The Ghost Behind the Wall

by Melvin Burgess

  Not all the apartments in Mahogany Villas were occupied. Some of them had been empty for so long and were so run-down that no one wanted to spend the money needed to fix them. They were all boarded up, but from time to time people would break in—homeless people looking for a place to spend the night under a roof when the weather was cold, kids looking for somewhere to hang out or who just kicked the door down for something to do.

  There were such apartments on the third floor.

  David got home early the next day and rode the elevator up to have a look. Sure enough, there was a door open halfway down the hall. Darkness showed inside. Cautiously, he crept up and looked in. It was a disaster in there. David could see a bed of blankets on the floor and the remains of a fire in a bucket. There were beer cans and litter scattered everywhere. There was a bunch of plastic flowers on top of a cardboard box and on the wall someone had drawn a picture of a dragon in red, yellow, and blue chalk. It stank of soot, stale beer, stale bodies, and urine. The dragon spread his wings over it all. There seemed to be no one at home, though.

  David put his ear to the wall under the vent, but he heard nothing. He found an old chair and dragged it to the wall and climbed up. There was no grille in the way; the black insides of the building hung like a mouth in the wall. Before he looked inside, David found himself glancing over his shoulder. What if the ghost had escaped? What if he was haunting this apartment right now?

  There was nothing to be seen. David put his head inside the wall.

  It was like putting your head inside a gigantic shell. Could he hear voices from far inside or the sound of the ghost moving closer? In this strange world, he couldn’t be sure of anything, except for one thing. He didn’t want to be doing this.

  “Hello?” he called softly. “Hello? Are you there? Can you hear me?” But there was no reply.

  For a long, long time David stood on the chair with his head in the duct. He told himself that if he heard so much as a whisper, he’d take his head out and never come back again. But in the end he did what all the time he knew he had to do. He crawled inside and began to make his way up toward the ghost.

  * * *

  It felt tight in there. His dad was always saying, “You’ve grown,” but this time it was true and David was scared that he might get stuck. Wouldn’t that make the ghost happy! Just the thought made him shiver from head to foot. He stopped, thought about backing out. But now that he was in, he was determined to finish it, one way or another. He carried on crawling deep inside.

  Soon he came to the big up duct. Now he had to climb two floors up to where Mr. Alveston’s apartment was. He shone his flashlight up there, but he couldn’t see far—the beam stopped against the piece of wood he had put over the duct. It must have fallen back into place after the janitor knocked it.

  But when he shone his flashlight down, the beam fell straight into the terrible drop, all the way to the basement. There was nothing to stop him falling from here.

  David paused. He ought to get out. He ought to get another piece of board or find a way in on his own floor, where the drop was already covered over. But it was too late now. He was on his way. If he left now, he might never come back.

  David wedged the flashlight into his jeans, worked his way carefully into the big duct, trying not to think of the deadly drop directly underneath him, and began to push his way up. He’d gone no more than a couple of yards when there was a sudden noise above his head. With a thrill of pure fear, David looked up. The board above him disappeared with a loud click—and suddenly, without any more warning than that, he was staring straight into the face of the ghost.

  David was so scared, wedged there helplessly in the duct with the ghost above him and a fall nearly five floors down underneath him, that he couldn’t even think, let alone speak. He could hear the board banging and booming as it was blown down the ducts, deeper into the heart of the building. Lit by the eerie glow of his flashlight that twisted and bounced off the dull metal of the ducts, the ghost’s face seemed at one moment miles away, at the next so close, it could lean forward and bite him. He could see the little teeth glinting like shiny stones in his mouth.

  “You left me,” hissed the ghost. “In the dark! You left me all on my own.”

  David swallowed and tried to get his voice back. What could he say? He opened his mouth and the word came out without him even thinking.

  “Robert,” he said.

  “No!” screamed the ghost. “No—not me, him! Don’t you call me that! Don’t you dare call me by his name!”

  “Robert Alveston,” said David, trying to stop his voice from shaking. “That’s who you are. Aren’t you?”

  “You—you—don’t you dare!” yelled the ghost, mad with fear and fury. “Don’t you call me that! I’ll teach you! I’ll teach you! You’ll never get out of here alive!”

  And it came at him like a ton of bricks.

  Being a ghost, the boy didn’t have to touch him. Instead it forced itself down the duct toward him. There was a sudden gust of wind, and then a hard cold force pressing down on him. David began to slide back down. The ghost was as strong as a machine, and he knew at once that there was nothing he could do about it. He wedged himself as tightly as he could, clenched his teeth, and pressed, but it made no difference at all. He was being blown slowly down the duct like a bubble in a straw. The skin was coming off his hands, he was pressing so hard, but he was wasting his time. In another second he’d be at the junction of the third floor, there would be nothing for him to hold on to, and he would be shot—bang—right down the ducts all the way to the basement and certain death.

  “You’ll never leave me again!” screamed the ghost, in a terrible fury. “Now you’ll find out what it’s like to be stuck in here! See how you like it!”

  Already David could feel where the duct ended. In desperation he opened his mouth and yelled.

  “Don’t!” he screamed.

  Above him the ghost gasped, and fell. It was as if opening his mouth had opened up a pit underneath it. Still screaming, David closed his eyes and winced. His mouth shut. For a moment he felt the ghost squirming on top of him like an icy hard shadow. Then he opened his mouth to yell again and—pop!—it fell again, right inside him. He could feel it brush past his jaws. With a snap he closed his mouth, bit hard with his teeth …

  And there was silence.

  A second before, the wind had been raging around him, but now everything was still. David hung there a moment longer, poised on the very edge of the drop, wondering what was going to happen next. Nothing did. Ever so slowly, he eased himself out of the duct and lay down on the cross duct, safe at last, gasping for breath through his nose. He kept his mouth shut tight.

  For maybe ten minutes David lay there, waiting to see what was coming next. It really seemed as if he’d trapped the ghost inside him. Or perhaps the ghost had taken him over? Which was which? Who was who?

  Am I him? thought David. Or is he me?

  He had no idea.

  Carefully he got up on all fours. He climbed into the duct and began to slide his way down. He had no idea who he was, no idea if it was him or the ghost who crept down and along to the vent on the third floor and got out into the abandoned apartment. He brushed his clothes down—or was it the ghost doing that? Then he—or someone who looked like him—walked out of the building and turned down the road toward the hospital.

  Was it David going to save the old man—or the ghost going to kill him?

  * * *

  It was the strangest feeling, not knowing if you were yourself or something completely different. Were those his feet pacing one in front of the other, or were they the ghost’s feet? What was the difference between them, now that they were the same person? And as he looked at all the people and things in the streets around him—the cars, the shops and houses, the people hurrying to and fro—David began to feel that maybe he wasn’t anything at all. What was the difference between him and all this around him, after all? What was it that made
him himself, separate and alone? He stopped and stared at the stone beneath his feet. He wondered if maybe he was that stone, and that being David Withington was just a dream. Am I looking at it, or is David looking at me? he thought. But then he shook his head and walked on, frightened that just thinking such things would stop him from being himself ever again—that at any moment he would turn into the ghost, or a paving stone or a brick in the wall, and David Withington would disappear forever.

  * * *

  In the hospital, visiting time was coming to an end. Sis Parkinson was talking to one of the nurses. She’d just been in to see Mr. Alveston.

  He’d been having one of his better days, but the old man was just a shadow of what he had been. The really sad thing, which upset Sis more than anything, was the way he was just hanging on without wanting to. He had said to her more times than she could count that he just wanted to let go and die.

  “You can’t blame him,” said Sis. “God help us all to know when it’s time for us to go. But then there’s no one there to help you find the way!”

  “And there’s no one ever came back to tell you how to do it, did they? It’s a shame. We’re not allowed to help people pass away. Our job is to help them stay alive,” said the nurse. “All we can do is make him comfortable and let him get on with it. Everyone was expecting him to go weeks ago, but he just can’t seem to take the final few steps.”

  Sis nodded. It was at that moment that she caught sight of that brat, David Withington from Mahogany Villas, marching down the corridor with a cool look in his eye, straight for the old man’s room. He spotted her glaring at him and did a quick little dash into Mr. Alveston’s room before she could say anything.

  “Look at that! Bold as brass. Visiting hours are over. I’ll throw him out for you—let the poor old thing rest in peace,” she snapped. But the nurse stopped her.

  “He likes the lad; let them have five minutes together,” she said.

  Sis snorted in disgust. “I wouldn’t let him in here if I had my way. People are too soft on that boy,” she said. She looked over at the door. “He could be doing anything. Stealing his fruit. Or his medication. It wouldn’t surprise me. That child is capable of anything!”

  Inside the room, David was standing in front of the bed, smiling shyly. The old man turned his slow head on the pillow and smiled back. For the first time since he had left home, David opened his mouth.

  “Hello, I’m sorry I was so long,” he said. As he spoke, he heard two voices saying the same thing, and there was the ghost standing beside him, staring at the old man.

  Mr. Alveston smiled, but he didn’t seem to know which was the ghost and which was David. “Yes, yes, I knew you’d come back home,” he said. The ghost tried to turn his face away to look at David, but he seemed unable to look away from the old man. Mr. Alveston patted the bed next to him.

  “Sit down, sit with me,” he said. “You know we belong together, don’t you?”

  The ghost, quite clear now, a pale boy of eight or nine years, took a few uncertain steps across the room and sat down where the old man had told him.

  “Now, then,” said Mr. Alveston. He put his hand on the boy’s hand. The ghost turned to look at David, and David smiled at him. He looked calm now. Quietly, he lay down on the bed next to Mr. Alveston, and before David’s eyes, he began to fade away. He lay quite still and simply melted away. It happened quickly, no longer than a minute. When he had gone completely, Mr. Alveston smiled like an angel.

  “Now I remember everything,” he said.

  “It was you, wasn’t it?” asked David.

  “It was me, all the time.” Mr. Alveston looked vaguely at him and gave a wondering shake of his head. Then, silently and easily, he relaxed into the pillow and fell asleep.

  David stood for a while, watching the old man’s chest rise and fall, rise and fall. He knew that he was never going to wake up. Standing there by the bed, he burst suddenly into tears. But whether they were tears for himself, or for the boy or for Mr. Alveston, he could not say.

  Glossary

  biscuit. Cookie.

  cheeky. Naughty.

  fish-and-chips. Fried fish and french fries.

  Great War. World War I, 1914–18.

  skip. Dumpster.

  skive off. To evade doing one’s task or duty.

  sod that. An exclamation of contempt or frustration.

  spanner in the works. Wrench in the machine; delay or problem.

  Third Reich. The empire of Adolf Hitler during World War II, 1939–45.

  tube. The British underground system of trains, or subways.

  twenty-pound note. A piece of British paper currency.

  Praise for Other Books by

  Melvin Burgess

  • • •

  For younger readers:

  The Copper Treasure

  * “A grand adventure.… The pace is masterful, and there are humorous moments blended with poignant ones.”

  —Horn Book Magazine, starred review

  “A suspenseful tale brimming with action and danger.”

  —School Library Journal

  For older readers:

  Smack

  * “Smack is not a lecture to be yawned through. It’s a slap in the face, and, vicariously, a hard-core dose of the consequences of saying ‘yes.’”

  —School Library Journal, starred review

  * “This is one novel that will leave an indelible impression on all who read it.”

  —Publishers Weekly, starred review

  “The YA novel of the decade.”

  —VOYA

  Lady: My Life as a Bitch

  * “Burgess … gives teens much to think about in this bawdy, sophisticated, and occasionally sexually explicit adventure, with a host of well-drawn, unusual characters.”

  —Booklist, starred review

  * “This is a study of human teenage psychology through a dog’s snout.… Each scene vibrates with verisimilitude.”

  —Kirkus Reviews, starred review

  “Burgess is a fearless writer.… This seductive volume is as raw and ravenous as its subject.”

  —Publishers Weekly

  About the Author

  Melvin Burgess says, “I was an extremely dreamy and shy child, and I used to wander around muttering to myself and playing games with imaginary friends. My parents had to shout, ‘He’s in the land!’ to explain to people why I apparently couldn’t hear what they were saying. I did very badly at school—I was daydreaming too much to concentrate on anything much. It wasn’t until I was pretty nearly grown up that I started to think that the world around me might be at least as interesting as what was going on in my head.”

  After training as a journalist, Melvin decided that what he really wanted to do was write fiction. For the next fifteen years he wrote on and off, but it wasn’t until he was in his thirties that he decided to see if he could make a living at it. His first novel, The Cry of the Wolf, was short-listed for the Carnegie Medal.

  He has been writing award-winning books ever since.

  Henry Holt and Company, LLC

  Publishers since 1866

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  New York, New York 10011

  www.henryholt.com

  Henry Holt is a registered trademark of Henry Holt and Company, LLC.

  Copyright © 2000 by Melvin Burgess

  All rights reserved.

  First published in the United States in 2003 by Henry Holt and Company, LLC.

  Originally published in Great Britain in 2000 by Andersen Press Limited.

  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

  Burgess, Melvin.

  The ghost behind the wall / Melvin Burgess.

  p. cm.

  Summary: Twelve-year-old David sneaks through the ventilation shafts in his London apartment building pulling pranks on his neighbors, which awakens the ghost of a boy with a grudge against the lonely, senile old man who lives upstairs.

  [1. Ghosts
—Fiction. 2. Memory—Fiction. 3. Old age—Fiction. 4. Apartment houses—Fiction. 5. London (England)—Fiction. 6. Great Britain—Fiction.] I. Title.

  PZ7.B9166 Gh 2003 [Fic]—dc 21 2002068806

  ISBN 0-8050-7149-0

  First American Edition—2003

  eISBN 9781466838208

  First eBook edition: January 2013