Dystopia: YA Paranormal Adventure Romance (10 page)

Chapter 11

Tuesday 17 September 6:04pm

Sasha Hunter

Afternoon turns to evening as I ponder Blake's offer in my room. I flick impatiently through my MP3 player and half-watch a Sci-Fi film on one of the TV channels. No special effects can match what I've seen over the last couple of days. I gaze at the picture of Mum and Dad. It took me a while to recompose myself after seeing the folder with Mum's name written on it. Why does Blake have information on my mother's disappearance? The
numbness of her loss had passed over the years, but the pain still hits me out of nowhere at the mention of her name.

Blake's offer is tempting: in one simple exchange I can get rid of the hangman game and find out about what happened to my mum on Dystopia Day. I'm angry at Dad for putting me in this position. My mobile phone bleeps; it's a text message from Kat:

Hey Sash, how are you? I
am with your dad.

He still in
hospital, but feeling more like old self.

Call me if need to talk. Speak soon, love & hugs,

Kat x

So Dad is starting to feel more like his old self? But what exactly is his old self? He's been distant with me for as long as I can remember. I'm not a needy type of girl; not one to burst into tears or need comforting hugs on a daily basis. Whenever I've had a problem in the past, I've had Katalina to talk to.

It makes me smile how Kat's text-speak is the same as her normal speech. I want to call her back and tell her everything, but instead I send a brief reply of "Thanks c u soon x". I miss Kat. She's been more of a parent to me than Dad has. I try to ignore
the pangs of homesickness and focus on finding a way to speak with Zara.

As I wrestle with my emotions there is a knock on the door. I look outside to see a food tray left on the floor. When I remove the silver dome lid I'm disappointed to find sausage, chips and beans. It's probably left over from this morning's cooked breakfast. A white envelope is tucked underneath the plate with my name written on it. I pick through the chips while I open the letter:

Sasha,

You're considering handing something over to Blake, something you don't want to give him. It will make you unhappy and it won't help you or your family. Don't do it. Get out of the room as soon as you read this. Meet me in the gardens behind the mansion. Bring the paper with you. And don't forget the knife.

Zara Gordon

A chip drops from my mouth as my jaw hangs open. I can ignore this
letter, stay put and keep playing Blake's games. Or I can risk everything and follow Zara's instructions. Can I trust this person that I hardly know, let alone her visions of the future? I have to trust Dad and his advice. As for Blake's offer, if I was considering it before I'm not now: I'm not going to betray Dad just to get some information on Mum. I have to meet Zara Gordon, and fast. I grab my black hoodie and scarf, stuff the hangman game and small knife in my pocket and head out of the room.

Once I'm outside, I pull up my hood and tighten the scarf around my exposed neck. It no longer feels strange to be outside after curfew. It's a crisp evening with a biting wind whipping up the
fallen leaves. The landscaped grounds of The Agency mansion are lit by tall Victorian lampposts. A whirring noise makes me glance up and I spot a CCTV camera. It's probably Menzies Blake, watching from his office. Maybe the letter was a fake; a double-bluff to make me venture out. Or am I being paranoid? Either way, I don't have much time. Crouching in the shadows, I scurry my way torward the back of the mansion.

Peering around the corner of the building, I wait impatiently for Zara. I'm desperate for the
toilet, but I know it's probably just nerves. I pull the yellow paper out of my pocket, folding the creases down on each edge to make sure it won't open on its own. As I rotate the paper a gust of wind blows it out of my hand.

"No! Come back!"

I grab at it hopelessly as it flutters away in mid-air, carried into the forest beyond the gardens. I freeze for a second, half wanting to chase after it, but half frightened by the thought of running into the darkness. I'm supposed to wait here for Zara, but now I have no choice. Taking in a deep breath, I turn and run.

The paper dances across the ground as I desperately give chase. Every time I get within a few paces another blast of wind takes it further away.
Without the shelter of the mansion, the gale is much stronger and it carries the paper straight toward the woods. My feet feel as heavy as lead, like trying to run in a nightmare. I stop, bracing myself against the wind like an explorer in an Arctic blizzard, worried that an asthma attack will rise up.

The yellow paper stands out against the darkness as it flutters left then right. The trees will slow it down, I tell myself as I resume the chase. The wind won't be as strong in the forest. But it's also darker, much darker. I race past the first few trees, focusing on the small paper which holds so much importance to me. I make a dive for it, miss, then pick myself up and push on. The swirling breeze sends the paper on a meandering route through the trees, doing its best to lose me. And then it stops dead in a clearing within the forest. I take in my surroundings; tall trees converging with their branches like arms reaching down at me.

It's suddenly silent.

A silence worse than a terrible scream.

Silence that seems to echo around the trees.

The paper flutters its way back
torward me and rests at my feet. It unfolds itself and lies face down on the ground. I pick it up and turn it over hesitantly. In the murky light, I can see that the hangman now has another arm with a message written across the top in startling bold writing:

I fold it up quickly and tuck it inside my jeans pocket with a cold shudder. Turning in a circle, I'm horrified to find that I
've run much deeper into the forest than I realised. I can't see the distant lights of The Agency mansion anymore. I'm hopelessly lost. A strange tingle makes me hold my breath. It feels as if I've touched something, or something has touched me. The sensation is like the nail of a small finger brushing across my back.

With every hair raised on my neck, I turn slowly. Within the darkness I can make out a cloud-like shape between two trees. It's a shadow that cradles a dark threat, that kind of threat that lay underneath my bed when I was a child. It's a man-shaped silhouette, but it's not a real man.
You can't see through real men.

The featureless, dark shape flows in and out of the shadows of the trees. It hovers torward me, its legs missing from the knees down. I want to scream, but feel as though all the air has been drained from my lungs. As it comes closer I recognise the executioner's sackcloth hood with the black eye holes. It's the same terrifying vision I saw in the mirror at home. Time seems to slow as he — it — lurches closer still.

I clench my fists so tightly they hurt, trying to convince myself that it's adrenaline more than fear making me tremble and preventing me from running away. I take in more details as I stand rooted to the spot. Its flowing white shirt and black leather waistcoat are of an age long gone. It reminds me of something I've seen in a film, which told of how ghosts
always wear the clothes they die in. The figure comes to a halt and stretches out its arms. It holds an axe in one hand and a noose in the other. It doesn't appear to speak, but in my head, I hear a rasping voice.

"What will it be, my left hand or my right?"

The Hangman Ghost's voice is sickly smooth, like sand falling through fingers. My heart beats in my ears. Don't scream and don't run, I tell myself. That's what it wants me to do. I don't know why I know this, but I do.

"You will play my game," the voice hisses, as though via some
wicked ventriloquist.

His words slide through my mind like oil into a rusty hinge, easing it open.

"Or you will PAY!"

Gale-force wind hurricanes through the trees, throwing me violently to the ground. I squint through the swirling leaves to see another figure beyond the Hangman Ghost.

"Stay down Sasha!"

It's Zara. I can see her blurred outline through the body of the ghost, motioning for me to me to drop to the
ground. I don't have a choice; my legs buckle as the ghost hovers closer.

"Sasha, move into the circle. It can't hurt you inside the circle!"

I crawl backward and notice a round shape carved into the ground.

"Complete the circle!"

I can barely hear Zara over the roaring wind, let alone make sense of what she's saying. I move inside the circle and pull out the knife. With a shaking hand I trace over the carved shape. As I complete the gap, the Hangman Ghost lets out a piercing roar, making me cover my ears and squeeze my eyelids shut.

An eerie silence descends, like the quiet before the storm; the storm that came with the Hangman Ghost.

When I open my eyes the wind dies and the Hangman Ghost begins to disappear, as if someone has blown a man-shaped smoke ring. The edges of his silhouette break into particles which disperse like sparks from a bonfire. As he begins to fade I hear his voice:

"This is not over. Your time will come!"

The outlines of his body fade and in the space of a breath there is nothing except Zara. She runs to my side and helps me to my feet as my legs tremble.

"Are you alright?"

I nod numbly, not trusting myself to answer without bursting into tears. A full moon springs out from behind a cloudbank, bathing the forest clearing in milky white light; another bad omen. I look down at the circle I'm kneeling inside and I'm thankful for it being there; somehow it seemed to repel the Hangman Ghost. I shoot a glance left then right, scanning the moonlit trees.

"Did you kill it?"

"You can't kill something that's already dead," says Zara. "We need to move, fast. We don't have much time. Can you run?"

My legs feel watery, like jelly that hasn't set.

"I'll run out of here!"

"Then let's go."

As we leave the forest clearing, I relive the last sixty seconds in my head: the silence, the darkness, the ghost. Although nothing happened to me in the depths of the forest, I feel like I've been in a fight, and the Hangman Ghost won.

Chapter 1
2

Tuesday 17 September 8:02pm

Zara half-drags me through the dark woods, cutting a determined path within the thick undergrowth. Tall trees lean menacingly torward each other like boxers, somehow making the outdoors feel claustrophobic. I'm barely breathing, fighting to contain my asthma while trying to take everything in. My senses work overtime as I struggle to understand what I witnessed moments earlier. I can feel the asthma gathering in my lungs like a fungus. Zara notices my erratic breathing pattern and stops in a clearing at the edge of a pond.

"Take this."

She hands me my blue inhaler and I gratefully take two pumps. The wet gas courses down my throat and eases my tight chest.

"How did you find me?"

"Let's just say I knew you'd be here."

"Because you're a
Precog, right? Blake told me that you can see the future."

"I have glimpses of future events. I saw you and the ghost in the forest, which is why I prepared the protective circle. I needed you to complete the circle to empower it. We're safe for now, but we don't have long. Sasha, you have to listen carefully and trust me."

Zara Gordon is the one person I'm able to trust and the only person Dad could rely on.

"Get in the pond."

She nods toward the cold, dark water.

"What?"

"We don't have time for questions. Act now, think later. Get into the water."

Too dazed to argue, I start to remove my clothes.

"No you don't."

Zara pushes me into the ice-cold pond before I have a chance to remove so much as a shoe. I gasp at the shock of the freezing water against my skin.

"What the hell do you think you're doing?"

"Sorry about that," Zara says as she hauls me back out of the pond.

I fix her with an angry stare as the dark water drips from my hair.

"Are you insane?"

"Get over it," she says, wholly unsympathetically. "It was the only way to scramble the bugs."

"You're telling me I've been bugged?"

My teeth start to chatter as the coldness takes grip. Zara takes off my soaked hoodie and replaces it with her black jacket.

"Afraid so.
Now, listen. I'm your dad's understudy at The Agency. He's in trouble, and I don't just mean trouble of the ghostly variety."

"He told me to find you." I stammer as I try to rub some warmth back into my cold arms. "He told me to give you this." I pull the old paper from my jeans pocket. Strangely, it's perfectly dry.

"It's a hangman game," I explain. "It keeps asking me to play."

"Don't open it," says Zara. "Keep it folded up."

I slip it into my back pocket, nestled behind the small knife.

"Zara, what's going on? I feel like my head is about to explode. A few days ago I found this bit of old paper and since then my world has been flipped upside down. My dad's in a hospital, I've had to stay at a haunted house and I'm being chased by a ghost. So please, please, tell me what's going on."

Zara huffs, like having to explain things is a hassle she doesn't need.

"We
must to get going, we don't have much time. Can you walk and listen?"

"
Erm, I think so," I reply with half-hearted sarcasm.

Zara walks on, only speaking once I catch up alongside her, my shoes squelching with each step.

"Let me give you a crash course in Paranormal Investigation. There are three types of ghosts. The first type is a Spirit. Spirits can be seen or unseen and are nothing more than energy left behind when someone passes over. Spirits are pretty harmless."

"Harmless is good," I reassure myself.

Zara continues, speaking emotionlessly and without breaking stride. "The second type is an Apparition. They are always visible… such as the Grey Lady or Headless Horseman. Apparitions can be harmless, or malevolent."

"That doesn't sound good," I say, almost tripping over a thick branch.

"Apparitions are visual but can't physically hurt you, although they've been known to induce respiratory attacks purely by their appearance."

"Sounds nice."

I rub my chest, all too aware of how easy another asthma attack can strike.

"Well, they're not. I've dealt with quite a few and let me tell you, you never get used to it."

"So what's the last type?"

"The last kind is what I think your Hangman Ghost is. A Poltergeist."

The word sends a whole new wave of shivers over my body, much worse than the icy cold pond water did.

"Are they harmless?" I ask hopefully.

"No. They are always malevolent and usually very dangerous. They can be seen or unseen, and can also interact physically."

I feel like I'm collecting bits of information and storing them in my mind like a paranormal guidebook on how to survive.

"You mean they throw things?" I ask.

"More than that. They have the power of possession."

Never has a single word made me want to throw up like that just did. I cringe at the thought of a ghost being able to touch you; being able to actually seep inside you and take control.

"So how many Poltergeists have you dealt with?"

"Including your Hangman Ghost?
One."

My heart sinks. Zara Gordon is my only hope but her answer does nothing for my confidence in her.

"It's only my second year at The Agency. I haven't quite worked my way up to Poltergeists. I guess we'll learn as we go along."

"Right, like on-the-job training."

I try to make light of the horrendous picture Zara is painting.

"Poltergeists feed on fear," she continues. "They want a reaction: screaming, crying, fleeing. But you gave it nothing. How did you know that?"

"I didn't."

"You have a sixth sense, you just don't know how to use it yet."

I roll my eyes in frustration.

"Now you're starting to sound like my dad."

"Lou Hunter is a great man; the finest Paranormal Agent I've known. You're lucky to have him for a father."

"Well, I don't feel lucky. I never feel lucky."

The words of
Menzies Blake come back to me about Zara's mother being imprisoned. I feel a pang of guilt; Dad isn't perfect, but at least he's not a criminal. Despite her cold nature, Zara seems to have a faith in me that I don't have in myself. She's calm under pressure, intelligent and strikingly beautiful; everything I'm not.

She's also a hard person to figure out. On one hand, she took a risk to help me and she's clearly fond of my dad. But on the other hand, I get the feeling that she somehow resents being around me, like I'm an annoying little sister. As begrudging as Zara seems, she is an ally and right now I need all the help I can get. She might have saved and debugged me, but
Menzies Blake is hardly about to let me walk away from this place easily. Not to mention the small matter of a Poltergeist known as The Hangman Ghost. I'm in trouble, and I know deep down there is only one person who will know what to do.

"I need to get to Dad."

I'm half-running, trying to keep up with Zara.

"We're on our
way, but we need to go and see somebody first."

"Not
Menzies Blake!"

"No, he's the last person we want to bump into. Let's just say Blake and your father don't see eye to eye."

"Why's that?"

I can tell by the way Zara picks up her pace that she is tired of me firing questions at her.

"When the last Team Leader retired everyone thought Agent Hunter would get the job. Somehow Menzies Blake wormed his way into the position. He's not liked within The Agency, not least of all for being a Necromancer."

The word chills me, even though it doesn't sound as creepy as when it rolled off Blake's rasping tongue.

"He told me he can summon the spirits of the dead."

"
Unfortunately, that's true. It's a very unique ability, but one that can be used for evil as well as good. I can't figure Blake out, which is why I don't trust him. You have to wonder why he feels as though he needs his own personal bodyguards."

"You mean
Ludvig, Blake's driver?"

"Yes, and there are others. Blake is nothing more than an egotistical power-tripper and a bad influence in The Agency."

I could add a few other descriptives to that list.

"So who are we going to see?"

Zara quickens her pace.

"Someone who can tell us exactly what the Hangman Ghost wants."

+ + +

I'm intrigued by the thought of who
this person is and how he can possibly help us. Maybe The Agency has some kind of spiritual guru; a sage-like master of exorcism who can make the ghost disappear for good? It might be wishful thinking, but hope is all I have left. My only concern is that other than Zara, Blake and Ludvig, I've not seen any other Agents here. This place is just one big mystery.

Zara leads the way through the gardens, ever mindful of the CCTV cameras. We descend some steps down to the mansion's basement and toward a dark, windowless door.

"This is the lab," says Zara. "Wait out here while I make sure that the coast is clear."

Zara enters the
room, but leaves the door ajar, just enough for me to see through the crack between the hinges. It's a shrine to science: shelves sag under the weight of textbooks; black-and-white anatomical diagrams cover the walls; in the corner, a display cabinet is crammed with glass jars filled with murky liquid. Dozens of computer screens provide a strange luminous lighting and a permanent background hum.

I watch through the gap in the door as a lone man sits hunched over a desk, working studiously under a table lamp. Zara gives a deliberate cough to attract his attention. The man spins in his chair, revealing a weirdly large eye. I gasp before I realise it's nothing more than a monocle-style magnifying glass.  He's wearing a fitted tee shirt and jogging pants, with a towel draped around his neck. As he moves into the
light I recognise the olive skin and the dark fringe. It's Aaron. I know that I probably owe him an apology. He won't get one, of course.

I remain hidden behind the door while Zara approaches him to talk. His biceps tense as he grips the loose ends of the towel, clearly proud of his physique. Aaron is not exactly the spiritual master I had in mind.

"Hey, Zara! A bit late for a chess rematch, isn't it? Are you that desperate for another beating?"

"No chess tonight, Hart. I need a favour."

Aaron rotates his head stiffly.

"I need a favour myself. I could do wi
th a shoulder massage right now. . ."

"Grow up," says Zara, with a sigh.

I bet he's like this with all the girls. I fight the fact that I have some kind of attraction to him, and the feelings of jealousy. He slides torward Zara on his wheeled office chair, not bothering to remove the magnifying lens from his eye. He yawns and I can't help but return it, having had a sleep deprived night and a long day.

"Who's out there?" asks Aaron suspiciously.

"Sasha, you might as well come in now," says Zara over her shoulder.

I creep around the door guiltily. I knew I'd be no good at this secret agent stuff. When I lock eyes with Aaron I feel something unfamiliar stir inside of me, and I'm not happy about the warm tingle I get in my belly.

"It's you," he says. He doesn't seem at all surprised to see me. "You're not going to knee me in the nuts again, are you?"

His question douses those feelings in my tummy and I pin him with a stare. "It
depends, " I reply sharply.

He folds his arms across his chest and leans back in his chair.

"I tried to help you. It's not my fault you're so stubborn. Pretty, but stubborn."

He called me pretty, and on come the butterflies again.

"Enough," interrupts Zara. "You two make me feel like I'm back in the school playground. Hart, we need your psychometric help with something."

Menzies
Blake described Aaron Hart as an "Empath"; someone who can pick up feelings based on touch. I'm reminded of our first encounter and how he reacted when our hands brushed. Aaron looks me up and down as though he's studying my every detail through his magnifying glass-eye while thoughtfully scratching his chin. I feel like an insect underneath a microscope: helpless and insignificant.

"It's kind of urgent," says Zara, trying to hurry things along. "Show him the hangman game, Sasha."

I hand the old, yellowed paper to Aaron, not daring to open it myself.

"I've seen this before," he says, rubbing the folded paper between his thumb and forefinger. "Agent Hunter asked me to run some tests on it for him. He didn't tell me anything about it. Just like he never told me he had a daughter with a lethal right knee."