Ways to See a Ghost

the crowd. From the spotlight, Cally gazed around the darkened head-shapes of the audience.
    “I’m getting someone else now. It’s… a lady. I can’t quite hear her name, but I think it starts with a B, or maybe an L. I’m hearing something like… Lin… Linda…?”
    A flurry in the standers. A middle-aged woman pushed her way through them.
    “Yes! Linda! Linda Belborough!” She waved her hands at Cally, dirty water sprinkling off them. But Cally kept her gaze on the people sitting down. A few shook their heads, then near the front of the audience a man raised his arm, uncertainly.
    “I had a cousin…” he said. “Lindsey? She died a few years ago.”
    Cally cocked her head. “Oh yes, that’s it, Lindsey.” She spoke to the air, smiling. “I couldn’t quite hear you, you need to speak up.”
    “I’m speaking perfectly clearly!” snapped the woman at the back of the hall. “And it’s Linda, not Lindsey. I know my own name!” She pointed towards a middle row, a steady drip falling from the end of her finger. “I want to speak to my son over there. Him, with the beard.”
    The old man tutted, the tassel on his fez sparkling as he shook his head. “You’re wasting your time, she’s just another charlatan.”
    Isis leaned against the door. If it would just push quietly…
    “Were you close to Lindsey?” Cally asked the man inthe audience. He stood up, looking awkward, and shook his head.
    “I didn’t see her very often. She lived over near Newcastle – it’s a long way.”
    Cally pursed her lips. “Well I don’t think she’s here for herself. I think she’s got a message for you from someone else. Is it…” She paused, finger in the air, eyebrows together. “Someone older? Who was very dear to you…?”
    “Grampy John!” cried the man, beaming up into the stage light.
    “Oh this is pathetic,” said the old man at the back. He cupped his hands round his mouth and shouted. “There’s NO Lindsey! And NO Grampy! Can’t you HEAR ME?” Isis tried not to cough at the dust wafting out from him.
    She pushed against the door. The hinge squeaked loudly and a few heads turned, including the old man’s. His eyes gleamed blue, boring into her. She kept her face blank, glancing casually away.
    And saw Angel, standing defiant by the edge of the stage. Her little hands gripping on, her dress crumpling as she raised herself up.
    Isis gasped, reaching for Angel. She stopped herself, pulling in tight against the door, but it was too late.
    The old man’s finger was pointing, quivering at Isis.
    “She can see us!”
    Every head in the standers turned, their gazes tingling over her skin. Isis stared at her mum, eyes aching with concentration.
    “Your Grampy says you shouldn’t worry so much about little things,” said Cally to the man in the audience. There was a tinkle of laughter in the room, and the man looked happy, teary.
    Now the woman called Linda was walking around the edge of the hall. Sloshing past the chairs, leaving a trail of fading, watery footprints. Isis watched from the corner of her eye, holding herself completely still. Except for her heart, beating madly.
    On stage, Cally was smiling, happily into the swing of her performance.
    “Your Grampy says you should take time every day to relax.”
    Linda stopped right in front of Isis. Face-to-face, hazing the view of the stage. She smelled like seaweed.
    Don’t look, don’t look, don’t look.
    The woman peered at her.
    “BOO!”
    Isis jumped, just the tiniest stutter in her body.
    And Linda grinned, turning around.
    “Mandeville’s right!” she crowed, waving at the rest of the standers. “She
can
see us!”
    Isis rammed her hand down on the door handle, pushing with all her weight. The door creak-slammed open, and she shot through the gap, tumbling into the lobby, shoving the door shut behind her. She stopped, heart hammering. In front of her were the main doors of the community centre, but they only led to cold winter rain in the car park, and an empty, night-time housing estate.
    She ran to the far wall, pressing herself against it.
    A damp stain appeared on the door into the hall, droplets of condensation forming on it. The stain darkened and spread, sliding down the grain, streaking into wet shadows. Limbs and a body, then a head. Water bubbled out through the varnish, collecting in vertical puddles and joining into the shape of a woman, who sucked herself out through the door, leaving it dry behind as she