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- Story Listed as: Fiction For Adults
- Theme: Horror
- Subject: Ghost Stories / Paranormal
- Published: 11/02/2018
Haunting 101
Born 1964, F, from Gordon, ACT, Australia“Mum, have you made lunches for today?” Jordan eyed the mouldy bread on the counter. There was very little in the fridge apart from a couple of six packs of beer, some wizened carrots, and a hard cheese slice that was curling at the edges.
“Dammit, Jordan, do I look like your slave? Do you think I was put on this earth to serve you? Can’t you make your own damn lunch for once?”
“Well, yeah I could. But there’s no food to make it with.”
Margo dug for change in her purse and threw a handful of coins at him just as his stepfather came into the room. “Damn it, Margo, are you giving that boy money again? When I was his age, I went to school AND had a part time job. That boy needs to grow up and learn some responsibility. He’s not gonna do that while you’re just handing him money.”
Jordan tuned him out as he picked up the two dollars and eighty cents from the floor. He figured he could buy a bag of Twisties and maybe swap it for a sandwich at school.
He slung his school bag over his shoulder and hurried out of the house. Well, that was the plan, anyway. His step-brother’s foot appeared out of nowhere and Jordan flew gracelessly for a moment before landing on the floor with his breath knocked out of him.
“HAHAHAHA. HAHAHAHA. Didya enjoy your trip, Superdork?” Ritchie leaned over with his hands on his knees and laughed until he was red in the face.
Jordan picked himself up off the floor and salvaged what dignity he could before limping out of the front door. He could hear his jackass stepbrother behind him advising not to let the door hit his scrawny arse on the way out. Oh well, at least what he lacked in originality, he made up for with a crappy personality.
At lunch, Jordan looked dismally at his little pack of Twisties. No-one wanted to swap lunches with him, so Twisties it was. He looked up as a small group of boys blocked his sunshine. Oh great, just what he needed. Bruno King, ringleader. As stupid as he looked, if not stupider. Carl and Russell Blackwell, two brothers who hung around with Bruno for kicks. Brian Frogg, aka Freddo. For the obvious reason, plus he really looked like a frog with his cunning beady eyes and ugly wide mouth. And Henry Chester, not really a bad kid but one who strongly believed that there was safety in numbers. In this game, you were better off being the predator than the prey.
Bruno knocked Jordan’s packet of Twisties out of his hand and ground the spilled orange twists to dust beneath his boot. Apparently this was hilarious, judging by the sniggering and snorting from the group. Bruno leaned in close. “See you after school, bum-breath.” The boys laughed and wandered away, slapping each other on the back. Great. Just great. No sandwich, not even a pack of Twisties. And the promise of violence after school. This was going to be a long day.
After school, Jordan tried to sneak out without anyone seeing him. No such luck. He rounded the corner of the school, and the five boys materialised in front of him, grinning all over their mean-ugly faces.
Ooooh crappo buggerit! Jordan spun on his heel and ran for it.
He could hear the boys gaining on him as he crashed into the forest, ignoring the trail with a vague plan that if he could just put enough air between then, he could dive under a bush or up a tree and they wouldn’t find him. Branches whipped and scratched his face, and his backpack seemed to grow hands that grabbed at everything he ran past. Without slowing his stride, he quickly shrugged the backpack off and dumped it, survival effortlessly trumping homework.
Jordan heard the faint sound of rushing water, and veered towards the sound. He had the desperately insane notion that if he ran across a stream, the boys would lose his scent.
And there it was! Murky water rolled and bounced sullenly around slimy rocks. It wasn’t too far across, and maybe … just maybe, the gang would lose interest in the pursuit in the face of getting their feet wet.
Without stopping to think about it, Jordan ran straight into the water. His boot slipped on a submerged rock and he plunged forward, striking his head on another rock. Lights flashed in his head, then everything went black. He bobbed up and down in the current, his body slowly spinning in the occasional eddy. His blood washed away in a thin ribbon.
The bullies came to a halt in a cloud of dust and stared glumly at Jordan’s body.
“D’yer think he’s dead?” Henry’s voice shook as he looked at what they had done. “Someone should do something. He might just be unconscious.” He took a tentative step towards the river, but Bruno gripped his arm and pulled him back.
“We don’t want to leave evidence,” he explained. “You know, footprints, fingerprints. It kinda looks like an accident right now, we shouldn’t mess with it.”
Solemn nods all around. The boys carefully backtracked to the trees, scuffing their footprints as they went.
Jordan’s unconsciousness deepened into death as he drowned in the brown river water. Several minutes passed before he finally stood up and gazed with interest at his floating body. Well this was a heck of a development!
He drifted home, glaring at his traitorous backpack as he moved over it. Once home, he passed through the front door, the particles tickling a little as his ectoplasmic form passed through. He hovered in the lounge room, watching his mum and stepdad watch TV. He wondered how long it would be before they missed him.
Upstairs to his room. The door was open. Ritchie was sitting on Jordan’s bed, reading Jordan’s comic books, picking his nose and wiping the boogs on the pages.
Jordan wasn’t sure if ghosts were supposed to feel anger, but he certainly felt a righteous rage sweep through his non-body right then. He drew himself up then blasted forward. “What the hell are you doing in my room??” he yelled. “Get out!”
Ritchie looked up, his finger leaving his right nostril with a faint pop. Jordan wasn’t sure what Ritchie could see, but it must have been pretty disturbing. Ritchie got to his feet and pointed straight at him. “What the hell is wrong with you? WHAT IS WRONG WITH YOU?” His legs failed him and he fell to his knees, crawling out of Jordan’s bedroom as fast as he could shuffle, a wet patch spreading darkly over the crotch of his jeans.
Jordan had a ghostly chuckle to himself before drifting back downstairs, slamming Ritchie’s bedroom door on the way. He had a feeling Ritchie wouldn’t be coming out for a while.
Margo and Terry were still gazing vacantly at the TV, beers in hand, cigarette smoke fogging the room. They didn’t seem to notice him.
What to do, what to do.
As Terry lifted his beer bottle, lips pursed and ready to suck, Jordan swung at the bottle and swept it sideways. Margo jumped and screeched as cold beer foamed in her lap. “Dammit Terry! Why the hell’d you do that? How many damned beers have you had?”
Jordan swung Margo’s arm at Terry, and the rest of the beer cascaded down his dirty white singlet, the bottle smacking smartly into his nose and making his eyes water. Margo sat rigidly still, her eyes widening with shock. She shook her head in denial. “That wasn’t me, Terry. That wasn’t me.”
Terry glared at her through his tears. “Well who the hell was it, then Margo? I don’t see anyone! Do you?” He looked pointedly around the room. “Nope, no ghosts, no-one here but us, Margo.”
Jordan dug into Margo’s purse and showered the pair of them with handfuls of change. The hard coins bounced painfully off their heads, and a couple hit Terry on his sore nose. “What the … what the …”
Oh man, this ghost lark was the best thing that had ever happened to him! And now there was a certain group of boys who needed a little haunting.
It was Friday night, so they were probably cruising around in Bruno’s beaten up old Volvo.
Jordan closed his eyes and imagined them. He could feel himself moving, a sense of air rushing by. He opened his eyes and found himself standing on the roof of Bruno’s car. He could feel the wind buffeting through him without effect.
The car was speeding along a dark stretch of road, they must have been on their way out of town. Jordan poked his head through the roof. Each boy, including the driver, had a beer in hand. Marijuana smoke hung in a thin haze. Empty beer bottles rattled and rolled around on the floor, clinking festively as they collided.
Jordan pulled his head back out of the car. Hehe. This was going to be epic.
He leapt down onto the car bonnet and whirled around to face the startled car occupants. A dangling cigarette fell from Bruno’s open mouth into his lap, and he groped around his private parts trying to find it while staring in disbelief at Jordan’s vengeful spirit.
“BOOGEDA BOOGEDA BOOGEDA,” Jordan screamed joyfully, wiggling his fingers at his white-faced audience. He bounced playfully from foot to foot on the bonnet. “Boogedy boogedy, boys,” he whispered, grimacing and flapping. He imagined his eyes glowing red.
The boys lost it completely. The three in the back were screaming and hugging each other in abject terror. Bruno lifted his hands off the steering wheel, and clapped them over his eyes, screaming soundlessly.
Freddo was riding shotgun, and he grabbed for the wheel. Unfortunately, as well as dramatically relinquishing the role of driver, Bruno had also jammed the accelerator flat to the floor.
The Volvo hit a bump on the road and became airborne, twisting gracefully as it flew… until it hit a large tree and splatted to the ground, a metal concertina that was half the length it was a moment ago.
Jordan had never felt so gloriously satisfied in his entire life.
A dull thump, and the Volvo carcass burst into greasy flames. Jordan wasn’t sure if the warmth he felt was from the Volvo inferno or the satisfaction of a revenge well wreaked.
Five white smoky clouds formed above the wreckage and materialised into five bewildered and very annoyed ghost boys. They turned their wrathful gaze on Jordan.
Ooooh crappo buggerit! Jordan spun on his heel and ran for it.
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