room suddenly plunged into darkness. Dougie had flicked the switch on his torch and was now hugging the window frame’s edge while he
looked outside.

‘What is it?’ I asked him.

‘The woods,’ he replied. ‘I’m sure I saw a light. Another torch perhaps? There’s someone out there, mate. Come on, we’d better get going.’