Kill Screen

by Joel A. Sutherland

  It wasn’t until some time had passed that I realized Tie-Dye wasn’t the first ghost I had ever seen. I had seen two the night before my parents died. If only I’d listened to them.

  Nor was Tie-Dye the last ghost I saw. They continued to come to me like an army of ants whose hill had been kicked over, and they all had unfinished business they wanted me to take care of for them. As if it was my job to do all the stuff they never got around to doing before they croaked. I was in the eighth grade! I wished they’d just leave me alone.

  But on the other hand, maybe one day I’d get to see my parents again. Maybe they’d even need some help, like the others. So I’d decided to assist the ghosts that came to me — as much as I could — even if it was a thankless, tiring and occasionally creepy job.

  At least the ghost in the basement was a woman in her twenties. The kid ghosts … they were the worst. How did you tell a five-year-old that they were dead and they had to move along to wherever spirits go in the afterlife?

  To the uninitiated eye, the dead woman would have looked alive. She was a little pale, sure, but some people just need more sun. And her skin glowed a bit, but that could have been a trick of the light. I’d gotten pretty good at picking out the dead from the living over the past two years. It was in their eyes. The whites were still white, but their irises were always black — never blue, brown or green. And if you got close enough (I wouldn’t recommend it) you’d see a small white dot flickering deep in their pupils.

  What really freaked me out about this ghost wasn’t how she looked. It wasn’t her skin or her eyes. It wasn’t even the fact that she’d appeared out of the shadows in Grandma’s basement. I was used to all of that.

  What freaked me out was what she said.

  As I hurried Harold up the basement stairs, I heard her whisper over my shoulder.

  “I’m here to help you.”

  CHAPTER FOUR

  I’m here to help you. Not I need your help, like every other ghost.

  Her words swirled around my head as I pushed mac ’n’ cheese around my plate with a fork. What did she mean, here to help me? No ghost had ever said anything like that before. What could she do for me?

  I shook my head and decided to put her out of my mind, comforted slightly by the knowledge that no ghost had ever approached me more than once. I’d helped out many over the years, but sometimes I had simply walked away. They might follow for a while, like Tie-Dye, but as soon as they were out of sight that was it — they were out of my life.

  Like my parents.

  “What’s the matter, dear?” Grandma asked from across the kitchen table.

  “Hunh?” I said absentmindedly.

  “I just told you I’m going to Halifax tomorrow and offered to give you and your boyfriend a ride, and you didn’t even grunt in reply. Furthermore, I’ve never seen you take longer than three minutes to eat a plate of mac ’n’ cheese and hot dogs.” Her piercing eyes bore into my own. She was very young as far as grandmothers go — only sixty — but she had perfected the you-can’t-fool-me grandma stare. “It’s now been five minutes and you’ve barely made a dent.”

  “First of all, for the millionth time, Harold isn’t my boyfriend. And secondly, I guess I’m not hungry.”

  “I don’t believe that. You’re thinking about your parents, aren’t you?”

  I sighed and set my fork down. It made a dull clunk sound. I’d lied about not being hungry, but now my appetite actually was nearly gone. “I’m always thinking about my parents,” I said quietly.

  Grandma’s face softened and she offered a sympathetic smile. “Worrying and stressing about what happened won’t bring them back. Focus on the positives — remember all the good times.”

  “Easier said than done.”

  “Fair enough.” She reached across the table and patted the back of my hand. “But you and I both know they wouldn’t want us to be sad, especially two years on.”

  I’d found out during soccer practice. I’d never forget that day. How could I? Moments like that become a part of you, tightly and intricately woven into the threads that make you who you are.

  I was running laps with my teammates when the school principal came out the back door and approached my coach. I was on the other side of the field, short of breath, cheeks burning, in the midst of a runner’s high. I could see them talking but couldn’t hear the words. They stopped talking and scanned the track. As soon as their eyes locked on me I knew, with a sickening feeling in my gut, that something bad had happened.

  There’s one thing none of the pamphlets and books about grief tell you: When accidents kill someone you love, the accidents don’t just happen to the victims. Those accidents happen to their loved ones too. When Coach called me over and the principal told me what had happened, I felt like I’d been hit by the same truck that had hit my parents’ car as they drove home from lunch that day, killing them both instantly.

  The feeling didn’t go away. I continued to feel like I was being hit by a truck every time I thought back to the “dream” I’d ignored the night before they had died. I had stayed up watching a late-night Screamers marathon on TV and fallen asleep on the couch. A series of nightmarish images filled my dreams — a haunted corn maze, a possessed doll, a killer horse — before I dreamt of my parents.

  They looked so lifeless, as if their bodies had been drained of blood, as if they were no longer in possession of their souls. Their skin was pale, their eyes were dark, their arms hung limp at their sides and they spoke with no emotion.

  “Help us,” they whispered in unison.

  My mother said, “Don’t let us—”

  “Drive,” my father said. “Don’t let us—”

  “Go,” my mother finished.

  I rubbed my face and looked at the clock. It was a little after three. The dream felt oddly real.

  “Why?” I said, not considering why my subconscious mind had taken this odd turn.

  “We will die,” my father said.

  “We are already dead,” my mother added with finality.

  “But you can help us,” they said in unison once more, and then they both disappeared.

  I rubbed my face again, which is when I assumed I’d woken up and stumbled up to bed, forgetting about my parents’ warning by the time my head hit the pillow.

  A week after the funeral, once I started to come out of my daze, I went online to find out if anyone else had ever experienced anything like what I had, because I’d decided that it hadn’t been a dream. That’s when I first read about crisis apparitions, ghosts of people who are still alive that appear to loved ones shortly before they die.

  My parents told me they were going to die. They asked me to help them. And I didn’t do anything.

  I moved in with Grandma, and Coach told me to take all the time I needed — that I’d still have a spot on the team whenever I was ready to return. I never did.

  Instead I retreated to the basement and hooked up the old gaming console my parents had given me for Christmas one year. I played all the games I’d collected when I was younger: Mega Man, Super Mario Bros., Donkey Kong, Tetris, The Legend of Zelda. It was perfect. No one got hurt and all I had to do any time I died was restart the game.

  I felt better, but only for a while. The games were too basic and I beat them all easily. I bought a newer console and a few games, then a few more, and a few more after that. The newer games were harder to beat, but no game took me longer than a week to complete. Every time I got a new game, I’d stay up late for a few nights in a row, sitting in the flickering blue light of the TV, staring at the screen like a zombie, mashing buttons until I’d beaten the game. And then I’d repeat the process with the next one I bought.

  Simply put, I had to win — all the time. It distracted me, gave me purpose, kept me going, masked my feelings of guilt. Which is why I was so focused on beating the so-called unbeatable Kill Screen.

  And maybe one day my parents would come back … and I’d be able to help them.
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br />   Grandma stopped patting my hand and leaned back in her chair. The cheese sauce was already beginning to stick to our plates. She took a bite. I took a small bite too. It might not have looked great, but it still tasted all right. Before I knew it, I’d finished my first helping and had grabbed seconds. I asked Grandma if it would be okay if I took it upstairs so I could use my computer while I ate. I slipped a couple of salt and pepper packets into my pocket — Grandma always saved them from fast-food restaurants, proclaiming “Waste not, want not.” — and excused myself. By the time I reached the top of the stairs I was starting to feel more like myself again.

  That changed the moment I stepped into my bedroom.

  The ghost from the basement was waiting in the darkness for me.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  I flinched and jumped backwards, shocked by the intrusion. Not because a ghost was there, per se, but because I’d never seen a ghost return once I’d left it. I steeled my nerve and turned on the light. It didn’t make the ghost disappear or anything, but it did make me feel a little less creeped out.

  “What do you want?” I asked, closing the door softly behind me and placing my plate on the computer desk.

  The ghost’s eyes were wide, her hair messy and black. She didn’t move. “I’m here to help you.”

  “So you said.” Her directness didn’t unnerve me at all. Most of the ghosts I’d dealt with were direct, like people’s manners died with their bodies. And that suited me just fine. The sooner I could get rid of her, the better. “Help me how?”

  She hesitated while her eyes darted around the room, as if she was stalling while trying to figure out how to proceed. “I know what you’ve done,” she finally said.

  “What I’ve done?” I asked, genuinely confused.

  “You’re getting too close,” she continued.

  A bad feeling was beginning to grow in my gut. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  She began to cross the room toward me. “You are going to bring about our destruction.” She crept closer and closer, passing through my bed instead of walking around it. “You will kill us all.”

  “Whoa. Hold on.” I raised my hands but held my ground. My temper was starting to flare. “I’m not going to kill anyone.”

  “Wrong,” she said. “You have to stop. And if you don’t promise to stop on your own, I’ll make you.” Her lips pulled back in a sneer, revealing her teeth like a rabid dog, and the white lights in her black eyes danced madly.

  Stop what? I wondered. My anger quickly gave way to fear. I felt blindly behind my back. I was pressed against my door — I could fling it open and make a run for it but what would be the point? If this insane ghost really wanted to hurt me she would catch up to me in a matter of seconds.

  My pulse drummed in my ears. I could feel panic taking hold. Yet somehow an idea emerged.

  What if the techniques that worked in Kill Screen also worked in the real world? Specifically, what if the Soul Burner’s ammunition was actually able to repel ghosts? Not iron, chalcedony or energy — I didn’t have any of those at my fingertips — but I had something else.

  I reached into my pocket and pulled out one of my grandmother’s salt packets. In one swift motion I tore the packet open and dashed the contents at her face.

  It worked. The salt didn’t hit her, but she screamed in alarm, flew across the room and disappeared through my wall.

  I stared at the empty salt packet in disbelief for a moment and then threw it in the trash. My sense of relief was short-lived. What if the ghost came back in the middle of the night while I was asleep? She was crazy and angry, a bad combination, and I’d be defenceless.

  There were still two more salt packets in my pocket. I tore them both open and sprinkled the contents in a ring around my bed. Grandma wouldn’t be thrilled if she found out I’d poured salt on the carpet, but that was better than being killed in my sleep by a ghost.

  I turned out the light and slipped beneath the covers. For a while I replayed Kill Screen’s final level in my mind. I’d done this most nights in the months since I’d bought the game. I was looking for a clue or a hint, any small detail I’d possibly overlooked in the cabin that would be the key to defeating the Wisp. And that night, after the confrontation I’d just experienced, I needed a distraction.

  But like every other night, I couldn’t think of a thing. It was as if the game had been purposefully designed to be unbeatable. Or maybe there was some sort of glitch in its programming.

  Unfortunately, my thoughts turned back to the ghost.

  You are going to bring about our destruction, she had said. You will kill us all.

  What a drama queen. Even if I wanted to singlehandedly bring about the apocalypse, how would I go about doing that?

  I dismissed the thought and closed my eyes. As I drifted off I pictured the ghost standing beside my bed in the dark, her black hair framing her pale white face and her dead eyes staring at me with fury.

  My final thought was that maybe that wasn’t a dream — maybe she really was watching me right then …

  And then I fell into a troubled sleep.

  CHAPTER SIX

  It was the middle of the night.

  I sat up in bed and slipped my feet over the edge. They dangled there for a moment, hanging in the perfect spot for anything or anyone who might have been hiding under the bed to reach out and grab.

  I stood up and moved slowly across the room like a sleepwalker, leaving the safety of the salt ring.

  Quietly, I snuck down to the basement and sat in my well-worn spot on the couch.

  There was an odd sound coming from the walls, a mixture of a hum and a buzz.

  A pungent smell that I couldn’t quite place — something rotting — wafted under my nose.

  I stared at the television screen in silence. Had I come down here to play a video game? Watch a late-night movie or an episode or two of Screamers? I couldn’t remember. My head felt foggy and my mind was slow.

  A small pinpoint of white light illuminated the centre of the screen. Had I turned the TV on? I looked down at my right hand. I held the remote, but I honestly couldn’t remember pushing the power button — I couldn’t even remember picking it up.

  The white dot grew larger, slowly, a little larger, still slowly, bigger and bigger, but slow, slow, very slow.

  I frowned and laughed in confusion, wondering what—

  The ghost burst through the television screen with an ear-splitting crash. Glass shards flew in every direction. My body tensed and my mouth opened in a silent scream.

  The ghost, however, wasn’t silent. She shrieked as she crawled out of the broken frame and reached for my throat. Her nails had turned into sharp claws and her skin looked paler than before.

  “You’ll kill us all, I’ll kill you,” she chanted in a blood-curdling pitch. “You’ll kill us all, I’ll kill you! You’ll kill us all, I’ll kill you!”

  She dug her fingers into the soft flesh of my neck and squeezed.

  “No,” I tried to say, but I couldn’t say anything at all.

  My pulse slowed, my heart stopped, my vision went black and I woke up.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  I started the next morning exhausted and sore, but thankful it was Sunday so I could spend the day doing nothing.

  I walked to the bathroom and splashed water on my face. I’d woken up once in the night from a bad dream, but it had already begun to fade from my memory.

  After a quick shower and a bowl of cereal with Grandma, I texted Harold and asked him to come over. I grabbed Grandma’s last salt packet (just in case), a box of Frosted Blue Raspberry Pop-Tarts and a cream soda (second breakfast of champions) and went to the basement. He texted back as I tossed the salt and the food on the coffee table. I flopped down on the couch and fired up my video game console. Harold walked down the stairs twenty minutes later, just as I reached the Wisp’s cabin.

  “What’s up?” I said as he took up his usual spot beside me. I was so engro
ssed in the game I hadn’t even heard my grandmother let him in.

  “What’s up?” he replied.

  I entered the cabin without pausing to check the readings on the Kill Screen strapped to my wrist or that my Soul Burner was fully loaded and ready to rock ’n’ roll. I’d reached this point in the game so many times that I knew it like the back of my hand. Plus, I also knew I’d most likely die a horrible, horrible death, so why prolong it?

  “Get busy killing, or get busy dying,” I said without meaning to speak out loud.

  “Hunh?” Harold said.

  “Oh, um, it’s from a book. Or a movie. I don’t remember … and I think I changed it a little.” I entered the first room on the right. It was empty. I moved on.

  “What’s with you?”

  “What do you mean?” I didn’t take my eyes off the screen. The second and third rooms were also empty.

  “You seem different.”

  I paused the game and turned to face Harold. So far he was the only person I’d ever told about seeing ghosts — I’d never even told Grandma. I wasn’t sure if he believed me but he didn’t question my sanity.

  “A ghost visited me last night,” I said. He didn’t laugh or roll his eyes, so I told him the rest. How she didn’t want help, but seemed to think she needed to help me. That she thought I was going to kill everyone. Blah, blah, blah … I made sure to emphasize how creepy she was, how she’d threatened me and how I’d needed to sleep within a circle of salt so she wouldn’t murder me in the night.

  Harold kept a straight face through the entire story. Not much fazed him.

  “Do you think,” he said, “that the ghost might have told the truth? That you’ll somehow bring about our destruction?”

  “No way,” I was quick to say. “That’s nuts!” But the look on Harold’s face was so serious and genuine that I was forced to reconsider. “Why? Do you think that’s a possibility?”

  He shrugged noncommittally. “I dunno. Why else would a ghost bother coming here to tell you that? And do ghosts have the ability to see the future, or something?” He shrugged again. “None of this makes sense.”