Eleven New Ghost Stories (17 page)

I felt compelled to see her. The
hospital was miles away, but I could make it before visiting hours
were over. I had go back to the Co-op to get my car. Then I drove
like a demon, smashing through deep puddles on still water-logged
streets. I wanted to bring her something, but not really knowing
what she’d like, I bought her grapes – a pleasant, well-meaning
cliché.

It was even further than I
thought. The nights were drawing in now; the clocks would be going
back soon. I arrived with only twenty minutes of visiting time left
and on the wrong side of the hospital. I had quite a way to go to
get to Rose’s ward; I had to stop and ask directions more than
once.

I introduced myself to the ward
nurses and they led me to her. She was fast asleep; they said she
was coming in and out of consciousness and wasn’t making much
sense. Perhaps that was best, I thought. I didn’t really want to
know what had happened to her on that hillside. She had most
probably fallen, but there was still that unsettling
possibility…

A doctor checking on another
patient in the quiet, half-full ward came over to ask me some
questions. I couldn’t help it; I kept up the pretence that I had
seen her on the hillside for the first time ever. They were hoping
I knew somebody that could help to take care of her. She didn’t
seem to have any relatives that they could find. There was her
husband, but they couldn’t seem to track him down.

They were hopeful that she would
pull through. I sat with her a while; I wondered if she could hear
me if I spoke to her. But I couldn’t think of anything to say. I
thought about saying something trite like “Chloe would want you to
pull through”. But I didn’t want to mention her name.

She looked so sad lying there.
Blankets tucked up to her neck, her tired face, wrinkled and
wrought before its time. Christ, maybe it would’ve been better if
she had died. What kind of life was she living here in purgatory?
Even if she pulled through, would she ever move on? Could there
really ever be more for her than her already miserable
existence?

I thought about saying that too,
something like: “It’s time to move on Rose; time to live in the
present.” But what good would that do?

Perhaps whoever they got to look
after her could help her. Finally get her to get over her loss.
Anything was possible, even if it probably wasn’t. I left the
grapes on the side; the one futile gesture I was willing to
make.

As I exited the ward, I saw
through the windows that it was raining outside. A talkative nurse,
one I hadn’t seen on the way in, commented, in a typically British
way, that that was all we needed, more rain. I stood for a moment
watching the droplets break against the glass and then I asked her
whether anyone else had been in to see Rose. She said no; it was
like the doctor had said, she seemed to have no relatives, no
friends.

I watched the rain for a few
seconds longer. Perhaps ghost girls didn’t like hospitals any more
than the rest of us.

The drive back was much slower,
the dark and the pouring rain making for a much tenser journey. I’d
foolishly thought seeing Rose would bring me hope, some joy. But
how stupid I was; how was seeing her in there, in that condition,
going to make me feel better? Her life was a living death anyway;
it was just going to continue instead of ending.

I had to get out. That was the
only thing to do. I would call my landlady in the morning. Time to
get out and never look back. Whatever happened to me now, it
couldn’t be worse than a lonely mourning life like this.

The rain was starting to get
heavy and progress through traffic was slow. I let a couple of cars
pass me on a quiet but crowded residential street, lined with
parked cars. It was going to be a long, slow drive home.

As I reached the end of the
street, a shape appeared in the road. Leaping from behind a parked
van, a child appeared in front of me.

I had no time to react; before I
could even put my foot on the brake, they’d thumped against my
bonnet and disappeared under the wheels.

I screamed; my head snapped
forward as the car came to a sudden stop. I took both hands off the
steering wheel and clamped them over my mouth. I was still for just
a moment before I howled through my fingertips.

I ripped off my seatbelt and
threw myself out the door. I tripped as I got out and had to grab
hold of the window to stop myself from falling over. Back on my
feet quickly, I swung the door back and got down on my knees to see
under my car.

The road was wet and cold and
the street-lighting poor – I could see nothing.

Frightened and desperate, I laid
down, in the road, looking as far and clear under my car as
possible.

There was nothing.

But I hadn’t imagined it. I’d
seen a child, felt them thump against the bonnet.

And then I realised, my memory
coming into focus, that my victim had been a girl. A blonde girl,
pale-faced, dressed darkly, probably in blue.

I got up and on my feet again –
she was here. It had to be her. Normal children don’t disappear. I
didn’t know why or what had just happened, but I had to get
away.

I got back inside and slammed
the door shut. My keys were still in the ignition – I twisted them
and started the engine.

I took a second to breathe,
trying to calm myself.

The passenger-side window
smashed. I screamed; a shower of shattered glass sprayed across the
seat; I turned my head instinctively away as fragments hit my
cheek.

I put my foot down. The wheels
spun against the wet tarmac – I had to get away. I drove stupidly
fast; I didn’t know what I was running from, but I had to get away.
The falling rain was a threat – she only came out when it rained.
And while I was outdoors, I was in danger. She was dangerous. Rose
wasn’t just trying to chase and love her lost daughter; she must’ve
been terrified of her. Frightened of what she’d do if she didn’t go
after her. Tormented not just by loss but by fear. For all these
years…

A car pulled out in front of me
unexpectedly. I almost didn’t stop in time; I skidded dangerously
across the road.

I shrieked to a halt. They
stopped, seeing just how close I’d come to hitting them they hit
their horn loudly. I saw an angry face snarl at me in the glare of
my headlights.

I couldn’t take the cramped
space any longer. I opened the door and got out, walked out into
the road and onto the pavement. My heart was pounding; I had to get
a grip. I paced around a little, trying to get my breath back.

After a few moments, I noticed
something lying in the road, just by the open door of my car. I
walked up to it and leant down.

It was a broken wooden toy
train. I recognised it quickly; it was the one I’d dropped that
first time I’d ever seen her. That’s what had shattered the window;
I hadn’t even seen it. It must’ve gone through the window and hit
the door on the other side, slipped down the side of the seat and
fallen out when I’d got out of the car.

I picked it up. Two of its
wheels were still missing – it had to be the same one.

There was the sound of a car
horn. Another car had pulled up behind mine, wanting to get
through. The driver side window was wound-down: “Are you all right
love?”

I dropped the train and got back
in the car.

I drove a little more carefully,
but still with speed. I was glad to be back on the country roads,
feeling that somehow the wide open space offered fewer surprises
than the over-crowded town streets.

When I got home I ran for the
front door and locked it quickly behind me. I didn’t even bother to
cover up the broken window. The next morning the passenger side
seat was soaked. At least the car hadn’t been stolen; but it had
been visited in the night.

A message had been written on
the back window.

STAY AWAY FROM MY MUM - the
condensation was gone, but the words were still visible. It was
written big enough to fill the whole back window.

Let it never be said of me that
I can’t take a hint.

My mind had already been made
up. I phoned my landlady and told her that I would be moving out at
the end of the month. I’d paid the whole month so I’d stay till the
end, I didn’t want to leave Joyce in the lurch anyhow.

I thought carefully about what
to do. I didn’t want to call one of my close friends or family,
they’d only berate me for falling off the map and not keeping in
touch. I called Kieran, someone I’d been friends with for a while,
but had never been so close to for them to have been upset by my
long stretch of absence. He was settled with a new boyfriend but
happy to put me up and seemed very relieved to hear from me. I
didn’t give him too many details, but promised to fill him in when
I got back.

I made an appointment with the
lawyers. They wanted to see me sooner, but I insisted this was the
best I could do.

Those last two weeks passed very
slowly. With my life moving towards something, it really put into
perspective just how lonely and empty and pointless those months
had been. Just empty, devoid of anything. Better to live or die
than live in purgatory. Whatever happened from this point on, I
decided I’d never go back to ______. I felt truly sorry saying to
Joyce that I’d be back to visit her, when I knew I wouldn’t. I had
made one friend, but I’d probably never see her again. I had her
number, swore I’d friend her on Facebook where we could exchange
empty pleasantries.

I still had pathetically little
in the way of possessions. Packing my belongings took less than
half an hour. Before I left, I sat alone in the house silently.
Though I’d brought with me so little, with it gone, the house
seemed empty, foreboding, dark. I sat uncomfortably on a low stool
in the living room. Clouds were gathering once again in the sky. It
would be raining again soon.

I walked slowly into the hall. I
was supposed to return the keys to Mrs McMurray that afternoon. I
undid the door latch and let the door hang open. The clouds
lingered ominously; in my mind they rolled like smoke rumbling from
a fire burning out of control. The rain would fall soon; I might
not have much time.

It felt like now or never; if
the rain came down again, I might never escape. What did it matter,
Mrs McMurray could get the keys back by post; send the deposit back
by bank transfer, if she knew what that was.

I closed my eyes tight, gripped
hold of my suitcases and pulled myself out of the door. With
purpose I marched towards the car and threw them on the back seat.
There was no time to apply more tape to the cardboard patch that
covered the broken passenger-side window. There was no time to go
back inside and check whether I’d left anything behind.

I locked the front door, sat in
my car and I drove away. For once and for all, I sat in my car and
I drove away.

But before I left, before I
abandoned purgatory, I had one last thing to see. One last silly
gesture I had to make.

I took a detour via Rose’s
house, hoping, though I knew it unlikely, to glimpse her at home
through her window. Maybe she was still in hospital. Maybe she was
dead. Maybe she was making a cup of tea. I probably would never
know; the chances of me spotting her, catching her in just that
moment, in her front window, were so ridiculously remote.

But I’d run over a ghost girl
only a few weeks ago, so anything was possible.

And despite the odds, she was
there. To my disbelief, I saw her as I panned past in my car. She
was sat by her window, right up against the glass.

She was in a wheelchair, her leg
broken and supported, held up horizontally in its cast. She was
looking out; not at me in my car, but up into the sky, the clouds,
the threatening tumultuous grey.

I wondered what she must be
thinking as I passed. Was she in agony, forlorn because she was
trapped there and unable to see her little girl? Perhaps she was
terrified, frightened of what her angry, destructive child might do
without her to stop her, to calm her.

Perhaps all this was nothing
new. Perhaps she’d tripped and fallen a dozen times, got sick and
been forced into bed time after time with new colds and viruses
brought on by the freezing temperatures. Perhaps each time she
hoped that she wouldn’t make it; that her and her baby would
finally be reunited in death, to walk the storms forever, together.
Maybe that was just her rotten luck, the same odds-defying
misfortune that had taken her daughter from her in the first
place.

Perhaps she feared death,
because they might never be together again. Perhaps she thought
none of those things. Perhaps sodden and ruddy, she just carried on
because that’s the only thing she knew how to do.

I reached the bridge over the
river – I crossed it with surprising ease, as if I never quite
believed I’d ever make it. The clouds kept themselves restrained,
the rain did not fall. My way out was assured; you could leave
purgatory if you still had the strength to do it.

One day I’ll have the guts to
find out; see what happened to old Rose. Find out if she died out
on the hills or tucked up in bed somewhere. Maybe warm and cared
for, probably just alone. This will sound cruel, but I think I’ll
do it one day when I feel at my lowest, to remind myself just how
lucky I am. That whatever lies ahead of me, I can take comfort that
at that moment I was able to escape.

I remember keeping my eyes
firmly on the road as I drove, never allowing them to drift away to
the sides. If she was there watching me as I went, I never saw her.
Thank God, I never saw her again.

CAT LADY

I used to be able to hear her
through the walls. You’d hear her talking to them: “What are you
doing? What have you got there? Are you being good?” You know, like
they were her kids or something.