Eleven New Ghost Stories

by David Paul Nixon

  He seemed to like gardening and being outside. I think it was the digging and making a mess that appealed to him. Although he liked to see things grow; know that he’d planted something and then see it grow.

  He got obsessed with making compost. We bought this compost bin for the outside and he was obsessed with trying to find things to put in. He’d leave some of his food and say he was doing it so we could use it to make compost. An excuse not to eat his vegetables.

  Those were probably the last good times we spent together…

  Things got so back to normal that when something strange happened, I didn’t really notice. A clue to all that had gone on before came up, and I didn’t even realise it. I didn’t realise its meaning till much later, when it was too late.

  This one time, during that happy time, I was putting clothes away and I heard him talking. His bedroom was next to ours and with him being usually so quiet, I went straight over to him to see what was going on.

  He was hiding under his duvet talking to someone, but only he was there. I called out his name and he threw himself from under the blankets, like I’d walked in on something secretive.

  “Who were you talking to sweetie?” I asked him.

  “No one,” he said, with a sly little smile.

  “Oh,” I said. “I thought I heard you.”

  “No” he said, and dived back under the duvet without saying another word.

  Kids have their games; I didn’t think much about it at the time. Things were happy again, I didn’t want to dwell on the bad times, I’d put them to the back of my mind as much as I could.

  You know how it is; you sometimes choose not to believe things you don’t want to face. It was happy families again. Everything was supposed to be fine.

  We went almost a year playing happy families. Things were truly blissful again. Me and Peter had started to connect again, we even talked about having another child. It seemed like such a good idea, now that everything was back on track again.

  It couldn’t last though, could it? One day, he announced that ______, the band he’d helped go big, they wanted him for their new album. It was a big deal, could be worth a fortune. But they were recording in America – not England. He’d be gone for six weeks at least, maybe longer. I was livid; just as everything was settled he wanted to take off again.

  We had this horrible row. He denied promising that he’d said he’d never go away again, that he’d just agreed not to do it for a while. The opportunity was too big to miss. He approached me as if this was already a done deal and there was no negotiation. We had such a slanging match, it was so bad, but he tricked me into agreeing to it, providing it was one last time.

  I can’t believe I let him leave us. He should’ve stayed. This all wouldn’t have happened if he’d stayed…

  Quickly things started to go back to how they were before. It was term time, so when Benjamin was away I never really felt alone. And then when he was there, his quietness, he was so quiet I wanted to scream. I felt alone when he was there and watched when he wasn’t.

  Sometimes he felt like a ghost, barely even there with me. I’d hear his creeping footsteps upstairs, just sparsely, like he was creeping around. It would drive me crazy. I kept it all back, I never went crazy mad at him; he seemed so innocent, so serenely in his own world. But when parent’s night came around at school, I went to see his teachers and they commented with concern about how detached he was and wanted to know where his father was.

  I could see how their minds were working. They were thinking he had a horrible home life, that his father was violent and that I was a drunk and that he had withdrawn from the terrible life he had. The questions they asked, the insinuations, I couldn’t take it. I wanted to get up and throttle that woman; that look of fake sympathy and understanding. I did everything I could for that boy, my boy!

  I was planning to take him to a therapist, to hell with what Peter thought. This just wasn’t natural. At least if I got a therapist to bring him out of his own little world he might not come to hate me.

  Then there was this one day I saw him out in the garden. We had these two trees growing, and he was running around them, and I could see him talking to someone. I watched him for a while; he was having a private little game with someone who wasn’t there. Was that it? Did he have an imaginary friend? A friend so good that he didn’t even need me?

  I asked later that day. He was eating his tea and I was doing the washing up. He was quiet again, so I said to him: “Who was that you were talking to?”

  He didn’t answer, so I asked him again: “Who was that you were talking to outside?”

  After pushing some food around his plate, he said: “Wasn’t talking to anyone.”

  “I heard you. I saw you talking to someone outside. Who were you talking to?”

  He didn’t answer again. I got angry.

  “Benjamin who were you talking to?”

  “I wasn’t talking to anyone!” he shouted. He slammed his knife and fork down, his food half-eaten, and just left. He stormed off upstairs and disappeared.

  I was flabbergasted. My too-good-to-be-true, good little boy just didn’t do things like that. I felt so guilty, I made myself feel ill. I shouldn’t have shouted at him.

  That night I really decided I was going to find a therapist for him. I was upstairs in the bedroom, looking through names on my laptop, writing down names, when suddenly, Benjamin was there in the doorway, in his pyjamas ready for bed – he was always so good about that too.

  “I’m sorry I shouted Mum. Neil said I wasn’t to tell you or anybody his name and I thought he would be upset with me. But now he says it’s ok and I can tell you that his name is Neil and that he’s my best friend and that we play all the time.”

  He grinned at me and I looked back at him speechless.

  “He thinks you’re funny,” he said. And then he went back to his bedroom. I sat silently on the bed. I didn’t know what to think now. Was I overreacting? Was I going mad? I looked it up online, imaginary friends. Apparently they weren’t a bad thing, but a boy of Benjamin’s age should be growing out of it.

  I went to put him to bed. As I knelt beside him, I said I was glad that he’d told me about Neil. But I asked him, I said “Don’t you think you spend too much time playing with Neil?” I said that he needed to be making friends with other boys and girls and that playing with them would be so much better than skulking around at home with Neil.

  He suddenly got so angry. His perfect pretty face creased up into an angry, fierce little scowl and he cried: “Neil’s my best friend, my best friend in the whole world. I like him better than I like you!”

  He rolled over. I yelled at him. I screamed at him: “Don’t you ever say something like that to me again. Don’t you ever.” I tried to roll him back over but he wouldn’t move. I gave up, slammed the door and went back to my computer. I was going to find someone to talk with him. This couldn’t go on.

  The next morning I was adamant that I was going to call one of the names on my list. But early in the morning I got a call from Peter. He was happy, enthusiastic. Recording had been going so well, there wouldn’t be any extra time needed. He’d be home within a week.

  I wanted to tell him, wanted to raise hell with him. But I was so lonely; I just wanted to hear someone else’s voice. And he was in such good spirits, I just couldn’t tell him. I felt such shame, a mother who couldn’t connect with her son… I couldn’t bear the thought of being judged like that.

  I just spoke calmly and nicely; he could tell I wasn’t completely fine, but I just let it go that time, I didn’t want to row. I just wanted him back home. It’s horrible to admit you’re going mad to someone.

  I decided to put off calling someone for just a little longer. If Peter would be home in just over a week, I could discuss it with him. He wouldn’t like it, but I wasn’t taking no for an answer. He was going to hate me for it, but he’d hate me more if I didn’t at least talk to him about it. God knows what he’d th
ink about Neil – but of course Benjamin was all smiles and sunshine when he was there. Peter was so damn perfect; it was just me who was all wrong.

  The next day was a Saturday, just me and Benjamin in the house. He was sulking, not talking to me out of anger and spite rather than his usual pretending I wasn’t there.

  I started to question him about Neil; he didn’t give answers very willingly. I asked him about what he’d said the night before and why he wasn’t supposed to tell me about Neil.

  He said: “Neil said that you’d try to split us up. That you wouldn’t understand.”

  I told him I wasn’t trying to split them up, that I just wanted to understand. I asked him where Neil was now. What he looked like.

  Neil was apparently a normal boy just like him, although he had blonde hair and freckles. I asked him how long he’d known Neil. Where Neil had come from.

  “He’s always been here. He’s been here for years but only I can see him,” he told me.

  He skulked away into the living room, leaving me with a horrible thought. That damn feeling, that ominous fear that I wasn’t alone. That someone was watching me. That maybe I wasn’t just being stupid and paranoid and going mad, that maybe something was there in the house watching me.

  The thought creeped me the hell out, oh God, I can’t tell you. But I told myself it couldn’t be true, that it was all stupid and that everything would be fine once Peter got home. And then maybe after we’d got Ben some help, maybe I should get some help too.

  I had to get out of the house. I needed to do some shopping so I dragged Ben along with me, although he didn’t want to come and made a sulky nuisance of himself the whole afternoon. Was it this imaginary friend that was keeping him so well behaved? I didn’t know what to think, I was so confused; I was in hell.

  One of the shops we went into was a charity shop. It was after I’d done the main shop; I’d dropped some old clothes off. I was looking through the clothes and the shoes and Benjamin was looking at the toys and the books. He’d been such a pain I was glad for once that he was quiet. Then suddenly he tugged my sleeve and said “Mum, have you seen this?”

  He was all smiles and perk again. He pulled me towards this toy chest. It was about a metre long, painted white with clowns and balls and streamers – hand painted. Good in its way, the clowns were jolly, not frightening. It looked like something that might’ve come from a fairground. It had certainly been knocked around quite a bit though; the paint was starting to peel off. It wasn’t new by any means.

  “It’s nice isn’t it? I could fit all my toys into there and keep my room tidy. Can I have it please Mum?”

  The old ladies behind the counter cooed. They loved that; a little boy who wanted to keep his room tidy. They thought he was an angel – I smiled awkwardly, unable obviously to tell them what a nightmare I was in.

  The chest was ten pounds, but they said I could have it for eight. Benjamin stretched the word “Please” as long as he could and I… I just ended up being pressured into buying it. He didn’t need it, I didn’t really like it much. Kids can manipulate you like that, can’t they? It was just a stupid chest, it shouldn’t have meant anything. But that was the beginning, the beginning of the end…

  …No it’s all right, I want to go on. I just want to get it all out…

  A few days later, just a few days before Peter came home, I was upstairs putting my clothes away. I knew Benjamin was in his room, I’d seen him. But when I came past his door a few minutes later, he wasn’t there.

  His room was empty, but I was sure he couldn’t have gone back down the stairs. Even Benjamin, with his creepy quiet behaviour, wasn’t able to shift around that silently, not up and down those creaky old stairs.

  Some of his toys were scattered across his floor, so much for him being tidy! Then I noticed that some of his toys had been dumped right out in front of the chest. As if they’d just been emptied out. I had the sudden instinct to look inside.

  I opened up the lid, and inside, half buried in stuffed toys, was Benjamin. He was lying on his back, his arms folded across his chest like a body in a coffin.

  I cried his name: “Benjamin”. His eyes flicked open.

  “What are you doing in there!” I pulled him up by the arms and hoisted him out.

  “We were playing hide and seek.”

  “Playing hide and seek, with who?”

  “With Neil.”

  “Oh for God’s sake,” I said. I lifted him out and put him down on the floor.

  “It was just a game,” he shouted, getting defensive.

  “Benjamin…” I said, trying not to shout myself. “You could’ve suffocated in there. Do you know what that means? Air can’t get inside and out, you can’t breathe. You know about breathing don’t you? They’ve taught you this at school?”

  He looked at the floor, which meant he had learnt about it. Then he ran away, down the stairs. I found him hiding in the garden. He refused to come back in, even when it started to rain. I had to physically drag him inside kicking and screaming. He went to bed without his dinner that night; I wasn’t afraid to punish him even if Peter was.

  The next few days went by so slowly. Ben just had this face on him all the time, like there was a bed smell in the room. He hated me. My son hated me. I couldn’t bear it; I never touched him, never laid a bad hand on him.

  But I thought I could strangle him. I wanted to strangle my own little boy; what had I done to deserve this?

  I just had to wait till Peter came back. His timing couldn’t have been better. That day I had been to the doctors and had got caught in traffic on the way back. I called him and he agreed to get Ben from school. He was glad to and everything seemed fine.

  Then, when I got home, I noticed something: the chest I’d bought Benjamin was sticking out of the top of the wheelie bin. There was a piece of it lying in the driveway. It had been smashed to pieces and then stuffed into the already overflowing wheelie bin.

  I went in confused about what had happened. As soon as I was through the door, Peter came marching towards me ranting and raving. I asked him what the hell was wrong and took him into the living room, closing the door behind us, hoping Benjamin wouldn’t hear.

  I thought maybe he’d found the list of child therapists and thought I’d gone ahead and contacted one. But it was much stranger than that. He asked me, yelled at me, what the hell I thought I was doing buying that toy chest for Ben?

  Didn’t I know that he could get himself killed? Didn’t I know that children often suffocated in chests like that because they didn’t understand that air might not be able to get in? I couldn’t understand what he was getting so angry about; I might’ve thought he’d gone mad if it hadn’t already almost happened!

  But I couldn’t admit that, I was feeling already like I was a terrible mother. I tried to calm him down; that sort of thing had to be exceptionally rare. Death by toy chest; it’s not high up on the child fatality list. It’s hardly tuberculosis or… playing with matches.

  He was sweating, I could tell something else was wrong. I thought maybe he’d found Benjamin lying in the chest again and had been scared witless. He told me that when he grew up someone he knew had died like that. They climbed into a chest and their parents had found them hours later, their face blue, their body cold and lifeless.

  That explained it a little, but I knew there was more. Peter was usually so damn unflappable. We had a very frosty dinner; Benjamin was cheerful and talking again but he could see his father was upset so that didn’t last long. We had pizza, usually a nice treat, but it wasn’t fun.

  After I’d put Benjamin to bed I made Peter tell me what had really happened. He didn’t want to at first, but I could tell I’d stumbled across something terrible from his past, and I couldn’t leave that sort of thing alone. I was his wife; he’d shouldn’t be hiding things from me.

  Eventually he started to tell me a story. When he was a kid, there were three children on his street and they used to play together. Havin
g children roughly at the same time had made all three families very close and it was not unusual for them to have each other over to their houses or for them to play in the street and go on days out together.

  There was Peter, Oscar and Nils – the Lundgren family were Swedish but had lived in England for over a decade. The three children played together all the time from when they were very young, but by the time they were seven or eight most of them had siblings too. Peter had his little brother Lance, who lives in Canada, and Oscar had brothers and so on. The Lundgrens had had a second child, after many problems. Nils had almost died in birth and they’d been told that they might never have another. That’s probably what made Nils so shy and scared, Peter had said, that his parents were over-protective of him.

  They’d had a little girl they’d called Sigrid and they were going to have a big party after her christening. It was being held at the Lundgren’s house and all the three families plus relatives were there.

  Out of the three of them, Oscar was sort of the leader, bossing the other two around. Peter was usually happy to go along with it, but Nils was shy and cautious and he’d sometimes get pushed around. Peter said he used to try to stand up for Nils, stop Oscar from picking on him. But often he would become impatient with Nils too and they both might pick on him, maybe bully him a bit.

  On the day of the christening the three of them were playing together at the party after, along with Lance who was the oldest of the next generation of kids. They were playing hide and seek around the Lundgren’s house, which was the biggest on the street, and somewhere where they didn’t normally have the chance to play.