The Ghost Hunters of Grimestone

A Mere Phantom

7:00pm.

An excited jitter materialises in my stomach as I begin to tap out Lauren’s home phone number, which I learned by heart when I was seven. Her parents are very strict when it comes to the rule that their daughter is not allowed to use electronics before 7:00pm on a school day, as that’s their “family time”. I would complain, but I honestly think it’s great that her family are so concerned about spending time with one another. The only “family time” we ever have in this house is when either Dan or myself tattles on the other one (last time it was me, whining that my brother had nicked my expensive earphones which I’d specifically told him not to touch. He hadn’t. It transpired that the cat had eaten them – we found one of the plastic earpieces in his litter tray a few days later) and our parents have a stern conversation with the two of us. And when I say “conversation”, I don’t mean sitting around the garden table sipping tea from dainty china cups. That is pretty much the only time you will ever expect to find the four of us in the same room at one time.

The phone rings twice before it gets picked up and the voice of Lauren’s mother (cannot remember her name for the life of me. Mrs C should suffice for now) comes over the receiver.

“Hello?” she answers. Before I can reply to her, I hear a mad struggle on the other end, and have to move the phone away from my ear when my best friend’s voice bellows down the line.

“Dan?” she practically shouts.

“Sorry, Flagpole,” I say, using the nickname I bestowed upon her back in primary school. She is so called because she is as thin and tall as one, and her gaudy T-shirts can be seen from miles around. It seems to have caught on (the name, not the shirts. Never in a million years will I ever be spotted wearing one of those monstrosities), much to her dismay, as both Dan and my parents now call her Flagpole, and she even told me that her own parents have resorted to utilising this pet-name.

“It’s only me. What did you want Dan for?”

“Nothing,” she answers hastily, then adds, “He was supposed to call me about the history project. I guess he forgot.” I snort. That sounds like my brother, all right. “What do you want, Jenny?” she asks, trying to put some life into her now resigned tone.

I get to the point quickly. “We’re going on a ghost hunt. Grab your stuff and meet us at the usual spot in fifteen minutes.” With that, I hang up before she can interrogate me about the location. Mean, I know, but effective.

Hurriedly, I run to my wardrobe and grab my ghost-hunting attire. It’s nothing much really – black jeans and an equally muted T-shirt, which is not too dissimilar to my usual, every day wear, but it’s easier to sneak around in.

Torch; check. Walkie-talkie; check. Mobile phone; check. Goofy brother; check. In the last few minutes, I run down to the kitchen and stuff a few snacks into my backpack before tying my frowzy locks into a high, business-like ponytail (I hereby dub this hairstyle “The Poodle”…much like every other style my hair achieves) and, adjusting my glasses once more, head for the door. As usual, I skip informing Mum and Dad where we’re going – they know about our expeditions and try to keep their noses out of it as much as possible. They claim not to believe in ghosts. Although, if they saw some of the things we see on a monthly basis, I have no doubt that their resolve would be turned completely on its head.