The Ghost Sequences Page 5

  Gen turned to look over his shoulder, leaving his phone where it lay. He scrambled back, almost knocking me over.

  “Gen!”

  I reached for him, and he twisted away. Grabbing his phone, I ran after him. At that moment, our parents pulled around the corner. If they saw him running, I would be the one to get in trouble. Gen slowed at the park’s edge, and I caught up. His breath rasped, but he wasn’t having an attack.

  “What happened?” I touched his shoulder, but he shrugged me off, climbing into the car.

  He tucked his fingers in his armpits; goosebumps rose on his skin. I held his phone out and he shoved it into his pack without looking at it.

  “Everything okay?” Mom glanced in the rearview mirror, looking between us.

  Gen’s face was pale, but blotchy with high points of color. He pressed his lips together. I shrugged. Her gaze lingered, doubtful, but she pulled away from the curb.

  That night, I lay awake for a long time, watching the unfamiliar shadows slide across the ceiling of my grandparents’ spare bedroom. I woke to Gen peering over the side of my bunk bed with no memory of falling asleep. I always slept on top, because Gen was afraid of falling off.

  “What’s wrong?” I sat up.

  Gen didn’t answer. I made room for him, and he scrambled up. A nightlight by the door gave off a bluish glow, and orange-tinted streetlights seeped through the window. Gen had been crying. He shoved his phone into my hands, the case damp like he’d been clutching it in sweaty palms. Ghost Hunt! was open to the scrapbook page.

  It took me a moment to recognize the girl from the park. On Gen’s phone, the swing she’d been sitting on hung from one chain, empty. The other chain had been cut, a length of it wrapped around the girl’s throat so she dangled from the crossbar, her bare feet high above the ground.

  “She can’t breathe.” Gen touched his throat.

  I dropped the phone, then picked it up again, stabbing the button to close the app. It didn’t feel like enough. I turned the phone all the way off, and shoved it under the pillow. Then I pulled Gen closer. He shivered against me. I imagined the sound of cold wind and chains, the sound of someone struggling to breathe.

  *

  “We should go to the House at the End of the Street for real and hunt ghosts there,” Holly said.

  Gen drew his knees up against his chest. After what he’d shown me at our grandparents’ house, I’d thought for sure he would stay home when I mentioned going over to the clubhouse. I don’t know why I’d suggested it, why I was still playing Ghost Hunt! when I’d promised him we’d quit.

  I hadn’t even been playing that much since catching the first ghost in the parking lot, but no one else had quit yet, and I didn’t want to be the first. If it wasn’t for Holly, I’m sure Adam would have quit long ago. Same thing with Heather. But there was no way Holly was giving up.

  As for Gen, I don’t know if he was being stubborn, or in some weird way he was trying to shame me into keeping my promise. Surely, if he got scared enough, I would quit, right? Until then, he wouldn’t stop, no matter how miserable he was, which left us in a weird standoff. Every time I didn’t shut the app down, or suggest doing something else, it made me angry at myself, which inevitably turned into being angry at Gen. Why couldn’t I have this one thing? Why’d he have to be such a baby about it? When I wasn’t looking at the pictures on his phone, or hearing the sounds, I could forget how terrible they were. I could convince myself it really was just a game.

  “We should go tonight,” Adam said.

  “Mom and Dad would never let us.” Heather spoke without looking at her sister, but Holly still turned to glare at her.

  “So we don’t tell them.”

  “I know how we could do it,” Gen said.

  As small as the clubhouse was, his voice was almost lost. I stared at him, but he ignored me, looking at Holly and Adam instead.

  “All our houses are on the same security system. If we trick them into doing a maintenance cycle, we can sneak out and our parents won’t know we’re gone. I saw how to do it on the internet.”

  It was simple once I thought about it, but I hadn’t thought about it, and Gen had. How long had he been planning this? Gen finally looked at me. Some trick of the light made his eyes as dark as the ghosts in my scrapbook, a stranger staring back at me.

  *

  Maybe Gen’s asthma made him vulnerable, or maybe it was his night terrors. Maybe being afraid is what let the ghosts in. Martin St. Jean’s wife was afraid. Jenny Holbrook was afraid. Candace Warren was afraid, too.

  Or, what if Candace Warren’s parents did more than just leave bruises one day? What if Jenny’s parents gave her the Ambien because they just couldn’t take her nerves and wanted her to shut up? What if there’s a reason we tell so many stories about ghosts?

  What if we need an excuse.

  Or maybe, Dieu-le-Sauveur really is haunted. Maybe a bad thing happened here long ago, and it keeps happening, and there’s nothing anyone can do to stop it. It’s a comforting thought in its own way.

  Every town has their version of the Starving Man; The Bell Hook Witch; the Weeping Woman; Drip, Drip, Drag. Ghosts have always known how to get inside people’s mouths, using them to tell themselves over and over. Before everyone had smartphones and creepypasta, and Normal Paranormal, they had nursery rhymes, and clapping games, and campfire tales.

  There have always been ghosts.

  And even if there weren’t ghosts, kids would still disappear all the time.

  It’s not my fault. Just because I wanted Gen to quit the game. Just because he got more attention than me because he was sick and small and afraid.

  There’s a reason we want to believe in ghosts. We need them.

  *

  Luke, Adam, Holly, Heather, Gen, and I gathered in the middle of our street and walked together to the cul-de-sac. At the top of the stairs, we turned right. Shadows jittered through a stand of trees, and Heather’s phone pinged. She jumped, but stopped and snapped a picture. I didn’t look at her screen. I didn’t want to see. Holly whispered something in her sister’s ear, and jabbed her with her elbow.

  We kept walking, stopping at the edge of House at the End of the Street’s lawn. The streetlights threw harsh patches of darkness across the empty lot next door. I imagined the Starving Man folded away in one of those patches, waiting.

  The House looked perfectly normal, even in the dark. It was two stories, painted a pale yellow like cold butter, the door and windows edged in white trim. The yard bore a scar where the oak tree had been pulled up, roots and all. The worst thing about the House was that it felt empty—hollow all the way through—the kind of loneliness that goes with a place where no one has lived for years.

  “Well?” Holly nudged Adam. “You’re the leader.”

  Adam didn’t move. I could just make out the willow in the park across the street, its branches swaying even though there was no wind. A glimmer of light showed through the leaves, sparkling and hard-edged, then it was gone.

  “Gen, let’s go.” I caught my brother’s sleeve.

  Gen glared at me, but didn’t move. It was my fault he was here, and he wanted me to know. I wanted to tackle him to the ground like my mother had when he was gripped with a night terror. I wanted him to bloody my nose. It would be easier than admitting I was wrong, saying I was sorry. Gen spun on his heel, brushed past Adam and Holly, and kept walking right up to the House’s front door.

  It shouldn’t have opened, but it did. I can’t remember whether he looked back before he stepped over the threshold, daring me to follow, giving me one last chance to keep my promise.

  From where I stood, it looked like he fell into a solid wall of darkness, visible one moment, then gone. I hesitated; it was only a split second, I’m sure. My chest tightened; my heart kicked against my ribs. I hated Gen for everything he had and hadn’t done, then I loved him again, and I sprinted up the porch steps.

  I caught myself on the doorframe. Musty and sti
ll air greeted me. My upper body leaned inside, while my feet stayed planted outside the door.

  A staircase stretched up to my left; a hallway receded to the right. Doorways opened in either direction, revealing furniture-less rooms. Blank walls, nowhere for Gen to hide.

  I must have shouted his name, because it echoed back to me. I caught a flash of movement, a small face peering over the railing at the top of the stairs, but it wasn’t Gen.

  I took the stairs two at a time, wheezing the way Gen did in the middle of an asthma attack. In room after room, my feet kicked up dust. My footsteps overlapped until it seemed like a whole herd of ghosts running with me. I searched, going through more rooms than the house should have, but Gen wasn’t in any of them.

  Finally, I pulled out my phone. Fumbling, I got Ghost Hunt! open. Nothing. Nothing except green lines briefly skittering across my screen, accompanied by a sound like snow ticking against windows, building up and sealing away the inside like a tomb.

  I shouted Gen’s name over and over, but no one answered me. In the end, I folded myself onto the top step. I wrapped my arms around my legs, my knees pressed against my chest, and struggled to breathe.

  *

  Before we moved away from Dieu-le-Sauveur, before my parents got divorced, one more thing happened. On a rainy day, I crossed through the hedge and knocked on the clubhouse door. Moisture spotted my shirt and dampened my hair. I heard shuffling inside, hesitation, then Luke opened the door. An uncomfortable glance passed around the room like they’d just been talking about me. I didn’t blame them.

  Luke sat back down, and I sat beside him. Holly put away her phone, her expression guilty. I suspected they’d been comparing ghosts like nothing happened.

  No one said anything. It was clear they wished I hadn’t come; everything would be so much easier if I’d just disappeared along with Gen. I didn’t disagree. The truth was, I didn’t know why I was there either. Except it was better than listening to my parents shout or staring at the walls while my eyes stung.

  In that awkward silence, while everyone searched for something to say, my phone pinged.

  I hadn’t opened Ghost Hunt! since Gen disappeared, but the sound was unmistakable—Auto Detect kicking in. It was so quiet I could hear everyone breathing. Then Holly spoke, her voice barely more than a whisper and rough around the edges.

  “Aren’t you going to look?”

  Her eyes were bright, but for once it wasn’t with eagerness. She looked like she regretted her words, but couldn’t stop herself.

  I picked up my phone. Green wavy lines scrolled across the screen. At first, all we could hear was wind blowing and an old house creaking. Then the sound of breathing. Louder than any of us, and getting more strained. Someone struggling, someone running out of air. I thought of Gen touching his throat. I wanted to scramble in his pack for an inhaler that wasn’t there.

  Before I threw my phone against the clubhouse wall. Before it shattered and tears gathered in my eyes and my own breath hitched in response to the terrible noises coming out of my phone, one more thing happened. We heard a voice.

  It was a bare whisper, but I would recognize it anywhere—Gen saying my name.

  The Last Sailing of the “Henry Charles Morgan” in Six Pieces of Scrimshaw (1841)

  1. Sperm whale tooth, lampblack

  The first scene depicted is the whaling ship Henry Charles Morgan, beset by a storm. The waves are stylized curls, the wind traced as spirals battering the masts and tearing the sails. A series of dots arranged diagonally across the image stand in for rain. The lampblack is worked most deeply into the ocean bearing the ship up and tossing it around. The ship itself is second in darkness, with the spirals of wind touched most lightly, giving them a ghostly feel. Spaces of blankness within the waves suggest the presence of hands, shapes of absence rather than definitively carved things. It is possible the artist meant to metaphorically represent the storm, the ocean as a malignant force actively trying to pull the whalers from the ship and cause them to drown.

  2. Sperm whale tooth, red sealing wax

  This piece depicts the immediate aftermath of the storm that struck the Henry Charles Morgan. In contrast to the high, vicious curves of the first piece, the waves here are represented by small triangles with concave sides, indicating the water calmed. The Henry Charles Morgan is clearly damaged, sails limp and torn, the mainmast cracked and listing. Debris lies scattered upon the waves. In the forefront, two human figures float face down. A third figure hangs limply from a rope secured around his chest and under his arms as three of his fellows haul him back aboard. The artist took care to include the minute detail of water dripping from the man’s toes. Again, the absence-marked shape of a hand is suggested, reaching after the half-drowned man as he is pulled from the sea. Perhaps this is meant to represent the sea’s jealousy, and its unsated hunger, despite the lives already claimed. The red hue of the sealing wax calls to mind waves darkened by blood.

  3. Right whale baleen

  The third piece shows the Henry Charles Morgan repaired, but becalmed. The water is not depicted at all, the absence of waves underscoring the utter stillness. The natural arc of the baleen is used to good effect, suggesting the vast sweep of sky above the ship. The artist has taken care to illuminate the scene with a scatter of stars etched into the baleen, and the faintest crescent of a moon. It seems likely the choice of material for this particular piece was made specifically to represent a scene taking place at night.

  In the midst of the becalmed sea, the Henry Charles Morgan lies still, yet motion is suggested in a singular figure, scaling the ship’s hull. The figure is shown from the waist up only, legs swallowed by the invisible water. The arm muscles stand out with the effort of the climb, while the tips of the fingers taper to points fine enough to suggest claws sunk into the wood. A faint pattern of scales, so slightly drawn it might be missed, covers the skin. Ropes of wet hair hang over the figure’s shoulders. Seen only from behind, the figure’s sex is indeterminate.

  To stretch the metaphor applied to the earlier pieces, here the artist gives physical form to the whalers’ anxiety. Even though their ship has been repaired, they cannot leave. The sea still has a grip on them, creeping up the very boards, intent on doing them harm.

  4. Three joined Right whale vertebrae (collectively known as the vertebrae triptych), verdigris

  Even though three separate scenes are depicted on each of the three bones, the piece, taken together, is counted as one entry in the series. The first bone shows a group of three men. One holds a lantern aloft, and finely drawn rays of light illuminate a fourth figure, crouched in front of them. It is reasonable to assume this is the same figure depicted on the baleen climbing the ship.

  The figure is shown in profile, the sex still indeterminate, with much of the body hidden behind a wet mass of hair. The features in evidence are thin haunches, accentuated by the crouched position; jutting hipbones; wiry arms, the muscles still in evidence though less defined; and fingers splayed upon the deck to show a hint of webbing between each. The figure is poised to spring.

  The expressions on the faces of the three whalers are, if not identical, at least similar. Each clearly shows a man frozen in his own private moment of surprise, terror, or disgust.

  The second vertebrae shows the moment after an attack. The lantern lies on its side, projecting rays of light upward. The man holding it now clutches his face. The darkness of his hands is emphasized, suggesting blood from a wound he is trying to staunch. The other two men are sketched more lightly, having withdrawn a pace, and putting their wounded fellow between themselves and the creature. The creature itself now crouches on the opposite side of the men, as though it leapt clear over their heads, tearing at the face of the man formerly holding the lantern as it passed.

  The third and final vertebrae shows four men holding the creature restrained. Impressionistic lines—like the ghost outlines of hands reaching up for the ship—cloud the background suggesting all hands on d
eck after being raised by an alarm. The creature’s arms are pinned behind its back; the taut lines of its body imply motion, a struggle. At last, the creature can be seen head-on. The chest is flat, faint contours marking a dip inward at the waist. No sexual organs are in evidence, although this may be a choice of modesty on the part of the artist, rather than a factual report. Diagonal slashes heavily darkened with verdigris suggest gills along the creature’s sides, or the extreme protrusion of its ribs. Its mouth is open, revealing rows of needle-like teeth.

  Aside from the creature, the clearest figure in the third piece of the triptych is the captain, marked by the fine cut of his clothes. He stands apart from his men, elevated on the forecastle deck while the crew holds the creature on the main deck. A concentration of verdigris suggests the captain’s face is largely in shadow, with stark contrast given to the whiteness of his eyes. The ultimate effect is a staring expression, the roundness of his gaze foreshadowing mania, or obsession, as it fixes firmly upon the creature.

  It is in the vertebrae triptych that the allegory of the sea’s hunger begins to break down. The details are extremely specific. Perhaps the artist chose to give the capricious cruelty of storm and sea a concrete and monstrous form. Or perhaps an inhuman being actually crawled from the sea and onto the deck of the ship. No written records from the Henry Charles Morgan remain to support either position.

  5. Walrus tusk, India ink

  The length of this piece measures twenty inches, the entirety of it carved from base to tip. The scene is a rolling one, composed of several moments in time marked by the phases of the moon etched in miniature above each instance. The work is extremely delicate, yet rich in detail. In total, the events depicted cover a span of just over a month.