< Back
A wobbling, shuddering form appeared in front of him. Instead of seeing it, it was as if Ryan could feel it.
It radiated a mixture of hurt, confusion and rage. It was a small, crippled, horribly burnt child’s body with dark, black holes were the eyes and mouth were supposed to be.
He was face-to-face with a ghost.
Ryan wanted to scream as loud as he ever had, but his fear twisted it into a strangled croak.
Even though the ghost resembled a human, it moved like a velociraptor. Its posture was haunched with jagged spikes running down its back and shoulders, Its arms were drawn up, and it had massive, black claws on its hands and feet that were as long as Ryan’s hand. It cocked its head, rustled its spines and let out a malevolent, blood chilling hiss that would haunt Ryan’s dreams for years to come.
He got up and ran. He shoulder charged the ghost, but he ran straight through it.
As he sped away, his head started throbbing. Every step caused an ice cold jolt shot to sizzle down his back. He could hear it crashing and stomping meters behind him. The creature had dropped down to all fours, and was fast.
Things were thrown.
Paintings were pulverised.
Relics were run over.
Walls were ruined.
Books were bashed.
The library was liquidated.
Eventually, the creature reached him, and bit into his shoulder. He screamed in agony, and everything seemed to freeze. Colours flashed. Legs felt like they were running on air. It felt like his brain was being crushed to death by his own skull.
He was asleep before he even hit the floor.
A small, desolate looking child rubbed the frail hand of his weak mother. She was lying in a hospital bed. The child was wearing a large, rosy red raincoat.
Something flashed and the child was sitting on a chair. The hospital and mother gone, the child was at home. His father was yelling at him, furious, horrified that his wife was gone. He obviously somehow blamed the child for killing the mother.
A white flash faded into the father and the child. They were both running away from a fierce bushfire. A charred tree fell on top of them.
Another white flash turned into the father and the child being dragged out of what little remained of the tree trunk. The child was dead. The father was still alive.
The father was ripped apart emotionally. First his wife, then his son. It was too much. He laid the red, rosy raincoat the child used to wear, and buried it, far, far away from his normal home.
Two hundred or so years later, somebody dug it up and got ridiculously excited, and sent it to the State Library of NSW.
Ryan awoke from one world of nightmares to another with a bang. His whole body felt like it was glued together with sweat. He was lying on the bare floor.
His head was throbbing, but this time it was a regular sort of headache. The ghostly pain was gone. Gladly, he wasn’t injured, or at least, he couldn’t feel any injuries-
His shoulder.
No pain.
He felt where the ghost had bitten him.
Nothing.
He began to sit up but then stopped immediately. The ghost was still out there, somewhere. He laid back down and waited.
He froze when he heard feet stomping down some stairs and a voice calling out his name. Ryan squeezed his eyes shut until they burned. The footsteps were getting closer and closer. He braced himself for his death…
“Oh!” Said Martin sarcastically upon seeing Ryan.
“I see you found your own place to settle down for the night. Where’d you even get all that?”
He gestured to the blanket and the pillow.
Ryan tried to scream about ghosts and burnt ghosts and weird dreams and fires, but he couldn’t. It felt like his throat had constricted around itself.
“Anyway,” Muttered Martin, reaching into a bag,
“Dinner.” He said, lobbing a half-eaten bag of chips at Ryan’s head.
“Ow.” Muttered Ryan.
He paused for a moment, realising he could talk.
“MARTIN!! THERE WAS A GHOST! A BURNT ONE! IN THE BASEMENT, um, THE ARCHIVES AND IT WAS ALL BURNT AND HORRIBLE AND IT BIT ME BUT THERE WAS NO WOUND AND I HAD A WEIRD DREAM AND-“
“Jeez, jeez, jibeddy Christmas!
Calm down first! Have some chippy whippies!”
“Some what?!”
“Chippy whippies. It’s what I call chips sometimes.”
Eventually, Ryan calmed down enough to tell Martin the whole story.
By the time he’d finished, Martin was rubbing his temples.
“Arrrrrr… My bloody jiffing head. It’s throbbing.”
Then he looked up at Ryan with clouded, unfocused eyes.
“Ghosts? Archives? Burns? Fires? Wow. You really must have hit your head hard.” Scoffed Martin.
“There’s no such thing as ghosts.”
A wobbling, shuddering form appeared in front of him. Instead of seeing it, it was as if Ryan could feel it.
It radiated a mixture of hurt, confusion and rage. It was a small, crippled, horribly burnt child’s body with dark, black holes were the eyes and mouth were supposed to be.
He was face-to-face with a ghost.
Ryan wanted to scream as loud as he ever had, but his fear twisted it into a strangled croak.
Even though the ghost resembled a human, it moved like a velociraptor. Its posture was haunched with jagged spikes running down its back and shoulders, Its arms were drawn up, and it had massive, black claws on its hands and feet that were as long as Ryan’s hand. It cocked its head, rustled its spines and let out a malevolent, blood chilling hiss that would haunt Ryan’s dreams for years to come.
He got up and ran. He shoulder charged the ghost, but he ran straight through it.
As he sped away, his head started throbbing. Every step caused an ice cold jolt shot to sizzle down his back. He could hear it crashing and stomping meters behind him. The creature had dropped down to all fours, and was fast.
Things were thrown.
Paintings were pulverised.
Relics were run over.
Walls were ruined.
Books were bashed.
The library was liquidated.
Eventually, the creature reached him, and bit into his shoulder. He screamed in agony, and everything seemed to freeze. Colours flashed. Legs felt like they were running on air. It felt like his brain was being crushed to death by his own skull.
He was asleep before he even hit the floor.
A small, desolate looking child rubbed the frail hand of his weak mother. She was lying in a hospital bed. The child was wearing a large, rosy red raincoat.
Something flashed and the child was sitting on a chair. The hospital and mother gone, the child was at home. His father was yelling at him, furious, horrified that his wife was gone. He obviously somehow blamed the child for killing the mother.
A white flash faded into the father and the child. They were both running away from a fierce bushfire. A charred tree fell on top of them.
Another white flash turned into the father and the child being dragged out of what little remained of the tree trunk. The child was dead. The father was still alive.
The father was ripped apart emotionally. First his wife, then his son. It was too much. He laid the red, rosy raincoat the child used to wear, and buried it, far, far away from his normal home.
Two hundred or so years later, somebody dug it up and got ridiculously excited, and sent it to the State Library of NSW.
Ryan awoke from one world of nightmares to another with a bang. His whole body felt like it was glued together with sweat. He was lying on the bare floor.
His head was throbbing, but this time it was a regular sort of headache. The ghostly pain was gone. Gladly, he wasn’t injured, or at least, he couldn’t feel any injuries-
His shoulder.
No pain.
He felt where the ghost had bitten him.
Nothing.
He began to sit up but then stopped immediately. The ghost was still out there, somewhere. He laid back down and waited.
He froze when he heard feet stomping down some stairs and a voice calling out his name. Ryan squeezed his eyes shut until they burned. The footsteps were getting closer and closer. He braced himself for his death…
“Oh!” Said Martin sarcastically upon seeing Ryan.
“I see you found your own place to settle down for the night. Where’d you even get all that?”
He gestured to the blanket and the pillow.
Ryan tried to scream about ghosts and burnt ghosts and weird dreams and fires, but he couldn’t. It felt like his throat had constricted around itself.
“Anyway,” Muttered Martin, reaching into a bag,
“Dinner.” He said, lobbing a half-eaten bag of chips at Ryan’s head.
“Ow.” Muttered Ryan.
He paused for a moment, realising he could talk.
“MARTIN!! THERE WAS A GHOST! A BURNT ONE! IN THE BASEMENT, um, THE ARCHIVES AND IT WAS ALL BURNT AND HORRIBLE AND IT BIT ME BUT THERE WAS NO WOUND AND I HAD A WEIRD DREAM AND-“
“Jeez, jeez, jibeddy Christmas!
Calm down first! Have some chippy whippies!”
“Some what?!”
“Chippy whippies. It’s what I call chips sometimes.”
Eventually, Ryan calmed down enough to tell Martin the whole story.
By the time he’d finished, Martin was rubbing his temples.
“Arrrrrr… My bloody jiffing head. It’s throbbing.”
Then he looked up at Ryan with clouded, unfocused eyes.
“Ghosts? Archives? Burns? Fires? Wow. You really must have hit your head hard.” Scoffed Martin.
“There’s no such thing as ghosts.”