Rick locked his bedroom door. He dumped his backpack on the bed and zipped open the side pouch. Reaching in, he pulled out a folded sheet of paper. He smoothed it out on the bed and read the words he had written the night before, in green pen: To Carolinda Bennett, died 24th March, 2009. Sorry mum, sorry. I love you. Ricky.
When Eve had told him about her and his father’s planned weekend in a haunted house, he knew that this was the opportunity he had been waiting for − his chance to say sorry to his mother for killing her. He knew that he was the cause of her death.
That afternoon, three years ago, his mother had picked him up from school as usual. He had been in a bad mood and he was hungry. He had wanted her to stop at McDonald’s. She had said no. It was raining heavily and she was anxious to get home.
But he had kept on pestering her and had started kicking the dashboard, swearing at her. His mother had turned to him, her face angry, shouting at him to stop. Then the car had swerved, there was a loud bang and the world went topsy-turvy.
He had woken up in the hospital to see his father’s face distorted with grief, his eyes red and wet. He had known then that his mother was dead and that he was to blame.
Those months following the accident had been a haze of pain, both physical and mental. He had stayed with his grandparents who, despite their cocoon of kindness and gentle love, could not comfort him. He remained stony-faced, unable to cry.
Gerry had taken him to a counsellor who had told him not to blame himself; that his mother would not want him to. But since that day, he had felt a fierce need to let his mother know how sorry he was.
He reasoned that if Bayleton Guesthouse was a place haunted by ghosts, then his mother would somehow know about it and would come there to see him. He had a vague worry that she might be a bit upset about Eve, being Gerry’s girlfriend.
If his mother herself did not appear then perhaps Catherine O’Brien would. Then he could give the note to her. She could pass it on to his mother.
Rick had little doubt that in that foggy world inhabited by dead people, his mother, always so garrulous and friendly in life, would somehow know Catherine.
A thought occurred to him. A ghost may not be able to hold a piece of paper. He knew from films that they were misty and that living people could walk right through them. He would have to hold the paper in front of his mother’s or Catherine’s ghostly face.
Either way, he knew it was imperative that he stay awake all night.
He took out a can of lemonade and three chocolate bars from his backpack and placed them on the bed beside him. He then propped himself up against the headboard. He put the note on his lap. Eyes wide and alert, he waited.