She used her candle to light another two at opposite ends of the room, and crooked shadows were chased across the walls. The candlelight picked out the lines of her wrinkles and made her eyes blaze. “You’re lucky you found me.”
Denzel glanced around at the filthy room. The smell was snagging at the back of his throat and he was trying very hard not to throw up on the carpet. Not that it would’ve made it any worse.
“I’m Mrs Gourlay,” the woman said, smiling to reveal a complete lack of teeth. She gestured to him with a frail, skinny hand. “And who might you be?”
“Uh, I’m Denzel,” he replied, his eyes darting to the door. The house was making his skin crawl, and something about the woman was giving him the heebie-jeebies. He should’ve stayed outside and taken his chances in the wind and the rain. At least out there he wasn’t at risk of catching the plague.
“Denzel!” said Mrs Gourlay. “A fine name, for a fine young man, I’m sure.”
A shocked expression crossed her face. “Oh! But where are my manners? Would you like a wee cup of tea?”
Denzel’s eyes darted to the mushrooms and dead flies. He daren’t even imagine what the kitchen would be like.
“Er, no, I’m fine. Thanks.”
Mrs Gourlay nodded. “Just as well. I’m all out of teabags and I’m pretty sure the milk’s on the turn.” She shooed him towards one of the musty armchairs. “Sit down! Sit down! Before you make the place look untidy.”
Denzel wanted to say he thought that ship had probably already sailed, but then thought that might be rude. He didn’t really want to sit down either, though. In fact, the longer he spent in the house, the greater his urge to get out became.
“I should probably be going, actually,” he said. “My friends are waiting for me.”
He made a move to the door but Mrs Gourlay was there before him. She closed it with a slam, blocking the way to the hall. “I can’t let you do that, I’m afraid,” she told him. The old woman smiled in a way that seemed overly friendly, like she was trying too hard. “It’s far too dangerous to be roaming around on a night like this. No. Just you stay here with me until it’s safe.”
Denzel felt the fine hairs on the back of his neck stand up. “My friends will be coming.”
Mrs Gourlay shook her head slowly. “No, Denzel. They won’t. No one’s coming for you. No one friendly, at any rate.”
Denzel swallowed. The woman was slight and frail, and he was reasonably confident he could push her out of the way if he had to. Then again, what sort of monster would he be if he started shoving pensioners around just because they were a little bit creepy?
She grinned broadly, showing her empty gums.
OK, a lot creepy.
“You’re right. I’d better stay here,” he agreed. “But, uh, can I use the bathroom?”
Mrs Gourlay’s eyes narrowed a fraction. “The bathroom?” she said, glancing briefly at the closed door behind her.
“Um, yeah,” said Denzel, dancing on the spot for effect. “I really need to go.”
For a while, the old woman said nothing, and Denzel was sure she was about to see through his plan. Eventually, though, she nodded and handed him the candle. “Second on the left,” she said, opening the living-room door and ushering him through. “I’ll wait outside. You know, in case you have any trouble.”
“I’m sure I’ll be fine,” said Denzel, shuffling into the hallway and towards the bathroom door. In truth, he was terrified of what he might find in there. The living room and hall were both horrifying, but the bathroom had the potential to be several magnitudes worse. Still, it would be worth it if it gave him a chance to escape.
“Nonsense,” said Mrs Gourlay, following behind him. She stopped when they reached the bathroom. “I’ll be waiting right here.”
Denzel shuffled backwards into the bathroom, too scared to look at it yet. The walls in the hall were just as filthy and rotten as those in the living room, and the carpet had either worn away or been eaten by bugs. Possibly both.
Mrs Gourlay took a step closer, and at first Denzel thought she was following him in, but then she caught the door handle and pulled the door closed between them. It closed with a clunk, and Denzel immediately slid closed the little lock that was fitted to the rotting wood.
That done, he took a moment to compose himself, then turned to find out what horrors awaited him in the bathroom.
After some consideration, he had to admit that it wasn’t quite as bad as he thought. It wasn’t far off, but it wasn’t quite as stomach-churningly terrible as he’d been expecting. Sure, the walls and ceiling were stained with blacks and browns, and the linoleum had mostly rotted away beneath his feet, but the toilet itself was reasonably clean, and nothing like the horror show he had been bracing himself for.
The ceiling above the bath had sprung a leak at some point in the dim and distant past, and had partially collapsed, covering the inside of the tub with plaster, dust and a mulchy dark goo. A little rubber duck was half buried in it, one eye and part of a beak poking out. The eye seemed to gaze hopefully at Denzel, but there was no way he was reaching his hand into that lot to rescue it.
To Denzel’s great relief, the bathroom had a window. It wasn’t huge, but big enough for him to climb through, and easily accessible if he stood on the toilet lid and clambered up on to the windowsill.
“Everything all right in there?” asked Mrs Gourlay, her voice coming from right on the other side of the door.
“Fine!” said Denzel. “I’ll just be a minute.”
Slipping his hand up inside his sleeve so he didn’t have to touch the toilet directly, he quietly lowered the white plastic lid and climbed up on to the cistern. From there, he was able to lean across and reach the window latch. The metal was old and rusted, but with a few hard tugs he was able to unlock it.
That was where things got tricky. Although the latch was off, the window had been painted shut, and refused to budge. Gritting his teeth and leaning closer to the glass, Denzel tried to force the window upwards in its frame. He just needed to move it fifty centimetres or so, and he’d be able to climb out. That was all. Half a metre, probably even less.
Rain battered against the pane from outside. Denzel had placed the candle on the windowsill while he tried to wrestle the window into submission, and a distorted version of his own face reflected back at him in the glass.
There was a faint creak as the window budged half a centimetre upwards. Denzel almost cheered. Getting it started was always going to be the problem. Now that he’d broken the paint seal, it should be much easier to—
“What are you doing, Denzel?”
Mrs Gourlay’s voice came from the other side of the glass. Denzel froze as her face appeared outside, the thin candlelight dancing across her withered features, the rain matting her grey hair to her forehead.
The sight of her kicked Denzel into full-scale panic mode. He stumbled backwards, fell off the toilet and landed with a thud on the rotten floor. Kicking and scrabbling to his feet, he threw himself at the bathroom door. As he hit it, the rotten wood immediately collapsed and he went stumbling across the narrow hallway.
There was another door there. Denzel threw it open, staggered inside and hurriedly closed it behind him. He leaned against it for a few moments, catching his breath, and then turned to survey the room he found himself in.
And that was when he found the skeleton.
It lay propped up on a double bed, its empty eye sockets watching the door. Beside it, there was a bedside table, on which sat a set of knitting needles and a ball of wool, a cup and saucer, and a little glass with a set of false teeth inside.
Denzel’s eyes were dragged back to the skeleton. He couldn’t see much of the nightdress it wore, but he could see enough to recognise it. It wasn’t difficult. He’d seen it just a moment before, through the window.
The wall beside the bed rippled, and Mrs Gourlay stepped through. Denzel babbled in panic, then some primal part of him decided babbling wa
sn’t enough, and he launched into a full-on scream.
Mrs Gourlay seemed to teleport across the room. One moment she was over by the skeleton, the next she was standing in front of him. A withered hand clamped across his mouth. Cold radiated from it, stinging his skin and making him shiver.
“Hold your wheesht, now,” the old woman whispered. “What are you trying to do, wake the dead?”
Her eyes widened. A gummy grin almost split her face in two. “Because, if so, you’re a wee bit too late…”
Denzel stared. There wasn’t much more he could do. Mrs Gourlay still had one hand clamped across his mouth and was gripping his arm with the other, stopping him getting away.
She hadn’t stopped smiling at him, but if it was intended to put him at ease, it was having exactly the opposite effect. Denzel’s stomach was stuck somewhere in his chest, and his heart was currently thumping inside his head. He wanted to scream and run, not necessarily in that order. Unfortunately, the icy-cold grip of Mrs Gourlay prevented him doing either.
“Now, don’t you worry, I’m not going to hurt you,” the old woman said.
Denzel wanted to point out that the way she was clutching his arm was actually hurting quite a lot, but the hand on his mouth and the terror in his throat prevented him.
“I’ve been waiting a long time for you, Denzel,” Mrs Gourlay continued. Her milky eyes scanned his face, as if taking in every detail. “I have to admit, though, you’re not what I expected. You’re awfully short for a Chosen One.”
She glanced at the room around them, paused briefly on the skeleton, then regarded the window. A set of heavy curtains had long ago been drawn across it. They hung limply, the bottoms frayed from where mice had nibbled at them.
“Right, I’m going to take my hand away,” Mrs Gourlay told him. “If you scream it’ll only delay things, and we don’t have a lot of time. Got it?”
Denzel tried to nod, but the old woman’s hand was like a vice on his head. He managed a muffled, “Mm-hmmf” instead.
“Good lad,” said Mrs Gourlay. “I’m trusting you. I hope you’ll trust me too.”
She released her grip and stepped back. Denzel’s legs twitched, trying to carry him to the door, but the rest of him missed their signal and he ended up just doing a little panicky dance on the spot.
“You’re… You’re…”
“Dead. Aye,” said Mrs Gourlay.
“And you’re a… You’re a…”
“Ghost. That’s right.” She winked at him. “No fooling you, is there?”
Denzel was absolutely sure that he had a lot of questions he wanted to ask. It was just that, at this particular moment, he was too scared to think of any. Only one occurred to him, and he didn’t think it was particularly useful.
He asked it anyway.
“What happened?”
Mrs Gourlay looked over to the skeleton. Her smile faded, becoming something much sadder.
“You know, I can barely remember. It was a long time ago,” she said. “But it was peaceful, which is about all we can really ask for.”
She shook her head, then turned back to him, her smile returning. “But we’re not here to talk about me. We’ve much more important matters to discuss.”
“We do?” Denzel whispered. “L-like what?”
“Like the Ghostfather, and the end of the world,” said Mrs Gourlay. “And what you’re going to do about it.”
Denzel’s mouth opened and closed a few times, like he was trying to speak but the words weren’t coming out.
“Whatever you’re trying to say, I’m sure it’s very interesting. But I’m afraid I can’t hang around for you to get it out,” said Mrs Gourlay. Her eyes darted up to the ceiling, as if she’d heard something moving up there. “We’re up against the clock.”
“Why? What’s going on?” Denzel whispered.
“First thing’s first. You are the Chosen One, right?” Mrs Gourlay asked. “I’d hate to have got the wrong lad.”
Denzel shifted uncomfortably, then nodded. “Yeah. I mean, I think so. I mean, that’s what the weirdos in the robes said.”
“Och, that’s marvellous! Good for you, son,” said Mrs Gourlay. She gave him a friendly jab on the shoulder, which almost knocked him off his feet. For the size of her, she was surprisingly strong.
“Thanks,” said Denzel. “But I didn’t really do anything.”
“Yet,” the old woman corrected. “You didn’t really do anything yet. But you will. Aye, you will.”
Denzel scratched his head, a little embarrassed by the way Mrs Gourlay was staring at him. “Who is he, anyway? The Ghostfather?”
Mrs Gourlay sucked in her bottom lip. “Aye, they said you’d ask that. Told me what I should do about it when you did.” She shook her head. “I told them I wasn’t keen though. It seems awfully cruel.”
“What does?” Denzel asked.
The old woman lunged, clamped both hands on either side of his head, and held him there like she was about to give him a big sloppy kiss.
“This,” she said, and then the room flipped upside down and poured like sand into Denzel’s brain.
Denzel stood high on a barren hillside, red clouds writhing in the dark sky above him. From up here, he could see what felt like the whole world. He saw cities, countries, continents, all crumbling and burning.
He saw oceans boiling, lakes freezing, and rivers running red with blood. He heard screams and wails and desperate, hopeless cries. They rose up from everywhere at once, filling his head until he too wanted to scream with them.
A fork of lightning cracked the sky apart, and Denzel saw it. No, not it. Him. He had no shape, and yet every shape. He emerged from the shattered sky, too large for Denzel to be able to comprehend, and yet too small to see with the naked eye.
Denzel’s brain itched as it tried to process all this conflicting information, and then the shapeless nothingness became a hulking figure that looked to have been carved from a chunk of solid darkness.
Only it wasn’t darkness. Not really. It was more than that. The figure was made from a complete absence of light. It was as if a mountain-sized, man-shaped hole had been torn in the universe.
A mountain-sized, man-shaped hole that walked towards Denzel, his feet burning the world where he stepped.
Denzel was frozen to the spot in fear. He couldn’t move a muscle. Even if he could, where would he go? There was nowhere safe from this thing. Nowhere on Earth, and maybe nowhere beyond it either.
The figure stopped beside the hill and leaned down until his face was level with Denzel’s. He had no obvious mouth, yet he spoke with a voice that turned the rocks around Denzel to dust and filled him with a crushing sense of utter despair.
“I am coming,” he said.
And with that, the world imploded.
“Wh-what was that?” Denzel babbled, falling to the floor, his eyes darting around the decaying bedroom. “What did you do to me?”
“I’m sorry. I really am,” said Mrs Gourlay. “They said it was the only way you’d understand. I had to show you.”
Denzel spent almost a minute trying to bring his breathing back under control before he spoke again.
“That was him, wasn’t it? That was the Ghostfather.”
“Aye,” Mrs Gourlay said. “That was him.”
“Who is he?” asked Denzel, getting shakily to his feet. “What is he?”
“Something ancient. Something evil,” said Mrs Gourlay. “They say he was the first ghost, born of rage and hatred. They tell me he almost destroyed the world of the living before they were able to banish him. If he comes back…”
She looked scared for a moment, but then smiled and shook her head. “Well. He won’t. You won’t let him. You’ll stop him. And I’m going to help you!”
She dashed across the room, reached her hands through the top of a chest of drawers and began rummaging around inside.
“See, the Elders gave me a job to do. They asked me to keep watch out for you. They said you’d
turn up one day, didn’t say how or when, just that you’d show up, and that I was to help you.”
Denzel’s brow furrowed. “The Spectre Collector Elders?”
Mrs Gourlay let out a little cackle. “Och, no. Much older than those eejits. The Ghost Elders.”
“Ghost Elders?” Denzel said. “Who are they? Since when were there Ghost Elders?”
“Since always,” said Mrs Gourlay. “Well, for a long time, anyway. Long before your little club.”
Denzel didn’t think Samara and Boyle would be happy to hear the Spectre Collectors described as a “little club” but decided not to say anything.
“Aha! Here we are!”
Mrs Gourlay turned away from the chest of drawers and held up a garish gold necklace with a chunky chain and a skull pendant hanging from it.
In a blink, the old woman appeared at Denzel’s side again. She thrust the necklace eagerly into his hands. “They told me to give you this.”
Denzel looked down at the necklace. He’d be the first to admit that he was no expert on jewellery, but he knew what he liked. And he did not like this thing. It looked like something a gangsta rapper would wear, complementing it with a set of gold teeth.
“What am I supposed to do with it?” he asked.
“Well, wear it, of course!”
Denzel was afraid she might say that. “Wear it?” he groaned. “Seriously? Why?”
“I don’t know,” Mrs Gourlay admitted. “But they said it was awfully important.”
“Who? The Ghost Elders?”
“You catch on fast,” said Mrs Gourlay, shooting him a gummy smile. “And before you ask, no, I don’t know how they knew you’d turn up at my door.”
Denzel hadn’t even thought about that. Now that he had, he was more confused than ever.
“How did they know?” he wondered.
“Like I say, I haven’t a clue. They seemed pretty sure you’d show up some day, though,” Mrs Gourlay said. “They also told me to say…”
Rise of the Ghostfather Page 6
