The Ghostly Past

Chapter 38

Despite the underlying tension between them, Harriet and Clara did their best to enjoy those few final days of holiday. Clara was anxious to be gone, knowing what she did of the curse. Time seemed to drag, waiting to leave. She was desperate to get back to the others. Sorely tempted to call them, she forced herself to hold off. This would be better in person.

Next thing they knew, they were flying home and catching a train back to Gloomsdale.

As it rolled into the station, Clara felt a strange sense of nostalgia. It reminded her of that first night, leaving the station alone. The ghost had come for her, the ghost she now recognised as Dorian. Right from the start he'd been reaching out for her.

That was the night she'd met Max.

She wrapped her coat tightly around herself as they disembarked. The night was dark, still. Harriet's housemate was collecting them. No one else knew she was coming home.

She was dropped off outside of Mrs Barker's cottage, wandering inside with a smile as she unlocked the door. Her landlady's jaw dropped. "Clara! I didn't expect you home."

"I felt like it was time to come back." Clara hugged her. "How is everyone?"

"James and Leo are still in London." Margaret said. "But things with the others are...tense. Max hasn't been too well. He's quiet, angry. It's like he doesn't even care." She looked frail, sinking into a chair. "He's stopped going to work, stopped going out."

"I'm sorry."

"It's not your fault." Margaret answered. "He's been like a son to me, Clara. I'm losing him. He's changing, every day." She buried her face in her hands while she cried.

"I'm going to go and talk to him, Margaret." Clara promised. She felt strange, righteous even. It was frightening.

"Now?" She looked surprised. It was after dark.

"Yes." Clara nodded, leaving her bags in the middle of the room. She found her torch, buttoning her coat up again and jogging out into the lane before Margaret could stop her.

There were no ghosts on her route to Max's house. Instead, the lights were shining bright down on her, the streetlights somehow even more brilliant than she'd ever seen them. She certainly didn't need the torch as she reached the house.

She thumped on the door. There was no answer, though the lights were on behind the curtains. She knocked again and again, continuously rapping her knuckles until finally she heard his voice. "Alright, alright! I'm coming!" He sounded annoyed. The door swung open. "Clara?" His face was a picture of astonishment.

"Hi, Max." She replied softly. "Can I come in?"

"Sure." He said, stepping back, still bewildered. He looked tired, she thought, pale and drained as if the life was being sucked right out of him. "What are you doing here?"

Clara smiled at him. It felt different somehow. Everything was different. They were connected now. Things made sense. She wondered, for a moment, if their relationship was all to do with their souls, and not something real. It didn't matter. Not yet. Not unless they survived.

There was so much she needed to say to him.

Who she was, what she knew, it could change everything. It could bring him hope.

He didn't smile back, he just watched her, standing. It was like he wasn't even looking at her, his eyes staring through her.

"What do you want, Clara?" He asked again, cold and distant as the moon.

"I need to talk to you." She said breathlessly, putting the torch in her hand down on the arm of the sofa.

"I didn't think you were coming back." He turned away.