An unfinished short story

The Ghost

As a child I never believed in ghosts or had my mother check for the boogie man looming in the darkness of bedroom wardrobes. I guess you could say my parents were the kind to throw me in the deep end first, and my brother was the one to show me the size of the snake the dog had caught or how a huntsmen could still walk after he removed three of its legs. Growing up in the sticks I learned quickly that if it had teeth or it was sharp it could hurt you, and if it had sharp teeth it could probably kill you. I held no capacity for the imaginary or afterlife. To me it was, after all, imaginary; it had no substance, and it had nothing that could hurt you. But on this one Saturday night in Brisbane’s city the idea of ghosts became something to think about for me.

On this one night ghosts grew teeth – long, shiny, sharp teeth.

I was eighteen and summer swallowed everything that was not inside a building: the gum splayed concrete streets still held heat from the sun; a hot haze encroached on sapphire street lights and the perfume of passer-bys was a sticky smell of sex that was deadly alluring for naive creatures such as my two friends and I. The night was young and alive with activity. A bright sense of hope fluttered in the eyes of youths who seemed to speak in every pitch possible and all in the one sentence as they glided sprightly past us on our journey. We were amped up at the possibility of easy girls at the next target across town. With free entry cards in hand our bawdy sounds were quietened when one of us slowed, stoped a short distance behind and looked towards his right. Nickolas Brighton stood as if distracted by a sound or movement within the distance of his gaze, his long fringe whipping infrequently in the night’s hot breeze, his leather jacket (he always wore a jacket no matter how hot) draped down over his skinny shoulders like a cape.

‘Let’s get a move on hey,’ I demanded.

‘Come ere a minute.’

The second of us – Sebastian Devon – stalked over with the long towering gait of a youth with too much height and too little bulk, and I followed reluctantly, frustrated about losing time I could spend on chicks.

‘Here that?’ Nick continued.

I glanced disconcertingly at Seb who raised his eyebrows high, giving me a look that suggested Nick may have popped early. But we always did it together; he knew that. If someone did it on his own it was considered as rude as someone who didn’t chink their glass with yours while adding a mild but manly “Cheers!” on the first round. It would have been close to the top of the Clubbing Code for certs, if there ever was such a code.

He swayed a little, and then focused, ignoring our stoicalness. He appeared determined, even malevolent as he said:

‘Yous believe in ghosts?’

With his hands shaking from the excessive amount of vices he consumed daily Nick lit a cigarette and sucked greedily on the caramel coloured tip. His glazed eyes spoke ominously to me from behind the smoke swirling up past his face as he grinned wickedly. ‘Ghosts?’ Seb chided from beside me.

‘Yeah just down those stairs there’s a little girl that lives in this shop.’

A small silence fell between us as I pondered what joke was brewing, and yet Nicks eyes remained transfixed on me.

‘You should have a look,’ he said, nodding towards a stair well behind me. The stairs went down and underneath a large balcony of a high rise, and I wondered if any light would reach down there during the day. The building’s bare concrete parapet walls had a filthy black tinge of grim on them, and it had no lights on, suggesting it was either residential or an unused office block. It emerged from the sky like a portal into space, and seemed a deathly guardian for whatever dwelled in its interior. For a small moment I was bereft of my senses as I stared at it.

‘What’s down there?’ Seb asked eventually.

‘Just an art store and a newsagency I think.’

‘Crap! Ghosts! How many have you had, you drunk!?’ I suddenly scoffed.

‘Look shithead, if you don’t believe me you go down. Simple.’

I looked back at the stairs. Head height retaining walls made a small corridor to the top, and held a garden of pine chips and palm trees behind them. They were clad with black and yellow pebbles, faded from the harsh elements of time, giving them a morbid air. I was offended by Nick’s certainty and wanted to prove him wrong out of my hatred for the world’s imaginary believers.

‘Fuck it. I’ll go.’

‘But, don’t stay ok,’ Nick said as his eyes softened with concern, and it infuriated me more than I thought was possible.

‘Why?’

Yes, and why do you look so confident, you smug basted?

‘Because . . .’ he sucked on his cigarette until its life finally gave way and crumpled to its death. He released the smoke from his lips, and flicked the cancer stick to the gutter where it would eventually join the others in the rain.

‘Because I’m not going down there if something happens.’

‘Like what?’

He said nothing, only looked at me blankly as if remembering.

‘Hey, maybe she’s an arty ghost. Like, paints little portraits on her victims after she kills em.’

‘Shut up Seb.’ I said bluntly, and Seb shut up. ‘Like what Nick? Something gonna get me?’

‘Ah . . . look, let’s just go, forget it,’ he said.

‘No. I said I’m going and I’ll show yous it’s all horse shit.’

I started striding over to the stairs when my anger was quelled by the vision of the entrance, and I approached more cautiously.