December: Christmas Ghost Story

The car shakes us as it travels over gravel. I watch the bushes at the side of the road. My head is against the glass of the window. The seatbelt is at my neck. The bushes have spiky leaves in yellow, light green, dark green. We pass a set of bushes with fuzzy red berries, long spindles of branches. ‘What are they?’ I turn to ask Martha. She doesn’t look away from the road.

‘Just bushes,’ she says.

The house at the end of the drive rises. Its white columns are like the bones of another house, a house that has long ago withered into this one. It’s a sun bleached carcass of a house. Martha’d said that she’d found it last minute. That the reviews were good. That the pictures were good. We’d spend a few days here then head up to meet the others at the mountain lodge. My ex was going to be there, at the lodge. Christmas isn’t the right time to break this to her, we both think that, so we’re stealing a few extra days stolen before we have to be just friends.

‘Spooky house,’ I say.

Martha shrugs as she pulls our bags from the boot. ‘You think everything in the countryside is spooky.’

‘Bring me to a city,’ I say, ‘I’ll be happy.’

‘New York next year then,’ she says, slapping my arse. ‘Here, help me with the keys.’

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March: ghost story attempt

She showed up in a taxi. The sort that trawl the train station picking up tourists and children making brief prodigal returns. She took from the taxi a re-purposed cardboard box. Its four flaps were folded closed rather than taped shut. Her only other luggage was a hard plastic case on wheels.

She introduced herself to the receptionist as Shona Omara. The receptionist, who was also the proprietress Mrs Headle, told her how to find her room.

Shona pulled her case up three flights of carpeted stairs to the third floor. Along the walls of the staircase Shona noticed scuff marks, presumably made by other guests dragging their own luggage. She made a second trip to the lobby to collect the cardboard box.
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August: Attempt at modern folk tale

The third child of the third daughter fell asleep beside a lake at the edge of a forest. Although the woods were ancient, thick and dark, the third child wasn’t afraid. As soon as night came she fell asleep just as she always had.

The spirit that lived on the edge of the lake and that carried the memory of the old world within it saw the third child sleeping, and without hesitation ate her.

Hiroshige

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February: Sighting

I saw you from the top deck of the 243. I was with Marianne. We were going to see a film. I don’t remember which one. This is what I remember: seeing you. In fact I see you a lot in crowds, coming towards me along an underground platform, turning into a supermarket aisle. But this time it was really You and not just a shadow in a stranger’s face. I am used to the mirage of you.

Louise Brooks

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November: Mick

Maybe you wouldn’t expect so, but Mick remembers breathing. He remembers the little noise his lip made when they’d part, and the rise of his chest, and his lungs filling. He remembers the little temperature change in his nostrils when they’d suck in new air, and the baby-turbulence at the roof of his mouth when he’d breathe out.

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April: Night Visit

Reenie goes downstairs in the muffled silence of the night. She finds that the glass door into the living room is slightly ajar, and that’s how she knows that Mick has been through. He could never stay in bed; it’s no surprise that now he’s dead he’s a restless spirit.

urban fox by everything is permuted on flickr

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February: Night Bus

Last night winter pressed us onto the night bus. It wasn’t much warmer on board. We took up the back rows of the top deck, pretty much the only people up there. Frosted fingers of February air poked us in the ribs. Sophie’s toes were numb. Lisa slapped her hands together and breathed aggressive blasts of body heat into her gloved fists. Walker put his arms around Kerry and rubbed his hands on her shoulders. Their puffa jackets got crushed together. Hughsie flicked his lighter on and off. It wasn’t effective in warming him or any of the rest of us, but it looked good. Shell and a couple of the others had kebab remains in paper with them. The cold got to the food before we did. The smell of the strips of meat filled the top deck, making unsubstantiated promises of hunger sated, inner warmth attained.


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