the ghosts themselves might tell you.
But this has been too orderly for a hallucination. I think when you go insane, it tends to be things like hearing voices from the TV telling you to assassinate the president. I don’t know how convincingly my mind could create different people, but the ghosts seemed unique and distinctive, and they were lucid, making a twisted kind of sense. Neither of them was anything like people I’ve met before. The Vassal doesn’t seem like someone from this century, even. He’s dressed like someone who really is from the past, rather than an actor playing someone from the past.
Assuming this is real, I don’t know what to make of Dad anymore. He had ghosts bound into his service? It makes sense, I suppose, of the time I saw him talking to himself: There was someone else there, someone I couldn’t see. What kind of person gets himself into this? Why? Were all the ghosts on his TV show real? Does this tie in with his surprisingly large fortune? All this time, I realize I’ve been wondering why he left, why it was so sudden, what happened between him and Mum. Now I’m starting to wonder if there wasn’t something else, something neither of us had any idea about, pulling him away.
I open the door to Mum’s room and shuffle in, bowl of soup in hand. Her room is dark: moss-colored carpet, wooden tribal masks glowering from each wall. She’s lying in bed, hand over her face, duvet rising and falling. I put the bowl on her bedside table.
“Mum?”
“Yes, love.”
“How are you today?”
“I’ll be fine . . .” She waves one hand at the soup. “Is this for me?”
“No. I just felt like carrying it up here. It’s for the dog.”
Mum doesn’t even attempt to laugh. I wondered if she’d ask why I wasn’t at school, but I don’t think she even knows what time it is.
“That’s very kind of you,” she says. She hasn’t sat up, and I know that she wants me to go away, but I have to ask something first.
“Mum, does Dad believe in ghosts?”
“Love, please speak quietly.”
“Sorry . . . but, Dad’s show was . . . I mean, is, about ghosts. He’s a ghost expert. Does he actually believe in them?”
“Your father is very spiritual. He read my aura when we first met.”
“Did he ever talk to you about ghosts?”
“Sometimes. He said they were like . . . light, is what he said. Energy. The ones that stay around on earth, they’re lost. He helped them.”
Or kept them captive. Somehow I’m thinking he didn’t mention that part to Mum.
“Did you ever see any in our house?” I ask. “A skinhead? A guy with a blotchy face?”
I watch her face when I mention the Vassal and the Judge, but there’s no flash of recognition, no surprise. She just frowns.
“It’s not really about seeing them,” Mum says. “It’s more about believing, being open to experiences? Being attuned to the energy of the other world. I never
saw
anything, exactly, love. I never needed to. Why are you asking now?”
“I had a look at his TV show. I wondered if you believed in it or not.”
“I think it’s good to keep an open mind,” Mum says. “Your father is very much in tune with the universe. He sees further than some people. Scientists think they’ve got all the answers. But they don’t.”
A few hours ago I would have strongly disagreed with this, but now I just nod.
“You should call him if you’re really interested,” she’s saying.
“What?”
“Call him. I know he’d like to hear from you.”
“Maybe.”
“I know you’re . . . angry. But he’s not as bad a man as you think.”
“All right, sure.”
“Now I’m really very tired, love,” she says.
“Try and eat something,” I say, and leave her room. I don’t know what to make of that conversation. Mum believing in ghosts isn’t a surprise; she believes in anything you can find written up in a spirituality paperback. She doesn’t seem to have ever seen one, let alone had a conversation with one, so
But this has been too orderly for a hallucination. I think when you go insane, it tends to be things like hearing voices from the TV telling you to assassinate the president. I don’t know how convincingly my mind could create different people, but the ghosts seemed unique and distinctive, and they were lucid, making a twisted kind of sense. Neither of them was anything like people I’ve met before. The Vassal doesn’t seem like someone from this century, even. He’s dressed like someone who really is from the past, rather than an actor playing someone from the past.
Assuming this is real, I don’t know what to make of Dad anymore. He had ghosts bound into his service? It makes sense, I suppose, of the time I saw him talking to himself: There was someone else there, someone I couldn’t see. What kind of person gets himself into this? Why? Were all the ghosts on his TV show real? Does this tie in with his surprisingly large fortune? All this time, I realize I’ve been wondering why he left, why it was so sudden, what happened between him and Mum. Now I’m starting to wonder if there wasn’t something else, something neither of us had any idea about, pulling him away.
I open the door to Mum’s room and shuffle in, bowl of soup in hand. Her room is dark: moss-colored carpet, wooden tribal masks glowering from each wall. She’s lying in bed, hand over her face, duvet rising and falling. I put the bowl on her bedside table.
“Mum?”
“Yes, love.”
“How are you today?”
“I’ll be fine . . .” She waves one hand at the soup. “Is this for me?”
“No. I just felt like carrying it up here. It’s for the dog.”
Mum doesn’t even attempt to laugh. I wondered if she’d ask why I wasn’t at school, but I don’t think she even knows what time it is.
“That’s very kind of you,” she says. She hasn’t sat up, and I know that she wants me to go away, but I have to ask something first.
“Mum, does Dad believe in ghosts?”
“Love, please speak quietly.”
“Sorry . . . but, Dad’s show was . . . I mean, is, about ghosts. He’s a ghost expert. Does he actually believe in them?”
“Your father is very spiritual. He read my aura when we first met.”
“Did he ever talk to you about ghosts?”
“Sometimes. He said they were like . . . light, is what he said. Energy. The ones that stay around on earth, they’re lost. He helped them.”
Or kept them captive. Somehow I’m thinking he didn’t mention that part to Mum.
“Did you ever see any in our house?” I ask. “A skinhead? A guy with a blotchy face?”
I watch her face when I mention the Vassal and the Judge, but there’s no flash of recognition, no surprise. She just frowns.
“It’s not really about seeing them,” Mum says. “It’s more about believing, being open to experiences? Being attuned to the energy of the other world. I never
saw
anything, exactly, love. I never needed to. Why are you asking now?”
“I had a look at his TV show. I wondered if you believed in it or not.”
“I think it’s good to keep an open mind,” Mum says. “Your father is very much in tune with the universe. He sees further than some people. Scientists think they’ve got all the answers. But they don’t.”
A few hours ago I would have strongly disagreed with this, but now I just nod.
“You should call him if you’re really interested,” she’s saying.
“What?”
“Call him. I know he’d like to hear from you.”
“Maybe.”
“I know you’re . . . angry. But he’s not as bad a man as you think.”
“All right, sure.”
“Now I’m really very tired, love,” she says.
“Try and eat something,” I say, and leave her room. I don’t know what to make of that conversation. Mum believing in ghosts isn’t a surprise; she believes in anything you can find written up in a spirituality paperback. She doesn’t seem to have ever seen one, let alone had a conversation with one, so
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