This book was created and published on StoryJumper™

©2014 StoryJumper, Inc.   All rights reserved.

Publish your own children's book: 

www.storyjumper.com

Then the door burst open and footsteps thundered 

across the bare floorboards. Something was pulling 

the blankets from her face. It was still pitch black. 

She could see nothing and cried out in terror.

“Shut up, Zoe!” came a familiar voice and she 

realised it was Antony and, judging by the deep 

breaths of someone else nearby, Andrew as well.

“Why are you in here? You gave me such a fright!” 

said Zoe, angrily.

There was a scratching sound and a light flickered 

from a match as Antony lit the candle he was 

carrying.

We’ve seen a ghost!” cried Andrew. “It was the 

man I saw in the portrait on the wall, walking 

along, all grey and misty. It was horrible!”

“I saw it too!” squealed Antony. “He was coming to 

get us, I’m sure!”

“There are no ghosts, not here, not anywhere!” 

said Zoe, angry but rather frightened too as they 

sat in the small pool of light from the candle.

“Aren’t there?” croaked a voice from the shadows 

behind her.They all spun round to see the grey 

shape of a man in old-fashioned clothes floating 

inches above a chair.

There was no need to say anything. The three 

children leapt up, the candle fell from Antony’s 

hands and they ran out of the room, falling over 

each other as they piled through the door, tiny 

screams trying to get out of their mouths which the 

fear had left dry as dust.

A soft moonlight glowed through the windows as 

they crashed along the landing and sprinted down 

the stairs. At the bottom, they stopped dead as the 

figure of Mrs McDougal, grey and shadowy, 

appeared in front of them.

“Where did she come from?” hissed Zoe but 

nobody had any answers.

“You cannot leave,” she said sternly, and then 

threw her head back and gave a loud, cackling 

laugh.

Then the children heard a strange, crackling noise 

from above and turned in horror to see an orange 

glow and thick clouds of smoke coming from what 

had been Zoe’s room. Mixing with the black smoke 

was the strange, grey glow of the ghostly man 

they had seen there.

Now there were more, a dozen figures, some grey, 

some pearly white, men and women, even small 

children, their strange forms wafting in and out of 

view.

Without thinking, Zoe, Antony and Andrew stormed 

forwards to push Mrs McDougal out of the way but 

instead found they passed straight through her, 

feeling as if a bucket of ice-cold water had been 

tipped over them.

As they rushed towards the front door, flames 

seemed to engulf the whole house and the door 

disintegrated before their eyes, yet as they rushed 

through the gap they felt no heat, only a cold chill.

They didn’t stop running until they were right 

down at the station. Looking back to where 

Sligachan House had been, they could see only the 

wood that had been behind it and, instead of a 

fire, they could see only the rosy glow of the slowly 

rising sun.

Shocked and exhausted, they turned towards the 

station and gasped in amazement. Gone were the 

old iron columns and the glass canopy and instead 

a brightly-lit, modern ticket hall stood before them. 

A lone ticket seller was just opening his booth.

“Come to collect your things, then?” he asked. And 

to their amazement, they saw all their suitcases 

piled in a corner. Looking down, they were no 

longer in their pyjamas but in the clothes they had 

worn for the journey.

“You’re off to see Miss McDougal at New Sligachan 

House, aren’t you?” he went on. Suddenly, all the 

children started speaking at once. They’d been to a 

big house, there had been a fire.

The railwayman cut them short. “I know all that. 

The old Sligachan House burned down 50 years 

ago when some kid dropped a candle, so the story 

goes.”

The children looked at him in a mixture of horror 

and amazement. “Fifty years ago?” gasped Zoe.

“Oh yes,” said the man. “I’ve had lots of children 

coming and telling stories about seeing the old 

house as if it was real and the housekeeper. They 

all talk about Mrs McDougal. She was grandmother 

of the Miss McDougal you’re going to see in the 

new house they built down the road after the fire. 

She’ll be along to pick you up soon. I can’t think 

how it was that you got here so early.”

The children looked at each other, reaching out and 

gently feeling hands and sleeves to reassure 

themselves they were all still real.

The man walked back towards his office. “Load of 

nonsense, of course,” he said. “Funny thing is, they 

all tell the same story.” Then he stopped in his 

tracks and looked back at them, sniffing 

suspiciously. “And they all smell of smoke, just like 

you do!” he added.

*Amy would like to be a children's author and 

illustrate her books. She has written one book 

already but it hasn't been published.

Remembering Death

By Lydia 

Fitzsimons.........................

I reached peace a few months after my passing. I was one of the 

unfortunate ghosts who were unable to recall life before death. This 

is usually because death has been so violent. Also if you were a 

scatterbrain in life you would probably be a scatterbrain in death. 

Unfortunately for me, the only thing I remembered about my life 

was my death.

I remember being in a house. The oak furniture was old, grand and 

sinister. I could hear my panting breaths in the darkness. Shadows 

danced on the walls and the moon illuminated my slim silhouette. I 

ducked underneath an elegant chaise longue and prayed silently to 

the God I now know is non-existent. Even to me, my ragged 

breathing 

sounded too loud in the unnaturally quiet room. I 

stayed lying on my belly for several minutes. After a 

while my breathing began to slow down. I felt my body 

relax and I started to press my back against the wall. I 

lay there for a few seconds before reality crashed in and 

I realised that the wall was soft and was attempting to 

wrap arms around me. As I started to jerk forward, 

arms tightened around my waist and yanked me back. 

Cold, pitiless laughter sounded close enough to my ear 

that I felt a breeze blow softly against my right cheek. I 

remember struggling and I remember the feeling of 

desolation and isolation as I realised that no matter how 

hard I struggled, my last moments on Earth were not 

going to be spent cradled by loved ones, but in the arms 

of a merciless, sadistic monster.

Whatever you do, do not believe the stories that tell 

you that ghosts are troubled souls seeking justice for 

their death. My murderer was discovered to be the 

next-door neighbour’s son. I personally watched him as 

he was imprisoned for life in front of a weeping jury. No. 

I am still here because I’ve forgotten what it is to love. 

When you die, your feelings die with you. I came back 

as a cold and cruel shell of my former self. Since being 

dead I have committed some terrible acts. But I am still 

searching for the answer to my question. While in his 

arms, I was thinking of loved ones. Who are they?

During the day I would wander around parks looking for 

victims. I’d realised that children were the only people 

who could see me. I used this as a ploy to get close to 

them. Then I would wallow in their horror and despair 

as I finished them off. The only way I knew I had a 

shred of humanity left in my body was that no matter 

how many I killed, I could never look them in the eyes. 

I knew this was cowardly. I was taking away their life. 

The least I could do was give them the courtesy of eye 

contact. My killer had looked me in the eyes and smiled 

as the life slipped from them. I never knew why, but I 

couldn’t.

At the local park I watched an attractive man walking 

along with two children. As I don’t look in people’s eyes, 

I had learned to read moods from body language. This 

man was heartbroken. His shoulders sagged, his skin 

was pale, his breathing shallow, as if all the time he was 

fighting the urge to cry. From the way he gripped the 

girls’ hands, I could tell the only reason he was keeping 

it together was because of them. I could see the sweat 

glistening between his fingers and he nervously wiped 

his hands on his trousers.

The girls could not be more dissimilar. One was pale and 

dark-haired, the other blonde-haired and blue-eyed. 

These two would do nicely for me. I already imagined 

ripping into their flesh with my bare hands as I heard 

them scream - just as I had done - beneath me.

I stalked behind the trio as they trudged aimlessly along 

the path. Usually I tried to draw the children away from 

their parents, but not today. This man was so close to 

breaking point, I wanted to see his face as his children 

apart were ripped apart. Finally they turned a corner 

and reached a deserted patch of grassland. I was ready.

I approached the two girls and was 

more than shocked when they ran up and 

embraced me. When I’d arrived I’d had 

many reactions. Terror and 

bemusement, but never joy. They ran 

screaming and shouting, “Moosie 

Moosie!” The minute the man heard 

this, his head snapped to attention. The 

minute he lifted his head I could not 

help but look in his eyes. There was a 

raw loss that burned in his beautiful, 

dark pupils. His pain, so obvious and 

deep, chased away all thoughts of 

killing from my mind. I just wanted 

to stare into his eyes forever. But 

instead of looking at me, he looked 

through me.

Girls!” he barked, “We’ve spoken about this!”

The girls slowly started to follow him from the park, but 

they could not stop themselves from turning to stare 

back at me. I smiled at them and waved as tears flowed 

unchecked down my pale otherworldly cheeks. I had 

remembered. My husband and my girls. As I felt this 

wash of love pass over me, I felt myself leaving. Leaving 

those I loved. But it wasn’t a bad thing, because I 

remembered. I could love again.*Lydia is 14, lives in 

the Peak District and attends Repton School. She loves 

reading and regularly reviews children's books for 

Scarthin Books, Cromford.

You've previewed 21 of 32 pages.

To read more: