Rare Sight

Chapter Five

“Er… why’d you leave all the windows open, Joe?” said Yousef, stopping as they got outside Joe’s house.

“We didn’t.”

“Oh, well… maybe your mum’s back early.”

“The car’s not here.”

“Oh, right…”

They looked at each other. Joe had taken out his door key but he couldn’t decide what to do.

“D’you want to call the police?” asked Yousef.

Joe shook his head. “No – this is bound to be something to do with Georgia.”

“Oh, yeah, good point: ‘Well, officer, we think the villain might be the ghost of my dead aunt.’ The coppers probably wouldn’t go for that, would they?”

“Probably not,” muttered Joe. He wasn’t concentrating. He was walking towards the front door, willing himself to be brave enough to go inside the house and investigate.

“Joe, what are you doing? You’re not planning on going inside are you?”

Joe tried to get the key to turn in the lock; his hands were shaking so hard it was almost impossible to get it to do what he wanted. At last, the door clicked open and he pushed it wide. There was nothing to see, and he took a deep breath before stepping over the threshold.

“Joe, bleedin’ ’ell. Joe… All right, I’m coming with you. But if there are any evil axe-wielding banshees in there, remember it was all your idea.”

Joe’s blood was thumping so loudly in his ears, he was half-surprised Yousef couldn’t hear it. “It’s just Georgia clowning around,” he muttered to himself. But, if he was honest with himself, he was terrified of Georgia. After all, Georgia’s idea of a practical joke seemed to involve painting on the car in what might have been blood. Did ghosts have consciences? Did they care about hurting people? He had no idea.

“Argh no!” Yousef’s shout made him jump. Yousef was standing in the living room doorway. Joe turned away from the kitchen, where everything – apart from the open window – looked as it had when they’d left that morning.

“What… what is it?”

“You’d better see this, mate.” Yousef was leaning on the living room doorframe, looking shaky. He made way for Joe, who froze when he saw the room.

The sound that came out of his mouth was something like, “Errrrghurrgh!”

“I know.” In six-foot letters across three walls of the room read the words,

“YOU WILL DIE”.

Joe’s legs gave way without warning and he sank to the floor with a thud.

“Come on, mate – let’s get out of here,” said Yousef. He took Joe by the hand and tried to pull him back up to standing. “Come on, Joe, help us out, here – you weigh a ton.”

“I know. It’s just…” he pointed at the graffiti.

“Just some joker having a laugh I expect,” said Yousef, but his voice cracked half-way through. “Come on, Joe, get up. I’m not staying here, and I’m not leaving you on your own.”

Joe held on to the doorframe and dragged himself to his feet. His legs had turned soft where the bones should have been. He let Yousef support him out of the house. “But… what about all the windows…?”

“Sorry, mate, but I’m not going back in there. We’ll wait nearby, where we can keep an eye out for passing burglars. Mind you, I’d wish them luck going in that place.”