Curse of the Boggin

by D. J. MacHale

“Why are you messing with all the computers?” Winser asked gruffly as he hurried into the room.

  “I…I’m not,” I said, trying to keep my brain from going as wonky as the computers. “I was only working on this one.”

  Winser went to one of the computers and tried to power it up. It wouldn’t start. He tried another. And another. Nothing.

  “They’re all fried,” Winser said, his anger rising. “What did you do?”

  “I didn’t do anything!” I shouted. “Honest! They all just turned on by themselves!”

  “Unacceptable!” Winser declared.

  I was in deep trouble. I was going to have to face his wrath, and the wrath of the principal. A huge storm was about to hit that was sure to follow me home. But none of that mattered. All I could think about was the face of the guy in the newspaper. The guy in the bathrobe.

  He was real.

  He had a name.

  Michael Swenor.

  And he was dead.

  The fury of Winser was unleashed.

  On me.

  I doubted if he even cared about the computers. It was all about payback because I made him look bad in front of the class. He reported the computer crash to the principal. The principal reported it to my parents, and suddenly I was suspended from school for a day. I can’t say they didn’t listen to my side of the story. They did. They just didn’t believe it.

  I wouldn’t have believed it either if I hadn’t seen it for myself.

  “What do you have to say for yourself?” Mom asked.

  My parents sat next to each other on the couch across from me in our living room. Mom didn’t seem angry. That was bad. It meant she was beyond angry. Dad kept rubbing the back of his head as if massaging his brain would somehow help him solve the problem of what to do with his delinquent son.

  “I’m telling the truth,” I said with no emotion. “I was only using one of the computers when they all went bat-snack crazy.”

  “By magic,” my mother said with total skepticism.

  “Maybe” was my reply. “I don’t know what else to say.”

  I decided not to tell them the whole truth. If they didn’t believe computers could turn themselves on, they sure as heck wouldn’t believe I was getting a message from the great beyond about the ghost of a dead firefighter who was haunting me.

  But I had a plan to try to figure out what really happened. To pull it off, I was going to have to take my punishment without complaining.

  “What are we going to do with you, Marcus?” my mother asked, exasperated.

  My first instinct was to shout out, Do? You don’t have to do anything! But I bit my tongue.

  “I’m sorry you don’t believe me, Mom,” I said, trying to sound all calm and rational. “I get that it doesn’t make sense. It doesn’t make sense to me either, but it’s the truth. I guess there’s nothing I can say to explain what happened, so I’ll just have to take my punishment tomorrow and try to make things better with Winser. I mean, Mr. Winser.”

  The two stared at me, looking as befuddled about my not fighting back as they were about the computer snafu.

  “Well, that’s good to hear, Marcus,” Dad said with a little uncertainty. “Very mature of you.”

  “I’m trying,” I said with as much sincerity as I could fake.

  Mom looked back and forth between the two of us with confusion. She wasn’t sure if she should buy my sudden retreat, but I was saying the exact right things, so it wasn’t as though she could argue.

  “That’s all we’re asking for,” Dad said.

  “You know what? Having a day alone to think about what happened might be exactly the kind of therapy I need,” I said.

  “Oh please,” Mom said sarcastically.

  Even Dad wasn’t buying that one.

  “Don’t go laying it on too thick,” he said. “Let’s just agree to move past this and have a fresh start when you go back to school.”

  “Got it,” I said. “Done.”

  Mom wanted to say more. She was all set to lay into me again about what a disappointment I’d turned out to be. But since I had basically rolled over and agreed to be a good boy, I’d taken the wind out of her anger sails.

  “And absolutely no TV tomorrow,” she commanded, just to prove she was still calling the shots. “This isn’t a vacation day.”

  “I promise I will not turn the TV on,” I said. I meant it too. “I won’t even go online unless it’s for schoolwork.”

  Mom was ready to argue, because that was how all our conversations went. She opened her mouth, ready to fight, but it must have suddenly hit her that I had totally agreed to her demands without question, so she backed off.

  “Oh” was all she managed to say. “Good.”

  “Great! Good talk,” Dad declared, and stood up. “What’s for dinner?”

  He headed for the kitchen, leaving Mom and me alone.

  She stared at me in silence. I wished I could have told her the truth. I wished I could have said that impossible things were happening and I was scared. I wanted her to be able to make it all better. But neither of us was in the business of making things better for each other lately.

  “I really will try, Mom” was all I said.

  “I guess we’ll have to see,” she said dismissively, and got up to follow Dad.

  If only she knew what I was really planning to do the next day, the roof would have blown off the house. Both my parents would be leaving for work early in the morning. Mom worked at Stony Brook Hospital, and Dad took the train into New York City. I had made that trip on the commuter train many times, when Dad took me to work or we went into the city as a family. I knew the drill. But I had never made the trip on my own.

  That was about to change. I was going to go into New York City alone, to track down a ghost.

  I had trouble sleeping that night as my mind wrestled with a slew of impossible questions. Were ghosts real? Was I being haunted? Why? Who was this Michael Swenor dude? And if he was a ghost, why was he bothering me? It was actually a relief to know I wasn’t going totally off my nut. Michael Swenor was a real person. Dead, but real.

  I had to find out why he was haunting me.

  The next morning I waited until my parents left for work before jumping on my bike and riding to the Stony Brook station with a pocketful of lawn-mowing money to catch a train from Stony Brook, Connecticut, to New York City…where Michael Swenor had lived and died.

  Dad caught the 7:02 express every morning. I couldn’t risk taking the same train, so I bought my round-trip ticket at the window and waited for the 7:19. It was a chilly October morning, and all I had on to keep me warm was a hoodie. I had to pace on the train platform to keep the blood circulating, which probably annoyed the heck out of all the half-asleep commuters. Too bad. I was cold, and too nervous to stand still, anyway. I had never done anything like this before, and, to be honest, I was a little nervous. Okay, a lot nervous. It’s easy making a trip like this when your parents handle all the decisions and all you have to do is keep up with them. Now I was on my own.

  The train trip was like riding in a library. Everybody sat quietly, in their own little world. Most everyone read the New York Times or focused on their cell phones and tablets. The rest slept. I plugged in my earbuds and settled in to listen to music to keep calm.

  As the train rolled closer to the city, I noticed one person who stood out from the rest of the business-suit-wearing, newspaper-reading, half-asleep passengers. It was an old lady. She sat several rows in front of me in a seat facing backward, so I was able to get a good look at her. She seemed ancient but not frail. She wore a black shawl over a dark-green dress that went down to her ankles. Her gray hair was done up in some old-fashioned ’do that was piled on top of her head like a hornet’s nest. On her lap was an old leather book that could have been from the 1800s. Come to think of it, she looked like she could have been from the 1800s too. She read her book with a pinched expression. The word sour came to mind. I imagined that was what my mother w
ould look like in fifty years.

  I couldn’t take my eyes off her, mostly because she was so out of place. I wondered what she was doing there. Maybe she was going to a museum. Or maybe she worked at a museum, probably as one of the exhibits. I kept staring at her until she suddenly raised her eyes and stared right back at me.

  Whoa! It was as if she knew I was watching. I didn’t look away at first. I couldn’t. Her gaze had me transfixed. She stared right into my eyes and smiled. It wasn’t a warm, grandmotherly expression either. She had a twisted grimace that said I know you’ve been looking at me, sonny boy.

  I quickly looked out the window and didn’t dare glance back at her for the rest of the trip, for fear that she was still staring at me. When the train arrived and everyone got up, I finally stole a look her way. Thankfully, she was gone, but the experience left me strangely creeped out.

  Once off the train I found myself in a sea of people flooding into Grand Central Terminal. Everybody but me seemed to know exactly where they were going. It was like getting caught in the white water of a fast-moving river. Whenever I stopped to get my bearings, people had to skirt around me, usually with a huff because I had dared to throw off their rhythm. Too bad. I was on a mission. I had Googled Michael Swenor’s address the night before and found out that he had lived in Greenwich Village. It was too far to walk, and I didn’t know how to hail a cab, so I plotted out a route using the subway. From there it would be a short walk to the scene of the crime. Or the accident. Or the suicide. Or whatever it was. My hope was that somebody might be home who could tell me something about Michael Swenor and why he might be haunting me.

  It all looked so easy on the map I’d printed out. Trying to do it while being bumped around by a thousand people rushing in every direction was a different deal. But I couldn’t let that freak me out. This was my chance. Maybe my only chance.

  I found the stairs that led to the underground station and hurried down, searching for a ticket booth. It was total chaos. I bumped into a few dozen people and got more than one dirty look. Finally, I spotted a long row of machines where people were buying tickets. I walked up to one and stared at the wall of buttons, trying to decipher the code, when I sensed somebody walk up behind me.

  “Need some help?” came a friendly voice.

  I turned around to see who had come to my rescue, and caught my breath.

  It was the old lady from the train.

  I stood with my mouth open in disbelief. She seemed much less stern than before. I wouldn’t say she was a kindly old lady, but at least she didn’t freeze me with a look that made me want to cry.

  “These silly machines aren’t as complicated as they look,” she said. “Where is it you’re going?”

  “Uh…Fourteenth Street,” I said numbly.

  “Of course you are,” she said with a knowing smile, as if she had expected me to say that.

  Odd.

  “Choose a single-ride ticket and put your money in. Easy as pie.”

  I nodded dumbly, turned to the machine, and did just that. A paper card dropped into the trough below, along with a bunch of dollar coins in change. I gathered it all up, then turned back to the woman.

  “Thanks,” I said. “I wasn’t sure how to—”

  She was gone. I looked around for her, but she had already melted into the crowd.

  “You done?” a guy behind me asked impatiently.

  “Uh, yeah, sure. Sorry, chief,” I said.

  I left the machine, used the card to get through the turnstile, and found the stairs that led down to the trains. When I hit the platform, I quickly walked to the far end, where there weren’t any people. I never liked being in a crowd when a train came in. I always felt as though I might get jostled and pushed onto the track. I know, paranoid, but what can you do? I stood inside the yellow safety strip on the floor that cautioned people from getting too close to the edge and gazed into the dark tunnel, hoping the train would come soon. I wanted to get there, learn what I could, and then beat it back home before Mom and Dad realized I wasn’t in my room doing prison time.

  Part of me feared that this adventure would be a risky waste of time. I was looking for answers but didn’t know what questions to ask. What if I met Michael Swenor’s wife? What would I say? “Funny thing, Mrs. Swenor, your husband’s ghost is haunting me. How’s your day going otherwise?”

  This was beginning to feel like a really bad idea.

  The headlight of an oncoming train appeared deep within the tunnel. This was it. The last leg of my trip. I was at the very end of the platform, so when the train arrived it was still moving fast. I took a nervous step back to be sure I was completely clear of the oncoming vehicle. Looking directly ahead, I saw my own reflection in its moving windows as the first car flew by. There was a short break as the tail sped past, followed by the next car. When the next window moved past, I saw my reflection again.

  Except now somebody was standing directly behind me.

  It was the old woman.

  I tensed up. Where had she come from?

  “Surrender the key,” she whispered into my ear.

  “Wha—?”

  I felt a shove from behind. Or maybe it was my natural reaction to get away. Whatever it was, I stumbled forward, directly toward the moving train. I quickly realized what was happening and threw my leg out to stop myself. My foot landed way beyond the safety strip, but I was able to stop my momentum, with my head only a few inches from the hurtling train.

  I pushed myself back and away from danger while spinning to face the old woman.

  “Why did you do that?” I screamed.

  She wasn’t there.

  There was nowhere for her to have gone, yet the platform was empty.

  People looked at me as if I were one of those nutjobs who walk around yelling at nobody, because that was exactly what I was doing.

  My heart was racing. What had happened? Was she another hallucination? Hallucinations can’t shove people. But did she really push me? Or had I leapt forward out of surprise?

  The train finally rolled to a stop, and the doors slid open. I jumped inside and plunked myself down in the seat opposite the door, praying she wouldn’t get on. A few seconds later the bell rang, the door slid closed, and we began to roll.

  I took a deep breath to try to calm down.

  Surrender the key.

  That was exactly what she said. The same words that were spelled out in glass at school. I couldn’t help but think it might not have been a coincidence that she was on the commuter train this morning, and in the subway. And on the platform.

  She was following me.

  The train picked up speed. As my car rolled past the platform, I saw that one person was still standing there.

  The old woman stood by herself, clutching her black shawl, staring me square in the eye.

  My GPS got me right to the brownstone apartment building where Michael Swenor lived. Or used to live. I was lucky to find it without getting lost, because the whole way all I could think about was that pinched old lady who tried to push me into the speeding train.

  Surrender the key.

  Was she a ghost too? She sure popped in and out quickly enough. That’s not exactly normal. Or human.

  I looked down at the sidewalk. Was I standing on the very spot where Michael Swenor had hit the ground? The thought gave me the creeps, so I jumped away and ran up the cement steps to the front door. Inside was an entryway with another door, which led to the lobby. That second door was locked. I scanned the row of buttons on the wall. Each had a name and an apartment number next to it. There was only one that mattered.

  Swenor. Apartment 4B. Top floor.

  I hesitated. What if Mrs. Swenor was there? What would I say to her? She wasn’t going to feel like talking to a crazy kid about her husband’s ghost. I actually took a step back, ready to run the heck out of there, but forced myself to stop. The fear of not knowing why I was being haunted was even scarier than facing a sad lady.

  I
pressed the button next to her name.

  Five seconds passed. Maybe nobody was home. Or maybe she was in the shower. I didn’t want to buzz again, because that would be rude. I waited a few more seconds, wondering if I should take off, when the speaker came to life.

  “Yes?” came a woman’s small, frail voice. It sounded as though she had just woken up.

  My throat closed. Just as well. I hadn’t thought of what I was going to say, anyway.

  “Is someone there?” she asked.

  “M-Mrs. Swenor?” I said meekly.

  “Can I help you?” she asked, now sounding more awake and a little irritated.

  “I hope so,” I said tentatively. “You don’t know me, but—”

  “I’m not talking to any more reporters,” she said curtly. “Go away.”

  “I’m not a reporter,” I said quickly, as if grasping for a lifeline that was being pulled out of reach. “My name’s Marcus O’Mara. I live in—”

  A harsh buzzer sound made me jump. It came from the inside door. It took a second for me to realize she was letting me in. I leapt for the door, grabbed the knob, and pulled it open. There was no turning back now. I walked quickly to the elevator and rode the creaky old box up to the fourth floor. Apartment 4B was at the end of a long, dark hallway. I stepped up to the door and was about to knock when it opened slowly.

  My knees went rubbery. I hadn’t really thought I would get as far as this, and I went into total brain lock.

  Mrs. Swenor peeked around the door. She was probably younger than my mother but looked a lot older. Her eyes were—I don’t know, hollow. I guess grief over losing your husband will do that. She wore gray NYU sweats and had her hair pulled back into a ponytail.

  “Mrs. Swenor?” I asked tentatively.

  When she focused on me, her face lit up. She actually broke out in a smile.

  “Oh, Liam,” she said as she pulled the door open. She stepped forward quickly and wrapped her arms around me to give me a hug.

  I don’t know what I was expecting from her, but it sure wasn’t that. I didn’t hug back. I didn’t know the lady, and I sure as heck wasn’t Liam.