by Cliff McNish
Her voice, to Jack, was like sand through fingers. Her dark brown eyes, looking into his, could not have been wider. A cream linen nightgown reached down to her bare feet, and he could tell from her narrow ankles how thin her legs must be. Her hair was shockingly rich next to her pale skin. And how much of her was really in the room? He could see her, but Isabella was still more air than substance. When she turned her body, Jack could barely follow her outline.
“I wanted . . . my dad,” he told her, introducing himself. “I didn’t . . . mean to bring—”
“Me?” she interrupted. “But you were holding the chair. It was me it powerfully linked you to. And now that I am here, speak quickly if you have anything to say, for the Other Side will not let me remain long.” She coughed once, a horrible gravelly sound that made Jack wince. In response to his look, she wiped her mouth and smiled knowingly. “It is nothing,” she said. “Just my graveyard cough. I am used to it. We lived many years together, it and I.”
For a moment they appraised each other, neither sure what to say or do next.
“You . . . you died of consumption, didn’t you?” Jack whispered at last. “It must have been terrible.”
“Terrible?” Isabella shot Jack a sharp look, still wary of him. “Is that why you called my soul back, then? To discuss death? You enjoy the stuff of death, do you? I’ll tell you, then, what it was like. It was like having a mouse in my chest—a mouse that would not stop gnawing. Well? Does that satisfy you?”
“No, you don’t understand. I . . .” Jack hesitated. Then, thinking of his dad, he asked the only question that seemed to matter in that moment.
“Tell me what it’s like to exist on the Other Side, Isabella?”
“I cannot tell you about that,” she replied.
“Why not?”
“In good time, you will discover what it is like for yourself.” She smiled, softening a little. “Not too soon, I hope.” Tapping her lips thoughtfully, she said, “Jack, if it is only for such idle questions you have brought me back here, let me go. I must return to the Other Side. I do not belong here; none of the dead do. Please . . .”
But she broke off, her plea to leave only halfhearted. Jack could see that the last thing she wanted to do was to leave. She kept gazing longingly around the room, a look of wonder, as if she missed everything. Seeing that, Jack relaxed slightly. He had far too many unanswered questions to want her to leave yet. In any case, he found her fascinating. She stared intently out of the window, as if stunned by the beauty of the world.
“The colors, Jack,” she sighed. “The tastes. The smells, even the ugly ones. The Other Side has its own virtues, but nothing like these things.” She stretched out her arms, sighed again. “And air! Wonderful air! Breathe it while you may, even if I cannot!” She tried to draw in a great lungful, failed, coughed heavily, suddenly laughed, tried for another lungful, laughed again. “I read about my illness, you know,” she said. “Mother taught me to read beyond primers. I read the medical text. It said, ‘The cheeks, in the end, are hollow, the eyes commonly sunken in their sockets, and often look morbidly bright and staring.’” She gazed at him, and laughed again. “Do my eyes not look morbidly bright and staring?”
Jack had to admit they did.
“Well, that’s all over now,” she said, “and I will not fear death a second time, for what little time I am permitted to stay here in the realm of the living. Do you fear for your own death, Jack?” she asked quietly, moving toward him. “Is that what has made you summon me?” She attempted to cradle Jack’s face in both her hands, but her wrists, thin as an infant’s, passed through him. She laughed down at them. “Death is only the beginning of something better,” she muttered in his ear. “Don’t fear it, like so many of us did.”
Breaking contact again, she strode across the room.
Jack was enthralled by her. He’d expected a feeble, shy girl when she first appeared, not this vibrant force. From the light of the window he could see the bony shoulders through her dress. She is beautiful, he thought. Or at one time she was. Her mother was right about that.
“Isabella,” he said. “My dad . . . can you tell me anything about . . .”
“He misses you.” Isabella murmured it so quietly that Jack barely heard.
A tingle ran up his spine.
“How do you know that?”
“Do you think the loved ones on the Other Side are not aware of one another? Of course we are. What is your last memory of him?”
“I . . . I never saw Dad the night he died,” Jack said. “I . . . was out, with people from school. I wasn’t even enjoying myself.” He faltered. Isabella edged closer, urging him to continue. “But something, I don’t know what, made me come home. And then Mum was there, waiting at the door. . . .”
Isabella said gently, “Was your father still in the house when you returned?”
“No. They’d taken him. I heard later that he’d been in the house a long time, waiting for the ambulance. He died in the ambulance . . . but it took a long time for that as well. I . . . can tell from what Mum told me that he was conscious for most of the journey, holding on. I could have been with him, but I wasn’t. . . .”
Isabella knelt beside Jack, nodding almost imperceptibly.
“Perhaps you were fortunate in being away when he departed,” she said. “It is possible to see too much. On the day before my father’s death, I saw the blood gush forth from his mouth. Even then, however, he had the presence of mind not only to commend himself to God, but to take up with his own hands a basin that lay at our bedside and put it beneath his lips. When the morning came and he found that he was still alive, Mother and I both wept. Oh, Jack, you have no idea what it was like. He’d been a strong man, but in the end he lay in Mother’s arms as light as a babe, breathing with the utmost difficulty, so tired he could not even speak. He raised his voice once more only, in his final hours, to say my name and Mother’s. He did not realize we were already there, by his bedside. And then, at eight o’clock that morning, he passed away, so quietly we both thought he had fallen asleep.”
Jack lowered his gaze.
“I remember what Mother did next,” Isabella said. “She slept. She had not slept for days, but she laid her head down now next to me, took Father’s still-warm hand, and mine, and slept.”
Light from the window shone on Isabella.
“You know, don’t you?” Jack said. He’d been so shocked to find her in the room that he’d not even thought to ask. “Isabella, you do know that your mother is still here in this house?”
“Still here?” Isabella stared at him in disbelief, almost laughed. “That cannot be, Jack. When Mother died, Father and I went together to take her spirit to the Other Side. She refused to come with us—I am still unsure why—but there is only one place she could go after that.”
“What do you mean?”
“If a spirit does not follow the loved ones across to the Other Side at the moment of death, it is stuck in the living world, Jack. There it gradually fades. It fades until there is no energy left of its soul, and then it is claimed by a place of which I do not wish to speak. The Nightmare Passage, we call it. It is a dreadful place, cold, terrifying. Only tortured, guilt-ridden souls who refuse to go to the Other Side when their loved ones come for them end up there, or any poor souls they take with them. By now Mother must be inside the Nightmare Passage. She could not have survived this length of time and still be in your world.”
“What if she’s using other souls in this house to keep herself from fading?”
“Others?”
“Children. Your mother is here, Isabella, and the souls of four dead children are with her. She’s done something to them, trapped their souls in the house.”
“Their what?” Isabella stood up, her face suddenly filled with horror.
Jack stood up with her. “What has she done to them, Isabella? Why are you so scared?”
“No,” Isabella said, clutching at the collar of her gown. “No. I
t cannot be. You must be . . . mistaken. I cannot believe she would do that, trap them that way. There is no worse crime for a spirit left on this earth than to use another to keep itself out of the Nightmare Passage. Oh, Mother, surely you haven’t . . . surely . . .”
“Talk to her!” Jack said. “She’s your mother, isn’t she? She’ll listen to you.”
Isabella shook her head. “Those on the Other Side cannot communicate with the dead stuck in this world, Jack. Oh, Mother, you haven’t, have you?” Tears lined her eyes. “Was it too many years alone, with only spiders and mice as friends? What happened to you, Mother? What did you become?” She held her hands to her lips. “Jack, listen to me. You must—” She gasped.
Jack knew the reason at once. A counterforce was beckoning—the Other Side, drawing her back again.
“No!” Isabella cried, unable to resist it.
“Not yet!” Jack begged. “Please. I need—”
“Oh, Jack, I can’t stay. I . . .” Isabella’s forlorn whisper was already distant. Her body flickered like a transparency against the window as she tried to hold herself in the room. “If I can, I will return to help you,” she cried. “Jack! I—”
“Don’t leave! You can’t leave! I need to know what to do! You have to—”
But Isabella was already gone. For minutes afterwards Jack stayed in the same spot, still feeling the echoes of her presence in the room. Then, before they were completely gone, he ran across to the window, to look out at the beauty of the world with the same fierceness Isabella had done.
“Why won’t the Ghost Mother leave Oliver alone?”
“She’ll give up chasing him soon, like she always does,” Ann answered Charlie.
“You said that before, and she’s still chasing him!”
“But she hasn’t caught him, has she?”
Ann had carefully concealed herself, Charlie, and Gwyneth in the dark seclusion of the scullery. It had the advantage of plenty of shadows to blend into, but if they were discovered the only escape route was via the kitchen. From the speed of the Ghost Mother’s movements about the house, Ann could tell how furious she must be with Oliver. Obviously she’d seen him warn Jack. None of them would be forgiven for that, least of all Ann.
Gwyneth counted feverishly. It was what she always did to take her mind off the Ghost Mother. Every time she felt one of the telltale tremors marking the Ghost Mother’s passage between the rooms, she clutched Ann and started again.
“Two, three, four . . .”
Charlie was frantic. “The Ghost Mother’s going to get Oliver this time! She’s never chased him for this long before.”
“No, he’ll get away,” Ann reassured him. “He’s faster than her. He’s staying ahead.”
“We won’t be safe!” Gwyneth whimpered. “If she can’t catch Oliver, she’ll come after us. Oliver wasn’t meant to let her see him. He’s made her mad. She always finds us when she’s really mad! It’s Oliver’s fault.”
“Shut up!” Charlie growled. “It’s you who’ll give us away, not him!”
“Quiet,” Ann said. “It’s not Oliver’s fault. Anyway, she’s too interested in the new boy to pay much attention to us.”
But Ann did not really believe her own words. Dormant for so many years, the Ghost Mother was active again. Moving about the house taxed her energy. Chasing Oliver would tax it further. Ann knew it was only a matter of time before she came after their souls for more of it. And then the usual screaming and bargaining would start.
Avoiding detection depended on keeping Gwyneth calm. She panicked when the Ghost Mother was close. No matter how well Ann prepared her, she always did.
“Two, three, four, I will not see her, she will not come, I will not see her. . . .”
Seeing the dread already rising in Gwyneth’s eyes, Charlie glanced nervously toward the scullery entrance.
“Help her,” Ann said, to keep him occupied. “Get her to use larger numbers and count more slowly. It makes her concentrate better.”
The Ghost Mother was close. From somewhere in the kitchen, they caught a scrap of her threat to Oliver. “For meddling, I won’t just take part of your soul. I’ll take whatever’s left, the whole of it.” Oliver laughed, but the laugh wasn’t convincing.
“She won’t do that, will she?” Charlie asked.
Ann shook her head. “No, of course not.”
“I’d rather she took me instead.”
Ann glanced down, knowing Charlie meant it. Oliver was everything to him.
“She’s coming,” Gwyneth whimpered. “Four, five . . . ”
Ann held her. “Even if she’s close she won’t know we’re in here if we keep still, remember? Stay really, really quiet. Please, Gwyneth . . . shush, now. . . .”
Oliver, just ahead of the Ghost Mother, tried to taunt her away from their location. “Hey! Can’t chase me down? Giving up? You’re useless! Here, I’ll give you a chance! How close do you need me to be?”
But it was too late. The Ghost Mother had drifted near enough to the scullery to sense the other children’s presence. Once that happened she ignored Oliver’s jeers and floated toward them on a thread of stale air. She hovered inside the doorway. There she waited, her eyes adjusting to the meager light, listening.
For a moment it looked as if the ghost children might be safe. The Ghost Mother was confused, because Gwyneth, unusually, kept quiet. She counted only in her mind, as Ann had taught her to do when she was really frightened. But the Ghost Mother knew Gwyneth’s weakness only too well and simply waited her out.
Seconds ticked by, Oliver mocked and heckled from tantalizingly close range, and still Gwyneth held her nerve—the longest she had ever lasted. But the Ghost Mother bided her time, and finally Gwyneth cracked, her mouth slowly opening in a silent scream. Seeing that, Ann did what she always did when it was too late. First, she reached over and placed Gwyneth’s hand in Charlie’s, putting him in charge of her. Then she floated out in plain sight of the Ghost Mother, offering herself.
Oliver felt a sickening lurch. Two or three times before he’d watched Ann submitting herself this same way. He couldn’t bear to watch it again. He didn’t know that in private Ann had done so many more times, but spared him the sight.
“Don’t let her!” he begged. “Ann, no, please . . . ”
“It’s all right,” she replied. “Stay back. I know what I’m doing. Don’t interfere.”
The last thing Ann wanted was for Oliver to risk everything in an attempt to help her. He didn’t understand the special arrangement that played out between her and the Ghost Mother. None of them realized that she had been secretly visiting the Ghost Mother for decades, doing what she needed to do to keep her away from Charlie and Gwyneth. On most of those visits, Ann was only required to be a silent companion—a child on a rocking chair, sitting in a cellar. Other times she let her hair be braided, or sat in the dark while the Ghost Mother talked soothingly and fussed over her as if she was as ill as Isabella had been. Isabella. The dear one. The beloved. Oh yes. Over the years Ann had learned all about her. Occasionally, when the Ghost Mother was in one of her most dangerous, predatory moods, Ann even tried to sound like her. It was the only way of keeping the Ghost Mother away from Gwyneth on such days. She’d learned that a breathless voice worked best.
Sometimes, though, even that wasn’t enough. When the Ghost Mother’s energy was low, the Nightmare Passage threatening to take her, she came directly instead to steal a part of Ann’s soul. And Ann gave it. Even though it terrified her, she had no choice; if she didn’t the Ghost Mother would only take what she needed from the youngsters. She couldn’t allow that.
Oliver, of course, was able to take care of himself.
“Don’t get involved,” Ann warned him now. “Don’t come any nearer, Oliver!” But she knew he would. His blood was up from the chase. She had to control him or he’d madden the Ghost Mother. If he did that the Ghost Mother might break her longstanding agreement with Ann, always to go to her first when s
he needed renewing.
“Take the others away!” she ordered Oliver. “I don’t want them here. Gwyneth, Charlie, leave now.”
They did so, holding hands, edging around the floor as far from the Ghost Mother as possible.
The Ghost Mother pretended not to notice them. She was focused on Ann.
“You know what I need,” she said.
“Of course. Be quiet. Wait until they’re gone.”
“Ann, don’t!” Oliver shouted.
“Go away!” she snarled. “Leave us alone! Just this once, Oliver, do as I ask!”
Swearing at the Ghost Mother, Oliver roughly picked up Charlie and Gwyneth and helped navigate them out into the kitchen. The Ghost Mother flowed toward Ann before they were out of sight.
“Not yet,” Ann said. “Remember our agreement. Not in front of the others.”
The Ghost Mother nodded with ill-concealed impatience.
Ann waited until Gwyneth was far enough away to get to safety before she let the Ghost Mother come any closer.
“Are you ready?” the Ghost Mother asked.
“Yes,” Ann replied.
“I will give you a moment to prepare yourself.”
They were alone together, in the quiet privacy of the scullery. The last time the Ghost Mother had removed any of Ann’s soul had been over a year earlier. On that occasion she’d only siphoned off the usual quantity, just enough to keep her spirit in the house. Over the decades, Ann had successfully rationed the Ghost Mother this way, convincing her that taking small amounts was the best way to keep her own soul for as long as possible out of the Nightmare Passage.
In return for Ann’s cooperation, the Ghost Mother left Charlie and Gwyneth alone—usually. Sometimes she took some of their soul anyway, and whenever the Ghost Mother did that she removed a lot, because Charlie and Gwyneth screamed and excited her, and she lost herself in the action.
If she fully cooperated, left them alone, Ann allowed the Ghost Mother a special treat—an extra visit, perhaps, or, sometimes, letting the Ghost Mother hide close to Charlie and Gwyneth and watch them playing. The Ghost Mother liked that, especially being near Gwyneth, make-believing she was a reborn little Isabella. Charlie and Gwyneth rarely knew they were being watched, but Oliver did. He’d never been convinced to bargain with the Ghost Mother. His ability to use the house breezes was so masterly that so far she’d never caught him. But, if she ever did, Ann knew that for all his taunting over the years the Ghost Mother wouldn’t hold back. She’d drain the whole of his soul, take it all. She wouldn’t be able to resist.
