The Mammoth Book of Ghost Stories by Women (Mammoth Books) (31 page)

“Don’t.” The word jumped out, hot and urgent, forced through the lump of ice in Imogen’s chest, and then she ran for the safety of the bathroom. She slammed the door and locked it; then, leaning her head against the cool tiled wall, she began to cry.

But she soon regained control. She wouldn’t risk opening the door, but she spoke through it, yelling at Rachel that she was sorry, but that jerk wasn’t worth it, and couldn’t they please at least
try
to have a civilized conversation? Nothing at all in reply from Rachel, so Imogen took her time about having a shower. She knew her friend was no killer. Give her a few minutes to calm down, and then they’d talk.

When she came out of the bathroom, reeking of strawberry shower gel, the flat was empty. She knew it instantly, could tell from the atmosphere that she was alone, but went through the motions of searching, just in case. The long, sharp knife was back in the wooden block where it belonged. Rachel had gone without leaving a note.

She slept that night on the couch. It was not very comfortable, but she preferred a broken night of restless dozing to the company of the ghosts in her bed. When she woke at three, four, five and six, she phoned Rachel, and left humble, apologetic messages begging her to call back, regardless of the time.

At seven-thirty, as she dressed for work, Rachel’s phone was still switched off. At eight, she rang the landline number, and Andrew picked up.

“Andy, I need to talk to Rachel.”

There was a silence. “Imogen? I thought she was with you.”

She swallowed hard. “She left last night. It was after ten, after her usual train, but there’s a later one, isn’t there? She didn’t say, but I assumed she was going home.”

“What do you mean, she didn’t say?”

“She – she was upset when she left.”

“What was she upset about?”

Her eyes fell on the tiny gold links she’d brought through from the bathroom. “You know her gold necklace? From her nan? It broke.”

“She stormed out because she broke her necklace?”

“There was more to it than that, but it was my fault. I couldn’t get her to stay and talk about it.” Imogen touched one of the links with the tip of a finger, staring across the counter to the wooden knife-block on the far wall of the kitchen, all four black handles sticking out. “She was pretty mad – I was sure she’d go home, but maybe she has another friend she stays with sometimes.”

He didn’t reply.

“Look, if you see her . . . I mean, when she comes in, or calls, would you please ask her to call me?”

“I was going to say the same to you.”

She said a rather awkward goodbye, and then, as she broke the connection, felt the hairs rise on the back of her neck, and knew she was no longer alone.

There had been no sound, and the door had not opened, but even before she turned she knew who was there.

Rachel, looking just as she had the night before: same clothes, same ghastly expression, even the knife in her hand, although there had been no time for her to take it from the kitchen. She could only be a ghost.

Then the small, metallic click of a key in the lock, and the door opened. He came in and shut the door behind him, glaring, holding Rachel’s black-and-silver Nokia, which looked ridiculously tiny in his large hand.

“Why’d you keep calling?” he asked. “You think she’ll forgive you for what you did with me last night?”

She realized then that the murderous look in Rachel’s eyes, and the knife in her hand, had never been meant for
her
. She could only hope, as she sprinted for the kitchen, that her own attempt at self-defence would be more successful.

Nancy Holder

Ghosts moved up and down the aisles of the funeral home chapel. Ghosts of grief, anger, despair.

The ghosts didn’t touch Cody.

What touched him was the cold smell of roses, icy and strangely fleshy. A spray of white roses lay like a sleeping ghost on his mother’s closed casket. Florists chilled their flowers so they wouldn’t rot as fast. It was minus seven degrees outside on the prairie of Minnesota. They should have kept the roses in the graveyard; their outer petals were beginning to brown.

Florists made funeral sprays out of the oldest flowers, the ones that were going to wilt the soonest. Those flowers didn’t have to endure until the last dance. The last dance was already over.

Cody sat with his father in the first pew of the funeral home’s non-confrontational, non-denominational chapel. The pew was cordoned off; there was a golden braided rope connected to a hook at either end, and in addition a rectangular ivory cardboard sign with ‘‘family’’ written in silver capital letters. The family was tiny, just three Magnusens – or there would be three, when Cody’s sister, Elle, got back from talking to the funeral director.

Cody sat beside his father, nervously watching him out of the corner of his eye. His father was very tall and thin, with taut, tanned skin – good Scandinavian genes – and rheumy blue eyes. Cody and Elle were afraid Kenneth Magnusen was going to make a scene. Kenneth had dementia; he wasn’t in his right mind. He did things now he would never have believed himself capable of. Sometimes he yelled. He lost control. But today there was no expression on their father’s face. No tears of grief. Or of anything else.

He was frozen.

Cody’s sister, Elle, had picked the funeral home because it was reasonably priced, there was no flashiness, and the director didn’t try to talk them into extras. “Mom wouldn’t have wanted frills,” Elle had said. Cody had said nothing, although he suspected that his mother would have wanted something more than the basics – a wooden coffin, a few flowers, a service. It was the way of their family not to argue or disagree.

Cody watched his father, and waited for Elle to come back from talking to the funeral director. He was aware of people trickling into the chapel. A quick glance told him it was some of the old ladies who had been his mother’s friends. He could hear their heavy footfalls as they heaved down the centre aisle. His mother had not seemed to know any thin old ladies.

He glanced over his shoulder at them. The organist of the Lutheran church headed the procession, followed by some of the members of the quilt ministry. There were three of them. His mother had stopped attending church three years before. None of the Magnusens knew why, and Cody and Elle hadn’t been going since their teens. It became an issue only when she died, and the siblings weren’t sure if they should ask Pastor Nylund if they could hold her funeral there. Elle had decided that it would cause less of a stir if they kept everything at the funeral home, but invited Pastor Nylund to preside. He had told them that unfortunately he was booked that day.

And also on the next date they tried.

“Kenneth, Cody,” the church organist said in a wilted, sad voice. Cody couldn’t remember her name. “We’re all so sorry for your loss.” The other three women looked sad.

Kenneth Magnusen said in a loud voice, “Let’s turn up the heat. Mom is cold.”

The organist blanched. Cody and Elle had had a long discussion about bringing their father. His dementia had stolen his sense of decorum; it wasn’t so much that they were embarrassed for themselves, but for the man he once had been. He was so unpredictable. But what would people have said if Lucile’s widower had not attended her funeral?

Cody cleared his throat. “Thank you,” he said to the organist.

The ladies looked from him to the coffin, faces drawn, then took their seats.

“Those flowers look terrible. They should get their money back,” one of the women whispered in a loud voice. The others shushed her.

The chapel was tasteful, nothing fussy, and the coffin was closed, as Cody and Elle had requested. Who would have thought that someone who had frozen to death would look so . . . They had decided that painting her up wasn’t appropriate and even though Mr Paulson, the funeral director, had assured them that the make-up would make her look more natural, they had stood firm.

More ladies came into the chapel, and a few men. There were about a dozen, more than he had expected. Cody knew that most of them hadn’t seen his mother around much of late. Her hips had been bothering her. She said the winter had seeped into them, making them ache. They got brittle. She was afraid of falling. She sat in a recliner nearly all day, holding the remote, telling Cody and Elle to bring things to her, take things away. She’d given up on ordering their father around.

“You don’t understand a word I’m saying, do you, Kenneth?” she would snap at him.

“Beg pardon?” he would say. At least, at first. A few months ago. Before the dementia really took hold.

She would sit in the recliner except for when she put on her old work boots and a heavy jacket, and went outside in the dead of night. Neither Cody nor Elle could figure out what she did out there. The chicken eggs were gathered by daylight, and there were no longer any cows to check on. She didn’t even take a flashlight.

It was icy in the chapel, and redolent of roses. Goosebumps ran up and down Cody’s arms. His new button-down shirt and black sports jacket smelled like the plastic bag from the department store. Cody found himself remembering walking into the Lazy Daisy Flower Shop on the night of the prom to pick up Tiffany’s corsage. That was nearly twenty years ago. Tiffany had sent the little wreath of white and yellow flowers from Montreal, where she lived now with her husband and two children.

Tiffany had never told him why she’d broken up with him. Later she had emailed him:

You didn’t even try to stop me.

“Dad,” Elle said. She had come back from the office, and she was standing beside her father, who was sitting at the very end of the inner aisle section of the pew. “Can you scoot over, please?”

Their father didn’t respond. Elle waited another couple of seconds, then huffed and walked the length of the pew, unhooking the golden cord at the far end. She sidestepped and sat down next to Cody.

“Graveside is all set,” she said. She had a funny look on her face. “Mr Paulson told me the weirdest story.” She lowered her voice. “There was a funeral here yesterday. The widow came in before the service to see her husband in his coffin. To see if he looked natural and all.” She hesitated.

Cody nodded, waiting.

“The woman said he looked great. She started to leave. Then she turned back around and looked down at her dead husband. She said, ‘This is for twenty-seven years.’ And she slapped his cheek as hard as she could.”

Cody’s lips parted. “Her
dead
husband? She slapped her dead husband?”

Elle nodded. “Right there in the viewing room.” She pulled out a tissue, and clutched it in her hand.

“That’s so weird,” Cody said. Then he looked at his father, to see what he made of that. His father didn’t react.

Elle didn’t use her tissue. She didn’t cry during the service. None of the Magnusens did. They would never cry in public. There was some sniffling in the other pews. Cody wondered what the old ladies were thinking –
I miss my husband; life is so fleeting; she was such a dear woman. What does she look like?

After the funeral, Cody’s father turned to him. His blue eyes were dry and his eyebrows were very thin and completely white.

“She slapped me,” he said.

Cody flushed. He looked over at Elle, who had not heard.

“OK, Dad,” he said.

“
Hard
.” He nodded slowly. Then he lifted a trembling hand and laid it against Cody’s left cheek. “Right there.”

“What is he saying?” Elle asked.

“I think Dad should skip the graveside,” Cody said. “I’ll take him home and I’ll get everything ready for the reception.”

Elle considered. She was probably wondering what people would think if the deceased’s widower didn’t come to the cemetery.

“He’s old, and there’s snow everywhere,” Cody said.

Elle inclined her head, coming to a decision. “You’re right,” she said. “Take him home. People will understand.”

“I’ll get out the potato salad and the cold cuts,” Cody said.

“We should have had warm food.” Elle put her tissue, still unused, into her purse.

Exhaust fumes from the family Subaru flew out of the car ghost-like. Ghosts of escape, protection. These ghosts clung to the car. Cody’s father had forgotten that he used to be the one who drove. Cody and Elle had waited until it was time to renew Kenneth’s licence, and then quietly destroyed the form. Their father had always obeyed all laws. He would no sooner have driven without a licence than murder someone. Their mother had asked about it for a while, narrowing her eyes at Cody and Elle, making comments about how strange it was that she had called the DVS several times and had been assured that a duplicate form had been sent. Then another duplicate form. Also, that they could renew it online.

Rather than confront the issue head on, Cody and Elle just let each conversation drop. They made a point of driving Lucile everywhere she needed to go. At first, they submitted to an orgy of errands. Church, the beauty parlour, the grocery store, the shop for quilting supplies. Three months into the new regime, she stopped asking after the licence renewal and began encouraging their father to stay home “to get his rest”. He never asked about his licence, not once. Maybe he knew that he had forgotten how to drive. Or maybe he had forgotten that he’d ever known how.