I felt like a break anyway.
It was very quiet in the corridors. Dusk was in the windows. I could hear my footsteps on the carpet. I could see the door to Room 27B just ahead of me, so there was the twitch in my lip, of course—but I also felt something else. Something new. As if the twitch was also in the centre of my chest, but this twitch had a handle and somebody was turning, tightening it. Also—this will sound strange—I felt as if the dusk was creeping through the windows and shadowing my eyes.
I thought: What’s going on?
Then I realised what it was.
It was fear. I felt frightened.
I slowed a little—and at that exact moment, something touched my ankle. It was a soft, gentle whisper of a touch. As if someone lying on the floor at my feet had reached out a hand and stroked my ankle.
I was too terrified to scream. (And that is really saying something. I like screaming.) I could only make this weird gasping sound with an element of yelping in it. (I’m ashamed to say.)
Then I looked down. No scary stranger on the floor.
A white handkerchief.
It had got tangled around my shoe as my footsteps slowed and had somehow wrapped around my ankle.
I laughed but my cheeks were still weird from the terror so the laugh didn’t come out right.
I picked up the handkerchief. I don’t like people who use handkerchiefs. I mean, why not use a tissue to blow your nose? I think they want to carry snot around.
I held the hanky by the corner, but it seemed clean. Also, it seemed old—the white was not bright, and the lace was frayed. And there was some kind of swirlingness on it, which I believe is entitled ‘embroidery’.
I put it in my pocket, but I’m sorry to say, I was too frightened to go on. I ran back to the rehearsal as fast as I could.
19.
This was real fear.
This was not my childish, imaginary spookiness.
Here was the difference: Amelia and Riley had believed in my ghost.
They weren’t playing.
And a real ghost is a whole other thing.
20.
The next day, a window in Room 27B fell onto somebody’s hand. It was somebody I don’t like very much—Saxon Walker (he used to be okay but the last year or so he’s turned into one of those guys who says mean things to girls, pretending to be funny)—and he was trying to force the window up even though I had specifically told him I was cold, and then suddenly a rope snapped and the window rushed down with a BANG onto his hand.
Wow. It must have hurt.
He tried to be brave but I think if he’d been alone he’d have cried. His face went white! And afterwards, his hand was swollen and purple. (Then he got a bit annoying, talking about how the bones were probably broken, but I doubt it.)
I looked at his pale face, and the smell of lilac talcum powder drifted by. For some reason, that strange, sweet smell wafting by while windows crashed onto hands—that terrified me more than anything.
21.
Does all this terror mean that I now believed in the ghost?
I honestly don’t know.
A part of me continued to think that there is no such thing—this part scared me, because I knew it meant I had to prove the impossible to Mr L.
Another part kept thinking of Amelia and Riley talking ghosts and shadows in the closet—making the ghost real—and that part also scared me, because, you know, ghosts.
Basically, everywhere I turned in my mind I found terror. It was exhausting. I tried to behave like an ordinary person but one day at lunch, Cass said: ‘What’s going on with your face, Emily?’ and Lyd said, ‘Yeah. What’s up with the way your eyes keep opening wide like that?’
I guess that my terror was on display.
They looked at me with such kind, open interest, waiting for my reply, that I burst into tears and told them the whole story.
About Mr Ludovico and everything he’d said.
They were so angry! There was a flurry of sentences from them:
‘He can’t stop you getting into Law!’
‘He can’t make you prove something impossible!’
‘He’s getting revenge for what he overheard you say, and he thinks you’re the childish one?’
‘Too dependent on us? Does he not know what friendship is?’
‘No, he doesn’t. Because he doesn’t have any friends.’
‘He’s probably jealous of you because you do have friends!’
‘This is such an abuse of power.’
‘He has a serious God complex.’
‘You are not childish, you’ve just got an imagination.’
‘And imagination is exactly what a lawyer needs.’
‘Don’t worry, we’ll take care of it.’
‘We’ll go see him.’
‘We’re gonna fix this, Em.’
So, that was fantastic.
But I said I wanted to resolve this issue on my own.
‘Don’t let him mess with your head with that thing about being dependent on us,’ said Lyd. ‘You’re supposed to get help from your friends when you’re in trouble.’
I said thank you, but it felt important to me to do this alone.
‘Maybe I’ll actually prove there is a ghost,’ I said.
Hmm. Well. (They said.) They glanced at one another. They looked at me closely.
If you change your mind, they said, we’re here.
That night, I felt so much better that I wrote a new entry in my blog:
My Journey Home
Today I am feeling incandescent. I don’t know exactly what that word means, but never mind. That’s the word I’m using.
As you may know, there is a ghost living in the Art Rooms of my school (Ashbury High). But who is this ghost? And what does it want?
If you, dear readers of this blog, have any information about this ghost, please let me know as soon as possible.
Because I think it is time for the ghost to begin its journey home.
Thank you and goodnight.
15 Comments
SunflowerSeed said . . . Didn’t our Art Rooms used to be a mansion or something? So it’ll be someone who kicked it back in the ole days.
Em said . . . Thanks, SunflowerSeed, but I was thinking we need to open our minds to other possibilities. People did not just die in the olden days. They continue to die up to the present.
DeannaG said . . . LOL
Em said . . . I don’t get it. What’s funny? You think that death is funny, do you, Deanna? Well, hmm, maybe you should just try it some time.
Yowta772 said . . . It could be some ex Ashbury student still pissed about getting accused of cheating when it was actually the guy beside him who cheated off him. Injustice. It’s a killer.
CarrieMW said . . . It could be a former teacher who used to get called names by students behind her/his back, and now he/she wants revenge on Ashbury students for all time?): In which case, I don’t think there’s anything you can do about it, Em, except maybe watch your back.
Mark said . . . Or a student who got shafted/ignored by hot, popular girls like you, Em. So therefore I repeat CarrieMW’s advice.
Billiej said . . . Em, have any students DIED at your school?!! I suggest you get a list of all students who have died in or near the Art Rooms, and that will help to narrow your search.
Sasha said . . . But it cld be sbdy who left schl then lived til old age then wanted to go BACK to schl cos schl days were the best days of their life eg me, cos I plan to haunt Ashbury for eternity cos I can’t get enough of the place *ROTFL*
BenB said . . . Em, didja check whether any students from our school have gone missing recently? If someone’s been murdered and bricked up behind a wall while the renovations were happening—the perfect time for a crime—then it’ll be that particular student for sho.
Em said . . . Ben, I feel like we would have heard about it if one of the students from our school was missing. And the smell of the corpse? Also, I think this is a ghost f
rom a long time ago—eg it has old books and handkerchiefs and feathers and it likes history. But thanks. And thanks to everyone else for your comments.
FloralNightie said . . . Surely it is KL Mason Patterson, feeling angry about the way his money has been spent on ‘disadvantaged neighbouring schools’?
Magicmustard said . . . Renovations always piss off ghosts. You need to tear them down (the renovations). Have you got the authority?
Yowta722 said . . . If the ghost wanted to tear the building down, wouldn’t it have done it by now? Ghosts are just misty and floaty, right? It probably can’t do more than creaking sounds and minor structural damage.
Shadowgirl said . . . Em, are you still the only person who has contact with the ghost? You must feel very alone.
These comments came through quickly, right after I posted the blog. So I was sitting there reading and responding as they arrived. I knew a lot of the people—they’re from Ashbury as you might have noticed. But some were strangers to me. (Yowta772, for instance—who is that?)
And Shadowgirl . . .
I have no idea who that is. She’s a blogger on Glasshouse. I clicked on her name—but her blog can only be accessed by the blogger (her). Which, I mean, go figure. What’s the point? Keep a diary, already.
Anyhow, I ran down to the kitchen and found my parents making cinnamon toast, and after a while I started feeling warm and safe again. I asked Mum if anybody had died while she was a student at Ashbury, and at first she misunderstood and started going through all the people who had died then, including her grandmother and Elvis Presley—but when I got her to understand, she said, no.
I was not disappointed.
I was glad to stop thinking about the ghost for the night. Maybe the mysterious Shadowgirl was just trying to be kind when she said you must feel very alone. But for some reason, her comment sent a chill right through me.
22.
The following event happened in Week 8 of the term.
(That’s only two more weeks until the holidays, which, if you’re getting tired of my story, cheer up, it’s nearly over. Although, what’s wrong with you? It’s good.)
Anyhow, the event was this:
SOMEONE TOOK A PHOTO OF THE GHOST.
[Some space here to recover your balance.]
Yes. That is what I said. A photograph was taken of my ghost.
It was taken by the most reliable person in the history of the world, so there is no need to doubt, thank you very much: the person was Bindy Mackenzie.
That is: school captain, yearbook editor, smartest and most moral girl ever (also, coincidentally, almost-victim of a wicked murder plot last year) (but that is another story) (luckily not another ghost story) (as Bindy is still alive) (so therefore she is not a ghost).
Anyway, what happened was, Bindy had taken some photos for a two-page spread in the yearbook, about the renovations to the Art Rooms. Very fascinating, I’m sure. Early on the morning of this particular day, she and her friend Kee were sitting at a computer in the library, uploading the photos (which must have been extremely boring) (apparently, she’d taken over 300) (Bindy is a very thorough girl).
They were watching a slide show of the photos when suddenly they both gasped aloud. (I don’t know if it’s possible to gasp unaloud but never mind.)
They gasped. Their hearts careened and cantered like Kaimanawa Wild Horses. (That is a direct quote from Kee.)
They looked at one another—and then they both said: ‘Em.’
(They were referring to me.)
They ran all over the school—they were pale and breathless when they found me—and rushed me back to the computer to show me . . .
A photograph of a face.
The face was behind the window.
The face had gleaming red eyes, a manic grin, and a bright, bright glow.
The face was not attached to a body.
There is more.
What window was the face behind? Guess.
A window in Room 27B.
Bindy remembers very clearly that this was where the window was. She also swears there was nobody there at the time. Certainly not a face without a body. She would have remembered that.
Plus, there were other photos of the same window, taken just before and after this one: and the face is missing from those photographs.
I looked at that photo and I felt cold with terror.
At the same time I felt fantastic.
Because, do you realise what this meant?
I had proof.
News of the photo rushed helter-skelter through the school.
Everyone who saw it blinked. At the very least, they blinked. It is not, I repeat, not a situation of: Oh, yeah, maybe that’s a face if I blur my eyes?No. It is not. It is clearly, adamantly, undeniably, undoubtedly, unassuredly: A FACE.
I don’t know if the ghost had hired a publicist and the campaign kicked off with that photo, or whether news of the photo opened eyes to its presence—either way, suddenly everyone was having ghostly encounters in the Art Rooms.
By recess, five different people had told me they’d seen or felt something ghostly.
By lunchtime, it was at least 20.
It was a wild and wonderful day. Everywhere I turned there was talk of the ghost. I think it would be correct to say that hysteria ran riot. Sudden noises made people gasp. Cold wind made them grasp the hand of the person beside them. You couldn’t walk through the Art Rooms without hearing at least one shriek followed by pounding footsteps or bursts of embarrassed laughter (because, for example, the person realises they’ve just seen their own reflection in the glass of a classroom door and thought it was a ghost).
Now, this day happened to be the birthday of my friend Toby, and some people had organised a party for him. It was in the student recreation room in the Art Rooms. We had balloons, streamers, party poppers, chocolate crackles and fairy bread. (In other words, it was a ‘children’s party’—people are holding a lot of ‘children’s parties’ this year, I’ve noticed . . . hmm, are others, like me, trying to ‘cling to a fading childhood’?)
Anyhow, we sang happy birthday, and when Toby went to blow out the candles, Astrid stepped forward to help. I don’t know why. I think she was overexcited. Anyway, she leaned forward to blow—and her hair caught on fire!
There was so much screaming!
Don’t worry. It ended quickly. I just pressed the flames between my hands and they were gone.
But everyone was sure it was the ghost. People said the ghost was probably letting Astrid know she shouldn’t blow out candles on another person’s cake.
Toby was in a great mood, though, and couldn’t stop laughing (once he knew that Astrid was safe).
I’m not certain all of the ghost reports of that day were actually the ghost. The reports included:
• things going missing (including a school uniform from a locker!)
• things dropping from people’s hands even though they were sure they were holding on to them tightly
• lockers that wouldn’t open
• hair being unusually frizzy
• toothache.
I have to admit, a lot of these things can be explained as normal day-to-day life rather than as paranormal activity.
However, there were also reports of:
• the dripping in the upstairs bathroom suddenly getting heavier and splattering the ground
• the distant sound of someone sobbing (and the people who heard that swear they could not find anybody sobbing even after looking very hard)
• doors banging suddenly even though there was no gust of wind
• a strange sensation of somebody breathing even though there was nobody there (a lot of people had this one).
So, that was more like it.
Over the next two weeks, I walked around feeling happy. I did not go directly to Mr Ludovico with the photograph. I thought it best to let the ghost encounters multiply, so that, by the time I approached him, it would be incontrovertible.
He would probably apologise as he signed the form.
I smiled at him openly in Economics classes, and thought that I saw apology and/or respect behind his eyes. He must have heard about all the sightings! Everyone was talking about them.
I tried not to gloat.
The application form was due on the last day of term, so I continued gathering encounters, and recording them in a notebook, until the second-last day.
On that day—a Thursday—I would knock on the door to his office.
23.
The day arrived.
In the morning, my mother ran downstairs in her pyjamas, just as Dad, William and I were about to leave. (Mum sleeps in often now that she is not a frantic lawyer. It makes her even happier, if that’s possible.)
‘I remembered something,’ she called in a sleepy voice—and the three of us stopped at the front door and turned around. ‘Emily, you know how you asked me if someone had died when I was at Ashbury? Well, someone did.’
‘Mum,’ William interrupted, ‘are you saying you saw somebody die when you were at school and you have only just remembered this now? But where is the body?’ My brother looked thoughtful.
Mum was stretching her arms like a sleepy child. ‘I was just lying there half-asleep and it came back to me,’ she said. ‘When I was at school, they used to talk about a girl who’d died back in the 1950s. She fell out of a window or something. People used to say she haunted the place.’
A huge smile exploded onto Dad’s face. ‘All this time Em’s been talking about a ghost,’ he said to Mum, ‘and you didn’t think it was relevant to mention that you’d met the ghost before?’
‘There wasn’t a shred of reliable evidence,’ said Mum. ‘As far as I was concerned, there was no ghost. Em’s ghost is different.’
‘I was in the Art Rooms yesterday,’ murmured William. ‘I closed my eyes for a moment and the strangest pinpricks of light appeared behind my eyelids.’
Dreaming of Amelia Page 19
