The Girl and The Ghost
Ebony McKenna
Copyright
The Girl and The Ghost
Second Edition
Print ISBN: 978-0-9953839-6-8
Text © Ebony McKenna, 2017
Cover art and design © Lana Pecherczyk
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or used in any manner without the express written permission of the author, except for the use of quotations in a book review or critique.
All characters are fictitious, obviously. All product names, tv shows, books and movies mentioned in this work of fiction have no bearing on reality. Unless you really do think I’ve written about you, in which case I’ll say my favourite line from the 1994 movie Muriel’s Wedding, ‘Deirdre Chambers, what a coincidence!’
I wonder if anyone reads these copyright pages?
For Aiden and Caely
whose lives are filled with adventure
Contents
1. Morgan’s Unfavourite Colour
2. Boo!
3. Sleeping Through School
4. Dave Makes Things Worse
5. Don’t Be Afraid of the Dark
6. History Lessons
7. Making The News
8. Public Scrutiny
9. Home Truths
10. Heart Breaker
11. Messages
12. Mending Fences
13. With This Ring
14. Chain Reactions
15. Tabloid Fodder
16. Feeding the Monster
17. Serenity
18. Crunch Time
19. Two Months Later
20. Years and Years Later
About the Author
Also by Ebony McKenna
Acknowledgments
1
Morgan’s Unfavourite Colour
Morgan Parker stacked her pink pillows into a supportive pile behind her back, pulled up the pink bed cover with its matching pink comforter, and cringed.
Cringed!
Never again, she promised, would she give her parents free reign with the decorating. Never, ever, ever again. So much pink made her twitchy. Added to that, her meant-to-be-relaxing new bedroom carried the school-art-room odour of freshly-dried acrylic paint.
Tap-tap, someone knocked at the door. ‘Only me,’ Dave the housekeeper called through the wood. ‘How’s the pink palace?’
There really was no other way to describe the colour. Right down to the glittering letters on her headboard spelling out ‘Princess’. Everything was P-I-I-I-I-I-I-I-I-I-INK!
‘Say goodnight and move on,’ Morgan called out.
‘But I have to see this.’ He opened the door despite the un-vitation. His jaw fell open.
‘You’ve seen it, now you can leave.’
‘Such a rude girl. I’ll have you know I –’
‘– changed your nappies and wiped your nose when you were a baby.’ Morgan completed for him.
Dave made a tutting sound and shook his head. ‘You could at least smile.’
Before Morgan could ask why, Dave pulled a phone out from behind his back.
‘Don’t you dare!’ Morgan threw a (pink) pillow at him as he clicked.
‘All I got was blurred tassles,’ he said with a shrug.
Morgan threw another (pink) pillow at him.
‘I’m leaving, I’m leaving.’ He shut the door behind him and Morgan sighed at having dodged that particular bullet.
Dimming the bedside lamp helped to hide the (pink) colour in shadow. It could only be a temporary fix. When morning came, the room would still be pink. Even her en-suite hadn’t escaped. She had to applaud Dad’s ability to find pink taps. How much money had he wasted on the garish decor? Probably more than it cost to transport the old house all the way from Portland to Melbourne. And how odd that her parents would remember her favourite colour and that she’d ‘always wanted a Princess Tower,’ but had then forgotten she’d asked for it half a lifetime ago.
She settled down by the glow of her screen to take her mind off the Pinky Shop of Horrors and read social media messages rolling in from her friends. They wanted a photo of her new room. Not likely! Instead, she arranged her hair to cover most of the (pink) pillows, held her phone at arm’s length and took a selfie. All they’d get was her blurry grin amongst the curls. Thank goodness her hair was long enough to spread out.
More messages rolled through her feed, including a promoted charity appeal. The image of a frightened child wearing a tinfoil thermal blanket made her sink further into her pink meringue of a bed. Flood survivors in Queensland were desperate for a dry bed and roof over their heads. This pushed her personal (pink) drama directly into the realm of #FirstWorldProblems. In a few taps she entered her credit card details and felt the guilt slide off her shoulders.
Suddenly her bed vibrated.
And again.
Was it her phone doing that? No.
Soft tinkling noises filled her ears. Morgan tapped the edge of her (pink) bedside lamp and a peachy glow lit the room.
The chandelier tinkled.
Muscles tensing with worry, Morgan pulled the covers up, ears straining for unexplained sounds.
Everything felt so different and weird at night. Could it be a tram rattling along, a few streets over? Maybe a drone or low-flying plane? The chandelier shook again as if caught in an earthquake. Nothing else in the room moved, except her swirling tummy. Like being stuck in traffic at the top of the West Gate Bridge, she swayed while sitting still. Heart rate doubling, she hit the intercom and called out for Mum. Her mouth turned dry, but instead of words, scratchy noises came out. She breathed hard, swallowed and tried again.
‘Muuuuum!’
All noise stopped. The only thing Morgan could hear was her pulse thumping in her ears. A moment later more thumping started up – someone climbing the stairs.
‘What is it love?’ Rachelle, her mother, sounded short of breath as she took the last few steps. A lift was about the only modern thing they hadn’t installed in this 1800s house. Not yet, anyway.
Gurgling noises erupted in Morgan’s stomach. ‘Sorry, false alarm. Must have been an owl or something.’
‘It’s all right. First night in a new –’
The chandelier swung loose and smashed on the floor. Chunks of glass flew in all directions.
Morgan and Rachelle screamed in stereo. Rachelle leapt into the bed, shoes and all. Neither said anything; mother and daughter holding each other, silently trembling.
Waiting for something else to break.
After a few more minutes of waiting and nothing else shaking, Rachelle recovered enough to loosen her grip on Morgan’s shoulders. ‘The chandelier was too much anyway.’
Morgan laughed to chase away the fear. There were so many things in her room that were completely over the top. The chandelier had simply been the sprinkles on the cherry on the cream.
Dave the housekeeper reappeared, holding a back-pack vacuum. ‘Your screams carry so well on the intercom. What’s busted?’
‘The chandelier,’ Rachelle said. ‘Be careful, there’s glass all over the floor.’
‘I’m on it.’ He switched on the machine and set to work. ‘Good thing you were in bed when it happened, otherwise it could have clonked you right on the head.’
‘I wonder if we have . . . r-rats?’ Morgan turned cold at the thought. Her friend Kaz’s family had done one of those ‘knock-down re-builds’ and rats had moved in ahead of them.
Giving a wink, Dave said, ‘Maybe some possums hitched a ride from Portland?’
Morgan gave him her best ‘side eyes’ look.
The vacuum made skittering scrunchy noises as chunks flew up the nozzle.
‘Yes we
ll,’ Rachelle climbed out of bed and touched Morgan’s cheek with her soft palm. ‘I’ll get Dave to call someone in the morning.’ As an afterthought she said, ‘and an electrician. Use your bedside lamp for the moment.’
Possums or rats, both weren’t welcome. An owl would be preferable. They ate rats, didn’t they? Her stomach clenched at the thought of owls feasting on smaller creatures only a metre or so above her head.
After Dave and Rachelle left her alone, Morgan shuffled across the bed to turn out the light. If only her thoughts would switch off as easily. The room darkened. The glow of city lights made strange shapes outside her window.
A heartbeat later, she tapped the lamp onto its lowest setting, giving the room a soft, comforting (pink) glow. She hadn’t slept with the light on since before she could remember, but then, she’d never had a chandelier nearly fall on her head before either.
Telling herself to be sensible, Morgan rolled over to sleep.
Her lungs failed as she saw a young man sitting on the chaise longue. Straight back, wearing clothes that could have come from an historical costume drama.
He looked directly at her. ‘You’re not going to scream again, are you? I so detest screaming.’
No sound came from Morgan’s open mouth. Not a peep or a breath while her entire body trembled with fear.
‘Heavens! What remarkable teeth you have,’ he said. ‘Are they yours?’
Body shuddering, heart ba-da-dumping in terror, Morgan fumbled like a cliché horror movie teen for her phone to grab a picture of the intruder.
Click.
The image looked dark and blurry despite the flash going off. She tried for another photo as her pulse banged thrash metal beats in her ears. Same blurry result. That would be her hands shaking.
The whole time the young man in the costume sat there, a curious look on his unlined face as he blinked away the camera flash. A face framed with thick curls of brown hair that flicked past his ears, creating something of a mullet at the back. Brass buttons glowed on his dark jacket, while his dark pants looked more like leggings than chinos. Long black riding boots came up almost to his knees. Who went horse riding at this time of night?
In the dim light, it was hard to tell. Maybe it was her brother, Gareth, making another prank to feed the hungry beast otherwise known as his YouTube channel?
Not taking her eyes off the man in her room, she reached an unsteady hand behind her for the lamp. The stranger kept right on sitting there with that curious look on his face. The clothes may have been vintage, but judging by his features, he looked only a year or two older than Morgan.
Swallowing hard, she took another photo. Her heart stalled as once again she failed to capture him, despite the clear image of the chaise appearing on screen. Fear wormed into her brain. How had she managed to photograph the furniture and not the lad sitting on it?
‘I’m calling the police,’ she said.
‘At which point I shall inform the authorities that you are the intruder under my roof,’ he said.
‘What?’ Confusion took over for a moment and she forgot to be scared. ‘You’re wrong. This is our place.’
‘I think I would recognise the room where I was born. Although I do not care for the refurbishments.’
‘Don’t blame you,’ Morgan blurted.
He stood up and straightened the edge of his jacket. As he stepped closer to the light, she could see him more clearly. Definitely not Gareth, nor any of his friends that she knew about. This man had strong eyebrows a shade darker than his hair. A straight nose and fine cheekbones cast shadows over his face. When he spoke, his voice remained steady and confident. His accent definitely Australian, but kind of British-sounding as well.
‘You and your terrible taste in furnishings are not welcome.’
‘Wh-who are you?’
‘You want an introduction? Very well then. You are in the company of George Sebastian Wallace, of the Bradenfield Wallaces. To whom am I speaking?’
‘I’m Morgan Parker,’ she added, ‘of Parker Packaging.’
‘Can’t say I’ve heard of such a place. Is it near these parts?’
Confusion chipped away at her. Usually when people heard her name, they made the connection, then the assumption. ‘You’re Morgan Parker? The Plastics Princess?’ They would say. But this George bloke didn’t follow the script.
Hold on a moment, he’d said Bradenfield? ‘That’s the name of the house.’ Giggles erupted, Morgan was on a razor’s edge of falling to bits or falling about laughing. ‘You must be one of Gareth’s friends trying to scare me.’
‘I am not acquainted with any Gareths. The Wallaces built Bradenfield soon after arriving in Portland Bay. It’s one of the finest estates in the Colony of Victoria.’
Of course, Portland. That’s where the house used to be. ‘Well, now it’s in Melbourne, in the suburb of Stoneleigh. My dad bought it a few years back and had it moved up here.’
‘I am unfamiliar with Stoneleigh.’
Huh? Morgan shook her head in confusion. ‘It’s a part of Melbourne. Like a neighbourhood.’ This had to rank up there as the most confusing conversation Morgan had ever had. Should she scream for her mother? Dave maybe?
‘One cannot simply relocate an estate of such a size as Bradenfield.’
‘It was featured on Mega Moves you didn’t see it?’ Morgan scanned the room for signs of cameras or projectors. The more she failed to find signs of technology, the more those scary feelings coiled tightly in her tummy. Who was this guy?
The light may have been brighter, but her visitor stood half in shadow. Another attempted photo. Another failure.
Cold twinges spread through her body.
What else could he be? ‘Are you . . . You’re a . . . ghost, aren’t you?’ Curiosity had her palms itching to reach out and see if her hand might go right through him.
‘Most certainly not! Now remove your person from my chambers or I shall call for the magistrate.’
Breathing hard, Morgan couldn’t keep the wonder from her voice. ‘I’m talking to a ghost!’ Fear did something strange to her – at first she’d been too frightened to move, now an urge to flee took hold. She pushed the covers back to climb out of bed.
‘Merciful heavens! Clothe yourself!’ George covered his eyes and turned his back on her.
He was the one turning away? But surely she had to be more scared of him? Morgan looked down at her teddy bear t-shirt and boy-leg pants. ‘They’re just pyjamas!’
Then things took a bizarre turn. George bolted for the door. He reached for the (pink) handle to leave the room . . . and missed. He tried again with more force, but his hand went through the door, right up to the elbow.
‘The devil –’ George’s eyes rounded. Time and again he reached for the handle, each effort delivered the same non-result. ‘What trickery is this?’
She crossed her arms tightly over her chest as a chill seeped through. ‘I must be dreaming. This is too weird.’ The beginnings of a headache rippled in the back of her skull. ‘I’ll be right back.’ Shivering, she ran for her walk-in-wardrobe where she rifled through the clothes on the floor until she found a dressing gown. Another cringe, the walls and fittings were pink in here too.
When she came out, she found George standing by the door, still pushing his transparent hands right through it.
Frustration overrode Morgan’s fear. ‘It’s not a trick. Look.’ She reached for the handle and opened the door. Unfortunately, George didn’t get out of the way like a normal person would, so his shadowy body dissolved right through it.
Morgan’s breath sawed in and out and she grabbed at the wall to keep herself steady.
They both stared at each other in mute confusion.
Morgan gripped her phone, her knuckles turning white. If only she could steady her breathing she might stop wobbling. ‘Stand absolutely still,’ she said to George, who was now staring at his opaque hands as if he’d never seen them before.
Click.
&nbs
p; One more photo. By some miracle, she’d captured the door in sharp focus but George appeared only as a blur in the middle of it. A bizarre sensation pushed her fear aside for a second as her body buzzed with excitement. Wow, she had a real live honest-to-God ghost in her room. If he wouldn’t show up in a photo, she’d get a picture of him another way. Grabbing her journal and pencil, she sketched his outline in his vintage clothes and top hat. Then she held the image in her outstretched hand and took another photo. In a few taps of her thumb, she sent the sketch to her friend Kaz. The one who’d thought possums in the roof had been a big deal. Ha!
I can haz ghosts?
George walked through the solid door and shook his head. ‘Is this some hall of mirrors? A camera obscura?’
Morgan put her things on the bed. ‘Bad news George. There’s no easy way to say this so please don’t shoot the messenger. But . . . I think you may be dead and you don’t know it.’
He blinked. Hard. ‘I am hallucinating. I am trapped in a terrible dream.’
‘I’m supposed to be freaking out, not you.’ A surge of confidence spread through her as the power balance tilted in her favour.
George removed his hat, wiped his brow, then put his hat back on. ‘I cannot be dead. This is some frightening dream borne from an overactive imagination.’ George shut his eyes. ‘I will count to three and I shall wake up and everything will be as it was. One. Two. Three.’
Morgan stood still and waited until George opened his eyes. When he did –
‘–Hello.’ She waved.
George yelped in fright and stumbled backwards. He reached for the edge of the chaise to hold him up but fell straight through it.
Frustrated, Morgan gave her forehead a good scratch. ‘You know what I can’t work out? You pass through walls and furniture, yet you walk around as if you’re on level ground. You know we’re on the second floor, right?’
The Girl and the Ghost Page 1
