Pryor - Gap Year in Ghost Town

First published by Allen & Unwin in 2017

Copyright Michael Pryor 2017

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording or by any information storage and retrieval system, without prior permission in writing from the publisher. The Australian Copyright Act 1968 (the Act) allows a maximum of one chapter or ten per cent of this book, whichever is the greater, to be photocopied by any educational institution for its educational purposes provided that the educational institution (or body that administers it) has given a remuneration notice to the Copyright Agency (Australia) under the Act.

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Cover and text design by Ruth Grner

Cover illustration by Craig Phillips

Set by Midland Typesetters

To Jacinta di Mase, with many thanks

CONTENTS

Lets get this straight ghosts are everywhere. I can see them. You cant. And, see them or not, theyre dangerous.

This is why my family has hunted ghosts for hundreds of years: to protect people like you.

And dont forget that this whole thing is abso-freakinglutely serious, so whatever you do, dont mention any of those movies. Or sing the song. Especially dont ask me who you gonna call.

Just dont.

As part of a great Try Before You Buy gap year experiment, I was out hunting ghosts one night. I was concentrating on one ghost so hard that I didnt realise another was sneaking up behind me.

The ghost in front of me was a Lingerer. When I first saw it, I thought it was a Weeper, but I was wrong. No tears, no sobbing. It was elderly no surprise there, most ghosts are male, and had those old Victorian clothes on. A bowler hat, a longish coat, high collar and tie. Nice moustache, too, as taches go. Melbourne has plenty of ghosts like this, being a great Victorian-era city.

You pick up a bit of history when you hunt ghosts.

Okay, so details like this would be tricky to make out at night, even on an ordinary living human being. Thats where the benefits of being in the family business come in.

I can see in the dark, as long as Im wearing the family-heirloom pendant that also helps me track down ghosts. Its not as clear as daylight, but its a lot better than those night-vision goggles the military use. The world is made up of greys, blacks and silvers, but hi-def enough for me to get to work.

The Lingerer was skittish, and I was having trouble rounding him up. Anyone watching would have thought I was having some sort of attack, standing all by myself in the darkness of the old Conservatory surrounded by fuchsias, hydrangeas and begonias (I read the signs), waving my arms around like a traffic cop on a really bad day.

The Conservatory is a big, pink, 1930s building in the Fitzroy Gardens near the middle of the city, something like a cross between a wedding cake and an old-style fun palace. Its heated and steamy, good for growing and displaying plants. Lots of windows, including three big arched windows at either end, meant shadows everywhere.

And it smells. Not a bad smell flowers and greenery and damp earth but its all around, wrapping everything like a spongey blanket.

Its good, really, that ordinary people cant see what I can see. Nothing would get done, otherwise. With all the ghosts around, ordinary people would be driven half out of their minds. Me? Im used to it. Ive been raised to be a ghost hunter. Some kids are raised to be doctors, some are raised to be firefighters. Dozens of generations of Marins behind me meant I had no real choice. Its ghost hunting for me, like it or not.

At least, thats the family plan.

This Lingerer was pretty docile, but even so, I was having to work hard to hold him there. I had my arms spread wide, hands extended, as if I was trying to herd him, which I was. I inched forward slowly so I could reach out and touch him. The thing shivered, cowering, tucking his head in and trying to cover it with an arm.

I had to touch him. Thats how I do the easing.

You see, my family doesnt just hunt ghosts. We ease their passage. With a special touch, we release them, let them move on.

Where do they go after we ease them? No idea. Thats for priests and shamans and theoreticians to argue over. We just do what we can to stop their suffering by letting them depart this place. For somewhere better? Lets hope so.

I crept closer, trying to hold the ghost there and stop him from vanishing. Maybe I mightnt have been totally alert. I was pretty new to going solo, after all. I was concentrating, which was meant to be good. I was deeply into the moment, imposing myself on this ghost, preparing to help him on his way also good. The result, though, of all this focus was that I mightnt have been one hundred per cent keeping an eye on my surroundings.

Stay aware of your surroundings, my dad had drummed into me. An unaware ghost hunter is a dead ghost hunter.

Eek.

A noise came from behind, which is always the way with ghosts. It must be in their job description that they cant announce themselves by marching up and waving both hands in your face. Its all noises from behind you, slight gusts of cold air and/or a feeling of impending doom.

It could have been the scuff of a footstep, or a rustle of clothing, but it was enough to make me break off and whirl around.

A ghost was drifting towards me. This one was from the 1920s or 30s the clothes the giveaway again, particularly the hat. She was youngish, though; mid-thirties, maybe? Too young to die, and thats what could have spawned a ghost, and an angry one at that. You see, her demented, furious face told me she was a Rager.

She slapped at me with a clawed hand that had enough substance for me to feel the wind as it barely missed. I yelped and staggered backwards, nearly tripping over the neat brick border of the flower bed. She surged forward, both hands raised, her face a twisted mask underneath a turban-style hat. Her long, sleeveless dress was tattered and streaked with mud. And, Rager that she was, she was mad as hell.

So this Rager lurches at me, full of spite and fury. On top of that, she was giving off the standard ghostly waves of fear. Even though I knew what I was dealing with, I felt the effects. With the first ghost, my heart had already been doing a good gallop, but now it upped its rate to the red zone. I bounced on my toes in classic fight-or-flight adrenaline overdrive, because this ghost was substantial enough to do me some serious damage.

Once ghosts manifest themselves, you see, their one aim is to stay here. When they do, some of them have enough determination, or need, or longing to start gaining solidity. And the more solid they get, the more they can hurt us in a real and physical way.

The Lingerer wasnt a worry. He was a cream puff compared to this newcomer. I had to get in a state to control the Rager; herd her into a corner, calm her down, then get to work on easing her the hell out of here.