Ghost and Bone Read online

It was the largest set of shelves he had ever seen. They went up and down and sideways forever, thousands upon thousands of shelves stretching as far as the eye could see, all neatly filled with little manila folders and scrolls. The distances were so vast and so impossible that his brain couldn’t take it all in and it felt like it was constricting in his skull. He wanted to tear his hair out and scream. He shut his eyes again to try to cope.

  “Just breathe,” murmured Sally. “And don’t look down.”

  But Oscar couldn’t help but look down. “Aaagh!” he shouted, clutching Sally’s sleeve.

  They were standing on a small platform made out of a kind of thin wire mesh. Through the holes in this mesh, Oscar saw a very long drop. There was no bottom, only a dim, pulsing blackness.

  The platform clung to the side of this giant shelf cliff like a bureaucratic bird’s nest. The platform was about ten feet square. It had room for a desk with a small brass bell on it. Behind the desk sat a very neatly dressed ghost, with a trim beard and a turban.

  “Try to concentrate on my face, young ghost,” he said kindly. “Newcomers have told me they find that reassuring. I am the Archivist.”

  The Archivist was the oldest-looking person Oscar had ever seen. But he had warm eyes and that helped.

  “I’m just showing my new colleague the ropes,” Sally said. “This place gets newbies every time, doesn’t it?”

  “It does. Were you just here to scare him?” the Archivist asked. “Or did you have a request in mind?”

  “We do. We’re after two files: Oscar Grimstone—birthday January 26, 2006, and his father, Julian….”

  “Hold tight, please,” the Archivist said.

  “Argh!” Oscar shouted for a third time, as the small platform plunged down the giant cliff shelf, zigzagging like a drop of water running down a windowpane.

  After they’d fallen for what felt like three miles, they came to a sudden stop in front of a shelf that looked exactly like all the others. Without hesitating, the Archivist walked from his desk, turned, and plucked a small brown folder from a row of a hundred that looked just like it.

  The Archivist clicked his fingers. A huge leather-bound ledger appeared from thin air with a rustle of paper. “Please sign here before you look at the files,” he said.

  Oscar couldn’t sign his own name without giving himself away, so he called himself Gary Stevens—the bully who lived on their street. There was only one other name in the ledger. Three weeks ago, someone called Jessie Mur had signed out Oscar’s file. After Sally signed her name neatly, she tapped the stranger’s name with the quill, catching Oscar’s eye.

  She glanced at the Archivist. “Funny name. D’you remember what they looked like?”

  The Archivist chuckled. “I remember everyone who visits me. Jessie Mur wore a wide-brimmed hat and a scarf wrapped around his face.”

  Oscar just managed to stop himself letting out a gasp.

  “I don’t know why everyone’s so interested in this file,” the Archivist said, checking that they’d signed. “A very ordinary boy, this Oscar Grimstone.”

  “That’s why we’re using him for training purposes,” said Sally. “We’ve identified him as the most boring boy in Britain. He’s a marvel of the ordinary, really.”

  Oscar was about to protest but remembered he was supposed to be Gary Stevens, not Oscar Grimstone, and the words choked in his throat. The Archivist gave another dry chuckle. “How funny.” He went back to his desk and began looking through a list of parchment.

  Oscar and Sally eagerly paged through the bundle of forms and reports. The papers were in chronological order, with the most recent papers at the front, and documented every important event in Oscar’s life so far. They were very up to date. Already, the strange events of this evening were in the file—there were several eyewitness reports of Oscar’s antics near the bone ship, as well as Sir Cedric’s notes about investigating Oscar’s house.

  As they read through Oscar’s middle school years, Sally got annoyed.

  “This Gary Stevens sure likes to pick on you,” she muttered. “Why’d he call you all these names? And flush your head down the toilet? And why’d you call yourself after him in the book?”

  Oscar shrugged. It was funny—Gary Stevens seemed like the least of his problems now. Because he hadn’t told Sally the full truth, he was glad that the file didn’t seem to mention anything about the Curse. Very little else was missed. Oscar’s fourth-grade clarinet exam results were noted, as were his granny’s death and an award he’d received from a local library when he was seven. It was very weird to see your life laid out like this.

  Though, as they grew close to the day of his father’s death, Oscar grew very nervous. He hadn’t thought of this before, but what if he found out that he’d killed his father? What if the book showed it was all his fault? This was Oscar’s worst fear. His hand trembled as he held the book.

  “Don’t worry, mate,” Sally said. “You really love your dad, don’t you?”

  Oscar nodded.

  “We all do,” Sally said. “Just remember that it doesn’t stop with death either. Love lasts, see?”

  This made sense to Oscar. “You know how I become a ghost?” he asked.

  “I’d wondered.”

  “I just think about my dad—that’s all it takes.”

  “Exactly—sometimes the bonds of love are so strong, they keep a connection beyond death. Maybe your dad’s love provides you with the link you need between the worlds.”

  Oscar smiled at the thought and turned the page.

  He froze. He could barely look at the page. It was very plain—just an excerpt from the police report, saying that his dad had died in a car crash. The fear of what really happened that night had been haunting Oscar since he’d first begun to find out about his Curse. He scanned through hurriedly.

  Nothing about a Curse. Nothing about Oscar killing him.

  Oscar felt relieved—and then a stab of white-hot guilt at the relief. What kind of monster was relieved that their father was killed in a car crash?

  Sally carried on flicking through the file.

  “You were a charming baby,” she muttered. “You won a prize! Look—hang on—what’s this?!”

  At the back of the folder was a page that recorded Oscar’s birth. It looked like this:

  Oscar Grimstone born January 26, 2006.

  Then there was a deathday.

  Oscar Grimstone died July 14, 2007 MM

  The deathday was crossed out with a neat pen stroke and signed in an elegant hand MM.

  “Holy Jack O’Lantern!” said Sally.

  “But…how can that be?” Oscar asked. “That’s…the day of the car accident.”

  He felt the world spinning around him. The fear clutched tight again. Was he supposed to be dead? Was that why he was cursed? Why he was able to turn into a ghost?

  It took all his concentration to keep from turning bodily with the shock.

  “And here’s me calling you the most boring boy in Britain,” said Sally. “Looks like someone helped you cheat death. Lucky for you…I suppose.” Something in her voice made Oscar glance at her face.

  She looked young all of a sudden, scared.

  “Who’s MM?” he asked, looking at the initials next to his deathday. “That’s who crossed it out, isn’t it?”

  “MM? He’s only the biggest cheese of them all: the first Minister of the Ministry of Ghosts, Mr. Mortis himself! Your lot call him Death, or the Grim Reaper. Of course, people who’ve met him say he isn’t so grim—apparently he likes to collect mugs.”

  “Are you serious?” Oscar said, heart thumping. “Death himself stopped me from dying?” He tried to picture a skeleton with a scythe, signing his life back into existence. “Why?”

  “Only Mortis knows.” Sally grinned grimly. “
Hey! Chin up, Oscar! We’re getting to the bottom of why you’re so peculiar. I wonder what kind of mistake was made?”

  “Mistake?” Oscar couldn’t keep the hysteria out of his voice.

  “Someone must have made a mistake for Mr. Mortis to intervene. He’s usually way too busy to take an interest in small matters like this. Very odd indeed. And this is odd too—look, do you see how this sheet’s been sliced in half?”

  She was right. The bottom half of the death sheet had been snipped away.

  “I wonder who took it. I’d wager it was the ghost in the hat, eh? Jessie Mur.”

  Oscar nodded, struggling to put it all together. The stranger who tried to kill him. The Curse. The dad he couldn’t remember. The dad who’d died on the day that he was meant to. And it made it even worse to know that Mr. Mortis had saved Oscar’s life but not spared his father’s.

  “I suppose that must be why you’ve got ghost powers, Oscar,” Sally said. Her voice came from very far away. “Because you’ve already died…”

  Yes, Oscar wanted to add. And that’s why I kill living things when I touch them too. I should have died and now I’m cursed.

  “What you thinking about, Oscar?” asked Sally. “It’s a lot to take in. Are you all right?”

  Oscar didn’t tell her. What would she think of his Curse? What if she stopped helping him, or handed him in to Lady Margaret, who might send him aboard that bone ship in case he hurt anyone, or broke the rules too much. He could feel the lie getting bigger and bigger, like an anchor dragging him down.

  He blinked.

  “Can we see Julian Grimstone’s file now?” He looked over at the Archivist.

  “Of course, young ghost,” the Archivist said. All of a sudden the platform zoomed upward, moving so fast that the shelves blurred. Oscar felt as if he was dragging his stomach eighteen stories behind him.

  Once the platform screeched to a stop, the Archivist pulled another file from a shelf and handed it over.

  “Julian Grimstone,” the Archivist said. “As requested.” He resumed his work, dipping his quill in a pot of ink and scrawling on a long scroll.

  Oscar opened it with trembling hands. The first thing he saw was a piece of paper with a big red stamp saying OTHER SIDE.

  “Oh,” said Sally, staring at it. “Oh dear.”

  “What’s that?” Oscar asked.

  “The Other Side?” Sally said. “Well, that’s the place where your soul goes to rest. Only it’s not really resting—you get the eternity that you deserve. A Life Maker in the Department of Afterlives takes a look at what you did during your life, and what you liked best, and then you get to do that forever. It’s not a bad deal, really. Only department that Mr. Mortis gets personally involved in.”

  She was babbling. There was something she didn’t want to say.

  “So can I go see him over there?” Oscar asked sharply. “I could go on that bone ship, couldn’t I?”

  Sally looked him in the eye. “No, Oscar,” she said gently. “Not unless you want to stay dead. It’s a one-way ticket to the Other Side, I’m afraid.”

  Somehow, this was much worse than finding out you were already dead and probably cursed. “I see,” he said in a small voice. “But it’s nice over there?”

  “Take a look,” Sally said. “It’ll be here at the back.”

  Sally flicked through his father’s file; Oscar, watching desperately, wished he could read it all.

  “There,” Sally said. “He’s doing well.”

  Looking at how Julian Grimstone spent his days, his personal afterlife sounded pretty perfect to Oscar. The Life Maker must have done a good job.

  During the day, he built furniture and carved sculptures out of driftwood. He went to punk gigs in the evening. Once or twice a week, he went for a long walk along the coast or took a bike into town. Every morning was Sunday, and all the papers were delivered to his house along with a full English breakfast with extra sausages and black pudding. The newspapers always had a section about how his family was doing, Oscar in particular.

  “See,” Sally said. “He’s keeping an eye on you.”

  “Can I talk to him?”

  “No. I’m sorry, Oscar,” Sally said. “Like I told you, it’s a one-way thing to the Other Side. But he’ll be watching you, following everything you do.”

  “Right,” Oscar said.

  “It could be a lot worse, trust me,” Sally said quietly. “Not everyone gets such a peaceful death.”

  Oscar nodded. He couldn’t speak just then. Hot tears were running down his face—and a great bursting sob was building up inside him.

  “I love you, Dad,” he whispered.

  He hoped his dad could hear him.

  “Hey! Look at that!” Sally said from over Oscar’s shoulder, jabbing at the very last page. The edge in Sally’s voice made Oscar jump and grab the railing of the platform that hovered over the endless abyss of files.

  “Here’s our Jessie Mur, at it again,” she said.

  The page that recorded Oscar’s dad’s birth and death was sliced in half, just like Oscar’s had been.

  Oscar’s cheeks burned. He felt a deep fury far stronger than when seeing his own file sabotaged, or finding out the name of the person who had tried to kill him.

  Now this Jessie Mur had messed with his dad, and he was going to pay.

  “We’ve got to get him!” Oscar said. “Or her. Can we take these folders with us?”

  “We’d need approval from the Ministry,” Sally said, “and that can take some time.”

  “A few days, right? We can wait that long.”

  Sally chuckled. “Try a few decades—if we’re lucky. Ghost business moves slow. Of course, things are faster if the bigwigs are on your side—but we’re not exactly Lady Margaret’s cup of tea right now, are we?”

  “All right, then we steal them,” Oscar said. “Simple.” He felt surprised at his own daring.

  Sally looked a little worried. “I’m all for bending the rules when it gets the job done, but you have to be careful when messing with the rules round here. That Archivist is a powerful being—he’s more than a regular ghost. How else can you keep the names of a hundred billion dead souls in your head? Apparently he was around with Mortis in the beginning. What I’m saying is, that old Archivist loves his files more than anything—and if he catches us, he might trap us in here forever, or turn us into a shelf or a potted plant, or worse.”

  “We have to, Sally. I can’t wait a few decades.”

  Sally tapped her chin. “I hear you. But, still, it’s a big risk.”

  Oscar had a sudden thought about how he could convince her. He sighed. “I guess you’re right. Lady Margaret wouldn’t want us doing it, and we should probably obey her orders.”

  Sally’s brow crinkled. “Hold on! We can’t let that old bag tell us what to do! Right, we’re doing this! But we need a very good plan.”

  Oscar thought fast. “How about if I pretend I’m feeling ill…so I need to leave…and then you try to distract the old coot, ask for some more papers, keep him occupied.”

  “Right—and then you make a run for it while I’m talking…” Sally’s brow furrowed. “You know, that’s not bad at all! Might just work. You ready?”

  “Yes.” Oscar patted the folders inside his jacket. “You go first.”

  Sally moved over to the desk and began asking for a long list of folders. With every request, the platform swooped up and down across the shelves. Oscar didn’t have to pretend too hard that he was feeling nauseated. It was like traveling on the world’s most intense roller coaster.

  “I think I’m going to be ill,” he moaned.

  “Careful, young ghost,” the Archivist said. “Not on my files! For Mortis’s sake!”

  “Oh no!” Oscar gasped. “I can feel it coming up! Urkch!” He dry-he
aved and clapped a hand over his mouth, as if he could barely hold his stomach down.

  “For Hecate’s sake, hold it in!” The Archivist turned pale, and the platform sped across the shelves faster than ever. It came crashing to a halt in front of the door that they’d first come in.

  “Out! Out! Through there!” the Archivist cried, pointing to the door.

  Oscar stumbled outside, doubled over as if locked in mortal combat with his stomach. He found himself back on Euston Road with cars and buses streaking past. A faint light in the east showed that dawn was coming.

  About ten minutes later, Sally emerged as well. She was grinning broadly.

  “Good job!” She clapped Oscar on the back. “You really sold that—and once we’d chatted for a while and talked about turban care, he forgot all about you. I think he’s lonely.”

  “We really did it!” Oscar said.

  “You did! That was a great plan.” Sally gave a long, low whistle. A moment later, their horse and carriage trotted up obediently to meet them.

  “Oh, I asked him a few questions too.” She climbed up and took the reins. “Tried to look at Jessie Mur’s file. Doesn’t exist. It’s a made-up name.”

  “Of course it is!” Oscar said, surprised once again at how angry he felt. “But he could have used that alias before.”

  “Let’s hope so, eh?” Sally reached under her seat and pulled out her typewriter again. Her fingers clattered quickly across the keys.

  “I’ll send a message to Sir Cedric asking him to run the name,” she explained. “Won’t take a minute.”

  Oscar watched as she ripped the sheet of paper from the machine and held it up in the air. After a few seconds, it disappeared.

  “That goes straight to his desk?” Oscar asked.

  “Exactly! Right on top of a big pile of papers I imagine. Bet you living folk wish you had such an easy way to send messages back in your world, eh?”

  For a second, Oscar debated explaining the internet to Sally—but then decided it would be a waste of time.

  “Instant messages!” he said. “Wow! You ghosts really have it all.”