What would you do if you saw a ghost? Would you ignore it hoping it would just fade
away? Would you go up to it and see if it needed your help? Would you even know you were
actually seeing a ghost? Because not all ghosts walk around moaning and groaning, wearing
old-fashioned clothes, carrying their head tucked underneath their arm, you know. Mostly
ghosts think that is a rather out-of-date thing to do, and those few who still do it, only do
because it’s become a kind of ironic trademark: a silent self-amusement.
Most people don’t know exactly what a ghost is, and if you’re one of them don’t worry;
it’s not the sort of thing they teach in schools, nor is it the kind of thing parents usually sit
their children down and talk about. People don’t like to think too much about it. It kind of
creeps them out. Not me. I know a lot about ghosts. Let me fill you in.
When the human body dies, the soul leaves it. How does it do this? Well I’m not entirely
sure but there are several theories; maybe it comes out of the nose or mouth, or perhaps it
seeps out of the skin though the skin pores like sweat – it’s not really important; it’s just
important that you know that it gets out. When it’s out it then travels to the other side, which
has lots of different names, (none of them wrong). They exist like the countries of this world.
Sometimes however, a soul is reluctant to travel into that strange and wondrous world of the
afterlife and instead it stays here, in the world of the living, and these are the poor souls we
call ghosts.
And I see them. Everywhere.
Yeah, I bet you’re thinking I’m a bit crazy and all that – but it’s true, it really is. It’s just
the way that I was made, so to me it’s a little bit crazy that you don’t see ghosts. Let me tell
you a little more and then maybe you’ll understand.
You see, a soul is made up of energy, and it looks exactly like the person when they’re
alive. Sometimes you can see through them, which can be a little bit creepy, but this is just
because their energy is low and they can’t show themselves properly. A soul will never fade
away completely, they’re like a pulsing star, shining strong and bright at times and then pale
and wisp-like at others, or if that isn’t clear enough, imagine that a ghost is a radio station
(now bear with me on this one) Imagine a radio station emitting signals into the world. You
can only hear the music clearly if you’re tuned in rightly.
There are people who will catch glimpses, blurry figures that are seen just out of the
corner of the eye, and then there are those who see ghosts and spirits all the time. These
people give off a light, like a candle in a dimly lit room. Ghosts, spirits, and others who
belong to the supernatural and paranormal world can see this and they call it The Glow.
2
If people were asked to describe Megan Webb, they would say that she didn’t look very
special, which was a surprise being that her parents were both very attractive, special looking
people. Her dad, Dr. Theodore Webb, a medical doctor, was a tall and incredibly handsome
man, with black grey-streaked hair and a face that looked more at home on the cover of a
fashion magazine than a hospital ward specialising in general medicine; even if it was at the
best hospital in London. Her Mum, Cheryl Webb was also very beautiful. She looked very
much how you’d imagine a fairy-tale princess to look, and if this wasn’t glamorous enough
she had also once owned her own shop where she sold dresses that she had designed herself;
that was until her youngest child was born and she gave up work to look after him.
Megan was tall and thin, with chestnut hair that had the habit of sticking up all over the
place, no matter how many times she brushed it. Megan always looked pale and drawn. On a
good day you could say she was a plain child.
It wasn’t until she was thirteen years old that her life as she knew it changed forever.
She’d always sort of known that everyone had something special about them; maybe
something big that the whole world could see or something so small that only their family
and friends could see it. Megan believed the thing that made her special was her art. Whether
she was using paint or clay, she was pretty good – maybe even good enough that her work
would go into a gallery one day. She had no idea that she was special in ways she hadn’t even
thought of.
The day Megan’s life began to change hadn’t been a particularly good one.
It had started that morning when she’d discovered (only after she’d poured it all over her
cereal) that the milk had gone off. Her alternative breakfast plan of toast had failed when it
burned and set off the fire alarm. It was at this point she conceded defeat against the clock,
because she’d already overslept due to pulling a late-nighter doing the homework she’d
forgotten was due in the morning (on pain of death). All of this meant that she wasn’t in the
best of moods when she got into school. She found it almost impossible to concentrate on her
English work, couldn’t make any sense of Maths, and got smacked in the face in P.E. with a
football (All before the lunch bell had even sounded) The day was finished off beautifully by
Mathew Den throwing her schoolbag up onto the school roof. Who would have thought that
the boy had such an amazing throw? He could make a serious career of being a shot-putter;
he was certainly built like one. Megan had to wait almost an hour for the school caretaker, Mr
Brown, (a man who clearly didn’t like children) to get her bag down for her. He spent the
whole time moaning at her as if it had been her that had made the decision to just go ahead
and throw her bag onto the roof.
Megan was glad when she got through the front door of her house so that she could kick
off her shoes and take a breather. She smiled at the sound of muffled voices coming from the
kitchen and the warm, welcoming smell of home-cooking. She walked through the hall and
pushed the kitchen door open. Tyler, her baby brother, beamed as soon as he saw her and
opened his arms wide. He looked so much smaller than other two-year-olds she had seen; he
had the face of a cherub, with big blue eyes far too big for his face, and blonde curly hair. She
kissed him gently on the cheek, and then looked at her Mum who was taking some cakes out
of the oven. Hearing her daughter, she turned and smiled. Megan noted how every kitchen
surface was covered in cakes, biscuits and buns, and she felt her heart sink. Whenever Mum
was really worried about something, she would bake – a lot. The last time there had been so
much baking, Mum had been building up to tell her that her cat Whiskers had to go and live
with Nan and Granddad because his fur wasn’t good for Tyler’s asthma.
Megan remembered all too clearly what it looked like when Tyler had had his last
asthma attack. His lips and fingernails had gone blue, he’d wheezed and coughed, and
couldn’t catch his breath; his inhaler seemed to take an age to work. Megan had felt like the
entire world was ending. She couldn’t stop crying and as her Mum screamed down the phone
to tell the ambulance to hurry up or her son would die, she felt as if she were about to throw
up.
Megan loved Whiskers but she loved her brother more; she never wanted to see Tyler
suffer like that again so she made no fuss when Whiskers left. Three weeks after the
rehoming he was ran over and killed. Megan couldn’t help thinking he’d been trying to make
his way home to her.
“Hello darling,” Cheryl said, breaking Megan’s thoughts. “Had a good day?”
Megan knew it was best to tackle what was bothering her Mum head-on and get it out of
the way – like a plaster covering a scraped knee it was better to rip it off quickly than peel it
off slowly. She took a deep breath and asked, “What’s up Mum?”
Cheryl carefully placed the cakes onto a cooling rack before giving Megan her full
attention. “I’ve got sad news about Great Aunt Betty,” she said.
Great Aunt Betty was her paternal grandmother’s sister, who wasn’t anything like
Megan’s quietly spoken grandmother. Like clockwork, Great Aunt Betty visited at Christmas
and birthdays inevitably bringing garish hand-knitted socks or gloves for presents. She was a
stout woman, with a face like a bull dog; her grey hair scraped back into a tight ponytail that
made Megan’s head hurt just by looking at it. She smelt of cigarettes and coffee and always
laughed loudly at her own jokes. The last time Megan had seen her was at Granny’s eightieth
birthday party. She had poked her fingers (which had long garishly coloured nails) hard into
Megan’s ribs and exclaimed, “Bloomin' heck! Look at the state of you! All we have to do is
put you in the corner, bung a lampshade on your head, and no one would know you were in
the room.”
She’d then thrown her head back and roared with laughter. The word ‘bitch’ sprang into
Megan’s mind and she had to bite down on her tongue to stop it springing out. She grimaced
at the pain in her ribs and the wicked old woman rolled her eyes, muttering something about
how Megan didn’t have a sense of humour.
That’s when Megan’s Dad stepped in and said that Megan had a wonderful sense of
humour and there wasn’t anything wrong with his daughter’s physical shape. Great Aunt
Betty sulked for the rest of the party.
“She died,” Cheryl said as casually as possible, still fiddling with the cakes.
“Oh,” Megan said flatly. She didn’t know quite what else to say. She knew that normally
when a member of your family died you were meant to feel sad, but she didn’t; she really
hoped that didn’t mean she was a bad person. She turned her attention to the relatives that she
did have affection for. “Are Dad and Granny okay?”
“Of course Gran’s upset,” Cheryl replied, “after all, Betty was her sister; she’s bound to
feel the loss.”
Megan often wondered why when someone died people called it “a loss.” Surely, when
you lost something you didn’t know where it was. Most of the time when someone died you
knew where they were – unless they’d died in a war, like Sarah’s soldier-brother, Peter. Sarah
was Megan’s best friend, and Peter was MIA. Sarah had factually informed her that MIA
meant, “Missing In Action, which meant dead but that they couldn’t find the body.” Sarah
had punctuated the statement with a string of silent tears. Megan hadn’t known what to say,
so she had simply held her friend until their shared tears had stopped. Megan listened
patiently. Their form tutor Mrs Priest, had reassured Megan that was all she could really do.
“Dad is upset because your Gran is upset,” Cheryl continued. Megan wondered if her
Dad hadn’t particularly liked Great Aunt Betty either. Cheryl picked up a brochure that was
covered in icing and cake-mix and held it out to Megan. “Your Dad has inherited her hotel.”
“Great Aunt Betty had a hotel?” Megan blinked in surprise.
Cheryl nodded. “Yes, it turns out she was a very rich lady.”
She hadn’t looked like a very rich lady – rich ladies, Megan was sure, looked like the
queen, with nice clothes and pearls, not shabby jumpers, jeans, and basketball hoop earrings.
Megan took the brochure from her Mum and looked at it. The hotel looked horrible, it
was a mass of turrets, keeps, imposing walls, and gargoyles. Made from a strange looking
black stone, it was covered in ivy. It was the perfect home for a vampire, or a hideout of a
mad-monster-making scientist. The brochure informed her that it stood just outside of the
Hampshire town, Threshold in the county town of Samhain (pronounced Sowain). Megan
glanced over the tourist blurb learning that the ‘charming, historic hotel’ could be found
nestled in a nook of hills surrounded by ancient heath and woodland. ‘Threshold’, the
brochure went on, ‘is distinctive in its historic status. The whole town is under a National
Trust order, ensuring no new buildings look modern, and could only look like they were from
the Tudor, Stuart, Georgian, or Victorian era. The series of glossy photos showed a town full
of interesting and old- fashioned shops, museums and galleries (most dedicated to the rich
local folklore) that brought in the coach-loads of tourists all year round.
Cheryl reached over Meagan’s shoulder and poked the image of the gloomy looking
hotel. “Great Aunt Betty lived in that tower there, so that’s where will be going to live.”
Megan blinked – had she just missed part of a conversation? Did her Mum just announce
that they were going to move into what must be the ugliest part of the ugliest building?
“What?”
“Dad and I have talked it over and we think it’s the best thing to do,” Cheryl replied.
“The air will be better for Tyler and…”
“Better for Tyler!” Megan pointed to the part of the brochure which went on and on
about how lovely the heathland looked, and how wonderfully mysterious and magic the
ancient woodland was. “It’s the countryside Mum, it will be full of pollen and animal fur!
It’ll make his asthma worse.” Megan’s head was reeling. She looked at the grim hotel with an
impending sense of doom.
Cheryl shook her head and said matter of fact, “Actually pollen has never been a
problem.”
Megan sighed. “That’s because we’ve never been anywhere where there’s a lot of it. And
what about me?” Megan protested, “I’m your kid too! What about what’s best for me?”
“Megan!” Cheryl looked at her daughter in surprise.
“I gave up my bedroom so Tyler could be nearer to you and Dad,” Megan said feeling a
hard lump growing in her throat. “I didn’t even complain when you gave away my cat.” She
paused momentarily, feeling a previously unfelt resentment rising. “I didn’t even blame you
when he was ran over!”
Cheryl flinched at Megan’s unexpected anger but Megan wasn’t finished. She knew that
if she didn’t get it all out now then the decision would set like concrete and there would be no
chance to change things.
“I’ve lived in London all my life and now you’re telling me that I’ve got to leave all my
friends behind to go and live in a place I’ve never heard of – to go to school where
everyone’s probably known each other since they were babies, and to top it all, we’ve got to
go and live in some run-down, Gothic monstrosity that’s probably haunted! ”
“You’ll make new friends,” Cheryl said gently.
“I don’t want new friends!” Megan snapped. “I like the ones I’ve got!” She had known
most of her friends from their time in nursery. She couldn’t believe Mum thought she could
leave them just like that. They weren’t like shoes that you outgrow; they were like her family.
“I can live with Gran and Granddad and come and see you all during the school
holidays,” Megan said desperately.
“No!” Cheryl shook her head. “We’re a family and we’re not going to be separated.”
“Doesn’t matter if one of us is unhappy,” Megan muttered as she picked up her school
bag. “I’ve got homework to do.” She hoped that her dramatic exit offered a final comment on
the situation.
Once in the sanctuary of her room, Megan threw herself onto her bed, buried her face in
the pillows and cried. It wasn’t fair. Ever since Tyler had been born, the whole world had
revolved around him.
‘Maybe they love him more because he’s really theirs and I’m… I’m adopted,’ she
thought. She twisted her mouth in irritation. She knew that she
