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CHAPTER THE FOURTH
Ryan huffed in exasperation. He was hoping that once he got to someone else everything would be okay.
“Martin! I saw it! With my own eyes! I’ll show you where it was.”
Martin smiled at him as if he was a young child who had suggested that atoms were made of chocolate.
“Nonsense. Ghosts only exist in storybooks for the weak minded. Silly child.”
“Nonsense? “Storybooks?” “Weak minded?” “Silly child?!”
Thought Ryan.
Since when did Martin talk like a shakespearean poet?
He jumped up and grabbed Martin by the arm.
“Oh, Lord! Where, pray tell, are you taking me?”
He said with a strange flourish in his voice.
Ryan felt a surge of bravery rush through his blood.
“I’m taking you to prove to you that this ghost is bloody well real.”
Ignoring Martin’s classical protests, Ryan dragged him into the Archives of the State library.
It wasn’t until he had set foot into the place that he realised he had the same mysterious, pushing feeling at his brain again.
His bravery melted away into fear as he realised he had lost control of his legs, which carried him across the floor, deeper into the archives.
Martin, obviously not wanting to meet a ghost, yanked his arm out of Ryan’s grip and ran away.
“Martin!” Called out Ryan as he took off after him.
Oddly enough, Martin seemed to know exactly where he was going, and before long Ryan had lost him. The echoing footsteps had seemingly been swallowed up.
All he could do was wander around calling.
Ryan was shaking with fear, and his eyes were playing tricks on him. Because of the low light, the weird blobs that form across your eyes looked like monsters and apparitions.
The click-clack of his feet echoed across the empty, deafeningly quiet aisles.
After a while, he noticed the footsteps were out of timing with when his feet touched the ground.
They were much too fast, like he was running instead of walking.
He stopped.
But the footsteps didn’t.
Ryan barely had time to register this before the blackened figure barrelled through a bookshelf, sending it tumbling down a mere few meters from where Ryan was standing.
The malevolent burnt child-ghost rustled its spines and screeched so loudly and sharply it made Ryan’s head throb.
Ryan took off with a bang, followed closely by the ghost.
The chase was horrible beyond words.
Ryan would have been toast instantly if this was a flat out, straight-pathed race so had to constantly to duck and weave and turn.
His head was throbbing.
The sound of the screeching his and the ghost’s feet pummelling the ground became softer and softer.
He turned a corner…
And almost ran smack bang into a wall again.
He whirled around, but it was too late. The ghost was on him.
It grabbed him by the throat and slammed him into the floor.
It raised its sharpened claws…
So this is how I die, thought Ryan.
Not in a car accident, not in a bed, but eaten by a ghost.
He didn’t want his last look on the world to be such a horrifying image, so he tried to look at it in another way.
Look at it in another way.
“Mum, I don’t want to go down there! It’s too dark!”
Said a younger Ryan.
“Try to look at it in another way.” Replied his mother.
“Mum, this uniform looks stupid.” Said a younger Ryan.
“Try to look at it in another way.” Replied his mother.
“Mum, Dad is always annoyed at me.” Said a younger Ryan.
“Try to look at it, err, him, in another way.” Said his mother.
Look at it in another way.
Ryan looked at it in another way. For some reason, he instantly saw a hurt, desolate young boy with red strings coming out of him, flowing into a dark, mysterious force.
The boy turned back into a ghost. Then flickered back into a boy. Then a ghost.
The strange thing was faltering.
It shook and spasmed violently, as if trying to fight something off.
“Go.” It rasped, voice erratic and disturbed.
“GO!” It screeched.
Ryan went.
Ryan huffed in exasperation. He was hoping that once he got to someone else everything would be okay.
“Martin! I saw it! With my own eyes! I’ll show you where it was.”
Martin smiled at him as if he was a young child who had suggested that atoms were made of chocolate.
“Nonsense. Ghosts only exist in storybooks for the weak minded. Silly child.”
“Nonsense? “Storybooks?” “Weak minded?” “Silly child?!”
Thought Ryan.
Since when did Martin talk like a shakespearean poet?
He jumped up and grabbed Martin by the arm.
“Oh, Lord! Where, pray tell, are you taking me?”
He said with a strange flourish in his voice.
Ryan felt a surge of bravery rush through his blood.
“I’m taking you to prove to you that this ghost is bloody well real.”
Ignoring Martin’s classical protests, Ryan dragged him into the Archives of the State library.
It wasn’t until he had set foot into the place that he realised he had the same mysterious, pushing feeling at his brain again.
His bravery melted away into fear as he realised he had lost control of his legs, which carried him across the floor, deeper into the archives.
Martin, obviously not wanting to meet a ghost, yanked his arm out of Ryan’s grip and ran away.
“Martin!” Called out Ryan as he took off after him.
Oddly enough, Martin seemed to know exactly where he was going, and before long Ryan had lost him. The echoing footsteps had seemingly been swallowed up.
All he could do was wander around calling.
Ryan was shaking with fear, and his eyes were playing tricks on him. Because of the low light, the weird blobs that form across your eyes looked like monsters and apparitions.
The click-clack of his feet echoed across the empty, deafeningly quiet aisles.
After a while, he noticed the footsteps were out of timing with when his feet touched the ground.
They were much too fast, like he was running instead of walking.
He stopped.
But the footsteps didn’t.
Ryan barely had time to register this before the blackened figure barrelled through a bookshelf, sending it tumbling down a mere few meters from where Ryan was standing.
The malevolent burnt child-ghost rustled its spines and screeched so loudly and sharply it made Ryan’s head throb.
Ryan took off with a bang, followed closely by the ghost.
The chase was horrible beyond words.
Ryan would have been toast instantly if this was a flat out, straight-pathed race so had to constantly to duck and weave and turn.
His head was throbbing.
The sound of the screeching his and the ghost’s feet pummelling the ground became softer and softer.
He turned a corner…
And almost ran smack bang into a wall again.
He whirled around, but it was too late. The ghost was on him.
It grabbed him by the throat and slammed him into the floor.
It raised its sharpened claws…
So this is how I die, thought Ryan.
Not in a car accident, not in a bed, but eaten by a ghost.
He didn’t want his last look on the world to be such a horrifying image, so he tried to look at it in another way.
Look at it in another way.
“Mum, I don’t want to go down there! It’s too dark!”
Said a younger Ryan.
“Try to look at it in another way.” Replied his mother.
“Mum, this uniform looks stupid.” Said a younger Ryan.
“Try to look at it in another way.” Replied his mother.
“Mum, Dad is always annoyed at me.” Said a younger Ryan.
“Try to look at it, err, him, in another way.” Said his mother.
Look at it in another way.
Ryan looked at it in another way. For some reason, he instantly saw a hurt, desolate young boy with red strings coming out of him, flowing into a dark, mysterious force.
The boy turned back into a ghost. Then flickered back into a boy. Then a ghost.
The strange thing was faltering.
It shook and spasmed violently, as if trying to fight something off.
“Go.” It rasped, voice erratic and disturbed.
“GO!” It screeched.
Ryan went.