‘That’s the last of them,’ Mark said as he placed yet another cardboard box on the kitchen table. His face shone with sweat and joy, a broad smile parting his moustache from his beard.
Ivy paused her self-assigned task of filling the built-in kitchen cupboards with crockery and glassware and glanced at him, smiled. The last few weeks had been a blur. They’d put the offer in, squared it with the bank, gone through the bureaucratic purgatory of buying their first house with their first mortgage. So much had been done, and yet more remained. Not for the first time, she questioned their decision to move so close to Christmas. But she’d been the driving force behind the decision, and she would make it work, regardless of how much greyer it made her.
The eccentric little two-bed had been Little Chisden’s rail station, left to lay fallow for a decade after its closure in the ’70s and then revived as a home by an academic from Ferenbrooke University as the village was absorbed into the outskirts of the growing town. It sat upon the disused Victorian railway line that had once ushered steam engines from London to Lincoln. There was a picturesque terrace of railway worker cottages, now occupied by several families and a clutch of students, along the lane which branched off the village-turned-suburb’s modest hight street. It was a huge change of environment from the melting pot that was Stone Street. Mark and Ivy had opted to trade a cluster of independent bars, artisan coffee shops, and oddball retailers for the old pubs and village green of Little Chisden once they hit their mid-30s and started thinking about growing their family.
‘Thank fuck for the van,’ Ivy said.
‘One of several benefits of marrying a groundskeeper,’ said Mark. He flexed his biceps theatrically. ‘That and the incredible body.’
Ivy burst out laughing and collapsed against the kitchen counter. It wasn’t that funny, but at this late stage of tiredness, inches from delirium, it was enough to break her focus entirely. ‘I can’t believe I have to work tonight,’ she said, ‘I’ll be an utter mess by the end of it.’
‘At least you’ve got Christmas off this year,’ said Mark.
Ivy nodded. Last year had been rough. Her first Christmas without her father, who’d been lost to a heart attack in August, and she spent it in A&E in scrubs. Nursing was not a profession for the sentimental at the best of times, but that had been a real test of her resolve.
‘Let’s get the kitchen usable, then see if we can get the bedroom in vaguely the right shape before I set off,’ she said.
Mark shook his head. ‘You don’t worry about that. I’ll get our room sorted once you’re gone. You’ve got more than enough on your plate.’ He approached her and placed his hands on her upper arms, bent down to kiss her forehead. He stopped before his lips met her, though, and fixed his eyes on something through the kitchen window.
‘Something wrong?’ Ivy asked.
‘Probably not. There’s some old bloke looking at the house outside. Probably wondering who’s bought it.’
Ivy turned to look. The man was certainly old, and certainly looking at their house. ‘I’ll go outside and see if he needs anything,’ she said.
Mark nodded. ‘I’ll find the kettle.’
The kitchen was situated at the side of the house that faced the street, with the living room on the other side offering a view of the now-useless station platform. There were doors at both sides, one attached directly to the living room and the other at the end of a corridor flanked by the kitchen and the bathroom. Ivy negotiated that corridor slowly, carving a path between bags and boxes and bins—these full of tinsel and bows—that Mark had gracelessly deposited.
Once at the door, she pulled it open a little too fast and called out, ‘Can I help you?’
The old man startled and said back, ‘Oh, no. Sorry, you must think I’m rather strange. Nothing sinister is afoot, I assure you. I worked here, once upon a time, and live locally. I like to come back and look at the place once or twice this time of year. Sorry, I knew the last man that lived here, it didn’t bother him. Old habits, and all that.’
Ivy softened her expression. The station had shut in the ‘70s and this man still came to visit. There was something sweet about that. Sweet and a little sad. People of that generation often made their profession the anchor of their identity. Losing this place must have been a blow. She made her way down the stone steps to the street and stuck out a hand. ’I’m Ivy,’ she said. ‘My husband’s name is Mark. It’s fine with us if you want to drop by and make sure we’re not wrecking the place.’
The old man beamed. ‘Henry Ericson,’ he said, ‘and thank you. I appreciate it. I’ll continue on my walk, leave you to it. I’m sure you’ve got a lot to do.’ With another smile and a feeble half-wave, Henry turned and ambled up the lane.
Ivy watched him for a moment before crossing the threshold and closing the door.
#
It was close to 3am when Ivy guided her car into a space along the lane behind Mark’s van. She was shattered, ruined, blood-speckled. The unfamiliar drive back, longer than she was used to, had necessitated the use of a SatNav and had tired her more than expected. She’d adapt, she was sure, but that first drive back had not been as trivial as the ten minute hop from the hospital to Stone Street had been.
The neighbourhood was so quiet. Even the wind dared only whisper as Ivy extracted herself from her cramped little Fiat and stood, arched her back briefly to hear the pops before she opened the car’s rear door to retrieve her bag. The crunch of her feet on the dried leaves that littered the path leading to the house on the rails felt to her like an intrusion on the near-perfect stillness of the witching hour.
Pulling her keys from the small compartment of her backpack, she climbed the steps to the railway platform and looked left and right. The lights that had once dressed the station were long since gone, the only illumination that which seeped through the curtains in their living room window. Mark had always left a light on in the old flat when she was working late and she was glad to see that habit survive the move. The lack of light on the station platform irked her. It would be all too easy to take a step too far and fall onto the rails, particularly for the little feet they hoped would join them in the years to come. She decided to enquire with Mark about the feasibility of putting up a fence of some sort, and perhaps some outside lighting.
In the dark, she cycled through her keys, trying to identify the right one for the front door. Or the back door. She wasn’t entirely sure which side counted as the front or the back with the strange little converted property. She found what looked to be her target and released the breath she hadn’t realised she’d been holding.
A clumsy attempt at putting the key in the lock sent her overburdened keyring tumbling to the ground. Ivy sighed and shook her head. It was a wonder any of the patients she saw towards the end of a shift made it with how clumsy her hands got when she was tired.
She squatted down and grabbed the keys, then stopped in that down position.
In the corner of her eye she saw something, some faint glow on the platform, not ten metres from the house.
She didn’t dare move. Her heart was two-coffees quick all of a sudden and a new layer of sweat was making its home on her forehead.
It was silly, she knew it was silly. A little glow, probably a reflection from an overzealous Christmas light display a street or two away.
But it spooked her.
Yes, that was the word. The combination of unexpected light with the strange, viscous silence of Little Chisden—a world away from the chronic busyness of Stone Street—had put a little scare into the air. Not unlike the grim silence of a room where a patient had just died in the hospital.
Ivy took a deep breath and forced her head to turn.
The glow was not a reflection. At least, not any sort of reflection that Ivy understood.
It was the vague shape of a person. A small person. A little girl in a big coat, walking along the very edge of the railway platform with her arms outstretched for balance. She wavered to the left and right while slowly edging forward.
Ivy stood and rubbed her eyes. Nothing there.
She shook her head. She was more tired than she’d realised. That must be it. Christ, she was lucky that her drive home had been so uneventful.
On her second attempt, the key slid into the lock with no fuss and Ivy entered her new home. She kicked off her knock-off Crocs and shook out of her jacket, letting it fall to the carpet by the door. She thought about what she’d tell Mark in the morning while shuffling to the kitchen. Her body worked automatically while her mind wound down. Her hands retrieved a pasta bowl from the fridge, took off the tinfoil, and put it into the microwave. Her feet moved her to the counter where her eyes spotted a bottle of Merlot. Within a few minutes, she was sitting at the kitchen table without any real conscious idea of the process that had led to her slowly moving Spaghetti Bolognese from dish to mouth.
She looked around the kitchen while she chewed, relieved to see everything they’d brought in boxes had found a home. Even a few Christmas decorations were on show. A little snow globe on the high shelf over the table; a miniature tree garbed in miniature baubles and a tiny star on the counter by the kettle.
Ivy wondered how long Mark had spent on the house while she’d been at work. Poor guy must be damn near as knackered as she is.
It was almost 3am when she finished her meal and washed it down with the wine. Ivy dragged herself to her feet and briefly considered just passing out on the sofa rather than braving the stares. She decided against it when thinking again of the strange image she’d seen outside. Being in close proximity to another person, especially Mark, felt like a good idea.
#
The smell of bacon roused Ivy from dreamless sleep. She reached out for Mark and found his side of the bed empty. Grumbling, ragged with fatigue, she retrieved her phone from the bedside table. Almost 10am. Her dressing gown was hanging on the back of the bedroom door.
By the time she’d made her way downstairs, teeth freshly brushed and hair left to wander, Mark had found the Bluetooth speaker and put on his favourite Spotify playlist of Christmas classics. He was frying bacon and sausages in one pan, eggs in another, while Dean Martin tried to control the weather.
‘Mornin’, gorgeous,’ he said, smiling broadly and winking.
‘Hey,’ Ivy replied, ‘how did you sleep?’
‘Like a bloody corpse,’ he said.
Ivy nodded. ‘It’s so quiet here.’
‘Yeah, lovely.’ Mark turned from the stove, pulled a chair from the kitchen table and gestured for Ivy to sit. She obeyed, pausing to plant a kiss on Mark’s cheek. Mark placed a mug of steaming coffee in front of her. It was his favourite mug, a clumsily painted and misshapen thing given to him by his nephew. ‘You have this,’ he said, ‘I just made it. I’ll make myself another one.’
‘You’re too good to me,’ Ivy said, sipping the dark liquid.
‘Noted. I’ll be sure to be a prick for the rest of the day to make up for it,’ Mark replied. He filled the toaster with bread and turned the dial on the microwave, turning up the volume on the speaker to ensure that Judy Garland wouldn’t be drowned out by the radioactive hum heating the beans.
A couple of golden oldies later, Mark was seated with Ivy, each of them in possession of a Full English and several beverages: OJ for vitamin C, tea for flavour, coffee for the will to live.
Ivy dug in, cutting up the bacon and sausages, poking bits of everything onto her fork and filling her mouth.
‘How’d you find the first night in our new house, then?’ Mark asked.
Ivy nodded, chewed fast and swallowed. ‘Yeah, not bad. Bit weird coming back here instead of stone street. Drive was a lot longer.’ She poked her beans, reticent to say the next sentence. ‘Thought I saw a ghost.’
Mark froze. His fork was halfway between plate and mouth, his eyes were locked on Ivy.
Ivy chuckled. ‘Sounds mad, doesn’t it? Fatigue will do strange things to your perceptions, I guess.’
‘Wasn’t a little girl playing on the platform, was it?’ Mark asked.
Hours passed with no gap in the back-and-forth. Ivy thanked her stars that neither of them had work that day. Between herself and Mark, they’d worked themselves into quite a state. Mark had seen it—her?—as well, before bed. Like Ivy, he’d assumed the stress and workload of moving had caused it. But both of them seeing the same thing? That merited a little more consideration.
After their long conversation, Ivy was indeed certain they’d seen the same thing. A young girl wearing a big coat. Mark’s suggestions for naturalist causes ranged from implausible to legitimately less likely than ghosts.
‘Hologram? Like the Abba shows?’
‘Where would the projector be?’
‘Silent stealth helicopter overhead?’
‘Are silent stealth helicopters a thing?’
Mark went silent, focused on his phone. ‘Doesn’t seem like it,’ he said eventually.
‘Besides,’ said Ivy, ‘why would anyone go to the trouble of projecting the image of a little girl here?’
Ivy was about ready to crack open the Glenfiddich when a knock arrived at the door. She pulled her robe closed and approached the door, Mark following close behind.
Henry stood on the door step, a gift bag in hand. ‘Terribly sorry, I don’t mean to intrude,’ he said. ‘I brought you a little house warming gift. I hope that’s not inappropriate.’
‘Oh, no, that’s very kind, thanks. I’d invite you in, but I was working late. I’m a nurse.’
‘Of course, I understand.’ He held out the gift bag. ‘Here, have this. There’s a card inside with my number. I’d be happy to give you a tour of the village, once you’re both better settled in.’
‘Thank you, that’d very kind,’ said Mark.
They exchanged polite goodbyes with their visitor and closed the door as he ambled down the steps. Ivy led Mark back to the kitchen table and put the gift bag on it, gesturing for Mark to do the honours. She thought of her father, of his propensity for gift giving at random times. It was pleasant to be reminded of him, though it was not without cost.
Mark first pulled an envelope from the bag which he opened to reveal a cute Christmas card with a cartoon reindeer on the front. He briefly read the card then set it standing on the table. Next he pulled out a small box, three inches square and made of wood. He looked at Ivy and raised an eyebrow.
Ivy shrugged. ‘Might as well see what’s inside,’ she said.
Mark obediently opened the box. Inside was an old whistle engraved with the Little Chisden coat of arms. ‘Oh, that’s sweet,’ Mark said.
Ivy nodded. ‘Seems fitting.’
#
The next morning, at Mark’s request, Ivy called Henry and took him up on his offer of a village tour while Mark worked. She’d be off until Boxing Day, and he didn’t like the idea of her sitting alone in a haunted house the whole time.
Henry knocked on the door barely an hour after Ivy called him. He was wrapped up warm in a thick cotton jumper with a comically long scarf underneath a wool overcoat. To Ivy’s eye, he looked a little like Tom Baker’s Doctor Who, give or take a few decades.
‘I’m so glad you called,’ he said once she had pulled on her thickest winter coat and joined him outside. ‘It’s always nice when new people are eager to learn the village’s ways.’
‘Well, I need to make sure this village isn’t like a Wickerman situation,’ Ivy said with a smile.
‘Not at this time of year, no.’
Henry led Ivy on a calm and slow walk, starting at the point at which Station Road met the high street and progressing along the village, noting the historic pub and solitary newsagents on the corner and contrasting them with the more modern chain convenience store that occupied the middle spot of the road. Several other small outlets sparsely populated the street; two cafés, a hairdresser, a chip shop, a curry house, a charity shop. All along the route, Henry recited local history of note and just a sprinkling of gossip. At the end of the high street, an expanse of grass with a few trees and a pond marked the centre of the village. On the opposite side of the green, a small church neighboured another old pub. They grabbed coffees and pastries from the last shop on the high street, a charming bakery staffed by a woman with the broadest smile human anatomy would allow, and settled on a bench by the village sign on the green. The sign was weathered and imposing. It bore the same sigil as the whistle Henry had given Ivy and Mark.
‘Thanks for the welcome gift, by the way,’ Ivy said.
‘No trouble,’ Henry replied. He wore a faint smile, seemed peaceful. Ivy had seen the same look on her father’s face, had missed it sorely.
Ivy looked at her coffee cup, swirled the contents. ‘Listen, there’s something I wanted to ask you.’
‘Well, go right ahead.’
‘Do you…have you every heard anything about the rail house being haunted?’
Henry sat up a little straighter. He inhaled deeply then said, ‘I’d rather not discuss things like that, if it’s all the same to you.’
‘I just want to know if there were any stories like that when you worked there. When it was still a station. Did anything strange ever happen while you were there?’
‘As I said, I don’t wish to talk about fanciful old stories, or go drudging up ancient history.’
Ivy nodded. ‘I understand.’ And she did. She saw that kind of withdrawal quite often in the hospital, among people with fatty liver disease when asked how much they drank.
#
That night, once Mark was home, he and Ivy opted to stay up, together, bottles of lager in hand, with the curtains open in the living room. The TV was silent. Mark less so.
‘If she turns up, who do we call?’ He asked.
‘Do you have the Ghostbusters’ number?’
Mark shook his head.
Ivy rubbed his leg in a manner she hoped was consoling. She didn’t look at his face. Her gaze was locked on the window and what lay beyond. She had told Mark about the conversation with Henry, about her belief that Henry was hiding something. What secrets could hide in a rail station? Illicit liaisons, criminals on the run, those things sounded plausible. But what could have happened to a little girl here?
The station platform seemed so different at night. Very little light made its way onto the slabs that constituted the platform and none onto the rails themselves. The lamp posts along the street stopped a dozen or so metres before the rail house, and the roof of the raised structure was taller than the lights themselves. In the December evening gloom, with what frail yellow light made it out of their home and into the night, Ivy could barely make out the faded line of paint that marked the point passengers should not stand beyond. The platform’s slabs, composed of cracked concrete during the day, could have been a grey sea or an unusually flat storm cloud; in their near-invisibility their nature was only sure in memory.
Just as the sense of their silliness began to catch up with Ivy’s paranormal enthusiasm and tipsy courage, just as the bedroom began singing its siren song, their patience was rewarded.
A faint glimmer at first. Like bluish gossamer floating on an idle air current. Then more. More size, more definite shape. The little legs poking out from the bottom of a massive coat, the outstretched arms, the head with sticking-out ears and a ponytail.
And then a little voice. Distant, quiet, hampered by both time and the wall between the source and the witnesses, but unmistakably there. High-pitched and with little in the way of rhythm, the sing-songy emanation reminded Ivy of a Christmas carol. Jingle Bells.
They sat, enraptured, watching the curious display. Ivy felt time slow around her, felt space close in. Her internal map of everything decomposed in an instant. She’d been willing to write off the first encounter as a mental trick, but this new, complete vision was not so easily discarded. She managed to move her eyes briefly, to look at Mark. On his face she saw the perfect expression of what was going on in her own mind and she knew that they were really seeing something. Folie à deux can only take you so far.
Ivy stood and approached the window. Mark rose with her, the two of them moving in perfect synch. At the window, Mark unlatched the pane and opened it a crack, letting the strange little voice into their home with greater clarity.
The little girl—the little ghost—made her way from one side of the platform to the other, balanced right on the edge. She Teetered there a moment.
Then she fell onto the rails.
One brief yelp, and then nothing.
Ivy gasped.
Mark moved quick. He scrambled for the door, thumbed the latch and pulled it open, diving into the night.
Ivy regained her wits, pulled the window shut, and then followed Mark.
The air outside was bitter, unrelenting. Mark had made his way to the edge of the platform by the time Ivy was through the door. She called to him. ‘Mark!’
He turned to face her, shrugged. ‘Nothing’s there.’
‘Why did you run out like that?’
‘Gut instinct, I guess.’
She reached him and looked down at the rails. Rusted but unbent, they seemed just like the relics they were. A glance at her phone. Almost 7pm. There seemed to be no pattern to when the ghost would appear; did it wait for someone to be there to watch?
After a few moments more of quiet thought, Ivy and Mark returned to the house. The windows in the living room were coated with frost on the inside.
#
Ivy woke late. Mark was there, too. Ivy panicked and shook him awake, reminded him that he had work.
‘No, I don’t,’ he mumbled from behind the pillow he was using to shield himself from light and wife. ‘It’s the 23rd today, love. No work now ’til January.’
‘Oh,’ Ivy replied, settling back into her side of the bed. It was, indeed, the 23rd. Time had quite gotten away from her. In earlier years, she’d always know when the 23rd hit. That was the day Dad came over. He’d stay until Boxing day, monopolising the TV and inflicting box sets of ’70’s crime shows on the household.
The morning, or what was left of it, moved slow. Mark made breakfast again and Ivy did the coffee. They chatted about normal things with a normal cadence and a normal amount of flat, tired jokes. But things were anything but normal. The tension was viscous, syrupy in the air. Once Ivy’s belly was full, she broached the subject.
‘So, what are we gonna do about the ghost situation?’
Mark shrugged. ‘I really don’t have a clue. I guess we need to figure out who it is. Check old newspapers, or something.’
Ivy nodded. She pulled out her phone and searched online for which libraries in Ferenbrooke kept the best local archives. After fifteen minutes and no success, she instead searched for Ferenbrooke hauntings. Hopefully there were local people who would know where to look, since it was by no means obvious from her search parameters.
There was a real wealth of Reddit posts and podcast episodes about strange happenings in the town, much more than Ivy expected. She’d considered Ferenbrooke a fairly dull place, as student towns go. Among the various incoherent screeds and ‘just asking questions’ conspiracy theories, she found a blog called Freaky Ferenbrooke which was well-constructed and contained thoroughly researched explorations of many local legends and unlikely stories.
‘Look at this,’ Ivy said and sent the blog’s URL to Mark.
He pulled out his phone and read for ten minutes then said, ‘Yeah, this looks promising. Maybe send this person an email, see if they know anything or can point you in the right direction.’
The Contact Me page listed the site owner as a Lucia Ivanova and supplied an email address. Ivy quickly penned a short, basic email and then handed it over to Mark to read.
`Dear Lucia,
My name’s Ivy. I was wondering if you had ever heard about a haunting at the old rail station in Little Chisden? If so, could you possibly point me in the direction of some resources or further information?
Even if not, if you’re aware of any stories of deaths at the station, particularly involving a young girl, I’d be grateful if you could share them with me. Incidentally, do you know which library holds local newspaper archives?
Thanks in advance,
Ivy`
‘Looks good to me,’ Mark said.
After pressing send, Ivy sighed and put her phone screen down on the table. Mark did the same and smiled at her. He was a good guy, kind and non-judgemental. Not for the first time, Ivy felt incredibly lucky to have him. There was nobody she’d rather spend Christmas with. She watched as he wordlessly stood and padded over to the kettle, switched it on and retrieved two mugs from the cupboard. Teabags went in, and then an almost embarrassing amount of sugar. And then Ivy’s phone vibrated.
An email from Lucia.
Ivy rushed to the living room and retrieved her laptop from the sofa. She turned it on as she returned to the kitchen and sat it upon the table. Mark hovered while she waited for Gmail to load on the almost-antique netbook, fans whirring.
`Hi Ivy,
The story you’re looking for is the disappearance of Millie Weir. 1973. Please find attached a scanned .pdf of the news article from the Ferenbrooke Inquirer, front page, 04th Jan. 1974.
Numerous people have reported seeing the ghost of a little girl at the station over the years since. I’ll attach a copy of my notes below. It’s on my list of things to look into, simply haven’t found anything substantial enough as of yet.
Let me know if I can be of any further help, and perhaps you could help me in return? If you’ve seen anything, or discovered any new information, I’d love to hear about it.
Kind regards,
Lucia Ivanova
P.S. The Ferenbrooke Community Library on Magdalene Street has the best archives outside the university’s own, which they limit access to unless you’re a student.`
Ivy exhaled slowly and opened up the first attached .pdf. Mark’s breath on her neck informed her that he was reading over her shoulder. Good. That would save her having to explain everything. Hey eyes widened as she read; Millie Weir, nine years old, had been staying with her maternal grandmother. She had left the girl at the station where she was supposed to board the next train with her father (already on said train) who had been in Edinburgh on business and was returning home to Cambridge, picking up his daughter en route. Her mother had died two years previously, some sort of cancer. When the train stopped, Mr. Weir didn’t see his daughter. He got off the train and asked the station master, Henry Ericson—Henry—if he’d seen her. He had, but not for some time due his duties requiring him to be in the office. The girl had not been seen since.
‘Fuck,’ Mark said, ‘Henry has to know something.’
Ivy scrunched her brow. Mark was right. Too large a coincidence to ignore.
#
It felt a little like a plot. Henry was so eager to come, so grateful for the invitation. It made Ivy feel like shit. What if they’d gotten it wrong? What if he wasn’t hiding anything? It could just genuinely be awful for him to think about. The disappearance of a small girl on your watch is the sort of thing that could haunt a person.
But they had to resolve the situation somehow.
The living room was set well. All the detritus and inconsistencies produced by their move had been ably hidden by Mark in a fit of usefulness. The table had been reassembled and placed in front of the window, dressed with a festive cover, and left holding a slow cooker full of mulled wine and various savoury snacks. A bit much for a couple and a lonely old man, perhaps, but it felt appropriate for a Christmas Eve celebration. Perhaps less so for a ghost hunt and a potential interrogation, but neither Ivy nor Mark had any experience catering for those events.
Henry arrived promptly at 5pm. Ivy greeted him at the door, smiling broadly. She led their guest into the living room, where Mark shook his hand with enthusiasm.
‘Love what you’ve done with the place,’ Henry said.
Mark chuckled. ‘We haven’t even really gotten started yet. Did you see the inside much with the previous owner?’ He ladled mulled wine into a latte glass and handed it to their guest.
‘Thanks. And yes, now and then. There was a twenty year gap between the rail station closing and Professor Langley buying the place. We struck up a bit of a friendship due to my habit of stopping by the place on my winter walks. Bit like our situation, I suppose.’
Ivy nodded, smiled. The previous owner, Professor Langley, had lived in this house for thirty years, grown old in it, died in it. She wondered what he’d seen, whether spectres joined him for Christmas Eve.
The three of them sat, Ivy and Mark on the sofa and Henry on a chair by the table, and chatted about past Christmases and family while a looping video of a crackling fireplace accompanied by festive piano music played on the TV. Once the mulled wine had settled into their stomachs and minds, Ivy decided to edge towards their purpose.
‘What’s it like, being back in this place?’ She asked.
‘Bittersweet, I’d say,’ Henry replied. ‘I had a lot of memories in this place. I was quite devastated when they shut the station down.’
Ivy glanced at Mark. He was staring at her. He was sweating. She nodded.
Mark cleared his throat. ‘So, how long after that girl disappeared did they shut the place down?’
Henry froze. The room’s temperature dropped. Slowly Henry’s eyes slid from Ivy to Mark. ‘I’m surprised you heard about that. It wasn’t so long, six months or so.’ His hands were shaking.
The weight of the tension in the air suffocated Ivy, made her feel twice as heavy. ‘What happened, Henry?’
Henry’s eyes narrowed. ‘What do you mean by that?’
Mark rose. He walked to the table by the window, leant on it. He was facing away from Ivy and Henry, watching the platform.
‘I mean,’ Ivy said, ‘I think you know why there’s a ghost of a little girl haunting our house.’
A groan. ‘Ridiculous. Ghosts. Come on, you can’t be that daft.’
‘We know what we saw,’ Mark growled.
Henry rose, shaking his head. ‘Bloody hell,’ he said. He set his empty glass on the table and made for the door.
The key was in the lock. He turned it and threw the door open, marching out onto the platform. Ivy and Mark followed.
‘Well then,’ Henry said, ‘where’s your ghost? Is she going to appear in a window? Maybe step off a spectral train coming in from the coast? How does this work?’ He waved his arms as he spoke, his voice rising with every word. His face grew red, contorted with emotions that Ivy couldn’t recognise.
Mark pointed.
Ivy looked. Henry turned to look, too.
There, approaching the platform edge from the far end of the once-station, a bouncing little shape. Barely a whisper of light, four feet off the ground.
It slowly grew more defined, became recognisable as a little girl in a big coat.
Henry gasped.
They stood, still in the freezing air, as the little spirit reached the edge and began its little nightly routine. Arms out for balance, one foot in front of the other, right on the edge. A clumsy rendition of Jingle Bells.
It lasted forever and a moment. She’d gone about eight metres, then lost her place in the song. Then lost her footing.
‘No!’ Henry shouted. He sprang towards the ghost as she let out a little yelp and disappeared over the edge of the platform.
Ivy and Mark followed him. They stood there, staring down at the rails.
For several painful moments there was only silence and the distant sound of a doorbell.
Henry drew in a deep rattling breath then said, ‘I’d had a few drinks at lunch. There was only three trains that day, the one she was waiting for was the last. Her grandmother hadn’t been well, asked me to keep an eye. I said I would, but I bloody well didn’t. Fell asleep in my chair in the office. That yelp, that’s what woke me.’ Tears slid down his cheeks. ‘I was terrified. Got it into my head they’d think I killed her. There’d been some murders in town and everyone was sure the wrong guy had gone down for them, stitched up to protect someone wealthy. Made me paranoid. So, I took her. I hid her away in…in the bloody shed.’ He sobbed, held his face in his hands. ‘Later, I moved her. Put her in my car, drove to the clay lake and buried her. There was construction going on, that Farrow Park mess. Plenty of holes, I just made one a little deeper.’
Henry fell to his knees, wailed. ‘I’m sorry!’
Mark had his phone in his hand. Ivy’s eyes widened. He’d recorded that confession. Mark nodded his head towards the house. Ivy nodded and went inside. She shut the door and leant against it, breathing heavily. With shaking hands she pulled her phone from the pocket of her hoodie and dialled for the police.
#
They made it home by 11am, after a long night of being questioned by an Irish police detective who listened carefully and stroked his moustache as Ivy and Mark spoke. Henry had gone into custody without fuss and confessed again, rendering the recording on Mark’s phone unneeded. Mark immediately set about preparing Christmas dinner. He propped up his phone against some cook books and video called his parents, encouraged Ivy to come into shot and wish them Merry Christmas. She obliged, but it felt hollow.
She slipped out of the kitchen when Mark began recounting their adventure and listened from the living room as Mark’s father speculated wildly about which building the little girl would have been buried under. ‘It’ll be that block of flats by the crappy playground. Total eyesore. Clearly cursed.’
Once dinner was ready, the call ended and Mark joined her in the living room. They put on Home Alone and ate quietly. Ivy was entirely unwilling to risk a conversation that might turn to recent events.
The evening was a little more jovial. They sank a few beers, ate a lot of chocolate, and opened the presents they’d gotten one another. Ivy got Mark a Santoku knife and a pair of Doc Martens, in return she received a number of punk rock vinyls and a make-your-own scented candle kit.
They both kept looking out the window. Mark offered to close the curtains, but Ivy said no.
They were both waiting for it, and were braced and ready when it came.
The little girl singing Jingle Bells in the big coat.
The balancing act.
The slip.
But this time, she found her footing. This time, she stepped back from the edge as the vague outline of something long and boxy drew up to the platform. This time, the vague impression of a door slid open and she stepped onto a ghostly carriage, to the waiting arms of a loving father. This time, she caught her train home for Christmas.