Haunt

by Curtis Jobling

‘You’re the lucky one,’ he replied breathlessly. ‘You’re spared it now.’

  He was only half right. As Dougie ran through the school gates, I was dragged along by his side, that familiar feeling of being the prey returning, hunted by a bunch of relentless twits. Just as with Bloody Mary, as his heart rate quickened, his fear crossed over to me. The connection was there, our feelings entwined inextricably. If scumbags like this had us both scared, though, then what on earth were we going to be like in the House?

  TWELVE

  Father and Son

  ‘Good afternoon, boys,’ called Rev. Singer with a wave of a gloved hand. ‘I hope you’ve brought enough chips for everyone?’

  The garden behind St Mary’s church looked like there’d been an explosion in a confetti factory. Tiny petals of every colour of the rainbow littered the grass, remnants from the weekend wedding that Rev. Singer had officiated over. He was a busy man. Until we’d interrupted him, he’d been busy raking the nuisance litter into a giant pile. In addition to being the parish vicar, Rev. Singer was also effectively the caretaker of the church, as well as gardener. As Dougie and I followed Stu across the lawn toward his father, the vicar bit a finger of his gardening glove and gave it a tug, shaking it loose. He whipped the other free and shoved them in the loop of belt on his hip. Downing his tool he stepped over to us, snatching the can of cola from Stu’s coat pocket.

  ‘Good of you to bring refreshments as well as tuck,’ he said, ruffling Stu’s mop of hair. He picked up a handful of steaming chips as his son shambled past.

  ‘If it isn’t young Master Hancock?’ said Rev. Singer, his perfect white smile dazzling as Dougie approached sheepishly. He popped a chip in and wolfed it down. ‘How are you doing, Dougie? You’re looking a bit . . . peaky.’

  The vicar wasn’t wrong. My mate’s pale bald head and dark-rimmed eyes did his looks no favour.

  ‘I, um . . . have a part in the school play . . .’ he lied.

  ‘You look like you’ve seen a ghost,’ said Rev. Singer with a wink.

  ‘Did you tell him already?’ asked an alarmed Dougie, calling to Stu who had shambled off to a bench to eat his chips. Stu simply shrugged, his mouth full of salt-and-vinegar-drenched potato.

  ‘Tell me what already?’ asked Rev. Singer, his smile slipping.

  I’d always liked the reverend. It was no surprise that Mum and Dad had asked for him to oversee my funeral. It had been Rev. Singer who had christened me after all, only right he should be looking after me at the end. All of Stu’s friends knew he was a friendly ear, someone they could turn to if they were feeling low. He had always been straight with us, never spoke down to us. He was a top bloke.

  ‘Sit yourself down, Dougie,’ said the vicar, parking his bottom on a nearby bench. Dougie went to join him. ‘Tell me what’s the matter, my boy.’

  My friend shifted nervously on the wooden seat, trying to think of where to begin.

  ‘Tell him you’ve seen me,’ I whispered, simply. Dougie glanced up at me, and Rev. Singer saw the look.

  ‘Has this got something to do with Will Underwood?

  Dougie did a double-take instantly, eyes wide as he stared suspiciously at the vicar. ‘You did say something!’ he shouted to Stu.

  ‘I said nowt,’ replied our friend, his mouth full of chips. ‘My old man’s a bit of a wizard when it comes to sniffing out the truth. It’s like he’s telepathic!’

  Rev. Singer shook his head and smiled. ‘Empathetic is the word you’re searching for, Stuart,’ he sighed. ‘I like to think I understand what makes folk unhappy. Hopefully I can play my part to make that sadness go away.’

  I didn’t like his choice of words. Go away? That could only mean one thing.

  ‘For goodness’ sake,’ I said. ‘Don’t ask him to exorcise me!’

  ‘I’ve seen nothing of you since Will’s funeral, Dougie, and I know you and he were very close. Grief is nothing to be ashamed of, my boy. If you’re upset, why don’t you try talking about it? I’m a good listener. Isn’t that right, Stuart?’

  ‘Painfully good!’ replied his son, slurping vinegar from his fingers.

  ‘People deal with grief and loss in different ways, Dougie,’ the vicar went on. ‘I can only speak from my own experience, but I’ve always felt that talking to friends and loved ones is a start. If you want to have a cry, then have a good cry. There’s nothing to fear from tears.’

  Dougie sniffed and fought back a sobbing chuckle. I felt my friend’s sadness, the mixed emotions that had clearly weighed heavy upon his shoulders since the night I’d died. And the days that had followed, when I’d reappeared. He wasn’t grieving: how could he? I hadn’t gone away!

  ‘What’s your take on ghosts, Rev. Singer?’ he asked eventually, looking up to stare into the vicar’s eyes.

  Stu’s dad looked taken aback momentarily. He nodded.

  ‘I firmly believe most “hauntings” are no more supernatural than that bag of chips my son is devouring.’ Stu snorted as his father continued. ‘They’re a manifestation of an internalised fear or vulnerability. Strange sounds, weird happenings, inexplicable phenomena and the like: people conjure ghost theories to help explain these things when there’s usually a rational explanation. This is how they deal with the real fear.’

  ‘But what about if we’ve actually seen something, sir?’ said Dougie. ‘Something that can’t be written off so easily. Something that defies rational explanation?’

  ‘It’s perfectly normal for us to imagine our loved ones are still with us, spiritually, even when they’re physically gone.’

  ‘He said loved ones,’ I whispered, but Dougie wisely ignored me.

  ‘It’s terribly hard for us to accept that those we love are gone, especially when they’re taken from us in such a sudden and shocking fashion. Will’s death took us all by surprise, being completely unexpected. Nobody, be they friends or family, got a chance to say goodbye to him. As such, the pain can be that much greater.’

  The vicar sighed once more.

  ‘You think you’ve seen Will’s ghost?’ he asked. Dougie didn’t answer straight away, so Rev. Singer continued.

  ‘Regret is a terrible thing. Perhaps this is how that “ghostly presence” manifests? Maybe it’s born out of a sensation of guilt, of unfinished business. Imagining those loved ones are still with us is our subconscious’s way of dealing with that loss. These are powerful emotions we’re talking about, Dougie. It’s perfectly normal for you to think you’ve seen Will. Seen . . . a ghost.’

  ‘But you’re a vicar,’ said Dougie. ‘Surely you believe in actual ghosts? There was a holy one for starters, wasn’t there?’

  Stu snorted nearby and even Rev. Singer smiled at Dougie’s mild and unintentional blasphemy.

  ‘Actual ghosts?’ said Rev. Singer. ‘Apparitions and whatnot? The church has its own take on that too. We do believe in a spirit world. And even amongst the clergy there are different interpretations. Like anything in life – and death – opinions vary.’

  ‘So what are your opinions on ghosts?’ asked Dougie. ‘And I’m not talking about the grief or sorrow of the living, Rev. Singer.’

  I leaned in close, crouching before the two of them, the church garden silent but for the chip-chomping din of the vicar’s son.

  ‘When I studied theology at university, back in the day, a friend of mine was something of a budding ghosthunter,’ said Rev. Singer.

  ‘Like in Ghostbusters?’ chimed in Stu.

  ‘Not quite, son,’ smiled Rev. Singer before continuing. ‘He had his theories, as I recall. He reckoned there were probably two kinds of ghost that haunt the living world. There’s your restless spirit, born from a sudden and tragic death.’

  ‘Like a murder?’

  ‘Not always a murder, Dougie, but sometimes a terrible trauma or mishap. One can be guaranteed that some kind of injustice is involved, though. Most reported ghosts the length and breadth of the British Isles would fall into this category in my opinion: White Ladies s
ighted, residual recordings of strange sounds, haunted houses and the like. These poor souls, often due to trauma, are stuck in our physical world and need to be released before they can go on.’

  If there’d been any moisture in my mouth, my lips would have been dry about now. I saw Dougie shiver as Rev. Singer paused, his brow furrowing.

  ‘The other kind? Well . . . my friend said that would be a malevolent spirit, the ghost of a bad man or woman. And that would place us firmly into the realm of an exorcist. I can bless a troubled soul or place, but dealing with such an entity would be beyond the realms of a lay priest or vicar’s knowledge.’

  ‘Bear in mind I’m in the former camp,’ I said, ‘so I think we can rule out the exorcism.’

  ‘What would you do in those circumstances?’ asked Dougie, his enquiring mind now begging the question.

  We both stared at Rev. Singer as he considered his answer.

  ‘I’d defer matters to my seniors within the church,’ he said eventually, popping the last chip into his mouth. ‘But I should say, Dougie, all this talk of exorcism is highly alarmist.’

  Rev. Singer rose and stretched, looking around the church garden. He turned back to Dougie who was frowning, contemplating the vicar’s words.

  ‘Listen, Dougie, try not to worry. I have a youth group that gets together once a week, where teens can talk about anything that’s bothering them amongst their peers. We deal with a lot of issues there. Nothing heavy-handed from the grown-ups, yeah? You could come along to that. Share your thoughts. I bet our Stuart would come along too for a bit of moral support. Isn’t that right, son?’

  Stu grunted as he scrumpled up his chip papers and slam-dunked them into a litter bin. Dougie rose from the bench as the vicar’s son joined him, swiping the can of cola back from his dad.

  ‘Thanks for your time, Rev. Singer,’ said Dougie. ‘I’ll think about that youth group,’ he lied.

  ‘Tell your dad I run a group for adults too. It’d be lovely to see him down here, if he fancies it.’

  ‘See you later, Dad,’ said Stu, giving his father a quick hug before setting off after Dougie.

  ‘Why should your dad need to go to one of the talks?’ I asked, glancing back at the vicar as he returned to work.

  ‘He suffers,’ replied Dougie quietly, keeping his voice low as Stu caught up.

  He wasn’t wrong. Mr Hancock had been ill with depression since he lost his wife. His driving job certainly didn’t appear to make him happy, and his son was always worried about him. Not many people knew about it, and it wasn’t something Dougie advertised. It just went to show how on-the-ball Rev. Singer was. Dougie and his dad may not have been to church for years, but there was little that went on amongst his parishioners that the vicar was unaware of.

  ‘You get what you need then?’ asked Stu, cracking open his can of cola and taking a glug.

  ‘I think we’ve finally ruled out exorcism,’ conceded Dougie, ‘which just leaves us with one thing left to explore.’

  ‘What’s that then?’ said Stu, stifling a hearty belch as we set off back to school.

  ‘The House,’ I whispered, my friend and I shivering as one.

  ‘The House,’ added Dougie as storm clouds gathered overhead, right on cue.

  ‘The House?’ said Stu. ‘Good luck with that! You’re on your own!’

  ‘Don’t worry, mate,’ I said in Dougie’s ear. ‘We both know that’s not true.’

  THIRTEEN

  Breaking and Entering

  ‘Just suck your gut in and squeeze through!’

  ‘That’s easy for you to say,’ hissed Dougie as he tried to manoeuvre between the chained gates. ‘You’re as free to float through as a fart on the breeze!’

  Pushing the gates to their limit, the length of steel links straining taut, Dougie ducked beneath it, his right leg and shoulder dipping through.

  ‘You could always try and jump the railings,’ I said constructively, staring up at the fierce-looking wrought-iron spears that encircled the grounds’ perimeter.

  ‘No thanks,’ replied my friend, forcing his head between the grilled doors. ‘I’m rather attached to my undercarriage.’

  With a final triumphant grunt his head popped through the gates, quickly followed by the rest of his body as he collapsed on to the gravel driveway beyond. I stepped through after him, the iron bars providing no obstacle to my insubstantial form. It was past four o’clock, with the late November gloom providing us with cover as we embarked upon our daring mission. Within the House was the solution to our riddle. If those legends we’d grown up on were even slightly true, then something in there would provide us with answers. Hunting a ghost might have struck us both as outlandish not that long ago, but times changed. After all, I was one now. Surely I wasn’t alone? We were both agreed that somehow the House would shed some light on the fate that had befallen us.

  Dougie set off at a jog, hugging the centre of the weed-ridden driveway, steering clear of the tangled undergrowth on either side of the road. Ahead, the red-brick monstrosity loomed large out of the twilight, a mausoleum to a time long gone, the surrounding woodland buttressing up against it. Bare black branches clawed at the House in the wind, scratching at the pitted, vine-covered walls. Two huge doors marked the entrance to the building, towering menacingly at the top of a flight of shattered stone steps. Broken windows yawned open, their shutters hanging twisted from their brackets, the occasional kaw of a crow echoing from deep within. This was the closest either of us had ever been to the structure, and instantly I felt a desire to be away from it. Dougie obviously felt the same way, as he stumbled to a halt, his legs having failed him.

  ‘Easy, mate,’ I said as he staggered off the road to crouch beside a tangle of brambles and hawthorns. ‘Just take a few breaths.’

  ‘It’s not just me, is it?’ he asked. ‘You’re creeped out too, right?’

  I smiled nervously, but he’d hit the nail right on the head. ‘I know. What the hell? I’m a ghost: what have I got to be afraid of?’

  Dougie took a deep breath and was about to set off the remaining distance to the house when, ‘Down,’ I hissed, and the two of us – boy and ghost – instantly crouched back into the bushes.

  ‘What is it?’ he whispered, his eyes following my gaze toward the front of the House.

  One of the enormous doors had opened, and a crooked shape had emerged from the shadows within. The bent-backed figure was now fiddling with the locks. Even from our distant hiding place we could hear the mechanism rattle as the stranger secured the entrance. Shuffling clear of the darkened threshold, the man stepped into the fading light.

  ‘It’s Mr Borley!’ gasped Dougie, the words out in an instant. He clapped his hand over his mouth, but the old school caretaker had already stopped on the steps and was glancing about in our direction. He squinted through the gloom, giving the grounds a quick once-over, before setting off down the steps and along the gravel road. We watched him pass by from our hiding place, shrouded in shadows, Dougie holding his breath like a bottled genie. The rattling sound of the chains at the gate told us that Borley had finally departed. Dougie slowly exhaled.

  ‘What was he doing here?’ he asked. ‘And how come he has the keys to the House?’

  ‘Dunno,’ I replied. ‘It used to be part of the school, right? Perhaps as caretaker he’s got keys to everything, old and new?’

  Dougie set off across the gravel forecourt. ‘Let’s see what he’s been hiding in here. I always said he was a creepy old git.’

  ‘Forget Borley,’ I hissed. ‘It’s the dead we’ve come looking for, remember?’

  I drifted after my friend, up the crumbling steps toward the doors. As Dougie pointlessly tried the clunking handles, I stepped forward, slipping with ease through the timber and into the House. The moon’s rays were already arcing in through the shattered windows, lances of light cutting through the cold, dusty air to the debris-strewn floor. A broad, sweeping staircase rose up one side of the entrance hall, me
eting a landing on the first floor before rising to the second. An ancient chandelier hung from the ceiling at the staircase’s height, fluttering cobwebs trailing from its rusted limbs. I’d never seen a chandelier in a school before: Brooklands Comp tended to favour flickering strip lighting that could induce epileptic seizures. Red Brook House, however, had once been a swanky private school long ago, before becoming a state school. The fancy fixture was clearly a relic of those days.

  My feet hovered over the rotten floorboards as I crossed the entrance hall to the wall at the base of the staircase. Large, wooden frames were fixed to the plasterboard, bearing the faded names of head boys and girls from yesteryear. The last date inscribed told the tale of the school’s closure: 1966.

  I turned, casting my eyes about, soaking in the atmosphere. More than any other time since my untimely death, I felt alive. I know it sounds weird – but I could imagine the smells in the entrance hall, the musty stench of damp and mould, birds’ nests and bat guano. I might never feel the cold again, but the House was as close as I’d ever come to experiencing it one more time. Every inch of the red-brick building was soaked in history, the names on the wall alone conjured images of a time long gone, when the old school echoed with the sound of laughter, running feet, shouting children and slamming doors. I closed my eyes, imagining that world, frozen in time.

  ‘Cheers, numbnuts!’

  Dougie’s voice startled me, coming out of nowhere, right in my ear.

  ‘Look at me, making a ghost jump,’ he chuckled, dusting himself down. ‘Thanks for waiting,’ he added sarcastically, eyes wide as they searched the darkness.

  ‘How did you get in?’

  ‘Ground-floor window,’ he said, nodding towards a side room that branched off from the hall. ‘This place is huge inside!’

  ‘I know. Imagine what it was like in the old days. Must’ve really been something. If these walls could talk . . .’

  ‘They’d recount the various terrible things that have happened here down the years,’ finished Dougie. ‘Remember why we’re here, Will. This place has apparently seen more hauntings than Derek Acorah.’