Goodnight, Ghost

“Every house has a secret, and Grandma’s house has three—one is the cupboard ghost, one is Gerald the hallway dinosaur, and the last one is the way the walls remember things you don't say out loud.”

I like Grandma and Grandpa's house. It's a bit old and smells funny sometimes, but it's the sort of funny that makes your nose crinkle and your tummy feel safe at the same time. Not the bad kind of funny like when Mack makes boiled egg farts on purpose. It smells like Weet-Bix and Grandma's soap — the one that lives in the laundry cupboard and smells like crushed flowers and dust and something warm I can't name. Maybe it's just "Grandma smell".

The lounge room has this big, tick-tock clock that talks to itself all day. It stands in the corner like a tall, thin person who's been told off too many times and now just stares at the wall thinking about it. It's brown and shiny in some parts, and dull in others where the polish has given up. The hands move with a little jerk every minute, like they're surprised by how quickly the day's gone. I think it's a bit magic. At night, when everything else goes quiet, the clock keeps whispering. Tick… tock… tick… tock… like it's telling stories I'm not big enough to understand yet.

I asked Grandpa once what it was saying, and he said it was complaining about the news. “Bloody thing's got better opinions than most blokes on telly,” he grumbled, and then laughed the kind of laugh that sounds like a hiccup. I didn't really get the joke, but I laughed anyway, because I like the sound of Grandpa's laugh when it doesn't have any coughing in it.

The couch in the lounge is brown. Not chocolate brown or warm toast brown, but the kind of brown that makes you think of old socks and winter. It's scratchy on the back of my legs if I sit with shorts on, so I usually sit on a pillow. Today I'm wearing my thickest leggings though, because it's so cold outside the windows are all foggy around the edges. The couch sags a bit in the middle, like it's tired from all the bottoms that have sat on it over the years. I like it though. It smells like dust and peppermint creams. Mum says it's ugly, but I think it's lovely. It hugs you if you stay still long enough.

The fire in the iron fireplace is always crackling in winter, sending our shadows dancing on the walls. Grandpa chops the wood himself, even though Mum tells him he's too old to be swinging axes about. “Been chopping wood since before you were born, Claire,” he always says to her. “Don't reckon I've forgotten how.” Sometimes when he comes back inside, his cheeks and nose are red from the cold, but his eyes are bright and happy like a kid who's been playing.

Everything in their house is a bit like that. Nothing matches, not really. The curtains in the lounge are green and leafy, but the ones in the kitchen have little red strawberries on them. The mugs are all different shapes — one's shaped like a cow, and another one has a picture of a grumpy cat on it that says, “No coffee, no talkie.” I don't know what that means, but I love the cat's angry face.

Even the hallway tiles are wonky. There's a crack in one that looks exactly like a dinosaur, if you squint and tilt your head a bit. Mack said it looked more like a crocodile, but he was squinting wrong, I reckon. Every time I walk past, I say hello to the dinosaur. I think its name is Gerald. Gerald the hallway dinosaur. He must get cold in winter, living on the floor like that. Sometimes I put my woolly sock on him for a minute, just to be nice.

There's a painting in the hallway that's meant to be a ship, but it's hung crooked on the wall, so it looks like the ship is sinking into the ocean. Mum always straightens it when we visit, and Grandma always leaves it alone. I asked her once why she didn't fix it, and she said, “Because it's trying its best, love.” I liked that. I think if I were a painting, I'd want someone to say that about me too.

When it's this cold, the windows fog up with our breath. This morning, I drew a cat face on the kitchen window while Grandma made porridge. She didn't tell me off for leaving fingerprints, just smiled and drew whiskers next to my paw prints. “Every window needs a cat,” she said, like it was obvious. Then she put extra honey on my porridge even though Mum says it's too much sugar.

Grandpa's chair is the only thing in the house that stays in the same spot all the time. It's big and green and has little holes in the arms where his elbows always go. When he sits in it, it makes a long “grrrrrump” noise like it's annoyed with him but too old to argue. He always grins when it does that and says, “Still got it, see?” like the chair was a horse or something. He watches the telly from there every night and sometimes falls asleep with his mouth open, which makes this whistling noise I can't copy, no matter how hard I try.

The telly is loud. Grandma says he's got “mcehanic’s ears,” whatever that means, but I think it just means he doesn't hear her when she tells him to turn it down. He always nods and says, “Righto, darlin’,” and then forgets. Or pretends to forget. It's hard to tell with Grandpa.

The kitchen is the warmest room in the house. The oven is old and makes a humming noise even when it's off, like it's dreaming of being used again. There's always a little radio on the windowsill playing soft music, or people talking about weather and football. The walls are yellow, but not sunshine yellow — more like butter-that's-been-left-out yellow. Still, it makes the whole room glow, especially in the morning when the winter sun peeks through the window.

Every time we visit, there's always a pot of tea on the bench, even if no one's drinking it. Grandma says it's just in case someone needs it. “Tea's the answer, even if you're not sure what the question is,” she told me once, with a wink. I asked her what that meant, and she just said, “You'll get it one day, Rose.” When it's this cold, she lets me dip my biscuit in her tea, even though Mum says it's unhygienic. Grandma says a few germs never hurt anyone, especially family germs.

The table has one leg shorter than the others, so it wobbles if you don't sit in the right spot. Mack always forgets and spills his juice. I think the table likes to play tricks. Its surface is covered in tiny scratches, like someone's been drawing invisible pictures all over it with a needle. There's one long mark that looks like a snake, and I put my finger along it sometimes while we eat, pretending I'm feeding it crumbs.

Grandma's kitchen drawers are full of treasure. One has a whole mess of rubber bands and twisty ties and bits of string. Another one has magnets shaped like fruit that have lost their stick. There's a glass jar of buttons, all different colours and sizes. I could look at them for hours. Some of them are shiny like beetles; others are chipped and cracked, like they've been on lots of adventures.

There's a bowl of fake fruit on the kitchen bench. It's dusty and plastic and one of the apples has a bite mark in it from when I was little and thought it was real. Grandma never threw it away. She just put it back like nothing happened. Now it's “the bitten apple,” and it has a place of honour next to the wobbly banana.

Sometimes I wish I lived here. Not because I don't like home, but because everything here feels soft in the way that hugs feel. It's all old and mismatched and a bit grumpy, but it never shouts or slams doors or cries in the bathroom when it thinks no one's listening. It's the kind of house that feels like it's holding its breath just to make sure you're alright.

After Grandma turned off the big hallway light and gave us each a kiss — one on the forehead, one on the nose — Mack and I scurried under the blanket like mice into cheese. The bed made a creak that sounded exactly like it was sighing. Not the angry kind, but the tired, sleepy sort, like the fold-out bed had been waiting all day for someone to give it a reason to be useful.

This room used to be the sewing room, and it still sort of is, only now the sewing machine is squished into the corner behind a stack of biscuit tins and two old fans that don't work. The tins used to have shortbread in them, but now they just have random bits — screws, cotton reels, a half-done crossword from 2011. The kind of things Grandma says she'll “deal with later” but never does. It smells like lavender and talcum powder in here, and the carpet's squishy in a way that makes your toes sink. There's a threadbare patch near the door where Grandpa once dropped his scissors and made a hole that never quite disappeared.

The walls are covered in flowery wallpaper that's peeling at the corners. I like to imagine tiny fairy-folk living in the curled-up bits, using them as little hammocks when everyone's asleep. In the daytime, they probably dance across the flowers, playing hide-and-seek behind the stems. I told Mack this once, and he rolled his eyes so hard I thought they might fall out of his head. But later I caught him staring at a peeling corner, like he was waiting for something to move.

Mack was already under the doona, lying flat like a board, his arms by his side and his mouth twitching like he was trying not to laugh. His pyjamas have rockets on them, but they're too small now. His ankles stick out the bottom like pale twigs.

I clambered in beside him, wriggling until we were cocooned right in the middle. The doona was fluffy but thin — more “cloud pancake” than proper warm — and smelt a bit like cupboard. I didn't mind. My nightie has unicorns on it. Mum says I'm getting too old for unicorns, but I don't think you can ever be too old for something that's half-horse, half-magic.

“Are we ready for lift-off, Commander?” he whispered, putting on his best serious-voice.

“Yes, Captain Mack. All systems go.” I saluted, smacking myself in the forehead with more enthusiasm than skill. He snorted and I tried not to giggle, but it leaked out anyway like fizzy drink.

“Alright then,” he said, tapping the side of his head like it was a headset. “Engines are primed. Navigation: ready. Warp speed in three... two... one—”

“Zooooooom!” we both said, and the bed shifted slightly with the bounce of our imaginary launch. For a moment we were flying, not in Grandma's sewing room, but above the clouds, zooming over the outback and the ocean and all the places we'd only seen in books or on the telly.

Through the window, I could see the night sky over Broken Hill. The stars looked like someone had spilled a jar of silver glitter across black velvet. Dad once told me that when he was a boy, he'd lie on his back in his backyard and count stars until he fell asleep. “Best way to dream,” he'd said. “Count the stars 'til your eyes can't stay open anymore.” I wondered if he was looking at the same stars tonight.

“The lava storm is coming!” Mack cried, and threw the doona over our heads like a shield. Everything went dark and muffled and safe. The sheets smelled like Grandma's washing powder – that clean, slightly scratchy smell that isn't quite like our washing powder at home.

“Where?” I gasped, peeking out from the tiny hole between the sheets. The room looked different in the shadows – familiar things turning strange and new in the half-light. The sewing machine became a crouching beast; the biscuit tins a stack of silver treasure.

“Right below us. The floor's turning to lava in three seconds!”

I squealed, pulling my knees up under me. “But I've only got socks on!” My favourite socks too – the ones with little grip dots on the bottom that let me slide across the kitchen floor like I'm skating. Mum hates when I do that, says I'll crack my head open, but Grandma just laughs and calls me her “little slip-slider.”

“Too late!” Mack declared. “Your socks have melted and now your toes are turning into jelly!”

“Eeek!” I wiggled my toes dramatically. “Nooo! My beautiful ballet feet!”

He rolled sideways with laughter, bumping my shoulder. The bed creaked again, this time like it was chuckling along. Outside, the wind picked up, whistling through the gap in the window frame where the seal had shrunk away years ago. It made a sound like someone gently blowing across the top of a bottle – whoooooo – soft and eerie.

“You've got to jump to the cupboard island,” he said, pointing at Grandma's old cupboard across the room — the tall wooden one with the squeaky hinges and the smell like moths and peppermints. “It's the only safe zone from the lava.”

I gasped. “But that's where the ghost lives!”

Mack paused. “True.”

We were both quiet for a moment.

The ghost in the cupboard was one of those things we didn't talk about much when it was light outside, but when night came and the shadows got long and the cupboard made that creaking sound on its own… well, we didn't not believe in it either.

The first time I heard about the ghost was from Mum. She said when she was little, the cupboard door would open by itself in the middle of the night. Grandma told her it was just the house settling, the wood expanding and contracting. But Mum said she knew better – said she'd seen a pale shape one night, hovering near the ceiling.

“I think he only comes out when you open the left door,” Mack said thoughtfully. He was tracing patterns on the sheet with his finger, little swirls and zigzags that disappeared as quickly as he made them.

“I think he listens through the keyhole,” I whispered. “Waiting for the right moment.” I imagined a ghostly eye pressed against the brass keyhole, watching us with curiosity rather than malice. Maybe he was lonely. Maybe he just wanted to play lava floor too.

Mack's eyes widened in pretend horror. “Do you think he likes kids?”

“No,” I said solemnly. “I think he used to be one.”

There was a beat of silence. The clock in the hallway ticked three times. I counted them. Tick. Tick. Tick. Then Mack grinned like a hyena and stuck his face close to mine. “Maybe… he's in the bed with us.”

I squealed and kicked my legs, shoving him with both hands. “Don't say that! That's not funny!” But even as I protested, a delicious thrill of fear ran through me. The good kind of scared – the kind that makes your heart beat faster but you know you're really safe.

He cackled. “I'm kidding! He only eats adults. Like Grandma and Grandpa.”

We both fell about laughing, burying our faces in the doona to keep the noise down. Somewhere down the hall, we heard Grandpa cough and then mutter something that sounded like “bloody telly”, followed by a half-snore. The walls in this house were thin as cardboard. Sometimes I thought I could hear Grandma's dreams through them – soft murmurs and gentle sighs as she wandered through memories in her sleep.

“I bet the ghost gets confused sometimes and eats people who act like grown-ups,” Mack said, wiggling his eyebrows. “Like people who say ‘homework is fun’ or ‘let's clean our rooms for no reason’.”

“Oh no,” I whispered. “Then you're definitely doomed.”

“Oi!” he whispered back, and we both snorted again.

After a while, the giggles got smaller. The room felt darker, not scary-dark, just the kind of dark that wraps around your arms and legs and starts to feel heavy on your eyes. The winter night pressed against the windows, cold and crisp and full of secrets.

“Do you think Mum's coming tomorrow?” I asked suddenly.

Mack didn't answer straight away. He rolled onto his back, staring up at the ceiling — though I don't know how he could see anything in the dark. Something in his silence made my tummy feel tight, like when you know you've asked a question that doesn't have a good answer.

“She said we'd only be here a couple of nights,” I added. “But she said that last time too.” Last time turned into four nights, and mum had dark circles under her eyes when she finally came to get us.

“Maybe she had to work late,” Mack said, which was what Mum always said. But his voice was different now – less bouncy, more flat, like when he's trying to sound grown-up.

I turned my head on the pillow. “I miss Daddy.” My voice came out smaller than I meant it to, like a mouse squeak.

Mack made a noise like he was about to say something, but then he didn't. I thought he might be asleep, but then he whispered, “I think he's away doing something really important. Like a secret mission.”

Silence again. Outside, a dog barked once, then twice, then gave up. The sound echoed across the sleeping town before fading away.

“But what if…” Mack began, and then stopped.

“What?”

He shook his head. “Nothing. Doesn't matter.”

I poked his arm. “Tell me!” I could feel the hard knot of his elbow through his pyjama sleeve.

“No, really. It's nothing.”

He sounded too serious for it to be nothing. I could feel something inside me twist a little, but I didn't say anything else. Sometimes it's better not to know the things your big brother is thinking. Sometimes his thoughts are too big and scary, and they make the ghosts in the cupboard seem friendly by comparison.

I reached for his hand under the blanket and found it. He didn't pull away. His palm was warm and slightly sticky, as boys' hands always seem to be, no matter how many times they wash them. I counted his fingers with mine – one, two, three, four, five. All present and correct. No jelly fingers from the lava.

After a few minutes, he said, “We'll see them tomorrow. Mum and Dad. Probably. Don't worry.”

“I'm not,” I lied. But lies sound different in the dark. They don't come out smooth like they do in daylight.

We lay there in the not-quite-quiet. The clock in the hallway ticked like it was telling secrets. The wind made the tree outside rub against the wall with a papery shhhh sound. Somewhere deep in the house, the fridge clicked on and hummed like a sleepy robot.

I kept listening, just in case the cupboard opened by itself. But it didn't. Not yet, anyway.

Mack's breathing got slow and heavy, his chest rising and falling in that way it does when he's really asleep and dreaming about dogs or lollies or whatever he dreams about. His hand had slipped from mine, resting somewhere in the territory of blanket between us.

I stayed awake just a little bit longer, staring at the shadow of the cupboard against the far wall. It looked like a tall, thin giant keeping watch over us.

If the ghost really was in there, I hoped he was nice. I thought maybe he was just lonely, waiting for someone to tell him a bedtime story. I wondered what kind of stories ghosts liked. Maybe the ones with happy endings. Maybe the kind where everyone gets found in the end, even if they were missing for a bit.

I closed my eyes and thought about Daddy reading a story to us again, the way he used to, with all the silly voices and the yawns that got bigger the longer the story went on. Before the arguments started. Before he began coming home later and later. Before the hushed conversations behind closed doors.

I missed his voice the most. The way it rumbled in his chest when I sat on his lap during story time, like I was sitting on a friendly earthquake.

The blanket was warm. Mack's breathing was steady beside me. The bed creaked as I curled up tighter, making myself as small as possible, as if I could disappear into the mattress and wake up somewhere else – somewhere where things made sense again.

“Goodnight, ghost,” I whispered, so quietly that even Mack couldn't hear. “Goodnight, Daddy.”