Dystopia: YA Paranormal Adventure Romance (3 page)

On the far side of the room, a swirling grey mist appears which hovers in mid-air like the heat haze over a road on a hot day. Am I seeing things? I blink hard and shake my head, trying to overcome a rising nausea by putting it down to a trick of the light. It's weird.
Horribly weird. As I continue to watch, the luminous grey mist forms into a shape.

A head.

Shoulders.

A body.

Outstretched arms.

A hand… holding a noose.

It starts to move slowly across the room, like it's on rolling castors. I try to wrap my mind around what's happening. Is it all a dream? It can't be; I've got no imagination and I could never dream up something this strange. I shake my head like it isn't real, but knowing that it is. When I try to shout to warn Dad, nothing comes out of my mouth, like when you scream in a nightmare. The figure moves across the room and hovers in front of him. Horror grips me and my stomach drops like I'm falling into a dark abyss. I can still see my dad through the misty shape which means it can only be one thing… a ghost.

Chapter
3

Saturday 14 September 8:47pm

I can feel the pressure swelling my brain. It's as though my mind can't process what it's just witnessed. Stumbling backward, I knock over some empty plant pots and stagger to the gate. A howling wind picks up from nowhere and rattles the window frames violently, but I'm way too scared to look back. I race down the dark passage, underneath the ladder, across the gravel driveway and out through the iron gates.

As I run away from the old house I can vaguely hear Dad shouting after me. Then, out of nowhere, a strong hand grasps my arm. My first instinct is to assum
e that I've been caught by the police for breaking curfew. I swallow a scream as I turn to face a hooded figure with features I recognise.

"You!"
I say at Aaron, the boy who delivered the parcel. "Let go of me, right now!"

I jerk my arm in frustration, but his grip is strong. A black jacket is zipped up to his throat, framing his face in darkness. His eyes are wide and they search for something in mine. If I felt any attraction to him before it's gone
, replaced with boiling anger. I can almost feel the crimson in my eyes growing hotter and I'm sure Aaron can see it too.

"Don't let her leave!" shouts Dad as he emerges from the house.

Aaron looks back to me with a torn expression yet still gripping my arm. I make the decision for him and knee him in the nuts. He lets go instantly and folds at the waist, bent-double. All I know is that I have to get away. I run from the scene, tearing along the streets like a woman possessed. My asthma acts like an anchor, slowing me down, and it feels like my lungs don't have enough room inside my tightening chest. Breathless and shaking, I race into the tube station and fumble to get my ticket into the barrier.

"Hey, slow down there, will you?"

A train guard in a fluorescent jacket walks over and inspects my ticket.

"Are you alright?" he asks. "You look like you've just seen a ghost." If only he knew the truth. "Hey, are you old enough to be out after curfew. Do you have some identification I can see?"

The sound of the next train arriving provides the distraction I need, allowing me to run past him without answering.

I stumble onto the tube train, black spots clustering in the corner of my vision and the strength fading from my limbs. I sit down suddenly and involuntarily; something has to give and my shaking legs get there first. From leaving the old house to getting on the train everything is a blur, like time has frozen. Only now, within the safety of the Underground, does the world seem to wake up and get on with things, like an electric train set at the end of a power cut. As the tube bobs its way through the tunnels, I try to control my breathing and make sense of what I've witnessed. My dad. An old house. A ghost. Surely not?

The empty train passes by closed stations; through the window I see the ghostly impression of figures on the platform. Is it all my imagination? It has to be. My hands are shaking as I
pad my pockets, desperately searching for my inhaler. My breaths become shorter as I feel the rising inner panic. Where's my inhaler? I check my pockets twice before accepting that I've lost it when I need it more than ever. The shock of what I've seen, compounded by all the running, has triggered my asthma.

Being caught for breaking curfew is no longer my biggest concern. I reach for the emergency stop cord, but even before I'm out of my seat I'm struggling to find air. With my next strained breath I'm hyperventilating; inhaling far too quickly to let oxygen into my lungs. I know what's happening; I've read the medical journals. My air passages are constricting. I feel the familiar tightening of my chest. My last bad asthma attack was recent, which means this one will come on faster than usual. I collapse back into the seat in pain. Stop it, I tell myself. Stop it. You have to stop it without the inhaler.
And without Dad.

I go through the emergency action plan, something Dad drilled into me as a young girl. Relax. Give your lungs a chance to recover naturally. I hear Dad's reassuring voice in my mind. If I had my inhaler I'd have taken
several carefully spaced doses… and waited. But I don't have it, so I pull my knees up to take the pressure off my chest and force myself to breathe. Long, steady breaths. After half a minute the pain is worse, not better. The awful realisation sets in; it's too late to stop the attack on my own. Stay calm, take this. A hand reaches down and passes me my inhaler. That's when I realise that the last voice I heard wasn't in my head.

"I'm here," says Dad calmly. "It's okay. Breathe. Come on, you know what to do. Follow my lead, Sash."

He holds my head down at the proper angle, giving my air passages the room they needed to recover.

"Now," he says, taking a single, deep, exaggerated breath.
Then another, his hands on my shoulders, guiding me. Methodically, he counts out the precious breaths, one by one, and I count with him. Finally, he allows me another burst from the inhaler. I look up at him guiltily, knowing I'm in big trouble.

"Not now," he says, reading my thoughts.

Speaking interrupts the rhythm. Lectures will come later, but that doesn't matter at this moment. Together, we focus on breathing. In and out. Gradually. With increasing slowness. And with the rocking motion of the train, I breathe normally again.

Ten silent minutes pass. A middle-aged woman gets on, sits opposite and unfolds a newspaper. The headline reads: "New Theory on Dystopia Day". The press is so highly censored by the government that I don't know why people bother to read newspapers.

The tube train continues to clatter its route through the tunnels to a rhythmic beat. Dad sits next to me, waiting patiently for the right time to speak.

"I'm not angry at you for breaking curfew, Sash."

"That's good," I reply, "because I'm not about to apologise."

He doesn't seem
annoyed at all, more disappointed.

"What exactly did you see back at that old house?"

His words seem laced with regret. I bow my head, not knowing what to say. The train lights flash off, then back on as it seems to pick up speed. No more lies, I decide.

"I saw… everything."

"Sash, whatever you saw back there isn't what you think it is―"

"DAD!"
I shout hoarsely, trying to make myself heard above the terror in my own head. "I was in your attic room, I heard you talking about eliminating targets!"

The woman sitting opposite raises her head from her newspaper. It's not hard to trigger suspicion these days and the penalties for failing to report are severe. Dad smiles awkwardly back at her. He leans close in to me. "Not here, Sash. Wait until we get off."

+ + +

We walk back from the tube station in tense silence. Dad wears a permanent frown as though he carries the weight of the world on his back. Rubbing the bridge of his nose, he seems to be trying to work things out in his head. He still looks like the Dad I've always known. But I don't know him at all. My asthma, and my earlier fear, has passed. N
ow I no longer need the inhaler; I need answers.

"That thing I saw at th
e house — was it really… a ghost?"

I hear myself utter the words and want to laugh. Then cry. My voice is still hoarse; the after-effects of the asthma attack. Dad frowns harder like it's hurting him.

"Okay, Sash, I realise I owe you an explanation."

"Well, was it a ghost or not?" I repeat, thankful for my anger overpowering all other emotions.

He pauses, the kind of pause you take when you're deciding whether or not to share something important.

"Yes. It was."

It's strange how a short affirmation can feel like a blow to the skull. With his stark admission I lose all fury and impatience. In his serious voice my dad has just told me that I'd witnessed a ghost. He waits for me to breathe out, and it's only when I do that I realise I've been holding my breath. When he speaks again, his words are low and serious.

"There is another existence which operates in parallel to what
we know as the "real world". It is a place of paranormal entities and supernatural beings, the like of which most people don't believe in. Sometimes, the two worlds collide, and when that happens, we are called upon."

It feels like Dad has released a trapdoor at the bottom of my mind and let everything I thought was real fall out. I start to feel short of breath again as the revelation works its way into my mind.

"Sash, I'd planned to tell you this one day. You followed me tonight because you want to know the truth, right?"

I nod, still too stunned to speak.

"I belong to a group of people known as The Agency. We each have special skills and heightened senses; we see further, hear louder, feel more than just the objects we touch."

"
So Aaron, the boy who was with you, he's one of them?"

"Yes," replies
Dad. "And he's fine, thanks for asking."

Dad says this with a half smile. I'm sure there's a little pride in there for the way I floored a six foot gym-boy.

"He shouldn't have grabbed me," I say, not seeing the funny side. I take a minute to process my thoughts. My mind conjures up the image of dad in the old house, standing with his palms pressed against the wall; listening and feeling. "So what exactly do you do?"

"We investigate reports of supernatural phenomena, such as ghosts."

Things begin to make sense: the long hours; the dark attic; the secrets. Maybe this is the reason for all the arguments he used to have with Mum.

"What about the game of hangman from your attic?"

Dad looks surprised at my declaration, then shakes his head in self-realisation.

"I suppose that's my fault fo
r leaving the safe box unlocked."

I decide not to correct him. He'd only turn the argument on me; he's the one on trial here. Dad reaches into his coat, takes out the old paper and unfolds it reluctantly. He hesitates, as if unsure whether to tell me any more than he already has. With a resigned sigh, he continues.

"This is something I found during a recent job. Something is trying to communicate with me using this game of hangman. It's a clue, but I can't seem to figure it out. My work with the Hangman Ghost is groundbreaking; nobody at The Agency has ever interacted with a spirit in this way. If only I can fill in the missing letters and crack the code…"

I stare hard at Dad, struggling to believe his words. But after years of secrets and lies, I know that this is the awful truth.

"So you're telling me that you're playing a game of hangman with… a ghost?"

Dad nods casually as though it's the most normal thing in the world.

"But aren't you scared?"

He shakes his head from side to side.

"Always face your fears head on, Sash. Fear only has the power you allow it."

This is his old mantra, but now it makes so much more sense.

"But what happens if you lose the game?"

"I don't know," he replies. "But I only have one guess left so I suppose I'll find out soon."

As we turn the corner onto our street, Dad slows to speak again.

"Sash, I know my job has always come between us, but I'd planned to explain things to you eventually. I'm sorry you found out like this."

"Yeah, me too," I say, far too sarcastically.

"You know, my abilities have been passed down
the family line. We all share a sixth sense, an ability to communicate with the other side. You have it too."

I shake my head in fierce denial.

"I don't think so."

"Yes, you do, you just don't know how to use it yet. I wanted to protect you and let you live a normal life for as long as possible. Now that you know, I can teach you. Maybe one day you can work at The Agency like me."

"No way!" I snap. "I'm not like you, Dad. I don't like the thought of ghosts. I don't even like the dark! Look at me: I'm skinny and weak and riddled with asthma. And as for the idea of having a sixth sense, that's just ridiculous. I struggle with the simple tasks in life, like breathing and homework."

"You do have it, Sash. They'll teach you how to use it at The Agency and—"

"No!"

I cut him off mid-flow. It's too much, too soon and Dad immediately backs down.

"Okay Sash, I understand. You've been through a lot tonight and maybe I'm getting ahead of myself. I need to ask you a favour though. Whatever you decide, all this has to be kept a secret, especially what I told you about the Hangman Ghost. Agreed?"

He holds out a hand to me, the one with the wedding ring I used to turn round and round his finger when I sat on his knee as a child.

"Don't worry; I'll keep your secret safe."

I storm off without taking his hand.

+ + +

I avoid Dad for the whole of Sunday, which isn't hard as he's never about. At least now I know why. We generally keep out of each other's way, only occasionally crossing paths in the kitchen or on the stairs. My first instinct was to feel angry at him, even though I'm not sure why. Maybe I was angry that the world had suddenly become a more complicated place and that I have never known a fraction of the truth about it.