right?”
“Based on a real person,” I add.
“So, what, you’re trawling a graveyard checking out dead people?”
“Pretty much.”
“Hon, we live in the
online
age. We can do research without even getting out of bed! I’ve got my laptop here—I’ll
prove
it.”
I sigh. “It’s not the same.”
“Here we go. Online obituaries. Ooh, how about Rita ‘Margarita’ Chevalier: ‘She lived life like her cocktails—bubbly and full to the brim!’ Sounds like my kind of lady! Or how about Gemma Fotherington. Born 1998— Shit. She was really young.”
I stop still. “How’d she die?”
Vix hesitates. “She was killed.”
My skin turns cold. “Killed?”
“Yup. House fire.”
“Oh!” I blink. “Oh, I thought you meant—”
“What?
Murdered?
” Vix says. “That’d make a
much
better ghost story—a spirit out for revenge on her killer.”
“Who else is there?” I ask quickly.
“Um... Harold Booth? Butcher killed by a runaway bull.” She laughs. “How ironic!”
“Vix, these are real people!” I snap suddenly, my temper flaring from nowhere. “They’re dead. It’s not a joke.”
“I know—sorry.” Vix sounds stricken. “I didn’t mean anything, Lou, I just—I’m sorry.”
“It’s fine. Look, I’ve got to go, I’ve got a call waiting,” I lie.
“Okay. Well, see you later, then?”
“I’m working till four,” I say. “Bye.”
I hang up swiftly, shocked by my outburst. I need to get a grip. Vix doesn’t know what happened, after all—at least, she doesn’t know it happened to my family. I shouldn’t be so sensitive. I could ruin everything.
I take deep breaths, trying to calm down as I glance at the gravestones rising like statues around me. My eyes flicker over the dates and names and inscriptions.
This is where we all end up, one way or another.
Some of the stones look new, their edges sharp and clean, almost shiny, while others have ancient dates which are barely visible, worn clean by time’s indiscriminate hand. Like everything else.
The gravel crunches behind me and I turn as an old lady walks slowly past. She stops by a headstone and I can just make out the inscription.
John Fielding, beloved husband, father, and grandfather.
Gently, she lays a bunch of flowers on the grave and arranges them carefully, lovingly.
Where are they now, these people who lived and loved? Are their souls up there somewhere, in heaven? Or floating around invisibly on earth?
Are Mum and Dad watching me right now?
I hug my jacket tighter round me, cold suddenly, despite the morning sunshine.
Would they be proud of me? Of the person I’ve become? Of what I’m doing? Or would they be disappointed?
I shiver as a breeze rustles through the trees; then I pull out my notebook. But instead of a ghost story, a letter pours out:
Dear Uncle Jim,
I miss you so much.
We’re writing ghost stories this week, and all I can think about is how we all used to lie out in the back garden together in the summer, the grass soft beneath our heads as we watched the stars prickle the darkening sky, our smiles sticky with ketchup and melted ice cream. Do you remember? You told me that stars were the holes in heaven where the angels look down on us. That Mum and Dad were up there watching over me. It made me feel safe.
But now everything’s changed—and I feel like it’s all my fault. I’m so sorry.
I wish more than anything I could turn back the clock, that we could all be together again, go back to those summers—I thought they’d last forever. But now I know that nothing does.
What if Mum and Dad aren’t watching over me? What if there are no ghosts? Or heaven, or hell, or judgment day or reincarnation or anything else?
What if there’s just nothing?
What if this is all we get—a few years to live our lives the best we can, whether young or old, saint or murderer...
“Louise?”
I whip round, startled, dropping my notebook in the mud.
“I’m so sorry!” Christian cries,
“Based on a real person,” I add.
“So, what, you’re trawling a graveyard checking out dead people?”
“Pretty much.”
“Hon, we live in the
online
age. We can do research without even getting out of bed! I’ve got my laptop here—I’ll
prove
it.”
I sigh. “It’s not the same.”
“Here we go. Online obituaries. Ooh, how about Rita ‘Margarita’ Chevalier: ‘She lived life like her cocktails—bubbly and full to the brim!’ Sounds like my kind of lady! Or how about Gemma Fotherington. Born 1998— Shit. She was really young.”
I stop still. “How’d she die?”
Vix hesitates. “She was killed.”
My skin turns cold. “Killed?”
“Yup. House fire.”
“Oh!” I blink. “Oh, I thought you meant—”
“What?
Murdered?
” Vix says. “That’d make a
much
better ghost story—a spirit out for revenge on her killer.”
“Who else is there?” I ask quickly.
“Um... Harold Booth? Butcher killed by a runaway bull.” She laughs. “How ironic!”
“Vix, these are real people!” I snap suddenly, my temper flaring from nowhere. “They’re dead. It’s not a joke.”
“I know—sorry.” Vix sounds stricken. “I didn’t mean anything, Lou, I just—I’m sorry.”
“It’s fine. Look, I’ve got to go, I’ve got a call waiting,” I lie.
“Okay. Well, see you later, then?”
“I’m working till four,” I say. “Bye.”
I hang up swiftly, shocked by my outburst. I need to get a grip. Vix doesn’t know what happened, after all—at least, she doesn’t know it happened to my family. I shouldn’t be so sensitive. I could ruin everything.
I take deep breaths, trying to calm down as I glance at the gravestones rising like statues around me. My eyes flicker over the dates and names and inscriptions.
This is where we all end up, one way or another.
Some of the stones look new, their edges sharp and clean, almost shiny, while others have ancient dates which are barely visible, worn clean by time’s indiscriminate hand. Like everything else.
The gravel crunches behind me and I turn as an old lady walks slowly past. She stops by a headstone and I can just make out the inscription.
John Fielding, beloved husband, father, and grandfather.
Gently, she lays a bunch of flowers on the grave and arranges them carefully, lovingly.
Where are they now, these people who lived and loved? Are their souls up there somewhere, in heaven? Or floating around invisibly on earth?
Are Mum and Dad watching me right now?
I hug my jacket tighter round me, cold suddenly, despite the morning sunshine.
Would they be proud of me? Of the person I’ve become? Of what I’m doing? Or would they be disappointed?
I shiver as a breeze rustles through the trees; then I pull out my notebook. But instead of a ghost story, a letter pours out:
Dear Uncle Jim,
I miss you so much.
We’re writing ghost stories this week, and all I can think about is how we all used to lie out in the back garden together in the summer, the grass soft beneath our heads as we watched the stars prickle the darkening sky, our smiles sticky with ketchup and melted ice cream. Do you remember? You told me that stars were the holes in heaven where the angels look down on us. That Mum and Dad were up there watching over me. It made me feel safe.
But now everything’s changed—and I feel like it’s all my fault. I’m so sorry.
I wish more than anything I could turn back the clock, that we could all be together again, go back to those summers—I thought they’d last forever. But now I know that nothing does.
What if Mum and Dad aren’t watching over me? What if there are no ghosts? Or heaven, or hell, or judgment day or reincarnation or anything else?
What if there’s just nothing?
What if this is all we get—a few years to live our lives the best we can, whether young or old, saint or murderer...
“Louise?”
I whip round, startled, dropping my notebook in the mud.
“I’m so sorry!” Christian cries,
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