Dead Scared (11 page)

Dougie started for the door, pausing to give my mum one more compliment.

‘I like the tracksuit,’ he said. ‘Are you working out alongside Mr Underwood?’

‘Oh no, the box room’s all Geoff’s. Val and I have been training for a fun run, to raise funds for the children’s hospice in town. As I said, I’ve found a way of
celebrating Will’s memory and doing some good for other kids in the process.’

‘That’s awesome,’ said Dougie, and he meant it. He even glanced my way and nodded. My heart ballooned now, full of pride for my mum’s efforts.

‘There’s a gang of us, mums from the old school run from when you boys were in short pants. The run’s this afternoon at the race course.’

‘You could join us,’ said Val. ‘I’m sure we’ve got a spare T-shirt in your size.’

‘T-shirt?’ he asked.

Right on cue, Val and Mum unzipped their tracksuit tops and pulled them open. My school photo from about Year Five was emblazoned on the front of their pristine white T-shirts, crowned with the
words
Team Will
. Dougie stifled a laugh.

‘Not bad, eh?’ said Val. ‘Sure you don’t want to join us?’

‘Very striking, but I’ll pass, if that’s OK,’ Dougie said as he reached back and grabbed the door handle. ‘I’m sure if Will were here to see you he’d be
very proud.’

‘I am here and “proud” isn’t a word that springs to mind. It’s times like this I’m glad I’m dead.’

The sight of Mum’s gang legging it across a racecourse with my face stencilled across them would have likely killed me anyway!

‘Make sure you live your life to its fullest, Douglas,’ said Mum. ‘Don’t be afraid of challenges, face up to your worst fears . . . you can do anything, understand me?
Regret is a terrible thing.’

Dougie nodded, my mother’s words seeming to make him think.

I made for the door, pausing to peck my mum on the cheek. ‘Love you, Mum.’

She raised a hand to her face, brushing the skin absentmindedly where I’d kissed her.

‘Did you see that?’ I said, as Dougie opened the door and I drifted after him. ‘I’m sure she felt something there – twice!’

My friend waved as he walked away from the house, setting off down the street. My mum waved back.

‘Your mum’s a smart lady, mate,’ he said, her words still ringing in his ears.

‘I need to work on that, the connection thing,’ I said excitedly, looking back at Mum on the doorstep as we left my old home behind. ‘There’s a way of reaching out, of
touching things in your world.’

‘All good,’ said Dougie, with purpose in his stride. ‘And in the meantime it’s time for me to reach out too. To try and touch someone in your world.’

‘What are you saying?’

‘The House,’ he replied with a fearful shiver. ‘I’m ready to return.’

As with many things that induced bowel-wobbling bouts of terror, Red Brook House looked far less scary in daylight. Our last trip had resulted in a twilight flight through the
woods, the wailing girl behind us as we screamed and scrambled our way to safety. With the sun now directly overhead and a chill wind at our backs, we stood before the red-brick building eyeing it
nervously. The foreboding shadows that had shrouded it the other week were gone now, though they’d be back soon enough when the night came in. The house’s façade was crumbling,
stained green with decades of moss and lichen where the sun’s bright rays couldn’t reach. Thick tendrils of twisting ivy snaked across the walls, creeping in through the empty windows
and broken brickwork, throttling the life from the structure.

‘Can’t think why they want to pull this place down . . .’ said Dougie.

I didn’t answer him, instead approaching the stone steps that led up to the doors. I’d missed it the first time I was here, failed to recognise what could only be described as
paranormal activity. There was a tension in the air, an electrical charge that caused my ghostly body to tingle. I’d first noticed the phenomenon in the woodwork class some weeks ago, when
I’d struck out at Dougie. It had next happened when we visited my mum – twice on that occasion – a sensation that I was making a connection with the world around me. A similar
feeling presently struck me, only it wasn’t the living, breathing world I was connecting with: it was the spiritual. It was
my
world.

‘You ready for this?’ I called back.

‘Ready as I’ll ever be,’ Dougie replied anxiously, wrapped in his trademark parka, plus a hat and scarf in case she tried to freeze him again. ‘Let’s see if
she’s got some answers for us.’

He was brave to be returning here. For me, nervous though I was, I didn’t feel in physical danger from the phantom girl. I was already dead: could she really harm me? But for Dougie, there
was more to be afraid of.

‘Stay close,’ I said. ‘If we find her, I’ll do all the talking. If she’ll reason with anyone, hopefully it’s me.’

‘No argument here, buddy,’ he said, stepping up to the broken window to the side of the entrance and clambering up on to the sill. He jumped through, landing on the rotten floorboard
with a thump, finding me on the other side waiting for him.

The interior of the House was altogether more ruined in the cold light of day. The vines had found their way inside, rooting themselves into every exposed brick, board and beam. Paint peeled
away like blistered skin the entire length of the walls, revealing crumbling damp-soaked plaster beneath. The chandelier in the entrance hall jingled suddenly, causing both of us to jump. A pair of
birds took off, disappearing with a chorus of shrieks up into the broken ceiling, making for the daylight in a flurry of feathers.

‘What do you reckon?’ asked Dougie. ‘Upstairs? Like the other week?’

‘Seems as good a plan as any. She appeared when we started up the staircase, didn’t she?’

Side by side, boy and ghost, we set off up the steps. Dougie reached out, gingerly brushing the banister with his hand, feeling for the freezing chill that had burned him on that frightful
night. My own eyes were fixed on the landing ahead, awaiting the reappearance of the girl at any moment. My anticipation increased as each step took us higher.

Arriving on to the first floor we looked either way along the long, dusty corridors. The doors lining each passage were closed, adding to the sense of foreboding hanging over the House. There
was no sign of the girl. I turned and looked up, the curving staircase hugging the walls as it rose to the second floor.

‘This place is huge,’ I said. ‘How on earth are we supposed to find her?’

‘I was kind of hoping she’d pop up like the Wicked Witch as soon as we hit that first step. This is like pulling teeth. I
hate
waiting for surprises, especially nasty
ones!’

‘Don’t take another step,’ I said, pointing to the ground. ‘Look. Footprints.’

In the dust on the floor, there was an outline of a large man’s shoe. We’d both seen the caretaker here the other week, creeping out of the front door under cover of darkness. What
if he was in some way connected to the ghost?

‘Borley?’ asked Dougie, ahead of me already.

‘Unless there’s someone else who’s been creeping about in here, but I don’t see any other disturbances in the dust. Do you?’

We both took a moment, scouring the floor for any telltale marks, but it was quite clear that whoever the footprints belonged to hadn’t lingered on the first floor before heading up to the
second. We set off in pursuit. A filthy stained-glass window allowed a murky light on to the staircase as we arrived on the top floor. The rotten floorboards on the landing groaned beneath
Dougie’s feet. From here the trail in the dust took us left along a darkened corridor. There, right at the end, the cold glow of the winter sunlight illuminated a single open door. I heard
Dougie gulp.

‘You OK, mate?’

‘Just wondering how quickly I can leg it out of here if things get hairy,’ he said, rubbing his throat as if he were awaiting the hangman’s noose.

I reached a reassuring hand out, my insubstantial fingers hovering in thin air against the shoulder of his green parka jacket. The two of us laughed nervously.

‘Come on,’ he said, steeling himself. ‘Let’s get this over with.’

We paced down the corridor toward the open door. I kept glancing at my friend, his fear rolling off him in waves and adding to my own. By the time the two of us reached the open doorway we were
both terrified of what awaited us. Peering round the corner of the faded door frame, we looked into the room.

It had once been a classroom, the large blackboard that filled the wall still bearing the faded marks of a lesson taught long ago. A fish tank sat upon a long bench beside the windows at the
room’s rear, the water within a murky, toxic sludge by the look of things. No sign of any fish. The desks remained exactly where they’d been positioned when the House was still a
working school, around twenty in neat, orderly lines facing the teacher’s desk at the front. Each had a hinged lid, inkwells and ancient messages scrawled across the wooden top. And there, in
the centre of a wrought-iron fireplace set into a side wall, was something which pulled us up short.

‘Are you seeing that?’ asked Dougie.

‘The shrine? Yeah. Hard to miss it.’

The pair of us stepped closer to better see it. A collection of candles were positioned in a haphazard circle, their wicks and wax melted down into puddles. Fresh candles had been embedded into
the remains of those that had long since died, the occasional coloured one added to the mix to give the pooled remains a marbled look. In the centre of the circle were a collection of books, their
edges curling, their jackets battered. Other strange bits and pieces were placed carefully around: a frayed old school tie hung looped from a poker stand, a delicate gold necklace beside it, with a
crucifix twinkling in the sunlight. Faded sepia photographs had been carefully arranged at the back of the hearth, while a hockey stick sat on the mantelpiece above.

‘Is it me or does this rank as pretty blooming freaky?’ asked Dougie as we bent down to look at the collection of oddities.

‘It’s right up there, mate,’ I replied, stepping over toward the window. Beyond, over the bare blackened branches of the treetops, I could see our high school, the modern
monstrosity that had condemned the House to the past. I couldn’t help but feel sorry for the old building, its walls and hallways rich with stories that would be forever lost when the
bulldozers moved in.

Dougie reached down and picked up one of the books, catching one of the candles in the process and dislodging it from the melted wax. He tried to stop it from falling, only succeeding in
haplessly knocking more of them loose as they rattled and rolled across the hearth. I winced as I watched him replace them awkwardly.

‘Are they in the same place you found them?’ I asked.

‘Dunno. Does it matter?’

He lifted the book and blew the dust from the jacket. It was an exercise book, its binding creaking as he opened it to examine the contents. I peered over his shoulder to get a closer look, the
yellowed pages full of curly script. The occasional blot was the only thing to spoil the neat handwriting, where a nib had leaked its ink. The odd word caught my eye, mention of Cromwell and
Charles, monarchs and monasteries.

‘A history book,’ I said.

‘Belonging to . . .’ said Dougie, clapping it shut once again so he could read the name on the cover. He squinted, holding it to the light.

‘Phyllis Carrington.’

‘Yes?’ came the sudden voice as we both turned, coming face to face with the girl in the grey pinafore as she appeared in the doorway, blocking our exit.

Dougie was scrambling across the floor, back-pedaling into desks and tables as they clattered down upon him. I raised my hands towards the girl in the doorway, half expecting
her to unleash another mournful wail, as on our previous meeting. Instead she stepped into the room where we could see her better. Her eyes now sparkled blue, alert and aware. There was nothing
monstrous about her: whatever horror had stood on the staircase that awful evening had been replaced by this grey vision of innocence.

‘What’s the matter with your friend?’ she asked me as Dougie stumbled backwards. ‘Is he not right in the head?’

‘Something like that,’ I replied nervously as she stepped further into the room. ‘He’s always been nervous around . . . ghosts.’

She stopped and looked me up and down. ‘He seems all right in
your
company. Perhaps it’s girls he’s afraid of?’

‘You’ve a point there. His last encounter with the opposite sex left him looking like a shaved panda. Not a good look.’

‘For real?’ gasped Dougie as he clambered out of the jumble of tumbled furniture. ‘You’re ganging up on me with her? Need I remind you the last time we met her she almost
scared you back to life?’

I studied the girl as she watched my friend straighten himself. He was right, she’d frightened both of us witless the last time we encountered her. The girl before us bore no resemblance
to that creature.

‘Don’t you remember meeting us before?’ I asked her.

‘Yeah,’ added Dougie. ‘Why the sudden character shift? Are you schizophrenic or what?’

She stared at us both suspiciously, her brow knitted as she considered us both. Twirling a finger through one of the red ribbons that held her pale blonde hair tied up in bunches, a mischievous
smile suddenly spread across her face.

‘Oh
that
meeting? Yeah, I remember that, the two of you stumbling up the staircase like Abbott and Costello.’

‘Abbott and what?’ asked Dougie.

‘Comedians from old black-and-white movies,’ I explained. ‘My dad has a collection of them on DVD.’

‘Deevee what?’ countered the girl.

‘OK, hang on,’ I said. ‘I think we need to clear a couple of things up. Firstly, why did you wail at us when we first met one another? We didn’t come here looking for
trouble, we came searching for answers. Local superstitions said the House was haunted and for once they were right. So why the horror show?’