The Holy Ghoulie Revisited
by Jack O'Donnell
Genre: Humour
Swearwords: Some strong ones.
Description: Is anyone brave enough to confront the ghost of St Stephen's?
_____________________________________________________________________
Alexander the Great conquered the known world by the time he was twenty-two. But he wouldn’t have been the best fighter in our school. That would have been Tam Scobie, in primary four. And he didn’t even have to fight anybody. This was at a time when you fought with your best mate, at the drop of a burst ball, just to prove that you were more of a best mate than him. But Tam Scobie was different. If you went up to the Art Galleries in Glasgow and went down to the basement, where they kept a reproduction of Neanderthal Man, that was Tam Scobie with a short back and sides without the club. He didn’t need a club. His eyes were that far back in his head that they echoed when he looked at you. Nobody knew what colour they were, not even his mother. And he had jumped that way from the womb fully formed. He was always the biggest hardest guy you’d ever seen. When he started school, in primary 1, he must have started shaving. And not only was Tam Scobie the best fighter in the school, he was the best runner, the best at shop putt and the best at fitba. He was actually crap at fitba, but nobody would tell him that and he picked the teams. So not only was Tam Scobie the best fighter in the school he was your best mate, if he said he was your best mate.
We didn’t think Tam Scobie was scared of anything. It was one of those long hot summer days when the tar melted on the pavement and you ate it, because it didn’t really taste that bad, and you took off your anorak and rolled up your sleeves and were ready for anything. We were playing football in the playground of our school, St Stephen’s. The goals were the old shed that made an L shape against the wall of the main building and running along the wall, up the other end a set of jackets on the ground, with the school railings acting as nets. It was a close game, but Tam Scobie’s team were winning, but not by enough. Sammy Shirley was through on goal, he had rounded wee Peewee in goals and he couldn’t miss, but he really, kind of, had to, so he blasted it as hard as he could past the old shed post and well over. He kicked the ball that high that he could have smashed a window. We were a bit disappointed that he never. But he did do something extraordinary. His shot banged against the external doors of the main building and one of them banged open. We played on, for a while, but somehow, impossible as it could seem, we’d lost interest. The open door seemed to be beckoning us, calling to us. One by one we stopped playing and drifted towards it.
We stood on the steps beside the old shed leading up to the open external door, taking fly peeks at the main road, just to make sure that nobody had noticed that it was open and was likely to phone the police and get us all jailed for malicious door opening. I could already see how disappointed mum and dad would be when they came to visit me in prison and had to feed me broken Digestive biscuits through the bars. I think we all kinda felt the same way. We started drifting away from the shadow of the open door, scuffing our shoes and kicking pebbles into the bright sunlight. I think it was Gordy Murdoch that first said it,
‘I bet you wouldn’t go inside?’
I don’t know who he said it to, I think it was Charlie Mulgrew, but everybody started edging up the stairs to see if he would do it. There wasn’t really that much in that part of the school. The storm doors led into a corridor on the ground floor that led into a row of classrooms, that led to another locked door, which led to the cloakrooms and school-dinner hall. You could also go the up the stairs to another cloakroom and another set of classrooms, that led to another locked door, that led to the flat roof of the school. But a bet was a bet.
Charley Mulgrew was a wee ginger, speckled boy, with a hen nose, that wore Joe 90 National Health specs.
‘I’m no’ doing it,’ he said immediately, taking a pair of wire cutters to our growing excitement. And just to emphasize how much he wasn’t going to do it, running away and taking his ball with him.
I suppose we could have ran after him and pushed him inside the unlocked door and held it shut, so that he would have been stuck inside for ever. He wasn’t a very good runner, but it just wasn’t the right thing to do.
But a bet was a bet. We couldn’t just leave it unsaid. Rab Morrison was an only child, whose mum didn’t think he should be playing with us. He was kind of trendy, the first one of us to buy a single snout out of Maise’s and smoke a full fag. He scratched at the black paint, with his long unbitten girly nails and pulled the external door back and forth, as if he was testing the hinges, but he looked at us all and just clean came out with it.
‘I’m no’ going in there. It’s haunted!’
Everybody knew that. I think Tam Scobie knew it was up to him to go inside the unlocked building. We waited for him to decide to do what everybody thought he should do. Of course, he could have left it. Nobody would have thought any the less of him. Well that’s the kind of thing we’d have told any shite bag that was Tam Scobie.
Tam Scobie tapped me on the shoulder.
‘C’mon,’ he said.
I almost choked.
‘I’m no’ goin’ in there,’ I said, ‘it’s haunted.’
‘Aye,’ said Tam Scobie, looking at me as if I was some kind of snack food.
‘Why me?’ I said. ‘Why no take wee George, he’s no scared?’ pointing at the back of wee George’s sunburnt head.
‘Nah,’ said Tam Scobie, shaking his head, almost reasonably, ‘it needs to be you.’
‘But why?’ I didn’t mean it to sound like whining, that’s just the way it came out, as if I was going to start greeting, like a girl.
‘Because you’re an altar boy,’ said Tam Scobie.
My legs buckled. It all fell into place. This was no ordinary ghost, the kind that haunted Protestant schools, one like the old janitor that had died at work in Clydebank High, roaming and moaning at night, with their head under their arms, about how dirty the school was getting. This was the ghost of the statue of the Virgin Mary that stood on the atrium of the first floor landing. It came out at night, but it also kept an eye on you during the day. There was only one person more holy than the statue of the Virgin Mary and that was Mrs Murphy in number 57, who went to mass every day of her life and seemed to end every sentence with a petition to her personal friends: ‘Jesus, Mary and Joseph’. She would know how to deal with this, but she wasn’t here.
Everybody looked to me to come up with a plan. I was scared, but I kinda liked it.
‘Right,’ I said to Tam Scobie, ‘we will just do what we dae, when we’re normally at school. Whatever you do, don’t catch the statue's eye. Just run up the stairs by it and back down again. And don’t look at the snake either.’
‘What’s with the snake,’ said Rab Morrison, rolling his eyes, trying to get a laugh because it wasn’t him that was going inside, ‘is it like… a Gorgon?’
‘Nah,’ I said, looking to Tam Scobie for confirmation, because he was mocking our faith. ‘The statue of the Virgin Mary has always got one foot on a snake. That’s why there are no snakes in Scotland.’
Rab Morrison seemed quite impressed with that bit of knowledge, but he always needed to have the last word.
‘Why doesn’t she wrestle a bear?’
I wasn’t really sure. She probably could have wrestled a bear and kept her foot on the snake, but it didn’t really matter because Tam Scobie just looked at Rab Morrison and he shut up. Stumm as we used to say.
Me and Tam Scobie went up the steps towards the external door. It wouldn’t have surprised us if it creaked open itself. I didn’t want to think about what would happen if it shut over and never let us out. I wished I could be like everyone else, just casually sitting on a step, in a semi-circle, in the sunlight.
I couldn’t swallow.
‘Another thing,’ I said to Tam Scobie, ‘if you smell roses run as fast as you can.’
‘Roses?’ said Tam Scobie.
‘Aye,’ I said, ‘that’s a sign of sanctity.’
Tam Scobie frowned. ‘Does that mean the fucking cunt’s behind us?’
I didn’t want to say to Tam Scobie, especially at this time, that cunt was a swear word. It was to do with sex and that was a venal sin. So I just said one word.
‘Aye.’
But Tam Scobie was still confused.
‘You mean like the smell of shite?’
I kinda knew what he meant.
‘Aye,’ I said.
‘I think I can smell roses just now,’ said Tam Scobie, sniffing the air, like a dachshund, ‘can you smell roses?’
I wasn’t sure. There was something.
‘I’m no’ goin’ in there, Tam,’ I said.
‘Right,’ said Tam Scobie, ‘if he’s no’ goin’ in there I’m no’ goin’ in there.’
Swearwords: Some strong ones.
Description: Is anyone brave enough to confront the ghost of St Stephen's?
_____________________________________________________________________
Alexander the Great conquered the known world by the time he was twenty-two. But he wouldn’t have been the best fighter in our school. That would have been Tam Scobie, in primary four. And he didn’t even have to fight anybody. This was at a time when you fought with your best mate, at the drop of a burst ball, just to prove that you were more of a best mate than him. But Tam Scobie was different. If you went up to the Art Galleries in Glasgow and went down to the basement, where they kept a reproduction of Neanderthal Man, that was Tam Scobie with a short back and sides without the club. He didn’t need a club. His eyes were that far back in his head that they echoed when he looked at you. Nobody knew what colour they were, not even his mother. And he had jumped that way from the womb fully formed. He was always the biggest hardest guy you’d ever seen. When he started school, in primary 1, he must have started shaving. And not only was Tam Scobie the best fighter in the school, he was the best runner, the best at shop putt and the best at fitba. He was actually crap at fitba, but nobody would tell him that and he picked the teams. So not only was Tam Scobie the best fighter in the school he was your best mate, if he said he was your best mate.
We didn’t think Tam Scobie was scared of anything. It was one of those long hot summer days when the tar melted on the pavement and you ate it, because it didn’t really taste that bad, and you took off your anorak and rolled up your sleeves and were ready for anything. We were playing football in the playground of our school, St Stephen’s. The goals were the old shed that made an L shape against the wall of the main building and running along the wall, up the other end a set of jackets on the ground, with the school railings acting as nets. It was a close game, but Tam Scobie’s team were winning, but not by enough. Sammy Shirley was through on goal, he had rounded wee Peewee in goals and he couldn’t miss, but he really, kind of, had to, so he blasted it as hard as he could past the old shed post and well over. He kicked the ball that high that he could have smashed a window. We were a bit disappointed that he never. But he did do something extraordinary. His shot banged against the external doors of the main building and one of them banged open. We played on, for a while, but somehow, impossible as it could seem, we’d lost interest. The open door seemed to be beckoning us, calling to us. One by one we stopped playing and drifted towards it.
We stood on the steps beside the old shed leading up to the open external door, taking fly peeks at the main road, just to make sure that nobody had noticed that it was open and was likely to phone the police and get us all jailed for malicious door opening. I could already see how disappointed mum and dad would be when they came to visit me in prison and had to feed me broken Digestive biscuits through the bars. I think we all kinda felt the same way. We started drifting away from the shadow of the open door, scuffing our shoes and kicking pebbles into the bright sunlight. I think it was Gordy Murdoch that first said it,
‘I bet you wouldn’t go inside?’
I don’t know who he said it to, I think it was Charlie Mulgrew, but everybody started edging up the stairs to see if he would do it. There wasn’t really that much in that part of the school. The storm doors led into a corridor on the ground floor that led into a row of classrooms, that led to another locked door, which led to the cloakrooms and school-dinner hall. You could also go the up the stairs to another cloakroom and another set of classrooms, that led to another locked door, that led to the flat roof of the school. But a bet was a bet.
Charley Mulgrew was a wee ginger, speckled boy, with a hen nose, that wore Joe 90 National Health specs.
‘I’m no’ doing it,’ he said immediately, taking a pair of wire cutters to our growing excitement. And just to emphasize how much he wasn’t going to do it, running away and taking his ball with him.
I suppose we could have ran after him and pushed him inside the unlocked door and held it shut, so that he would have been stuck inside for ever. He wasn’t a very good runner, but it just wasn’t the right thing to do.
But a bet was a bet. We couldn’t just leave it unsaid. Rab Morrison was an only child, whose mum didn’t think he should be playing with us. He was kind of trendy, the first one of us to buy a single snout out of Maise’s and smoke a full fag. He scratched at the black paint, with his long unbitten girly nails and pulled the external door back and forth, as if he was testing the hinges, but he looked at us all and just clean came out with it.
‘I’m no’ going in there. It’s haunted!’
Everybody knew that. I think Tam Scobie knew it was up to him to go inside the unlocked building. We waited for him to decide to do what everybody thought he should do. Of course, he could have left it. Nobody would have thought any the less of him. Well that’s the kind of thing we’d have told any shite bag that was Tam Scobie.
Tam Scobie tapped me on the shoulder.
‘C’mon,’ he said.
I almost choked.
‘I’m no’ goin’ in there,’ I said, ‘it’s haunted.’
‘Aye,’ said Tam Scobie, looking at me as if I was some kind of snack food.
‘Why me?’ I said. ‘Why no take wee George, he’s no scared?’ pointing at the back of wee George’s sunburnt head.
‘Nah,’ said Tam Scobie, shaking his head, almost reasonably, ‘it needs to be you.’
‘But why?’ I didn’t mean it to sound like whining, that’s just the way it came out, as if I was going to start greeting, like a girl.
‘Because you’re an altar boy,’ said Tam Scobie.
My legs buckled. It all fell into place. This was no ordinary ghost, the kind that haunted Protestant schools, one like the old janitor that had died at work in Clydebank High, roaming and moaning at night, with their head under their arms, about how dirty the school was getting. This was the ghost of the statue of the Virgin Mary that stood on the atrium of the first floor landing. It came out at night, but it also kept an eye on you during the day. There was only one person more holy than the statue of the Virgin Mary and that was Mrs Murphy in number 57, who went to mass every day of her life and seemed to end every sentence with a petition to her personal friends: ‘Jesus, Mary and Joseph’. She would know how to deal with this, but she wasn’t here.
Everybody looked to me to come up with a plan. I was scared, but I kinda liked it.
‘Right,’ I said to Tam Scobie, ‘we will just do what we dae, when we’re normally at school. Whatever you do, don’t catch the statue's eye. Just run up the stairs by it and back down again. And don’t look at the snake either.’
‘What’s with the snake,’ said Rab Morrison, rolling his eyes, trying to get a laugh because it wasn’t him that was going inside, ‘is it like… a Gorgon?’
‘Nah,’ I said, looking to Tam Scobie for confirmation, because he was mocking our faith. ‘The statue of the Virgin Mary has always got one foot on a snake. That’s why there are no snakes in Scotland.’
Rab Morrison seemed quite impressed with that bit of knowledge, but he always needed to have the last word.
‘Why doesn’t she wrestle a bear?’
I wasn’t really sure. She probably could have wrestled a bear and kept her foot on the snake, but it didn’t really matter because Tam Scobie just looked at Rab Morrison and he shut up. Stumm as we used to say.
Me and Tam Scobie went up the steps towards the external door. It wouldn’t have surprised us if it creaked open itself. I didn’t want to think about what would happen if it shut over and never let us out. I wished I could be like everyone else, just casually sitting on a step, in a semi-circle, in the sunlight.
I couldn’t swallow.
‘Another thing,’ I said to Tam Scobie, ‘if you smell roses run as fast as you can.’
‘Roses?’ said Tam Scobie.
‘Aye,’ I said, ‘that’s a sign of sanctity.’
Tam Scobie frowned. ‘Does that mean the fucking cunt’s behind us?’
I didn’t want to say to Tam Scobie, especially at this time, that cunt was a swear word. It was to do with sex and that was a venal sin. So I just said one word.
‘Aye.’
But Tam Scobie was still confused.
‘You mean like the smell of shite?’
I kinda knew what he meant.
‘Aye,’ I said.
‘I think I can smell roses just now,’ said Tam Scobie, sniffing the air, like a dachshund, ‘can you smell roses?’
I wasn’t sure. There was something.
‘I’m no’ goin’ in there, Tam,’ I said.
‘Right,’ said Tam Scobie, ‘if he’s no’ goin’ in there I’m no’ goin’ in there.’
About the Author
Jack O'Donnell was born in Helensburgh and now lives in Clydebank with his partner, Mary. He claims to be fat, balding and middle-aged.
Jack writes for fun and has a blog at http://www.abctales.com/blog/celticman, which he also claims no-one ever reads.
Jack writes for fun and has a blog at http://www.abctales.com/blog/celticman, which he also claims no-one ever reads.