“The Ghost’s Story” – An Excerpt

My name is Agatha Cragton. I have been dead since the year eighteen seventy-nine.

I have been a spirit – or “ghost”, if you must – for so long now that my previous life seems somehow detached from me, as if I am viewing the words and deeds of a character in a play and not my own memories. It worries me. I know what happens to spirits that linger too long on the mortal plane. I know that every day I cling on to this world is another day closer to that awful fate. And I know that I cannot escape it until I have found a way to redeem myself for what I have done.

For what I did to George.

I am not even sure if redemption is the true reason I stay. How would I know when my debt is paid? Sometimes I think – and the pain that accompanies the thought lends it credence – that the true reason for my inability to move on is that I am afraid. Afraid that I will meet George again in whatever place lies beyond. Afraid that he will not know me, or will not want to.

It is true to say that I am caught in a trap of my own devising. I try to keep myself occupied by providing what assistance I can to the Custodians, those courageous people who protect humanity from the supernatural world (and vice-versa, of course), though I have avoided returning to my old haunts – no pun intended – in Birmingham. I died in Brackenford and so it is here that I stay, for the most part. Bernard, the town’s current Custodian, is a charming man. He appears to attract waifs and strays, for he has not only me for company but also an ancient and mischievous feline spirit that calls himself Oscar. He resides within the body of a black-and-white tomcat, and in behaviour he is alternately insightful and vexing.

The same could be said of Bernard’s grandson Trevor, if one were to replace the word “insightful” with “infuriating”. Bernard believes that Trevor has a role to play in some momentous event that is approaching. I agree, in that I can feel something stirring, something building inexorably in the background, like the tense, brooding atmosphere that precedes a thunderstorm and sends the animals and birds scurrying for shelter.

What the event will be, I could not guess. I cannot help but suspect that it is something to do with “The Cycle”, which Prescott Ewart raved about in his insanity. He believed that Brackenford was itself significant. It was why he came here, and why he was willing to sacrifice dozens of lives, including his own, to protect its secret.

If there is to be some kind of reckoning here, I cannot imagine what Trevor’s part in it might be. His Sight, that hereditary sensitivity to psychic energy that alights on a chosen few like some peculiar cursed blessing, is unusually strong. That, I cannot deny. However he has shown little interest in using his power for the benefit of his fellow man. He sees responsibility not as something that should be accepted but something that should be dodged, shirked and evaded. He is a typical product of this Godless modern society.

It would seem strange, then, that I should find myself confiding in this man, telling him the story that I have told so very few others. But that is what happened, one freezing December evening.

‘Hello? Granddad?’ said the voice through the letterbox. The doorbell had already rung three times. Unable to answer the door, I had ignored it, but now I recognised the voice as Trevor’s. I made my way to the door and was peering out through the letterbox when he opened it to shout again.

‘Bloody hell!’ he said, startled by my appearance. He believes that I sneak up on him on purpose in order to surprise him, which is untrue. Most of the time.

‘Bernard is out,’ I said. ‘You may let yourself in to wait for him or come back another time.’

‘I’m coming in,’ he said. ‘It’s Baltic out here.’

Bernard keeps a spare key under a rock in the front garden, and Trevor used it to let himself in. A gust of frigid air followed him inside. Without a physical form I do not feel changes in temperature as the living do, though I am still aware of them in some way. The outside air brought with it a few wisps of the ubiquitous psychic energy that all sentient beings shed, as a dog sheds hair. It danced across my senses and I drew it into myself. I need to replenish myself in this manner so that I can maintain a visible presence.

‘Good evening,’ I said to Trevor. ‘Are you well?’

‘Not bad, thanks,’ he said. ‘Temperature’s dropping like a stone out there. Must be below freezing already.’ He unzipped his coat. ‘How are you? Still dead?’

He believes this is funny. He is gravely mistaken. ‘Indeed,’ I replied.

‘So where’s Granddad then?’ he asked. ‘I told him I was coming over tonight to talk to him.’

‘He had to go out on rather short notice,’ I said. ‘A dead werewolf was found at a farm to the west of town.’

‘Why didn’t he let me know?’ Trevor took his portable telephone out of his pocket and examined it. ‘Ah, he did,’ he said. ‘I left it on silent. Bollocks.’

His language is deplorable sometimes. ‘You are welcome to wait for him if you wish.’

‘Might as well,’ he said. ‘His text said that he’d be a couple of hours. I can’t be arsed to walk all the way home just to turn around and come back.’

‘Eloquently put,’ I said. ‘There is food in the refrigerator if you would like something to eat.’

‘Cheers,’ he said, and made his way to the kitchen. ‘So what have you been up to lately?’

‘Little that would be of interest to you, I daresay.’

He gave me a look around the refrigerator door. ‘You always say that. I’m not taking the piss, I’m genuinely interested. What’s day-to-day life like for a ghost? I mean, spirit?’

‘Why do you want to know?’ I said, suspecting him of trying to have some sport at my expense.

‘I can’t get my head round it,’ he said, emerging from the depths of the refrigerator with some cheese and butter and a bottle of beer. ‘Give me a list of things to do in Brackenford when you’re dead. I mean, I’m thirty and I’m bored quite a lot of the time. Can’t imagine what it’s like when you’ve been around for a hundred and… how many years was it?’

‘I prefer not to keep count,’ I replied. ‘I would find it difficult to maintain my cheerful demeanour if I knew the exact number.’

‘I’m sure you put a number on it when we first met,’ Trevor said. ‘A hundred and thirty something, wasn’t it?’

If I had still possessed a face, and blood to colour it, I would have blushed. ‘An approximation,’ I admitted. ‘I was trying to make you understand the depth of my experience.’

‘So you don’t actually know your age?’

‘No. And I do not care to make the calculation.’

‘Right,’ he said, making a futile effort to spread the rock-solid butter on a piece of bread. ‘Back to my first question, then. What have you been up to lately?’

I took a firm hold on my patience. ‘I told you–’

‘I know, I know,’ he said. ‘And I told you that I wasn’t taking the piss. I really am interested. And it’s not like we can kill two hours by talking about the weather. I know we’re British, but that’s pushing it even for us.’

‘Or I could simply leave you to wait alone,’ I said.

‘Ah, well that’s another question,’ he replied. He took a bite of the enormous sandwich that he had constructed and chewed with a thoughtful expression. ‘Where do you go when you disappear?’

He had asked me this question on so many occasions I had lost count. I have to admit that my first inclination was to “disappear” right at that moment and leave him to wait for Bernard on his own, but that would have been childish. I knew that the only way to stop him asking that question was to answer it.

‘Very well,’ I said. ‘There are some things that you have to understand about the existence of a spirit. We do not have freedom of movement, as the living do. We are bound to certain places and certain people.’

‘What does that mean, in practical terms?’ Trevor had settled himself at the kitchen table with his sandwich and was pouring his beer into a glass. ‘You couldn’t go wandering off up the street if you wanted to?’

‘Not alone,’ I said. ‘I could do it if you were to accompany me, though.’

‘How does that work?’

‘It is because you have the Sight,’ I explained. ‘We can appear to people with the Sight if we know who they are and where they are. We can also appear in places to which we have a strong attachment, even without a Sighted person present.’

‘What happens if you try to wander off on your own?’

‘Things become… indistinct,’ I said. ‘It is like walking into a fog that becomes thicker and thicker until nothing is visible. It is frightening. I do not know what would happen if a spirit were to allow themselves to be lost in that fog, but I doubt it would be pleasant.’

‘Creepy,’ he said. ‘So, what sort of places are you “attached” to?’

‘Well, for example I could appear at my childhood home,’ I said. ‘Or the Custodians’ old Midlands headquarters in Edgbaston, where I worked. Or Fields Hall cemetery where our… my grave is.’

‘Your grave’s at Fields Hall?’ Trevor asked. Fields Hall is Brackenford’s largest cemetery, founded in the mid-nineteenth century. ‘And you said “ours” there, before correcting yourself. Who else is buried there?’

I castigated myself for the slip. ‘The others who died when I did.’

‘Did you die in some kind of accident or disaster?’

‘Yes.’

‘What happened?’

‘I was one of the victims of the Brackenford Railway Disaster.’

He dropped his sandwich. Given its size, I was surprised that it did not crack the table. ‘Seriously?’

‘Yes, seriously.’

‘Wow,’ he said. ‘All right, you have to tell me this story. I’ve heard so many rumours and theories about the disaster that I don’t know what’s true and what’s the usual conspiracy-theory bullshit. I’m guessing that the official explanation was a cover-up, though?’

‘Not a cover-up as such,’ I said, wondering how much of the tale to tell him. ‘Just people trying to find an explanation for something they could not understand.’

‘What really happened? All I know for sure is that the rail bridge collapsed while a train was crossing during a storm, and the whole lot went into the river. There were what, thirty-something victims?’

‘Thirty-eight, including myself,’ I said, ‘and my husband, George.’ I had not intended to reveal that detail, but I had been thinking of him and it slipped out.

He dropped his sandwich again. Once more the table remained intact. ‘You were married?’

‘Why do you say that as if you find it surprising?’ I said, irritated by his reaction.

‘Well, I just…’ he stammered. ‘Um, well, you don’t wear a wedding ring.’

‘I’m a spirit. How would I wear a ring?’

‘You know what I mean,’ he said, unwilling to move away from the subject despite my obvious discomfort. ‘The image I see of you is basically your own memory of yourself, isn’t it? So why don’t you have a ring on?’

It was a good question, and one that I had asked myself many times. I had actually tried to make the ring appear on my finger through focused thought. It would not. Something in my mind would not allow it. I knew why. I no longer felt worthy of it. I no longer felt worthy of George. How could I, after what I had done?

‘I did not like to wear it while I was working,’ I lied. ‘I kept it safe at home. That is why it does not appear on my image.’

He shook his head. ‘Never try to bullshit a bullshitter,’ he said. ‘And I’m an estate agent, so bullshit is my stock-in-trade.’

‘I do not know what you mean,’ I said.

‘All right then, how about “pull the other one, it’s got bells on”?’

‘Are you presuming to call me a liar?’ I said, doing all I could to project an aura of affronted dignity.

‘I wouldn’t go that far, although I reckon there’s a ninety-five percent chance that your pants are on fire,’ he said, winking at me over the top of his beer glass. Insufferable man.

I glared at him. Why did he always try to bait me? I had noticed that after the traumatic recent experiences he had been through, in which two people had given their lives to preserve his, he had become more reflective and less flippant, but he still wore his brash, uncouth personality over the top like a disguise. I understood that it was a defence mechanism; he did not want people to get too close to him. As annoying as it was on occasion, I could hardly criticise him for it when I did something very similar. The difference was that I used hauteur rather than vulgarity.

‘If you want to hear the story, I will tell it to you,’ I said, surprising myself. ‘But you must allow me to tell it without interruption or weak attempts at humour.’

‘You must have me confused with someone else,’ he said, adopting an expression of exaggerated hurt.

‘Yes, that is precisely the kind of thing I am talking about.’

He held up a hand in apology. ‘Fair enough. I promise to sit and listen attentively.’ He cleared away his plate and fetched another beer from the refrigerator before returning to his seat.

‘Very well,’ I said. ‘Where would you like me to begin?’

‘I’m interested to know how you were caught up in the Railway Disaster,’ he said. ‘What happened? How come you were on that train? Why were the investigators so baffled afterwards?’

‘I was caught up in the Brackenford Railway Disaster because, in a way, I caused the Brackenford Railway Disaster,’ I said.

And I told him the story.

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