The Mammoth Book of Ghost Stories by Women (Mammoth Books)

“What’s that? S and M?”

“Never mind. You’re from Gloryville, so how would you even know? Wait. Your name’s Charity?”

“Yes.”

“That’s funny.”

“Why?”

“Did you know that other Charity? The one who ran away from Gloryville, I dunno, six years ago?”

Charity frowned and put her hand to her mouth. “Who was that? I don’t remember. There are a couple of Charities in Gloryville.”

“Girl about fourteen . . . fifteen. It was in the news. Found her . . . shit, it was in this same motel. In a closet. She was dead, all banged up. Said it looked like she’d been hit by a car or something.”

“No ...”

“Never found out who did it, I don’t think. Went out to that Gloryville, talked to some folks. Seems she ran off. Musta gotten hooked up with some bad sorts who ran her down then hid her.”

“No.”

“One of the cops said she looked like she was real pretty once, in that yellow dress and all that brown hair and a little squashed Bible in her pocket. He even cried a bit on the TV. Now for a cop to cry, who’s gonna forget that?”

No.

“I think the people in Gloryville said another girl ran off with her, but they never did find her. You remember the Charity I’m talking about?”

I am her.

“Do you?”

Oh my God, I am her!

She’d heard about ghosts. Some of her brothers talked about them privately, when they were choring outdoors. She’d overheard them, talking and giggling nervously. Ghosts were leftovers from dead people. They were stuck on earth for some reason. They came out at night and shook windows and rattled doors. They could pass through solid walls and scare you to death if you looked at them. They had magic numbers they used to their advantage. Thirteen. Seven. Three. Each had a purpose that Charity did not stay to hear, because at that point her mother was calling her.

“Hey, Charity?”

Slowly, she stood, held her hands in front of her, and placed them on the closet door. Am I a ghost, then? Is that what has happened? Did I die here? Has it been six years?

Her palms flattened against the splintery wood. She felt it grow cold at her touch, and then she pushed against it. Leaned into it. And it gave way. She tumbled forward though the door and out into the room.

Julie leaped to her feet, her eyes huge. “Oh, shit! Oh, shit!” Her blonde hair was grimy and limp, her jeans soaked in blood down to her knees.

Charity straightened and stared at her hands. They looked the same to her. She flexed them. They felt the same but for the chill.

Julie backed towards the bed. “Get away from me,” she snarled.

“I . . . I won’t hurt you,” said Charity. “I never hurt anyone in my life.”

“Get away!”

Charity took a step forward, wanting to console Julie, for she saw in the girl the fear and terror that she knew had been on her own face when Rufus came at her with his correction rod or belt. And in that moment saw herself in the mirror.

She screamed.

Gone was the recognizable, sunburned face, the narrow shoulders, the slim body, and the yellow dress. Her dress was torn away at the waist, revealing ravaged undergarments. The ragged remnants of cloth were covered in black streaks and blackened blood. Her body was mangled, one arm bent with a bone protruding, her legs flayed along the shins and thighs. Her face was purpled and her jaw could be seen through a hole in her cheek.

Charity fell to her knees, clutched the remaining clots of hair on her head, and sobbed. And somewhere nearby came the sound of someone else crying softly, accompanying by a persistent scratching, clawing.

“We’re both dead, then,” said Julie. She sat on the bed, her hands folded in her lap, her brows drawn, her lip trembling.

“Yes. I died at the hands of Rufus and the Prophet. You died at the hands of the nurse your boyfriend recommended you go to.”

“So we’re ghosts.”

“Yes.”

“I don’t know how to be a ghost. What do we do now?”

Charity sat on the chair at the desk. She could not feel the seat beneath her. She ran her fingers along the buttons of the phone but could not push them. She and Julie had tried several times to leave the room, only to find they were unable to step through the door. “I don’t know. Have you read about ghosts?”

Julie shrugged. “Some. Not much. We have unfinished business. I guess since we both got murdered, in our own ways.”

“I guess so.”

“How long have I been dead, I wonder? I would call the front desk and ask the date but we can’t dial, can we?”

“I can’t. Maybe you can. I’ve heard tell ghosts can move things sometimes.”

Julie crawled off the bed and went to the desk. She lifted the receiver and gave Charity a look of surprise. She pushed the 0 on the dial pad. A moment later, a voice said, “Yes?”

Julie said, “What is today?”

“Hello? Is someone there?”

“Yes, I want to know the date.”

“Hello? Hello? Who is there in room six? No one’s been in that room for weeks!”

“Please, I just want to know today’s date.”

“I’m coming down there, whoever you are! Intruders! Pranksters!” There was a click. Julie put the receiver down. “She couldn’t hear me. She’s coming to the room. Are we supposed to spook her?”

“Do you think we should?”

“I don’t know. She’s probably an OK lady, just worried is all.”

“Then let’s leave her alone.”

Julie and Charity went into the closet. The woman from the front desk entered the room just moments later, and they could hear her grunting as she kneeled down to look under the bed, peeked in the bathroom. Then she opened the closet door. They held still as she stared right through them. Then she muttered, “Must be crossed wires. Must be last night’s storm.” She went out. Julie went back to the bed. Charity went back to sit at the desk.

“Are we stuck here? Forever?” asked Julie. “Do we have to haunt the place where we died?”

“Maybe. I don’t know. I wish I did. My brothers knew a bit about ghosts. I should have paid closer attention. Oh, I hope Fawn has gone on to heaven! I don’t want her wandering in the desert, all alone!”

“Shhh, listen,” said Julie.

There was the soft crying again, beneath them. The sound of scratching, clawing.

“What do you think that is?” Julie asked.

Charity shook her head. “It’s what I’ve been hearing off and on. I thought it might be a dog beneath the motel, scampered there out of the sun maybe.”

“No, it’s a human sound.”

They both listened. Whimpering, scraping. Under the floor.

Charity kneeled down on the rug. She put her face to the floor. “Who are you?”

More weeping, louder now. More scratching.

“Are you hurt? Do you need help?”

A soft, tiny voice. “Help.”

“How can I help you?”