The Ethereal

Prologue



It was the evening of my fourteenth birthday. The day had been better than average, but nothing to brag to my friends about. My big brother Rowan and I had gone to the cinema to see a horror called The Hounds. It was a 15, but the tiny cinema in the town of Merriss, which neighbours our home village of Westlockland, wasn’t exactly big on security measures, and I managed to slip quickly and quietly through the back door and into the cinema with ease. I joined Rowan in the front row, grabbed a generous handful of sugary popcorn from his enormous box of it, and took a substantial slurp of his strawberry slush. He didn’t mind; in fact, he always enjoyed taking care of me. When I was teased in junior school for my rather shorter-than-average stature, he was always at my side immediately, fighting my corner for me like the big brother everyone wishes they had. My best friend Naomi has a big brother too, Patrick, but he’s notoriously bitter about… well, everything. His few friends are incredibly tolerant.

The film was vile, full of guts and gore and intestines being gnawed by savage dogs, but Rowan was always beside me with an open shoulder for me to nuzzle my head into when it just got a little too repulsive – not that it did very much, seeing as Rowan and I were always massive fans of bloodthirsty video games and suchlike. He’d give me a gentle nudge when the really horrible parts were over, so I could relax and sit back and maybe grab another handful of popcorn. We were two of about five people in the entire cinema, so we could whisper and chomp and slurp without feeling much pressure to keep it quiet. It was quite fun now I think about it, but the best part of all was that I got to be with Rowan.

Afterwards, we headed back home on the train. The warmth and gentle rocking motion of the carriage quickly sent me to dreamland, my head on Rowan’s shoulder, and I dreamt of savage dogs and blood and guts and when I woke up with a shock, Rowan gave a teasing laugh.

“Hey, maybe the film was a little too much for a fourteen-year-old girl,” he said, challenging me to respond. I elbowed him sharply in the arm but couldn’t help a smile creep onto my face.

“Shut up,” I told him with a grin, and we both gazed out of the window at the rushing trees and rolling hills that passed like lush, green waves. Rather than return home, I longed to rush out and swim in them with my big brother, carefree and happy. I so wanted to run into one of the frequent abandoned buildings, complete with smashed windows and graffiti-embroidered walls, in search of adventure with Rowan, instead of go back. I was desperate to go anywhere, anywhere but where we were going… to our little, shabby home, at the heart of Westlockland village. The inevitability of what we’d find back at 2 Larks Cottage was almost painful.

As soon as we shoved open the stiff, white door, careful not to break its fragile hinges, it was clear our shared suspicions were correct. Mum came stumbling into the hallway, a glass of red wine in one hand, her other hand resting on the wall, attempting to keep her upright. She looked confused as she surveyed us.

“Back so soon?” she asked clumsily, her eyes not focusing.

“Yeah,” Rowan responded curtly, removing his jacket and hanging it on a peg by the door. It had been raining quite heavily outside, and his long, dark hair was saturated with rain, as was mine. We both shared the typical Farley family dark hair and dark eyes, only Rowan’s eyes were somehow much more beautiful than mine; they were larger and shone like orbs in sunlight.

“Well, I haven’t really… had time… to make you dinner,” Mum continued and gave a loud, unladylike hiccup – though the thought of Mum being at all ladylike, ever, was laughable. Her hair was dishevelled, her movements erratic, and she kept trying to keep her eyes focused on us but they were constantly drifting.

“No problem,” said Rowan, but his voice dripped with venom. “We’ll go and get a takeaway.”

“Rowan, I still have an essay to do for tomorrow – it’s seven o’clock already,” I whispered to him sharply. He froze, and then said, “It may have to wait.”

So, we left the house and went back out into the thundering rain. It battered our backs like a thousand stabbing fingers, pressing us onwards through the torrents whilst we tried to keep ourselves warm. Thankfully, after we decided to sit on a bench and wait for it to pass, it did ease nicely to a steady drizzle. We continued onwards into the shopping area of Westlockland, which possessed a few charity shops, a small supermarket and a couple of takeaways. It was as sleepy as a village in the vast southern English countryside could possibly get.

“Why?” I said and gave a heavy sigh. It was the only word I needed. Rowan nestled his icy hands into his pockets, giving the simple question some thought. I copied; the cold was nipping at my fingertips and ears. It was mid-December, nearly Christmas, and the temperature couldn’t have been above freezing that night.

“Because of Dad,” Rowan said, his tone grave. “Since he left, alcohol’s the only way she’s been able to feel happy again.”

“But she isn’t happy,” I retorted sourly. “She’s miserable and delusional. She’s trying to tell herself she’s happy when you can see she’s completely depressed. It’s like Dad’s died or something.”

“It must be like that to her, though. She never sees him. She never speaks to him. She might never hear his voice again.”

I considered. Yes, times were hard for Mum; Dad had left her a few months beforehand and it was true that the alcoholism had really grown dramatically since then. I was so glad to have Rowan, my rock, by my side. I couldn’t have managed the last few months alone with Mum. That would have been awful.

“I promise, Megan,” Rowan began, putting a comforting arm around my shoulder, “that as soon as next July comes, and I’m 18, I’ll move out somewhere, and I’ll take you with me.”

I hesitated. The thought seemed wonderful, a dream come true, to escape with Rowan away from the woes of home to a fresh new life… it would be fantastic. But one thing concerned me.

“Mum wouldn’t cope without us.”

“Mum will be better by then.”

“No, she won’t,” I argued. “She says she will, but she won’t. You know that as well as I do.”

“We can’t assume the future, Megs. We’ll just have to be hopeful, hey?”

“I suppose,” but I already knew the future for certain. Of course Mum wasn’t going to get better; it was ridiculous to think so, and Rowan seemed to have inherited Mum’s delusional trait. I certainly hadn’t.

We walked slowly and sadly towards Bay Street, where the few, dying shops were located, and went into Big Joe’s, the fish and chip shop. We sat at one of the greasy metal tables there silently, both deeply pensive about the future. By the time we walked out again, it was midnight, and the stars had emerged from their camouflage of darkness to sprinkle light feebly on the village, clouds often getting the better of them. Westlockland had given up on replacing the bulbs of streetlamps long ago, and only a few emitted a weak, pale light. Westlockland was in total decline; the once exciting shopping street was rotting, many of the buildings boarded up and covered in foul graffiti. The park was a mess, unsightly litter scattered about its overgrown turf, the swings long since broken, the slide cracked down the middle, the seesaw on its side, completely abandoned. In the dark alleyways throughout the village, it was well-known that drugs were traded and shared out like sweets, and it was never safe to be out in Westlockland at night. Rowan and I began to make our way solemnly towards 2 Larks Cottage once more. As we passed the park, however, I couldn’t help but realise how very, very cold it was – of course, it’s not exactly unusual for it to be freezing cold at midnight in December, but it really did seem far more cold than usual.

“It’s c-cold…” I stated, my teeth chattering. “What’s with the t-temperature?”

I watched as Rowan glanced around him nervously, as though something physical was emitting such coldness. Actually, the same idea occurred to me as a strange, icy mist suddenly drifted in from nowhere, surrounding us in its frosty fog, enveloping us as if we were its target. Very quickly, it became so thick, I couldn’t see through it.

“What the h-hell’s going on?” I asked Rowan frantically. I looked around me; no, there were no gaps in the mist. All I could see was a wash of white. Rowan didn’t respond.

“Rowan! What’s going on?” I asked again, but still he didn’t respond. I tried to make him out in the mist, but I couldn’t see him. “Rowan?” I ventured again – and suddenly, I saw him, he was there in front of me, but what I saw chilled me to the core. The fog suddenly engulfed him, spiralling around him like a hurricane, and in an instant, my big brother vanished, his eyes fixed on me, strangely calm, glazed over as though he were… dead.

“Rowan!” I screamed, fighting my way through the mist. “Rowan!” I battled the fog, suddenly red-hot with panic, desperate to see my brother’s face, desperate to see him again, desperate for this all to be one very unusual, extremely vivid dream, wishing for all I was worth that I could just wake up, and everything could be fine…

It was no use. Rowan was gone.

Terror overpowered me. If Rowan had simply been swallowed up by the smog, then why shouldn’t I soon experience the same fate? I ran for my life, through the white vapour, my heart pounding, quickening relentlessly, but the mist seemed never-ending. It wasn’t long before the fumes began to choke me, and suddenly I felt my knees buckle beneath me. I collapsed to the ground, coughing, spluttering, trying to free my lungs from the suffocating haze, and yet it was impossible. I gave a heavy sigh, and the world went black.



When I woke up, the sky was still midnight black, so I assumed I hadn’t been unconscious for very long. The mist had disappeared as quickly as it had come, it seemed, and slowly, cautiously, I dragged myself to my feet, my head pounding. What had just happened? “Rowan,” I whispered to myself, memories suddenly flooding my mind like a river bursting its banks, drowning my thoughts in misery. I looked around me, trying to spot my brother, but still, he was nowhere. His leather satchel lay on the ground nearby, however, and I ran to it and clutched it close to me, never wanting to let it go. I sat cross-legged on the pavement and felt a solitary tear slide down my cheek, leaving a cold trail behind it. I shut my eyes tight as if maybe, if I squeezed them tight enough, all of this might disappear. Slowly I opened them, and although my surroundings were exactly the same, something quite shocking had appeared before me.

I gazed up at my big brother. He was different. He was white. White as a ghost, in fact. That’s when it hit me.

“You’re… dead?” I whispered, more to myself than to him. His eyes were the same shape and still shone, but they had changed from their warm brown colour to the darkest shade of black. I climbed slowly to my feet, not daring to blink in case he vanished again. I tried to calm my racing heart to no avail.

“Yes,” he said quietly. “I have to go soon.”

“What happened? How did you die?” I asked him, my eyes beginning to well up with irrepressible tears. He shook his head sadly. “I don’t know,” he said. “But Megan, I had to see you before I went. I am… I am part of the Ethereal, but not for long.”

“The Ethereal?” I repeated, confused. “What on earth is that?”

“We are the ghosts who are not content, who possessed one final wish so strongly that we could not go to rest in peace until we had fulfilled it.”

I considered this. “So… your final wish was…?”

He managed a weak smile, for me. “To say goodbye to you properly.”

I couldn’t quite believe what was happening. Was I dreaming? Was I hallucinating? Or did ghosts really exist, and was this truly the ghost of my brother standing before me?

I went to touch his arm and found that my fingers passed straight through him. He was freezing cold and the sensation sent a shiver up my spine. I gave a little gasp and met my brother’s eyes again, my own widened in shock.

“Whatever you do, Megan,” he said to me slowly, his voice as smooth as silk, “don’t worry about Mum. Concentrate your energy on yourself and getting out of that house as soon as you can.”

“Rowan, you know I can’t do that,” I said, but gently. “You can’t expect me to just leave her by herself. She’ll… do something stupid.”

He didn’t respond to that. Somehow, that made me feel worse. It made me feel like really, my only option was indeed to escape 2 Larks Cottage as soon as possible. The worst thing about it was, I knew Rowan was right. I couldn’t spend the next few decades taking care of Mum until she drank herself to death. I had to go and have my own life.

“I’ll… give it some thought,” I said, after a long, pensive pause between us. Rowan gave a slow nod of understanding. Suddenly, his face was full of sadness. “I have to go,” he said. “Goodbye, Megan.”

“No, wait, Rowan… don’t go…” I said, trying in vain to take his hand, but once again my fingers couldn’t feel anything but an icy chill. He was beginning to fade. “Rowan, please…” but he was going, and there was nothing I could do about it. His face was grave as he left me and disappeared, but I knew that, finally, my big brother could rest in peace.

“Goodbye,” I whispered, and dissolved into tears.



* * *



‘Strange weather conditions enveloped the centre of the village of Westlockland, Surrey, last night when a mysterious, icy fog simply appeared from nowhere and invaded Bay Street and areas surrounding the central park. One fourteen-year-old schoolgirl found at the scene, healthy but in severe shock, claims that she watched as her own brother was ‘engulfed by the fog’ and, as she put it, ‘swallowed up by it’. Her brother’s satchel was found at the scene but scientists say it is very unlikely that any fog could possess the ability to cause a person to simply dissolve. The girl is being treated for shock and seems to be on the road to recovery. The whereabouts of her brother, who scientists say is likely to still be alive and around the Westlockland and Merriss area, is as yet unknown.’



I gave a cry of frustration. “I’m not lying!” I shouted at the TV screen, wrapping the blanket I’d been given more tightly around me. “People are going to think I’m insane!”

Mum put a comforting arm around my shoulder as we sat on a hospital bench at Merriss Health Centre, waiting for a psychiatrist, watching the cheap black and white television perched precariously on a shelf opposite us. I was fuming with rage; I couldn’t believe people seriously thought I was just delusional. They all thought that I was lying or simply crazy. None of them believed Rowan had died, and none of them believed I had seen him as a ghost. In fact, everyone had thought that so ridiculous, they hadn’t even included it in the news report on TV.

“They can’t say stuff like that on national television!” I raged, shaking with anger. “I can’t believe this! You believe me, don’t you, Mum? Now you’ve finally put down your bloody wine glass, maybe you’ve got the sense to believe me?”

Mum said nothing. She looked down at her shoes with a sheepish air, evidently possessing the same sentiments as everyone else. She thought the fog had caused me to go mad. My heart dropped like a rock into a pond, fluttering with ripples as I felt the full force of realisation overwhelm me. The only person who believed me was… me.

“Rowan’s still alive, Megan,” said Mum gently. “A mother knows.”

“Well, apparently not,” I spat back. “Not when she’s constantly intoxicated.”

“Megan, that’s enough. You know I’m doing my very best to overcome that.”

“Well, your very best isn’t very impressive, I have to say.”

A steely silence fell between us, causing the atmosphere to become heavy with hatred. The psychiatrist took what felt like an age to finish whatever he was doing and come to meet us. He was one of those unfortunate people whose eyes are extremely wide apart and sort of bug-like, and I have to say, for someone who has to deal with people with emotional problems every day, he didn’t have the most comforting face. He was also evidently trying to hide the fact he was suffering rapid hair loss with a strange, grey comb-over. I’d imagined he’d be wearing a white lab coat sort of thing, but actually, he was in a smart suit with a white shirt, a blue tie and grey trousers. His handshake was exceptionally firm, as if he was already trying to make me feel more solid as a person. Or maybe I was just being paranoid.

“You must be Megan Farley,” he said with what was clearly supposed to be a warm smile but which actually came out as a rather manic grin. “My name is Doctor Cameron Hutchins and I understand you’ve been experiencing some tough traumas very recently.”

He was intensely patronizing and it was irritating me hugely – especially as I really didn’t want to or, indeed, need to talk to him. I needed to talk to the police again and try to persuade them I was telling the truth.

“Please, come this way,” he gestured, and led us into a small, claustrophobic office, with no windows to relieve the room of its dim lighting and only a bare pin-board on the wall to decorate it. It was obviously brand new, but felt very sterile and cold. He sat my mum and I down at his desk and spoke to us for a long time, asking me tons of pointless questions, spending too much time explaining to me that sometimes ‘things like this can trick the mind to believe things that are simply irrational and can’t possibly be true, and that it’s perfectly normal for this to happen and I shouldn’t worry’. It was all a load of rubbish and I suddenly burst into tears towards the end, but not because of my ‘terrible traumatic experience’.

I just felt so alone. I’d never felt more alone in my life. I needed someone – anyone – to believe me.