by Paul Magrs
§
After hearing all that, and watching Robert and Penny jump into action, I feel like I’m floating on air! My friends are coming for me! They’re going to do their very best to get me back to normal.
I take a spin around the town, skimming over the rooftops, in sheer celebration.
While I’m doing this, I see something very nasty hovering over the Christmas Hotel. It’s a cluster of evanescent somethings which form a cloud over its steep rooftops and many chimneys. I creep closer and realise that it’s a cloud of phantoms, each of them rather small. They’re combing their hair and singing as they swoop and loop the loop and flick their fish tails.
I realise that they are the ghosts of the tiny mermaids who have been cooked and served up at the Miramar. So Gila was right about that. But they aren’t alone up here, haunting the rooftops of the tall hotel. There are also ghostly pensioners and transparent elves, all of them trapped on this plane of anguish. All of them victims of Mrs Claus and her casual brutality. All of them have been bumped off by her at one time or another.
I have drifted too close. I approached to get a good look at them and now heads are turning and burning eyes are staring my way. Some are calling out greetings and waving.
‘You too died at the Christmas Hotel!’ cries one of the miniature sea maids. ‘You must join us! You are the most recent fatality in this unlucky place!’
‘No, she’s not,’ howls a furious-looking old man, all red in the face. ‘I am! I got lured to my doom by one of you mermaids only this morning! Right over the bloody cliff I went! I’m the most recent!’
‘We’re all quite recent,’ shouts another. ‘That’s why we’re hovering about here, not quite sure where we’re going. The death count’s been pretty high lately! But the mermaid is right, Brenda – you must join us!’
I can feel the attraction of it. In a weird way, my new, slim, ghostly, naked self is quite keen on the idea. A bit of haunting and putting the willies up people. Mooching about this gloomy hotel and bad-temperedly revenging myself upon the living…
But, no! That’s not who I’m meant to be. ‘I’m still alive!’ I shout out to all these unfortunate shades. ‘Really, I am! And my friends are all trying to help me! I’m going to resume my normal life, you’ll see!’
At this, they all start laughing. Others shake their heads sorrowfully. A very old waitress, complete with airborne hostess trolley calls out sympathetically, ‘Oh no, dear. Dear, dear. We all think that at first, dear. That’s how we all carry on when we get caught here. But there’s no going back and there’s no going forward. Not for the likes of us. We are the ghosts of the Christmas Hotel, and we must be content with our lot.’
I find that I have drifted closer to this terrible, lost tribe. They are reaching out with wispy hands and fishy fingers… but NO!! I will not let them take me. I will not let them pull me in. I never liked the Christmas Hotel that much when I was on the physical plane, and I certainly won’t be spending all eternity in the tacky place.
‘Join us! Join us, Brenda!’
‘Let me go! Get off me…!!’
I break away from their grasping arms and burst free. I rise above the rooftops and chimney pots of the hotel and, all of a sudden, I have a liberating view of the sea and the cliffs and the whole of Whitby spread before me.
But something has altered my perceptions and everywhere I look the air is swarming with shades and ghosts and irate spirits. It’s as if seeing those phantoms above the hotel has infected me. They have pulled the scales from eyes – rather forcibly – and now I see the full extent of the haunting population of our town.
From the rooftops of tall houses and hotels I can hear them moaning. All the dead are picnicking on slate rooftops or gamboling high above the streets. I can see the dead of all ages, going back through time. The older ones are fainter. Some are sepia, some are nothing more than a vague stain on the air. But I can hear them chattering away. It’s like a riot in the air. It’s the constant hullaballo of the gone-before.
On top of the West Cliff Captain Cook comes seeping out of his august statue and salutes me rather gallantly. Not too far from him, the giant whale whose jaw bones form a famous monument thrashes his colossal tail and struggles to break free from dry land.
Down in the harbour the sea is filled with the drowned. Sailors and townsfolk are bobbing about and shouting out to those ashore. It’s a wonder there’s room for so many of them under the freezing briny. When I look beyond the harbour at the endless, freezing North Sea, the waving arms of those who sank without a trace go on forever. I catch a glimpse of a sea monster, too, all humps and bumps and shining scales.
This being dead business really has opened up my eyes.
§
This is what my friends do to help me.
They decide that they must work together and retrieve my body from the police morgue. Can you credit it? I can hardly believe that anyone else has friends such as mine. They hardly think about the danger to themselves, or the likelihood of their being caught, or even the grotesque nature of the entire venture. All they can think about is the fact that there is a chance they might save me. Or rather, bring me back. If I could weep in this disembodied, eyeless state, then surely I would.
I sniffle in the background during their meeting in my attic living room.
‘As far as I can see, it’s the only way,’ says Effie grimly. ‘Are you all with me?’
The others nod their assent – Robert, Penny, and Gila. All are wearing dark clothing, having anticipated the evening’s guerrilla activities. Effie even has a knitted balaclava to hand.
‘How are we going to break into the police station?’ Robert asks.
‘I’ve come up with a spell or two,’ Effie says. ‘You all know how I dislike drawing upon my magical expertise. It’s stuff like that that has caused the current lamentable situation, but needs must. I am going to put the policemen guarding Brenda’s lifeless body to sleep.’ She pats her chic handbag then, as if her magic-making paraphernalia is concealed there.
‘But what about… walking through the streets with the body?’ Penny asks, rather sensibly. ‘Even this late at night, there are bound to be people who will notice.’
‘That can’t be helped,’ says Effie. ‘We will carry her back on a stretcher. We’ll chuck a blanket over her. We’ll make excuses if anyone asks.’
Panda harrumphs loudly to get everyone’s attention. He’s sitting on the green bobbly armchair and has something to say. ‘I want to know what Brenda thinks about all of this.’
They all look at him and then turn to look where he’s staring. That is, directly at me. I know he can’t hear me and I’m no good at semaphore or charades, so I just nod and smile.
And then I realise – Effie and Panda are in the same room! He has declared his presence to her!
‘I believe Brenda approves,’ he says. Then he pauses thoughtfully. ‘Of course, we could just forget about the mortal remains that are languishing on that slab, you know. It might be better all round if we kitted Brenda out with a new set of limbs and a heart; a new face, a new brain, and so on.’
The others look scandalised. ‘Oh no,’ says Robert. ‘I don’t think that would be any good at all. It just wouldn’t be Brenda with a new head and everything, would it?’
‘Well, technically it would, of course,’ Effie points out wisely. ‘Once I’ve performed the secret ceremony for returning lost souls to the physical plane, well then, whatever her spirit inhabits will become her.’
‘But where would you get a new body?’ Penny asks, looking disturbed.
‘The recently dead,’ Gila says. ‘That’s what you mean, don’t you, Panda? A newish grave. You mean digging up a grave.’
Panda shrugs. ‘Human beings are so sensitive about these things. You wouldn’t hear a stuffed toy being sentimental over body parts and repairs! Oh no – can
’t afford to! You’ve got to take spares when you can, and be glad of them!’
Effie is pursing her lips, which is always a sure sign of irritation or disgust, and her wanting to draw the discussion to a close. ‘Well, I think we can say we all agree that we’d rather have Brenda back just as we are used to her. That is, in her old body and looking just like her old self.’ Then she smiles sweetly at the empty patch of air, which is all she can see of me, I know.
I myself have mixed feelings about this discussion. What wouldn’t I give to have a new, young, ache-free body? It’s been so long since I was anything like that. It’s been decades since I resorted to scrabbling about for new body parts. I feel rather disturbed and ashamed by my friends’ expressions of dismay and disgust. It’s as if they hardly know what kind of a life I’ve led before first meeting them all. They make me feel ashamed for my patchwork past…
And so I watch as they set off into the night. They troop out bravely, sure that they’re doing the right thing. They quell their nervousness by imagining me alive once more. They look forward to the moment when I sit up again and smile at them all and everything returns to normal.
As I float out of my guesthouse and down the sloping alleyway after them, I have a horrible feeling that nothing is going to be as straightforward as that.
For example, what is this magic Effie’s suddenly talking about? Since when did she have the knowhow to return spirits to dead bodies? I’m thinking it’s a talent she’s kept secret for all these years. Or perhaps it’s something she’s learned from the recovered pages of the Books of Mayhem. Or even worse, it’s something that the awful Alucard taught her, so that one day she could restore his scattered ashes to ghoulish life. Oh, she’s deep, is Effie – and none of us know the extent of the magic she can do.
I watch over them like their guardian angel as they troop through the streets at three a.m. All of this effort just for me. I’m flattered and excited by all of this. I can’t wait to stand on solid ground once more, on my own two feet again.
There are fewer people out tonight than I would expect. There’s a curling, swirling mist in the streets, rising up from the harbour. My supernatural senses are still attuned to the restless spirits and as we pass the shops I notice dead fishmongers, shelf stackers, newsagents, and grocers coming out to spy on our progress. They are all damaged in various ways; bearing the scars of their individual deaths: the butcher with the knife in his back, the toyshop owner with the rope burn round his neck. All of them seem to know what it is my friends are up to tonight and they watch with envious eyes. They can see me, trailing along like so much ectoplasm, hoping to live again, and the ghosts of Whitby are not impressed.
Except for one little man, a baker, who stands covered in flour, his body mostly burned to a crisp. ‘Shut up, you lot! Leave her be! If it wasn’t for Brenda, this town would be overrun by creatures from hell. It wouldn’t be so cosy for the dead up here then, you know. Just you remember that, you lot. She looks after us all, she does!’
This is rather nice of him and I give him a lovely warm smile as I float past the estate agent’s that used to be his bakery.
‘I wish she’d put some clothes on, though,’ he mutters, going back inside to make some ghostly cakes.
He has a point. I wonder why, as a spirit, I am nude? I’m so relaxed about it now I hardly even remember that I’m parading about town in the buff. Perhaps my inner self is a shameless exhibitionist? Just to make up for all those years of covering up in disguise and keeping myself hidden under layers and layers so no one would ever notice me.
Oh hurry, my friends. I egg them on. To the police station! I want to be up and about again by morning! This ghostly life is all very well. But I miss breakfast, and walking and stretching and laughing and being able to talk to you lot.
Ah, but now we’re here. This little police station, down by the harbour. Its windows are dark and its door is closed. But that’s no barrier to Effie, who has brought a whole bagful of magic tricks to help her on this mission tonight. She’s come to rescue her friend, and that’s just what she’ll do.
§
It’s a doddle for Effie to get us into this place. The doors fall open at her touch and, as she leads her friends into the darkened station, she sprinkles a handful of dried herbs about the place. The desk sergeant gets to stare at us for a second, and then open his mouth, before falling unconscious to the tiled floor.
Effie means business.
There don’t appear to be any other police officers in the building.
Effie leads her small party down stone steps, dimly lit by dirty yellow bulbs. We descend deeper and deeper and it seems impossible that any normal police station could go this deep. I’m aware of the flitting spirits of dead prisoners and miscreants, as they go issuing past us, intrigued by these interlopers. The others do not notice them at all, as they stealthily make their way to the morgue.
‘This is too easy,’ Robert says.
‘Don’t say that,’ Penny shivers. ‘I guess they’re just not expecting anyone to be robbing dead bodies from them…’
Panda is in Gila’s rucksack, and he’s shivering. Like me, he can feel the presence of the dead all around us.
At last Effie locates the correct room and, at her certain touch, the metal door springs open. I gasp at this. She must have gained extra powers since paying her visit to the Brontes. None of these effortless skills belonged to the Effie I know. Curious, how calm and accepting she is of her new mystical prowess.
No more time to dwell on this. We’re inside the antiseptic steel-walled room beyond. I’m glad I can smell nothing: simply imagining the mingled scents of chemicals and dark, clotted blood is enough for me.
My friends look disconcerted and a bit ill at the sight of the room. They stare together at the wall of drawers and wonder which one I’m being kept in.
Spirits go streaming past me. They come rushing out of that bleak and deathly room like bubbles out of a can of lemonade.
Again, Effie is unerring. She chooses one particular door – like a drawer in a giant filing cabinet – and she pulls the heavy thing open. Out rolls the little bed with its corpse underneath a crisp white sheet. My friends step forward and then recoil.
Those are definitely my feet poking out of that sheet. Mismatched, one rather smaller than the other. Both crisscrossed by heavy needlework scars.
Effie takes the furthest corner of the sheet and lifts it, so that only she can see what lurks beneath.
‘Is it her?’ Robert whispers.
Effie blanches. ‘Yes,’ she says. ‘It’s definitely Brenda. Except…’
‘Except what?’ Penny blurts out, rather annoyed by Effie’s calm.
‘The head’s not here.’ Effie drops the sheet. She doesn’t want the others to be disturbed by the sight of my fatal wound.
The others are gripped by horror. ‘Well, where is it, then?’ Robert gasps.
‘We can’t bring her to life without her head!’ says Gila.
‘Of course we can’t,’ says Effie. ‘We just have to find it. They must have kept it separate for some reason.’
‘But why?’ Penny gaps. ‘That’s horrible!’
‘They must have known,’ says Effie, thinking aloud. ‘They must have known that we would come, trying to rescue her…’
At that very moment another door flies open, and in steps Chief Inspector Aickmann. He is looking very pleased with himself, clutching what looks like a hatbox to his chest. He’s as pouchy and care-worn as ever, but there’s a dancing light of triumph in his eyes.
‘Are you looking for something?’ he asks us, after we’ve all jumped with fright. ‘Or someone?’
Effie plants herself firmly between the policeman and her friends. ‘You know very well what we’ve come here for, Aickmann. You must have expected it.’
‘Really?’ he asks, pulling a face. He trails o
ne hand along the edge of the steel table where they must carry out autopsies. He’s checking it for dust. ‘Could it be that you came looking for your friend Brenda?’
‘Of course we did,’ snaps Robert.
‘You should plan on paying your respects at the normal time,’ Aickmann snaps back. ‘Like more respectable people would. You can’t just go letting yourselves into morgues.’
Effie takes a step towards him. ‘Well, you see, Chief Inspector, we aren’t what you’d call normal, respectable people.’
‘You can say that again,’ he says pleasantly. ‘You lot are the bane of my life around here. What with all the trouble you stir up, and the horrible scenes you get involved in. I’d say that life in this town was far more peaceful in the days before Mrs Brenda here moved to Whitby.’
‘You think so, do you?’ thunders Effie.
‘I know so. It’s your friend Brenda who causes all the disasters and the pandemonium. It’s she who attracts all the monsters and demons here. That’s what she is herself. A monster and a demon. And now she’s gone forever, maybe Whitby can get back to its old peaceful self again.’
Effie is suddenly sick of hearing him ranting on. ‘Give me back her head.’
He clutches the hatbox tighter. ‘No. That’s quite against the law. We can’t have old ladies running off with bits of dead bodies. I’ll get into terrible trouble.’
Go on, Effie! I mentally cheer her. Don’t let him deter you!
But he’s a hefty bloke. I’m not sure what would happen if he decided to turn violent. None of my lot besides Effie is much use in a punch-up.
Just then DCI Aickmann produces a gun.
‘What are you doing, man?’ Effie says. ‘You can’t shoot us!’
‘You’re dangerous terrorists,’ Aickmann barks. He’s flushed and sweating heavily. I realise that he’s gone round the bend. ‘You’re plotting a terrorist attack, I know it. You’re plotting against the Whitby police station. You’ve unleashed… zombies upon us!’
Effie tuts. ‘That’s nothing compared to what we’ll do if you don’t hand over the head of my best friend.’ The gun doesn’t scare her. She’s been threatened by worse.
