Mary Hades (9 page)

“If it bothers you we can go home, you know. Your mother feels awful about it. She would never say so, obviously…”

“No,
it’s okay, Dad. I want to stay.” I nod and plunge my teeth deep into the burger, relishing the grease while I can. After a pause to allow me to chew, I add, “It’s not so bad, here.”

“We just want you to be happy. We want you to get out there and make friends, you know, after everything that’s happened this year.” He grins and pulls me into a one armed hug.

I roll my eyes. “Dad, I’m fine. And I’m too old for these hugs.”

“You’re never too old,” he replies. “Speaking of old, I’d better find your mother.” He points at me in mock seriousness. “Do
not
tell her I said that.”

“Secret’s safe,” I reply.

Dad melts into the crowd of holiday goers and I finish my burger while watching the people around me. There is one advantage to the disco—it’s brought out the Goths. Mum seemed quite perturbed when we got here. I think she imagined the place full of middle-class families with teenage children, not a sea of black eye-liner and piercings.

The doors of the function room are open and I stand
, chewing on my burger, watching the tweens jump up and down to One Direction from the safety of the patio area. Most of the Goths stand together, drinking beer.

Mum
is far more drunk than I’d thought. She has a bottle of wine in one hand and is pulling Dad towards the dance floor as Katy Perry’s ‘I Kissed a Girl’ comes on. Apparently, she knows all the words.

“They your parents?”

I turn to find a guy with safety pins turned into a necklace standing next to me. He has black hair, a lip piercing and the kind of cheesy tattoos on his arm that make me l
ong for Seth and his tattoo artistry. He has a hint of a brummie accent in his lilting vowels and low register. It has always amazed me how people from Birmingham have voices that almost sound like a piano out of tune.

“Yep.
Kill me now.”

He smirks. “I think they’re sweet.”

“I think they’re puke-inducing.”

“You’re funny,” he sa
ys, though it sounds more like “yow’re funn-ay”. “And kooky. I like that.”

“Kooky?” I ask.

“Yeah, you know, your look. The dark hair and the pale. That faraway expression of yours. It’s pretty sexy.” He grins in a non-intimidating way.

“Oh, I have a boy
friend,” I lie.

“Yeah
, me too,” he says. “I just wanted you to know.”

“Oh, wel
l, thanks. You pretty well made my night.”

“Happy to oblige.”
He lifts his beer in mock salute. “You want a drink?”

“Medication,” I reply. Technically, I’m not taking it, but it wouldn’t go down well with the ‘rents if I started drinking in front of them.

“Gotcha.”

“So
what brings you to Five Moors? Seems like an odd spot for a Goth outing, no offense.” Of course I know why, but I want to find out if they know any more about Amy Willis and her ghostly murders.

“What? You don’t know?”

“Know what?” I shrug.

“This place is super-haunted.
A little girl was killed by some psychopath killer about five years ago. Since then, she’s been killing off men in revenge.”

“Seriously?”

“According to the legend, if you see Little Amy and survive, you’re destined for good luck for the rest of your life,” he continues.

“Do you have to say her name three times in the mirror?”

He knocks me playfully on the arm. “Nah, nothing like that. Little Amy doesn’t need gimmicks, she’s real. Don’t you
feel
it?”

“Feel what?” I ask.

“The atmosphere, man. It’s fuckin’ buzzin’ with it. There’s the stink of death all over this place. We got here the same day that little lad died. Jesus, that was so harsh. I came here with the guys as a bit of a laugh, a bit of a blow-out. Then that happened and it all came crashing down, the realisation that this isn’t a joke. Little Amy is out there and she’s really killing people.”

“Then why didn’t you leave?”

“I dunno,” he says. “Why do people stare at car accidents, or watch Z-listers descend into a meltdown? Because we
can’t
look away
. When it’s not happening to us, it reminds us that we’re alive, you know?”

“Unless she kills you,” I remind him.

“Yeah, there’s that. But the other bit is addictive.”

I nod. I get it. I don’t like it, but I get it. And that makes my stomach churn.

Inside, the disco continues. I ask the guy his name; Neil. Dad takes Mum back to our caravan. I decide to give them some privacy… just in case… vom.

The lights in the disco flicker on and off.
Then the lights go out for about five seconds, causing everyone inside to do a
wooooooo
. When the lights come back on, for about a second I think I see a shape, right in the middle of the crowd.

A girl.

Dirty dress, messy hair, blood on the hem of her dress and dripping down her arms. Her hair hangs in her face, veiling her eyes. She’s a vision of chromatics in a scene of colour, except for the red of the blood.

She’s revealing herself to me. Why?

Is it a challenge?

I know from experience that monsters can exist in the daylight as well as at night. So the next day I’m on guard, especially after my conversation with Neil. That night I hugged myself all the way back to the caravan, wishing Lacey were with me. I lay in bed and stared at the ceiling, imagining Little Amy above me, her arms reaching down to me, the blood dripping onto my nose. When I closed my eyes, I saw her. When I opened them, I saw her. But I knew she wasn’t there, because I couldn’t feel her.

She’s in my head now.

She’s set up camp there.

Lacey
walks with me through the caravans, listening as I tell her about Little Amy and what Neil said. I pretend to talk on my phone so we can have a conversation without everyone staring.

“There has to be a reason why she revealed herself to you. Maybe she thinks you’re trying to stop her. Maybe she’s going to act,”
Lacey says.

I nod. “Where were you
, last night, anyway? In that place again?”

“No.” Her eyes open wide and bright with excitement. “I was practising.”

“Practising what?”

“Moving things, touching them.
I figured that if we’re going up against some poltergeist I should try it out, so I’m stronger.”

“H
ow did it go?”

She waves me forward. “Come
on, let’s go back to the hill. I want to show you.”

Lacey
sprints away, her body moving jerkily, like most ghosts do when they move. The first time I saw a ghost flicker like that it frightened me, right down to my bones. Now, I guess I’m used to it. It’s annoying, though, because you pretty much have to run flat out to keep up.

Halfway up the hill,
at the point where my legs are screaming out and my sore back aches too much to continue, I turn to see the moors below; the moors where Amy Willis met her fate at the hands of a sadistic killer. I would have been twelve when it happened.

A shiver runs through me.

We are the same age. But she’s been dead for five years—alone—with her last memory of people linked with pain and suffering.

“Hey? You
coming?” Lacey calls.

I turn back towards my best friend and my chest pangs. How long will it take for
Lacey to become as twisted as Amy? How long? Will it take watching her friends and family grow old, move on?

“Yea
h, I’m coming,” I say. I try to swallow the thoughts away, but I find myself coughing as though they are stuck in my oesophagus.

“Okay,” she says. “Don’t get too excited. It’s only a small thing.”

Lacey steps towards a stone about the size of my fist. She stretches her neck from one side to the other then jumps up and down a couple of times, psyching herself up. Then she leans down, narrows her eyes and scoops up the stone with her hand. On the first attempt, her hand sweeps through the stone like vapour. She clears her throat, clenches her jaw and glares at it like it’s her enemy. Then she leans down again, curving her fingers to scoop up the stone, but slower this time. Her fingers connect and it nudges it forwards.

I gasp. “You’re doing it!”

Lacey continues to move the stone forwards, nudging it with her fingers. It takes a few attempts, but eventually she lifts it in the air.

“That’s amazing, Lace,” I say, genuinely surprised.

“It takes a hell of a lot of concentrating,” she says. “Check this out.”

Lacey’s
form flickers and disappears, leaving the stone floating in the air.

“Whoa,” I breathe.

The stone drops down onto the mossy grass with a thud. Lacey reappears.

“I’m still practising. P
retty cool though, right? This way, I have your back. I can throw stones at any bastard who tries it on.” She flexes her muscles and laughs.

“So, how do you make yourself disappear?” I ask.

“Well, it’s kinda like there are four channels. There’s the hollow weird shit I told you about, there’s around but, you know, not visible, not even to you. Then I can show myself to you, which is how I am without concentrating.” She breaks into a grin. “There’s another one.”

“Showing
yourself to regular people?” I ask.

“Yup.”

My jaw drops. “You can do that?”

She nods. “I tried it. There was this dude
on his own, behind the campsite, taking a leak. I appear, tell him he’s gross for pissing in public. The guy nearly shat his pants. It was hilarious.”

“
Lacey! Be careful.”

“Why?” She laughs. “What’s going to happen? I’m dead! It’s not like anyone can hurt me, or arrest me
, or whatever. The way I see it, I can make the most of this gig. I can scare the pants off people who deserve it. I’m like the ghosts in the Dickens book, rattling chains and shit.”

I shake my head in awe.
“You’re crazy.”

Her smile fades. “I’m serious though. You need protection. Amy revealed herself to you. That means she’s goin
g to act. We need to prepare ourselves. We need to know more about my kind and how to stop us. You need to do some research.”

Her
kind
sounds so strange, like she’s an alien.

I shrug heavily. This whole burden, this ghost-whispering thing, it’s like a dead we
ight on my shoulders, pushing me down. “How?”

“You could start with your new
Goth friend,” she suggests.

I guess it’s as good a place to start as any.

*

I inhale and the air smells like warm moss. My fingers trail the foliage of the neatly trimmed bushes that lead up th
e driveway back to Five Moors. Birds play a melody on the overhead telephone wires. I left Lacey practising with the stones on the hill. She had a manic look in her eye, excited about the prospect of holding and reading books. It saddens me that something so simple is all she has to look forward to, now.

The midday sun beats
down, forcing me to wear the sunglasses I always carry around in my shoulder bag. I don’t like wearing them. I’d rather see the world as it is; experience the colours as they exist, not through a filter; certainly not through a lens. I hardly ever take photos.

When I finish
adjusting my glasses so they don’t rest on my temples—why are glasses so constrictive? They give me headaches—that I see someone who makes my heart fall to my knees.

Seth.

I would recognise that silhouette anywhere. It’s ingrained in my memory, as vivid as the blood on Little Amy’s arms. He sits, cross-legged, on a picnic bench on the edge of the campsite. Instead of staring out into the distance, like he has the last two times I saw him—the
only
two times I have ever seen him—he has a book in his hand, and seems far away in the pages, lost in words.

When I move closer, I realise he’s reading
Dubliners
—an odd choice for your average mechanic. High-brow. The copy is battered and the pages hang loose in his hands as though it has been opened and folded over many times.

I have to clear my throat to get his attention. “Hey.”

He looks up from under those soft eyelashes that set my heart aflutter. “Hey.”

I shift the strap of my shoulder bag and move my weight from one foot to the other, wondering whether I should take a seat next to him, or stay standing… or what. “How come you’re here?”

“I’m looking for you,” he says. His voice betrays no emotion, but it doesn’t sound angry or bitter, not like the last time I saw him. “I wanted to apologise. And check you’re okay.”