Four Ghosts Read online

  Once in a while their father would appear in the morning, clean-shaven and talkative, sometimes even walking the boys to school but soon enough he would slip back into drink and depression. Before long, Donny and Max learned to look after themselves and to not expect anything other than their father’s presence in the house. It was hard work for Donny but he accepted his lot and tried to do the best he could at home and at high school. Then the nightmares began and Donny began to question his own sanity.

  Visions of his mother crowded his dark dreams. Most of the time he had the same dream – his mother’s voice would call to him in the darkness and Donny would wonder whether he was awake or asleep. In his dream he was in bed and he would peer through the darkness at his brother’s small bed to check whether or not Max was there. Invariably, Max would be there, small and covered in blankets – a mere shadow of a lump cocooned in his bed. The voice would call again . . .

  “Donald. Donald. Where are you boy?”

  Donny knew it was his mother talking but her voice didn’t sound the same. There was something very wrong with the choking lilt that called to him. As the sound of his mother approached his open bedroom door, he noticed a weird yellow glow, almost undetectable in the dark night but there nonetheless. Donny felt fear rising through his cold body, his hands clutched the blankets to his face, peering into the darkness – compelled to look, to see what would come next. And then there would be silence.

  Donny would wait in the dream, anxious to see if his mother would reveal herself. He would wait until his eyes began to blink with fatigue and just as he was about to sleep, his mother appeared – floating in the doorway. Donny’s breath felt strangled as he gasped the cold air that suddenly filled the room. A slow guttural laugh came from his mother as she floated, her alabaster feet dangling above the floorboards, the toes blackened with lividity as she hovered in the doorway. The sick yellow glow was now more prevalent and Donny could see the wounds on his Mother’s face and neck. Her bloodied nightrobe gaped open, revealing her white naked body beneath, and the myriad dark welts and bruises that covered her like leopard spots. Around her bent neck Donny could clearly see where someone’s fingers had dug into her flesh. Her black eyes glowed in the dark, the yellow light began to fade and he heard her neck snap and pop as she tilted her head to one side.

  “Come with me, Donald. Come with me.”

  She beckoned, slowly, her arm extended out to him, flesh falling from her blackened fingers as she motioned for him to come to her. The yellow light behind her faded as the darkness began to fill the doorway, her form seemed to flicker mid-air like the light from a TV screen, and then she was gone. Donny lay still in the dark, very still, listening to his beating heart pound against his flannel pyjamas as he began to count backward from one hundred. “Ninety-nine, ninety-eight, ninety-seven, ninety-six . . .” and penumbra would finally wrestle his exhausted mind into submission and then there would be nothing but blank space, until the morning light woke him from the remains of his short sleep. The nightmares continued sporadically and Donny knew his mother was dead, he just wished she would leave him alone when he tried to sleep as it was interfering with his schoolwork the following day.

  After a particularly disturbing dream where his Mother had actually reached Donny’s side and touched him with her cold black fingers, he had woken with the brush of peeling flesh and the smell of damp earth still fresh in his senses, and forced himself to dress and help his brother get ready for school. It was a warm sunny day and the morning passed slowly. Donny shuddered intermittently as he tried to push the vision of his rotting Mother from his tired mind.

  During recess on the school field, Donny sat alone as usual, his back against the fence that ran along the boundary between the school and the tree-lined river. He silently ate his meagre lunch, a Tupperware bowl of cold baked beans left over from last night’s meal, as he watched the other kids at play on the field. He was so tired, the nightmares had been getting worse and he knew that he needed to get some serious sleep. Lately, for some reason he couldn’t quite put his finger on, he’d been kept awake as much by recurring hiccups as he had been by his disturbing dreams. The hiccups were worse when he lay down in the evening, leaving him breathless and exhausted the rest of the time. He yawned and took one last look at the kids mingling on the field, before packing his bag in preparation for his return to class. He could hear the river quietly tumbling past in the distance over his shoulder and felt at peace. Ever since he had started at the high school, Donny spent his lunch breaks sat alone in the same spot.

  The school bell rang from the main buildings, signalling the end of recess. Punctual as always, he hoisted his bag over his shoulder and made his way across the field toward his classroom. The other kids kept doing what they were doing, in no apparent rush to return to class despite the call of the bell. Donny carefully picked his way amongst the throng of cursing teenagers lazily dragging themselves away from their various activities. He thought the sun shone extra bright all of a sudden and stopped walking as he steadied himself against the rising vertigo that gripped his brain.

  He noticed some of the other kids looking at him strangely as they walked past him in slow motion. The sounds around him seemed to merge into a noise like the roar of the ocean as his body numbed, seconds before the muscles began to contract spastically. Donny hit the ground hard, falling backward, his body rigid as a board as his head hit the compacted earth of the school field. Some kids ran but most circled his bouncing body, pointing and laughing as if at some macabre sideshow. Blood spurted from between his clenched teeth as Donny involuntarily bit into his tongue, his prostrated body shuddering in violent waves as the grand-mal seizure beat him upon the ground.

  From that point on, things changed forever. The other kids looked at Donny in a different way; some, noticeably avoiding his presence. He felt different too, ever since he had his first hospital visit, Donny felt as though a switch had been flicked inside his sore brain. He was wary of the unknown now more than ever. The doctor at the hospital told him that it was to be expected with his ‘condition’: ‘PNES’ or ‘Psychogenic Non-Epileptic Seizures.” Life seemed more confusing now with the ever-present threat of a seizure that might occur at any given moment. His grades started to suffer as he found it difficult to concentrate in class and the playground that once afforded him some form of quiet sanctuary now seemed like a place of dread. He had attempted to resume his life as normally as possible since the ‘‘episode” and had sat a few times in the same spot where he had always spent recess, but now Donny was all too aware of the other kids pointing and mocking him as he sat on his own eating his tasteless lunch.

  For the last time, he had quietly packed his ragged school bag and taken the long way around the mass of teenagers slouching on the field. Donny would spend the rest of his school days in the library at recess, sitting quietly in a chair in the corner, reading books as he counted the seconds to the final bell, which would signal his escape from the school grounds. Apart from the occasional gibe and mock-spasm thrown his way, Donny had managed to avoid anything other than verbal abuse. That was until the first day of term after the long winter holidays.

  Donny sat in the classroom and subtly studied his new classmates. He recognized a few faces including some of the older boys who used to hang around the store after school and smoke cigarettes. Some of the younger kids thought the older kids were cool but Donny felt nothing except fear when he realized they were watching him. The day went by uneventfully and without incident; Donny thought that maybe, just maybe, the other kids had forgotten about his ‘condition’ and found new objects of ridicule. As he pulled his bag on his shoulder and made his was out into the bright afternoon light to head home, he felt a twinge of relief that almost made him happy as he thought that he had made it through a whole day without any problems. Maybe this year would be different? Maybe this year would be a good year and things would be better? And that was the precise moment that it all began again, except w
orse than ever.

  Donny felt the warm globule of mucous hit the back of his head and run down inside the collar of his shirt.

  “Hey, fucktard!”

  Donny turned and a shower of spit rained down on him, all over his face and clothes. He hopelessly wiped at the sticky foul mess, looking up at the three older boys who stood in front of him, smiling and laughing.

  “Hey spastic – you gonna pitch a fit, loser-boy?” said the largest of the three, while the other two laughed like hyenas.

  Donny put his head down and turned, walking hurriedly away in the opposite direction. Rage burned a hole in the center of his brain as he listened to the boys behind him, a growing sense of dread filling every pore of his being as he heard them yell out that they would “see him tomorrow.”

  So began the daily bouts of abuse, which invariably turned into physical attacks, from the three thugs and their cohorts. Upon arriving home Donny would sometimes encounter his father, who would sometime fall asleep at the kitchen table, an empty bottle at hand. Sometimes, like today, his father would waken, sensing someone’s presence in the room. “Is that you Patricia? Patricia, is that you . . . ?” He opened his bloodshot eyes and tried to focus on his bleeding son.

  “What’s that on your face, Patricia? Is it blood? Is it blood?”

  Donny tried to avoid his father’s bleary gaze as he headed for the hallway and the sanctuary of his bedroom.

  THWACK! His father spun him with a swipe across the back of his sore head.

  Dazed, he stumbled slightly before turning to look at his father who was blindly swatting invisible bugs in the centre of the kitchen. He watched his father’s leg bump the kitchen table, knocking the empty bourbon bottle onto its side and rolling toward the edge of the table. Donny watched flashes of light bounce across his vision, as the bottle tumbled slowly through the air before shattering into hundreds of glass shards on the wooden floor. His father turned and looked directly at Donny, a hint of recognition in his eyes, and then leaned forward and began snapping his large teeth at him, his eyes blazing with the glazed look of a mad dog. Donny shouldered his school bag and climbed the stairs to his bedroom, not turning to look at the thing in the kitchen. Soon enough he heard the sound of his father rummaging through the cupboards, searching for anything alcoholic. Donny knew there was a litre bottle of cider beneath the sink; he prayed his father would find it soon. He heard the sound of a chair being dragged on the kitchen floor, then the sound of glass upon glass. And then silence.

  He tried to shut out the world and get some sleep, lying on the top blanket in his clothes. He lay there in the dark trying to work out whether his nightmares were preferable to the cold reality of the day that awaited him. Eventually, he fell asleep for a brief time until he warily opened his tired eyes once again.

  Trying hard to fight against the inevitable rise of the sun and the dawn of another school day, Donny stretched and yawned and resigned himself to another day in hell. Still sore from the recently acquired bruises given by his tormentors, he winced with pain as he sat up and swung his legs off the bed. Outside, the sun had risen weakly, floating behind an ocean of grey cloud, as if trying to surface from the depths beneath. Donny stepped away from the window and made his way down the narrow hall to the bathroom. Standing in front of the cabinet mirror, he looked at the dark rings around his brown eyes and was shocked at how pale he had become. He used to be a good looking kid with a year-long summer tan and bright sparkling eyes that matched the dazzle of his perfect teeth. But now he was a shadow of his former self; his teeth were yellow, chipped and stained, with the stress of the physical and mental assaults, his eyes were a dull lacklustre brown that looked blurred, nestled amongst the bloodshot sclera that was once white as snow, his once healthy head of brown hair now hung limp against his pasty complexion, the skin on his thin face hued here and there with the purple remains of old bruises and contusions.

  He sighed and gingerly cleaned his face before making his way slowly down the stairs and stepping out into the cold morning light. His stomach churned with hunger and dread as he made his way across the front yard and down the street toward the high school.

  After a long day the final bell rang, waking Donny from a semi-conscious dream state during a history class about ancient myth. The day had passed uneventfully, but Donny still erred on the side of caution when plotting his route home after school. He decided to take a slightly longer route home, as he knew that the gang would want to pound him again. They were getting more violent with each attack and Donny had begun to be sure that they could quite easily take things too far.

  He made his way through the hole in the fence at the bottom of the field where he used to sit during recess. The gap in the boundary led out through some trees and over a rough track, and into more vegetation before ending up on the stony banks of the snaking river that ran parallel alongside the school field. The river ran its way to the aqueducts and floodway tunnels of the nearby suburbs and provided Donny with numerous possible routes home. He had gone this way a few times; successfully avoiding more savage beatings but today was to be different. Donny felt his balls shrink and his heart beat madly as he became aware that he had been followed. Donny knew the inevitable punch was coming.

  SMACK!

  The older boy who had been following him punched him full in the back of the head. Donny went down in a heap, his face hitting the dirt track before he rolled onto his back and lay there in the dust and gravel, convulsing.

  “Look at the fucking spastic!”

  “He’s pissed himself – fucking loser.”

  “Hey Cox – you’re a cock! A spastic cock!”

  The older boys gathered around him as he lay rigid on the stony dirt track. His kicking legs puffed up the dust around him like a hovercraft. He lay on his back and stared blindly at the declining afternoon sun, as spittle and foam gurgled from between his clenched teeth. Blood ran freely from the deep graze spread across his broken nose.

  The boys took turns kicking his sides as he bounced on the ground; his eyes turned into the top of his head as he convulsed violently and then ceased to move.

  Jonathan Pitz held out his arms as if he were Christ, holding back the mob for a minute before dropping to one knee and leaning over Donny’s prone body, observing him with mock interest as if he was a strange bug. He paused briefly before standing and brushing his hands on his jeans.

  “He’s had enough boys. I think he shat himself. Dirty fuckin’ spastic.”

  Jonathan leant forward and spat a wad of phlegm in Donny’s face. The five other teenagers howled with laughter before snorting their own sputum and showering the broken, bleeding body now stirring in the dirt.

  “Hey look, Cock is still alive!”

  Donny briefly managed to catch a red-hued look at his attackers. His face had swollen like a misshaped lump of watermelon, pink and bloodied, one eye completely shut under a glistening black globe of blood-filled skin. With his one good eye, Donny memorized the fading faces of the six teenage boys. Jonathan Pitz – the fat smelly kid with a shock of curly red hair, freckles that look like shit splatters, and big chapped rubbery lips always drawn back across his ugly rotting teeth in a permanent sneer. Melvin Kerrit was as short on height as he was on brains, his snotty pug nose barely separating his deep-set eyes that peered out from under his drastic fringe – his bowl-cut hairdo perched upon his slumped shoulders. And as much as he hated the others, Donny’s hate for the boy standing over him burned in the back of his throat like a buzzing wasp. Jeffrey Poggin pulled his less-than-average penis from his grey school shorts and proceeded to urinate down onto Donny’s upturned mess of a face.

  After Poggin had ceremoniously relieved himself over Donny’s prostrated figure they all gathered round. Donny sobbed a soft strangled sound like a wounded animal, curling into a ball as Poggin began to unleash a fresh hail of fists and boots at his cowering body. The other three hangers-on cheered nervously as they watched the other two thugs join their leade
r in the savage kicking. Splatters of blood puffed up little clouds of dust on the dirt track, as the three older boys squealed with delight as each kick found its mark with a sickening thump.

  When Donny woke from the drug-induced coma, the doctors said he was “lucky to be alive.” The room was stark white; the doctor wore a white uniform, as did Donny’s father who stood by the bed dressed in a white suit. His father seemed to have made positive steps toward sobering up and looked healthier than Donny had seen him in a long while. He was clean-shaven and bright eyed and seemed genuinely concerned about his son’s well-being. He was also under no illusion as to what had caused his boy’s injuries this time. Donny lay on his back, a cast on each arm and taped ribs, bandages covered the rows of stitches that criss-crossed his shaven head while butterfly adhesive strips held his flesh together over his fractured cheek bone. As he lay there in the starched white sheets of the hospital bed, immobilised with his injuries and a plethora of pharmaceuticals, Donny’s thoughts burned deep in his sore brain. His mind, with each passing hour, filled with a lucid rage as he replayed what he remembered of the attack, over and over again: the six sneering faces, laughing and jeering at him as he lay there alone in the cold hospital bed floating on whiteness.

  Donny returned home from the hospital to find that he had failed his end-of-year exams for the first time in his four years of high school. Still confined to bed-rest while his sore bones mended themselves, he started to read a lot of books in his spare time and was constantly ill with migraines and poor health. His father continued with his life and slipped slowly back into his old behaviour while his mother was still conspicuously absent. The only improvement Donny noted was that his father had somehow organised the home delivery of groceries on a regular basis, and the nightmares that had plagued him for the past year had now seemed to cease.