The Ghost Behind the Wall

by Melvin Burgess

  “What is it?” David cried, but the ghost said nothing. David lifted himself up on his toes and hands and looked backward between his legs. The noise was shooting up toward them, fast as a cat running through the ducts. Then something hard suddenly struck the board that David had put over the duct on the floor below. There was a clatter as the board was knocked off, and then the rattle, louder than ever, carried up toward them.

  The ghost screamed and fled. David felt it rushing up the duct ahead of him. He screamed himself and followed, but he could only go at a slow crawl, trapped on his belly as he was. The thing was coming after them and it was almost there! What was it—another ghost? Something from hell come to take the ghost back? Panting and sweating, David dragged himself along. The most awful thing was not being able to look behind, and by the time he got to the duct that led to Mr. Alveston’s apartment, he couldn’t bear it anymore. He stopped, lifted himself up on his toes and fingers, and looked back, shining the flashlight between his legs. He was just in time to see something terrible emerging from the duct down.

  It was made out of something thin and hard—bone, David thought. A skeleton was coming—a horrible, thin arm bone reaching out from the duct. It was blocking the way down.

  With another loud scream, David hurtled down the duct toward Mr. Alveston’s apartment. He was screaming and screaming. The grille was off, thank God. He pushed his head out and a pair of strong hands grabbed him by the shoulders. He screamed again. It had him! He was dragged out of the duct and crashed down to the floor, but he was on his feet again in a flash. He ran for the door, but someone was in the way. He hurled himself at the figure, but he just bounced back.

  He pointed at the vent and howled, “It’s coming! Let me out, it’s coming!”

  Mr. Alveston appeared from the bedroom. “It’s all in the mind, boy—in the mind,” he said, tapping his head as if he knew all about it.

  A big woman was standing over David. “Now, then—what’s been going on?” she demanded.

  10

  Trapped

  David made another break for the door, but he was trapped. Still in a panic, he backed away from the vent in the wall. Sis Parkinson was standing by the door, growling. Mr. Alveston blinked dimly at him.

  “Where’s the boy gone?” David demanded.

  “Oh, so there’s another one in it, is there?” demanded Sis. “What’s his name? Come on!”

  “He’s not a boy, he’s a ghost!” But one look at her face and David knew it was no use. No one was going to believe him. As he’d thought, he was going to take the blame—all of it.

  “Ghosts don’t drink and they don’t pee,” pointed out Mr. Alveston. He began to giggle at the thought, but Sis was getting more annoyed by the second.

  “You horrible, selfish little…,” she began, but they were interrupted by a banging on the door. It was the janitor.

  The whole thing was a setup. Sis had worked it all out. The marks in the duct and on the wall told her that something funny was going on; the old lady a few doors down, and Mary, had told her that Tuesdays and Thursdays were the days funny things happened. It had to be a child getting in through the duct because no adult would be small enough. That meant that the most likely time for things to happen would be after school hours on Tuesday or Thursday afternoons.

  She and Mr. Alveston had waited in the living room to hear if any noises came. When they did, she alerted the janitor over her cell phone. He had run down to the basement, where he had one of those long, jointed, bendy poles people use to stick up chimneys, and he’d shoved it up into the ventilation system, length after length of it, right up to the fifth floor. It was this pole snaking its way up that David had heard banging and crashing its way up the ducts, and the same pole that had lifted the board behind him and cast that bony shadow on the duct and thrown him into a blind panic.

  It was, as Mr. Alveston said, all in the mind.

  “You’re in the worst sort of trouble,” hissed Sis. She was barely able to keep her hands off the little swine.

  “What sort of trouble?” asked David.

  “Police trouble! I hope they lock you up and throw away the key. I hope they spend the rest of your life ferrying you about from home to home. I hope they put you into foster care! I hope…”

  “But what about the ghost?” wailed David. “I heard it. It made me do things.”

  Sis had been hissing like a basket of vipers, and now she simply blew up. “You’re just a nasty little piece of work,” she yelled. She rushed across the room and started making strange passes with her hands around his head. What she wanted to do, very badly, was to hit him. But as someone employed by the social services, she knew that if you hit a child, you were in bad trouble, so she just had to attack the air around him instead.

  After that, the janitor called the optician’s and got David’s dad away from work to deal with David, and all hell broke loose all over again, with his dad yelling, “How could you, how could you, how could you!” and begging forgiveness from Mr. Alveston. Fortunately for David, Mr. Alveston was by now utterly exhausted after all the fuss and asked everyone to leave so he could get a little sleep.

  Outside the door, David, his dad, Sis, and the janitor walked along to the elevator.

  “Of course the police will have to be informed,” Sis told Terry stiffly.

  “Is that necessary?”

  “Of course it’s bloody necessary, what do you think?” she yelled.

  Terry paled before her. “Can’t we do social workers and things?” he asked.

  “Police. Social workers. Capital punishment! Anything! All of it! Just keep the little toad out of my sight! And if you’re any sort of father, you’ll beat him till he can’t sit down!”

  Sis, unable to stand still any longer, stormed off down the hall to the stairway. Terry smiled weakly at the janitor, but the janitor was unsympathetic.

  “She’s right, mate. Face it, he could have killed the poor old guy.” Then he walked off as well. Alone, David and his dad caught the elevator down to the next floor and let themselves in the apartment. In the living room was the telltale grille, lying on the floor next to the sofa David had used to climb up.

  “Sorry, Dad,” said David. His dad didn’t reply. Later, as he was washing up after dinner, David was horrified to see that his dad was crying.

  * * *

  It didn’t stop there, of course. Later on, the police turned up.

  “Breaking and entering and vandalism, just for firsts,” said the policeman viciously.

  “Will I go to prison?” David asked.

  “I certainly hope so,” said the policeman. Then he arrested him.

  Next day the social worker, Alison Grey, came by to see what “support” David needed to get over his problem. They had a long chat about caring for others, about responsibility, and on and on. There was a lot of talk from his dad about David being bullied at school. Alison was sympathetic.

  “Aren’t you mad?” David asked her.

  “Well, I am, of course. It was a horrible thing to do. But it’s my job to help, you see. Punishment isn’t my thing. That’s the police, isn’t it?”

  It wasn’t going to be over soon, either. There were going to be social workers’ reports. There were going to be tests. Then when all the reports were in, there would be a court case.

  David’s dad was beside himself with worry. He didn’t know what to do, or what to think, or what to feel. All he knew was that he was desperately concerned for his boy. He was sure it was all his fault. He’d been moping about the place, not going out, not making friends, not getting a new woman in his life, as if his life had ended when his wife left home. What a pain he must be to live with! No wonder David was getting into trouble.

  A couple of nights later, he crept up to his son’s bedroom to peep in and see if David was sleeping properly. It was very late; he’d already been to bed himself, but he couldn’t sleep for worry.

  He crept up to the door, which was ajar, and he he
ard whispering. He peeped in.

  David was standing on a chair below the grille to the ventilation shaft. He was talking to the shaft, but Terry couldn’t hear any answers. The one-sided conversation went something like this.

  “I told you, I don’t want to,” said David.

  “Not anymore,” said David.

  “I bet you can’t do it on your own,” said David.

  “Don’t talk like that!” David almost shouted.

  “You can’t make me. Just leave him alone!” David cried.

  “Oh my God, he’s talking to himself,” said Terry. Unable to stop himself, even though he thought it was the wrong thing to do, he opened the door and ran in. David leapt off his chair in one great bound.

  “What’s going on?” begged Terry.

  “Nothing!”

  “Nothing? You’re talking to the ventilation shaft!”

  “It’s just a game.”

  “What do you mean, a game?”

  “It’s a game. I tell it things,” lied David.

  “What sort of things?”

  “Secrets!”

  “Secrets? But it was talking back to you!”

  “Did you hear it?”

  “No, but the way you were talking … Oh, David, what’s going on?”

  “I’m sorry, I’m sorry, Dad. I’ll be all right, I’ll be all right. Don’t worry.”

  Terry took him back to bed and lay next to him for a while. He felt devastated. David lay awkwardly by his side. Later, when his son was asleep, Terry crept into the living room, stood on a chair, and listened to the ventilation system himself, but he could hear nothing but the wind stirring inside the building and the dull mutterings and murmurings coming up from other people’s apartments.

  * * *

  Next thing, David’s dad decided that they needed to make friends with the old man. He was the one who had suffered. If he decided that David was all right, that it was a onetime thing, maybe the police wouldn’t press charges.

  Sis Parkinson had told David to stay well away from Mr. Alveston, and so had the social worker, Alison. But Terry caught the old boy in the lobby one day. Mr. Alveston wasn’t keen at first. He was so frail that he was no match for a boy, even a little one. But he agreed to accept a visit from David to say he was sorry so long as Terry came along as well.

  David didn’t fancy the idea. He hadn’t forgotten that maybe the old man was a murderer, even though he felt sorry for him now. Who knew what he had been like when he was young? There was still the mystery of why the ghost boy was haunting him. But Terry insisted, so the next day after school, David and his dad turned up with chocolates, wine, and flowers and an invitation for dinner the next night.

  The old man opened the door and stood there watching quietly. He was so old, it was almost impossible to imagine. David thought he was creepy. He fumbled his way through his apology with his dad standing close behind him. It was difficult to tell what such an old man was feeling. He accepted the presents and the invitation. Then he pointed behind David’s back, and when David turned around to have a look, he stamped on his toe with his walking stick as hard as he could.

  “That’s for scaring me. See you tomorrow,” shouted the old man, and he slammed the door in David’s face. It was agony. David hopped about yelling and howling. He could hear Mr. Alveston laughing at him from behind the door.

  David’s dad was pleased.

  “Aha, he’s made a mistake now. That’s assault on a minor. He’ll have to drop the charges now or we can get him arrested!”

  “But that’s not fair!” protested David.

  “No, but it’s nice to have it up your sleeve just in case, don’t you think?” asked Terry.

  * * *

  The next day when the old man turned up for dinner he apologized for hurting David—he explained that he just wanted his revenge, which David could understand.

  The old man sat at the table, trembling like a newly hatched chick. David couldn’t believe that he had been so mean to him. Mr. Alveston was so frail, you felt that you had to tiptoe past him. If you bumped into him, he might break or fall over and not be able to get back up.

  “Only a few more years and you’ll be a hundred and get a telegram from the Queen, Mr. Alveston,” said Terry.

  The old man smiled. “I hope not,” he said in his soft, quavering voice.

  “Don’t you want a telegram from the Queen?” asked David.

  “Oh, I don’t care about that. But I don’t want to be so old. I don’t like being as old as I am.”

  “It’s better than the alternative,” said Terry. He meant, being dead. He smiled weakly.

  “Do you think so? But I’m very tired. Everyone wants to live forever, but nobody likes old age.” The old man smiled at David. “But how could you understand? You’re so young. When you get as old as I am, things change.”

  David was fascinated by this conversation. “But don’t you want to be a hundred?” he asked.

  “No, no, I don’t. I’ve had everything I want out of life. You know, David, everyone tells you how to live, but no one ever tells you how to die. All the people I knew when I was young have already died. Even most of the people I knew when I was an old man have died. Now that I’m such a very, very old man, I would like to go and join them.”

  A stillness settled around the table. Terry toyed with his fork. No one ever talked about such things.

  “Do you believe in heaven?” David wanted to know.

  “No. When I say I want to join them, it’s just a way of talking. People don’t like to talk about dying, so they say ‘pass on,’ ‘go to join my loved ones.’ But look, we’re disturbing your father.” Mr. Alveston twinkled. He seemed to quite like shocking people. “You’re young, you don’t have to worry about such things. I have all my life behind me. You have all yours ahead of you. Let’s not talk of death, I’ve punished you enough. Now, I have a question for you. What made you go inside those ventilation ducts?”

  “… I don’t know.”

  “It must be very dark in there. Not a good place to play.”

  David stared at him. He’d been asked that question before—by his father, by the police, by the social worker. Even his mum, Topsy, had asked him about it when she called him a few days before. There wasn’t one of them he could tell the truth to. A ghost! What would that be to them? An excuse he was making, perhaps. Or they’d think he was going mad. Perhaps he was.

  But now, looking at this old man, who was tired of this world and thinking about the next, who knew so much about being alive that he could even want to die, David thought it might be possible to tell him. What would he think? But Terry was there, listening, so David just shrugged and said again that he didn’t know.

  He had a chance later on, though, when his dad went out to make custard for the pudding.

  “Mr. Alveston,” he said. “Do you believe in ghosts?”

  Mr. Alveston looked at him with his trembling eye. “Why should I believe in ghosts?” he said.

  “Because I saw one. In the ducts. There’s a ghost in the ducts.”

  “What sort of ghost?”

  “A boy like me.”

  The old man thought carefully about it. “Are you sure it wasn’t just the darkness playing tricks on you?”

  “I saw him! I talked to him. He’s in there now.” David nodded at the vent on the wall.

  “Ghosts,” said Mr. Alveston. He smiled. “Are you asking me because you think that I might soon be one myself?”

  David thought about it. “You don’t seem to get very old ghosts,” he said.

  Mr. Alveston laughed. “No! It’s true. You never do. Ghosts on canes! Ghosts with false teeth!” He sat in his chair and wheezed slightly with laughter. “Well, at least I’ll never haunt anyone. I’ve used up all my time on this earth,” he said.

  “Have you ever seen a ghost?” asked David.

  “Children are always interested in ghosts. Well, yes, perhaps I have. There have been occasions when I’ve t
hought I might have seen a ghost. And do you know what I thought? I thought, maybe the ghost was like a memory. Do you see? We have memories all around us. When you play music on a tape, it’s a memory of people playing music. When you put a video on, it’s a memory of people talking and moving. People are very much more wonderful than machines. Perhaps we play back our memories sometimes without meaning to. Or perhaps, we play back other people’s memories without meaning to. If you see a memory being played back, that’s a ghost. Do you see?”

  David wasn’t sure if he did. His dad came in with the Swiss roll and custard. “Then it would do the same thing over and over again, wouldn’t it?”

  “I don’t know. Human beings are very much more wonderful than machines,” repeated the old man. He smiled at Terry. “Your son has some interesting things to say.”

  “Has he?” said Terry. Truth to tell, that was something David’s dad had never noticed.

  Mr. Alveston began to eat his pudding, but halfway through he put his spoon down and sat there staring at his bowl. When David asked him another question, he didn’t answer.

  “Mr. Alveston? Mr. Alveston?” asked David.

  “What?” he said.

  “It’s me—David. Mr. Alveston?”

  “I’m … very tired. Very tired. I think it’s time for me to go home.” He looked at David and frowned, as if he wasn’t sure what was happening or where he was.

  Terry got him his coat and helped him into it. Before he went, Mr. Alveston turned to David and looked at him gravely. “You gave me a terrible fright, you know,” he said. “I thought I was going mad.”

  “Me too,” said David.

  * * *

  After he had walked the old man home, Terry congratulated his son.

  “You talked to him,” he said. “You had a conversation.”

  “So what?”

  “A proper conversation. You only ever grunt at me. Why do I never get a proper conversation?”

  “What?”

  “I’d like you to talk to me sometimes. Instead of just at me like you usually do. Amazing. A proper conversation!” Terry hadn’t realized how long it was since he and David had just chatted about things. He felt jealous. “A proper conversation!” he repeated.