Ghost Stories Shade Shorts 2.0

by Gillian Phillips

  Once the smoke cleared, I went back to my dressing-table. Looked in the mirror.

  My face was scarlet and covered in zits.

  I could see zits spreading down my neck. I felt them breaking out, all over my body. I ripped off my clothes. Every inch of my skin was bright red, tingling, itching, burning. I started scratching. I couldn’t stop …

  The doctor said it was an allergic reaction. But I knew different. I was terrified it would be like that for ever.

  I had a rotten Christmas, but gradually the spots started to heal and fade. By Easter, they’d completely gone.

  And then one evening, when I was getting ready for the school summer disco, I looked in the mirror and saw this huge zit on the end of my nose. More and more zits appeared, all over my face. They’d gone by the next morning, but I missed the disco.

  In August, it was my cousin Melanie’s wedding. I was chief bridesmaid. I was nervous. Would the zits return? But everything seemed to be OK. Until I went downstairs. Mum handed me my flowers and I had a last look in the hall mirror. The zits were back.

  But I couldn’t let Melanie down. Somehow, I got through the wedding.

  Mum said it was stress. I don’t think so.

  After a few days, the zits disappeared – and they haven’t come back … yet.

  I don’t know if I’ll ever stop worrying about them.

  One thing I do know. I’ll never make another promise, unless I’m absolutely sure I can keep it.

  The Hanging Tree

  by Anne Rooney

  The Hanging Tree

  by Anne Rooney

  Shadows lay like crooked fingers over the path. They seemed to claw at the stones. Alfie wondered if they were clawing their way out or in. He looked up into the tree that cast the shadows. It troubled him more in winter than in summer. Those twig fingers, poking at the sky, their ghosts splayed on the path below. Alfie turned up

  his collar and pulled his scarf tight around his neck, covering the lower part of his face. He felt his breath, damp and warm on the inside of the scarf.

  ‘Why don’t you like the tree?’ Kayleigh asked, linking her arm through his.

  ‘Do you think I don’t like it?’ he said.

  Kayleigh laughed.

  ‘It’s obvious. You speed up to walk past it. And you sort of huddle up in your coat.’

  It was true. Alfie hated the tree. He was sure on winter nights he had heard sounds coming from it. Rustling, even when there were no leaves. Or a low hissing that really couldn’t be the wind.

  ‘My grandfather told me about it,’ he said.

  ‘Tell me. I don’t know any of the local tales,’ Kayleigh said. ‘I love that your family has always lived here. You know everything. Tell it to me as he told it to you.’

  ‘It was more than two hundred years ago. Jack Tippett hid in a copse of trees on the hilltop. He’d done it many times before. It was cold. His horse snorted clouds of steamy breath that mixed with the fog. At last, a stagecoach rumbled up the hill. Jack pulled his scarf up over his face, so that just his eyes showed. He spurred his horse and galloped out in front of the coach. The coach horses reared up and whinnied in fright. Jack Tippett fired one of his three muskets in the air.

  ‘“Stand and deliver!” he shouted.’

  ‘He was a highwayman?’ asked Kayleigh.

  ‘Yes. The people stumbled from the stagecoach, trembling. They emptied their pockets and purses. But it went wrong. There was a boy in the stagecoach, called Benjamin Lucas. He clung to his mother’s skirts and stared wide-eyed at the highwayman. He looked into Jack’s green eyes above the scarf. He saw the curved scar that ran through his eyebrow.

  ‘“Hello, Jack!” he called. And Jack fired his second musket into the boy’s chest.’

  Kayleigh shuddered.

  ‘How horrible – he killed a little child?’

  Alfie went on. ‘Horrified at what he’d done, Jack turned his horse and galloped into the night. But next day, fourteen angry men were waiting for him. They beat him and bound him and dragged him to the tree – this tree. They tied a rope around his neck. Benjamin’s uncle threw the end of the rope over a branch and hauled on it, dragging Jack Tippet up into the air. He struggled and kicked his legs. He went blue in the face; his tongue hung out. The men hit him with sticks and threw stones at him. Eventually, he stopped struggling.

  But Jack Tippett didn’t die in the tree. It began to rain. Hard rain, like iron rods, pelted the men and drove them back to seek cover. The hanging tree was blasted by lightning. It split down one side, dropping Jack Tippett to the ground. He ran through the grey spears of rain, the noose around his neck and the rope trailing in the mud.’

  ‘What happened to him?’

  ‘No one knows. He ran and ran. People say he runs still. He can never find rest. Not unless he finds someone to take his place in the hanging tree. Someone must pay for the hurt done to Benjamin Lucas.’

  Kayleigh shivered. ‘But it’s just a story,’ she said.

  ‘It’s a true story.’

  ‘What, even about him still wandering the Earth? Do you believe that?’

  ‘No,’ said Alfie. But he wasn’t sure.

  They were right by the tree. Kayleigh pointed ahead, just to the left of the path.

  ‘Look! Alfie, look at that bird! What’s it doing?’

  Alfie peered into the fog. ‘It’s just a magpie.’

  ‘One for sorrow,’ said Kayleigh. ‘What’s it doing? Look, it’s got something in its beak.’

  Alfie looked again. Something gold glittered in the bird’s beak. There was a red stone, too, sparkling.

  ‘It’s got a gold and ruby ring!’ he said.

  At his voice, the magpie flapped its wings and rose into the fog. But it didn’t go far. It landed on a branch, just above them. It took three steps sideways along the branch, then dipped its head. When it flew down again, its beak was empty.

  ‘It must have put it in its nest,’ said Kayleigh. ‘Climb up and get it. Please.’

  Alfie swallowed. He didn’t want to refuse. He didn’t want her to think he was scared.

  ‘It’s nearly dark,’ he said. ‘I won’t be able to see properly. Look at the fog.’

  ‘You’ll be able to see gold,’ she said. ‘It will sparkle. Go on. Please. I’d love a gold ring.’

  Alfie held out his arms.

  ‘Look,’ he said, ‘I’m in my school clothes. They’re not good for tree climbing.’

  Kayleigh laughed.

  ‘They’ll be fine. Are you scared?’

  ‘No!’ he said. ‘But … No, of course not. I just don’t think I’ll be able to climb in these.’

  Kayleigh touched his cheek. Her fingers were soft and cool.

  ‘Please get it for me.’

  Alfie dropped his school bag on the ground, but he still didn’t move. They stood looking at each other. Then Kayleigh threw down her own bag on top of his.

  ‘Fine,’ she said. ‘I’ll get it myself. I’m not scared of a stupid magpie. Or a tree.’

  ‘I’m not scared,’ Alfie protested. But it was too late. She was already pulling herself up, fingers twined around the thick stems of ivy that strangled the trunk. He stood watching, not sure what to do.

  ‘Careful,’ he called.

  She looked over her shoulder at him. It was a disdainful look that made him embarrassed. She carried on climbing.

  A flurry of ivy leaves fell to the ground in front of Alfie. At the same time, Kayleigh cried out.

  ‘What is it?’ he asked, peering upwards.

  Kayleigh whimpered, stifling a sob. Her left foot was at an awkward angle, her right foot scrabbling for a foothold a little above his head, her fingers gripping the ivy.

  ‘Are you OK?’ he asked.

  ‘No. I’ve hurt my ankle. My foot’s stuck and I twisted it. Owwww,’ she whimpered again. Alfie thought she would cry.

  ‘Do you want me to help you?’ he asked.

  ‘Yes, please. Help me down and then get th
e ring.’

  ‘What? You still want it?’ He was angry now. It was a stupid thing to do, climb the hanging tree in the dark and the fog, just for a ring. Couldn’t she see now that it was stupid?

  ‘I was just unlucky. You’re good at climbing – you’ll be fine.’

  ‘Hang on. I’ll get you down, at least.’ He had no intention of getting the ring, though.

  He dug his fingers into cracks in the bark between the ivy and pulled himself up. The bark was wet and slippery with fog. But the tree wasn’t hard to climb. Six feet above the ground it forked and after that branches came thick and fast.

  Kayleigh was just past the fork. He soon reached her. He guided her right foot onto a solid branch, then gently lifted her left foot out of her shoe. She cried out as he twisted it, but then it was free and he showed her where to put it. He tossed the shoe to the ground and waited while she climbed down, guiding her to handholds as she passed him.

  ‘Thank you,’ she said, as her feet touched the ground. ‘Can you see the nest?’

  ‘Are you mad? Hasn’t it been enough trouble already?’

  ‘Go on Alfie, please! You aren’t scared, are you? You’re almost there now.’

  What could he do? If he refused, she’d tell everyone he was scared. She wouldn’t like him any more. It would only take a minute.

  The place the bird had landed was to his left. It was in a bare part of the tree that forked and jutted out over the space below. Alfie pulled himself up to the branch and inched along it. He could see an untidy, dark shape through the gloom. It must be the nest. Twigs from above caught in his hair and snagged his clothes. They scratched his face and snatched at his hood. He shuffled along the branch, carefully, slowly.

  ‘Hsssss.’

  Alfie’s neck prickled. He looked down at Kayleigh. She was beneath, looking up at him. Silent. What sound do magpies make?

  ‘Hsssss.’ There it was again – like a hiss or a whisper. Was he imagining it? He tried to look around, to see if there was someone else there.

  But the magpie was back. It flew at his face making him jump. He lurched backwards and had to grab at the branch so that he didn’t fall. The bird flapped its wings at him and made a loud, chattering sound, trying to drive him away.

  Alfie tried to shuffle back along the branch, but he felt something cold and sharp poke at his neck. He twisted his head quickly, but it only jabbed him harder. He couldn’t turn his head back. Whatever had caught him was under his scarf. Rising panic made him wriggle. That made it worse. He raised a hand to his neck, but couldn’t reach behind him. And the magpie flew at him again, straight at his face. He thrashed at it, but lost his balance. He snatched at the branch. His hand touched something hard and cold – something that moved away under his hand. He pulled his hand away again.

  ‘Hsssss.’

  Alfie teetered on the branch. The magpie flew at his face again, and he swiped wildly at it.

  ‘Be careful!’ shouted Kayleigh.

  He twisted round at her voice, and the scarf tightened. His leg slid over the branch and into empty space. He grabbed at the branch, but his hand closed on nothing as he fell …

  Then he jerked to a halt. All his muscles jolted. He couldn’t breathe. The scarf pulled tight around his neck. He reached up but he couldn’t loosen it – his body weight pulled it tight. He kicked and struggled, his feet flailing around in the air seeking a branch. But there were no branches, just open, empty air and the ground far below. He saw Kayleigh’s mouth open to scream.

  The pain in Alfie’s neck and chest was unbearable. He gasped desperately for breath, but none came.

  Suddenly, something gripped Alfie’s wrist. Something icy and sharp, and brittle as twigs.

  The surrounding darkness closed in on him and he stopped struggling.

  ‘Shhhhh.’

  It seemed that the fog itself whispered to him.

  Another hand grabbed his shoulder. The fingers were as thin as knife blades. They dug deep into Alfie’s flesh. He felt like meat hung on a meat hook. Dead meat. That’s what he was. But then he was rising through the air. Yes, surely he was rising? The meat hooks were lifting him up into the tree. The pressure on his neck became less.

  One hand released him, the other digging further into his flesh as it took his weight.

  Alfie tried to protest, but he had no breath. Then, in front of his face, he saw half a grey-white face with spaces where the eyes should be and black hair hanging in tatters over and around it. The bottom half of the face was hidden. Was it behind a scarf? Or was it eaten away by the fog, or worse? Alfie couldn’t tell. He felt something cold at his neck, something besides the wet scarf. Metal. A blade. He tried again to kick and flailed his legs. He struggled to get his free hand to his throat.

  ‘Hsssss.’

  That sound again, but right beside his ear this time.

  The blade nicked his neck. It was icy cold, colder than ice. The coldest thing he had ever felt. The tightness at his neck eased a little, and then a little more. And then it was gone. Two halves of the scarf fell to the ground and then something else, something that made a dull sound as it hit the leaves. The meat hooks were back in his flesh, in both his wrists now. Alfie gulped in huge gasps of air, filling his empty lungs. His head was swimming, he felt faint. All he could see was the half-face, its empty eye sockets windows on to the darkness behind.

  ‘Hsssss.’

  Alfie whimpered.

  ‘Who – what are you?’ he managed to say.

  ‘Hsssssss,’ it whispered. And then, very quietly, ‘Jack.’

  The meat-hook fingers lowered Alfie, and then they were gone. He fell to the ground. The wet leaves were thick and cold beneath him. At once, the magpie rose into the air, and Kayleigh was beside him.

  ‘Are you all right? What happened? I was so scared. I thought you’d be strangled!’

  Alfie didn’t answer. The tree loomed above him, a sprawling, black shape against the fog. A patch of thicker fog seemed to hang in the tree. He thought he heard a sound again, ‘Hsssss.’ But he couldn’t be sure.

  He saw, above him, the magpie with the ring in its beak once again. It stood on a branch and looked at him, cocking its head to one side.

  Alfie put his hand out to push himself up. It met something thin, and colder than the leaves. His fingers closed on the blade and he picked it up. A folding knife.

  ‘What happened?’ Kayleigh said again.

  ‘Jack,’ Alfie said. ‘He’s paid his debt.’ He held out his hand, the knife lying in his palm. The bone handle was worn and scratched, but he could just make out the initials carved into it: J.T.

  The Land Rover

  by John Townsend

  The Land Rover

  by John Townsend

  The track was a jungle of nettles and brambles.

  ‘Even Tarzan wouldn’t get past this lot!’ Tom sat on a tree stump and took a swig from his can.

  Ali was keen to go home. ‘Let’s forget it. There won’t be anything there.’

  Tom stood on the stump. ‘I can see something. It’s a roof. It must be one of the sheds. I’ve got to take a look while we’re here.’

  Ali sighed. ‘It’ll take all day. Why don’t we come back at the weekend with hedge cutters?’

  ‘Hey – that’s one of your best ideas yet.’

  Tom had never met his great, great Uncle Edgar. The old man had locked himself away for years in the farmhouse. He never let anyone come to see him. And that’s where he died, two months ago, at the grand age of ninety-nine. The police had to break down his front door. He’d been dead for days.

  Ali went with Tom to the funeral, where they were surprised at how many people turned up. Uncle Edgar had been quite famous and had won medals in the Second World War. Then he’d worked in Africa, before hiding away in his old farmhouse, which became a real tip and full of junk. It took weeks to clear everything out, before anyone could start on the sheds and barns.

  For most of Saturday, Tom and Ali hacked
their way up the track to a row of sheds. The timber was rotten. Ivy and brambles had taken hold.

  ‘No one’s been here for fifty years, I reckon,’ Tom said. ‘This shed’s like Fort Knox. Look at those chains and locks!’

  They needed bolt-cutters to open the door, even though its hinges had almost rusted through. A curtain of cobwebs shimmered where bats hung from the rafters. Rats scuttled, as light spilled inside. The first light for fifty years.

  ‘Yuk. What a smell of mould. I’m not going in there!’ Ali stood outside while Tom went in.

  ‘Help me pull the other door open,’ he called. ‘I need more light. There’s something in here.’

  Shafts of dusty light cut through the gloom, where a rotten rug covered something big.

  ‘I don’t like it,’ Ali said. ‘There’s something scary here. I felt an icy shiver. I tell you, Tom – I don’t like it.’

  But Tom was already pulling the rug to the floor, in a cloud of dust. Ali sneezed and turned away. Old, rat-chewed sacks slid to the ground as Tom stood back, his mouth wide open. ‘Wow! Just look at that beauty!’

  Ali shrugged. ‘Big deal,’ she said. But Tom was already wiping the bonnet. ‘Don’t you see, Ali? It’s an old Series One Land Rover. I’d kill to get my hands on one of these!’

  They didn’t hear the sound. Like something stirring.

  It took a week to clear the track for the pick-up truck to tow away the Land Rover. Tom’s dad said he could keep the old Land Rover to work on. Even though it was in a bad way, for Tom it was like a dream come true. The tyres were no good and a lot of the bodywork had rusted. The front seats were eaten by rats and the engine needed major work. But Tom was keen to give it a go. He and some work mates spent all their spare time repairing and re-building it.

  ‘My Series One Land Rover was made between 1948 and 1953,’ Tom told everyone. ‘It’s an 80-inch wheelbase and I’m fitting a 1595cc petrol engine.’

  He went on about the gears, front wheel drive and every new rivet and screw.