Dead Scared (7 page)

‘Where does this leave us?’ I asked, shadowing my friend as he trudged toward school, scuffing his shoes with each miserable step.

‘Well, I’ve got a new chapter to write in my
Rules of Ghosting
handbook, specifically on older girls and the merits of speaking to so-called psychics. Bloody Mary’s
typical of that lot. Charlatans, all of them, preying on the hopeless and helpless. I believe the expression is “comforting lies for the criminally gullible” where mediums are
concerned.’

‘Dunno, mate,’ I said. ‘Try not to be too closed-minded. You may meet the real McCoy one day. After all, your best friend’s a ghost, isn’t he?’

Dougie grunted and tugged the fur-trimmed snorkel of his parka about his face.

‘I’m really not digging the new me. The bald head and sunglasses make me look like Nosferatu’s lovechild,’ replied Dougie, scratching his smooth scalp beneath the
hood.

‘I’d have said you were rocking the Uncle Fester look myself, but I won’t argue.’ Dougie shot me a glare. ‘And
now
I’m done. Promise.’

‘You do realise this is entirely down to you?’

‘Let’s not start a peeing contest! I’m the one who’s dead!’

‘Fair point,’ he grumbled. ‘I’ll give you that. You should be thankful you’ve got a mate like me who’ll do this to himself,’ he said, gesturing from his
head to his toes. ‘There aren’t many friends who’d Frankenweenie themselves for their best buddy.’

I burst out laughing, and thankfully Dougie joined me. The mood instantly lifted, my friend wiping a tear from the corner of his eye as he shook his head.

‘I am thankful, mate,’ I said. ‘I appreciate it more than words. At least we’ve ruled out Bloody Mary as an answer to my problems. I’ve seen more psychic ability on
Scooby-Doo
.’

‘And we still don’t know why I’m the only one who can see you,’ added Dougie. ‘Perhaps the problem
does
lie with me after all.’

‘I don’t follow.’

‘You could be a figment of my fevered imagination. Perhaps my mind’s rustled you up as a way of dealing with the loss.’

‘Aw, I never realised you loved me so much,’ I said, batting my lashes at him.

‘Shut your rattle,’ he replied, instinctively lashing out and falling straight through my ghostly form, landing in a hedge. ‘What about Rev. Singer?’ Dougie asked,
brushing the leaves and twigs off his parka as he righted himself on the footpath once more. ‘D’you think it’s worth seeing Stu’s dad?’

‘Not if you’re hoping he can exorcise me, it’s not! He’s a vicar, what can he really do?’

‘I dunno, but he’ll know more than us. Where else can we go?’

‘What about Lucy Carpenter?’

‘No way, mate,’ said Dougie. ‘Encounters with the opposite sex? Been there, done that. Bloody Mary’s put me off that nonsense for life.’

‘But the kiss we shared—’

‘The kiss you
say
you shared,’ he corrected me.

‘Isn’t it worth at least talking to her?’

‘As a last resort, perhaps,’ sighed Dougie, ‘but I really can’t imagine she’ll be able to help. At least Rev. Singer’s a vicar. If anyone knows what’s
what, surely it’s him? Let’s call round to the church at lunch break, see if Stu’s old man can help.’

‘And then what?’

‘I’m out of ideas. I want to get to the bottom of this just as much as you, Will. We’re in this together: you might be the one who’s dead but you’re still here with
me, every minute of the day and night. Don’t get me wrong, I miss you something awful and it breaks my heart knowing you’re a ghost. But this is no way to live, having you follow me
around like a shadow. I want to help you move on, mate, for both our sakes. I want to know what the deal is.’

‘The deal?’

‘Yeah,’ he replied, animated now. ‘Will you be around for long? Will you just fade away? I know that sounds horrible, but I’ve got so many questions, like you probably do
too. How long does this go on, you haunting me? Who has the answers to something like this? If you’ve any ideas I’m all ears.’

Dougie stopped and turned when he realised I wasn’t with him any more. I was standing beside a pair of wrought-iron gates that were chained and padlocked shut. A yellow warning sign bore
the legend
CONDEMNED
in bold black print, the panel fixed to the rusting bars. Beyond, a gravel driveway disappeared into the trees. I was quiet for a moment before answering him.

‘There’s always the House. I don’t know why we didn’t think of it sooner.’

Dougie shivered, and it wasn’t the cold that had got to him. Red Brook House dated back to the 1800s, once a boarding school before becoming a state school, but that was about as much as
any of us knew about its history. One thing everybody in the neighbourhood
did
know, however, was that it was haunted. The fact it was surrounded by skeletal black woodland, its gravel road
was overgrown with brambles, and it had a set of monstrous gothic gates only emphasised that point.

‘I know why we didn’t think of it sooner,’ Dougie said. ‘Because it’s a bloody scary place.’

‘Scarier than the graveyard outside your bedroom window?’

‘I grew up in sight of those graves, mate. Played among them enough times, fetching back footballs that disappeared over the fence. There was never really anything to be scared of
there.’

‘Your Hulk underpants would tell a different story.’

‘But the House,’ he continued, ignoring my jibe, ‘that place reeks of bad news. It’s got more horror stories than Stephen King.’

He didn’t need to further explain what he meant. In our brief lifetimes a number of tragedies had taken place in or near the old red building. There’d been a suicide in the
surrounding woods – a bank manager who’d been a bit overzealous with other people’s money. And when we were both in primary school, a couple of senior lads had broken into the
House one Halloween as a dare. One had apparently fallen from the main staircase and died, while the other now resided in a mental hospital. How much of this was true was hard to say –
stories like that get added to over time – but even if they were just spooky folktales, they’d taken on mythical proportions throughout the school.

‘Do you believe any of those stories?’ I asked.

‘Dunno,’ Dougie bravely replied. ‘But if
anywhere
is haunted, then it has to be the House.’

‘Oi oi! Humpty Dumpty!’

We both turned, looking back down the road to where Vinnie Savage and his mates were following us, or more specifically, following Dougie. Vinnie Savage: he was Lucy Carpenter’s boyfriend,
or had been. I found myself wondering whether he ever got wind of the kiss I’d stolen from her. Either way, it didn’t presently matter. That kiss was unconnected to this encounter. This
was just Vinnie’s regular name-calling, and not for the first time Dougie was the target. That was one thing I didn’t miss: the bullying.

It had been Vinnie who had shouted, his gang joining in, shouting other obscenities Dougie’s way. With dismay, my friend realised his hood had fallen down when he’d tumbled into the
bushes. Grabbing the fur-trimmed flap of green khaki, he tugged it back over his head, covering his bare scalp once more. I sensed Dougie pick up his pace, trying to put some distance between
himself and the mob of morons.

‘Don’t cover it up, baldy!’ shouted another of Vinnie’s mates.

‘Is he running away?’ called a third. ‘Oi, Egghead! Come back!’

My heart ached for Dougie as he now began to jog, the pursuing pack of idiots laughing and jeering as they gave chase.

‘I never tire of this,’ I grumbled as my friend decided to run the remaining distance to school.

‘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?

‘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.’