The Ghost in the Machine Read online

  Ty’s mind probed for a logical explanation. Maybe a chipmunk was standing on the turn signal. He nearly laughed out loud at the thought.

  He had to find out.

  Chapter 3

  Ty pushed his way through the dense bushes, tore at branches and twigs, breaking some, scratching his palms and face. He could smell his own sweat. Trouble with being beefy like he was, he sweated a lot. Whenever he had a wrestling match at school he sweat so much he stuck to the vinyl mat.

  It wasn’t like anyone else was out there in the bush. It was just Ty and the mystery lights. What was he frightened of? The boogie man, a good old Scottish boggart? If he was going to over dramatize, he could at least have more rational answers. It had to be a cat or a chipmunk. Ty tugged at a couple of really sturdy branches. The sound of their breaking echoed across the valley.

  The prince rescuing Sleeping Beauty suffered to fight his way through the dense bush and twining ivy to find his one true love. But Ty was no prince and the old Beetle was no princess.

  The flipping light didn’t make sense. The car had been there how long? Since just after Uncle Scott crashed it four years ago, the night Veronica was born. There couldn’t be any battery power left. Was there even a battery? The inside of his mouth tasted of metal and felt gritty as beach sand. It would take more than a chipmunk to light any bulbs in that car.

  “Is someone there? Who’s playing around? You can’t scare me.” But there was a lump in Ty’s throat the size of a golf ball. He clenched his teeth until his jaw ached. His hard-won muscles tightened. He peered through the dark and tangled branches.

  No sound. It might be a trap, set for him by the Beatons. He stood stark still for a minute and tried to gather his wits. He glanced behind, back across the sloping lawn to the silent house less than a hundred yards away. He was on his own.

  He didn’t want a run-in with those guys. Especially out here alone without Nat or some of the other kids he hung out with. But what would the Beatons be doing out here?

  Ty’s mind assessed his natural enemies — the Beaton boys, Doug and Ben, the youngest of the Beaton clan, the noisiest most inbred clan in the valley, the clan that made their money somehow but it sure wasn’t with regular jobs. They had seadoos and snowmobiles, outboards and inboards, and all terrain vehicles. All the grown up males had the latest in extended cab trucks and utility vans. The Grahams suspected what they were selling wasn’t legal produce but no one could find out where they grew the stuff.

  Grahams held no truck with that kind of illegal trade. As Grandpa said, “Only snake-in-the-grass vermin hawk weeds. If you can’t make a living without stepping outside the law, then you might as well jump in the lake with a boulder tied to your toe.” Of course, that also meant that Grahams didn’t have the latest seadoos, snowmobiles or ATVs.

  It was as if the whole valley that stretched from the town of Benton up to the car ferry at Bell’s Landing had been sworn to silence, enchanted like the forest around Sleeping Beauty’s castle. The police never found anything. The neighbours never said anything. If you didn’t like dark hills, dark water, and dark secrets, you needed to stay away from Benton and the long winding road along the east side of the lake.

  Ty felt the jitters — the sense of being watched, the fear of knowing more than he wanted, and less than he needed to know. He was shaking like an aspen leaf.

  It couldn’t be the Beaton boys in that clump of bushes. He’d have heard their old truck or their loud voices taunting him — “If it isn’t Tyler Graham, the fatso brain boy of Benton High.”

  No it couldn’t be the Beatons.

  It was a cinch Ty couldn’t just leave the car sit. The least he could do was turn the lights off. He pulled aside the last of the vines and branches. With the old car finally revealed, he thought he saw something moving inside. Something or someone was sitting in the driver’s seat. Ty gulped and shook his head to clear the mirage. He was dreaming. He had to be dreaming.

  His hand shook as he reached out and yanked the passenger door open. He was struck by the sharp smells of must, mouldy leather, and old metal. Ty leaned across to fix the problem lights.

  Sitting in the driver’s seat with his hands on the steering wheel, not looking at Ty, acting as if he wasn’t there at all, sat a young guy about Ty’s age. His jeans were so pale they were transparent and his sweatshirt was a washed-out green — like leaves robbed of chlorophyll. He was dark like Ty with wavy hair like Ty’s mother’s. He was slimmer than Ty. He had high cheekbones like the Armstrongs. His translucent skin disappeared into the cuffs and collar of his shirt. Only his eyes seemed alive, bluer than the lake on a clear day. The air around him chilled.

  Ty’s jaw locked. He banged his head pulling himself out of the car. He leaned against the side of the car and clutched the roof with his left hand. The cold metal was real. The guy in the car couldn’t possibly be.

  Ty bent over and stared in the car again. The guy hadn’t moved. What was Ty going to do? Shut the door and leave? The war between curiosity and fear held him frozen to the spot. The aroma of elderberries and hay was real. He was alive. He shuddered. He would go ahead.

  Ty slipped into the passenger seat. The air around him smelled of old forest floor. Ty shuddered again. A nest of tiny spiders, disturbed from sleep, moved off the dashboard, heading to the window.

  The guy smiled a quirky smile that brought out a dimple in his cheek, much like the one Ty’s mother had when she was happy. When was the last time Ty had seen that?

  “Fix it!” the guy said. Ty glanced at him, and wondered what in tarnation he was talking about, when before his eyes the ghost faded like a mirage on some desert horizon. The smile and the dimple left last. Ty stared out into the darkness through the dirty windscreen trying to figure out what was going on.

  Chapter 4

  Tyler Graham sat in the old car, listening to the crickets, an owl, and a distant logging truck gearing down to go around one of the many curves on that lonely stretch of narrow highway. His whole body felt glued to the spot. He sat catching his breath and thinking his way back into this particular car, past his bad memories, past the years of ignoring it and letting the vines and bushes grow up around it, hoping he would never have to deal with the sharp pain of his uncle’s death.

  Grahams didn’t talk about things. But that hadn’t stopped Ty from remembering, from going over things in his mind, trying to make sense of the tragedy.

  When Ty had been a little kid, his Uncle Scott had taken him for rides in this same old Volkswagen every time he came home from Calgary. He was going to art school and working as a graphic designer. Scott looked a lot like Ty’s mom. That was natural, seeing they were twins, fraternal twins. If they’d been identical, they would have been the same sex. Ty’s dad said Scott was too much of a wuss because he liked art and wore an earring before they were popular. He had long wavy hair, dark brown, a real mane, and he put it in a pony tail with elastic bands.

  The ghost in the Volkswagen couldn’t have been Uncle Scott. Uncle Scott died when he was 30. This ghost was 16 or 17 tops.

  Ty slid out of the seat and walked around the car. No one had been near the wreck since Grandpa had towed it to the yard and left it with the rest of the family history. The insurance people had said it was a write off. The Grahams’ black farm cat regularly hid her kittens under the front end, in the shade. The trunk smelled of cat fur and mildew.

  Ty slid back in the car and sat drumming his fingers on the dashboard, thinking. He opened the glove compartment and checked under the passenger seat. He stared over at the empty driver’s seat, wishing the ghost would come back, give him another look. For some reason Ty didn’t feel scared, just really curious.

  On the floor in front of the back seat lay an empty Coke bottle and a canvas bag with wrenches, screwdrivers, and a pair of fancy driving gloves. Ty picked up the pigskin gloves and tried them on. They fit, and it made him laugh and cry at the same time. They were his uncle’s gloves and now they fit him. He’d
never put on a dead man’s clothes before.

  Grandma’s dog was yapping as usual in the distance. Grandpa banged metal with a hammer in his shop. Ty wanted to go over and tell Grandma what he had seen but thought better of it. She would get all nervous and recite all the family ghost stories. He really didn’t have anyone to tell. His grandpa would rant, his sister would ask too many questions, his dad would think Ty had a screw loose, and his mother would freak out. Even Nat Ferris, his best bud, would probably think Ty was certifiable.

  Ty hesitated before climbing out of the car. A really wild idea was forming in his head. He shut the door on the passenger side and stared through the window at the fine interior. Uncle Scott had taken awfully good care of this car. Ty couldn’t believe how trim it was inside. The upholstery was musty, that’s all. Besides spiders and a mouse nest in the pile of rags on the floor, the inside looked pretty fine — like the interior of Sleeping Beauty’s castle, Ty thought. Some Prince Charming, some princess.

  That’s what he’d call her, “Princess.” After all, she had been sleeping in these bushes all those years.

  The driver’s seat was worn, and some of the leather cracked, but the seat looked firm as if it hadn’t been overused. Ty wanted to try it out right away, but one wheel was off and the door on the driver’s side was smashed in, the window filled with a blue tarp taped over the opening.

  He shivered, flashing back to Uncle Scott’s closed coffin at the funeral in the Anglican church. He remembered the scratchy black wool socks, the stiff black leather shoes never worn afterwards. The minister had an Adam’s apple that rode up and down his skinny neck just above his clerical collar. Ty’s mom and dad hadn’t let Ty go to the cemetery. Said they had to go on their own. Said he was too young to go. But they took little Veronica, wrapped up like a cocoon. They were both crying as they climbed in the pickup. Ty had never seen his dad cry before or since.

  Ty squeezed his eyes shut and moved quickly, leaving the bashed-in side of the car. He walked around to the front and tried to open the storage compartment. It balked. He tried again. It gave under his hand. The inside was tidy; a toolbox, a plastic Safeway bag with two worn paperback manuals, and a logbook. Ty studied the contents, shaking his head in disbelief. The logbook recorded every date something had been done to the car — new rings, lube job, replaced battery — right up to June 10, the day before the accident. Geez, that was four years ago today. Some kind of anniversary. No wonder his mom was in hiding. No wonder she had freaked at his stupid remark about twins. Ty sat on a big stump close to the wreck and shook his head again. Spooky. Was he ready for this?

  He shouldn’t go too far down this path. He didn’t want to be “nutso.” As soon as Ty thought that word he felt ashamed. His mom wasn’t nuts, she suffered from depression. She had some really good days. His mother had gotten new medication and gone to a fancy doctor with his aunt. The doctors would help her. He should hit himself on the head.

  He made himself concentrate on the car. Focus, Ty. That’s what the teacher yelled at him whenever he wrestled or the class played basketball.

  The manuals were dog-eared and grease-spattered; How to Keep Your Volkswagen Alive and an “easy to follow” Tune Up and Repair Guide for Volkswagen Beetles 1970 to 1977.

  Ty glanced around, sniffed the air. Nobody about. He flopped down on the ground and peered under the car. The chassis looked intact. Dust, grime, and weeds blocked his view. Two of the tires were flat and the front left wheel was off. The headlight on the driver’s side was gone. Maybe, he said to himself, maybe not. He heard someone coming so lay still. Leo, the old black lab came over, scrunched down on his haunches as if to ask what was happening on the ground, and nosed Ty’s left hand. The dog licked his face with his wet tongue. Ty chuckled with relief.

  “You’re no Prince Charming, either, Leo, not with breath like that. Want to go to the lake?” Ty had decided. Late or not, he needed the comfort of their secluded bay.

  The dog ran ahead of him down the track, past the rusted seeder, his grandpa’s home-grown log saw, the side road to the cottages Grandma let out to city people from Calgary or the coast. Crickets sang. The smell of smoke, lake water, and seaweed drifted across the rutted path. Ty was glad the dog had come along. Everything was too weird. The sky and the lake so dark, and the air so heavy. What if a bear or a cougar were in the bay, on their private beach, or snoozing under the overhang of giant boulders?

  Ty didn’t care. He had to sit on the rocks, watch the water lapping, and stare into the night. He would have liked to have a few stars or a full moon to light his way. No such luck.

  He nearly tripped over a piece of driftwood that Leo had left on the path on some earlier trip. The dog loved to haul big chunks around, play in the water, fetch and carry. Then he left the wood for unsuspecting two-legged types like Ty to trip over. Crazy dog.

  “Trying to give me a broken leg?”

  Leo paid no attention. He ran ahead and splashed into the Grahams’ private little bay.

  Ty took his sneakers off, sunk his bare feet in the cool sand, and made his way over to the giant rocks that tumbled out into the lake. His feet wrapped themselves around the familiar granite boulders. His eyes adjusted to the dark. He scrambled to the shelf of rocks above the lake. This was where Ty and his friends dove from on a hot afternoon; naked usually, hidden as they were in their cove on an uninhabited kilometre of shoreline at the less populated end of the lake.

  Ty listened to the water as it slid over the rocks, sounding like the swish of the basketball through a hoop, while the dog hauled a piece of driftwood out of the lake and a coyote chorus sang from a nearby mountain trail.

  “Fix it,” the ghost had said.

  “What — my life, my family, the world?”

  The Beetle, of course. His uncle’s car. Shouldn’t be too hard. Ty had watched Grandpa and Dad fix their machines. He had repaired Robin Nixon’s garden tractor. Besides, Scott had left those books in his trunk.

  Grandpa had every tool imaginable in his shop — ancient and modern. He loved fixing things. If he weren’t such a bear, Ty would ask him for help. He’d have to find out who owned the ghost car now. Did thirty-year-old uncles leave stuff in their wills? Did they have wills? He’d have to ask someone. He shook his head. Nothing was ever perfect, was it?

  Ty would have liked to keep the whole thing — the ghost, the car, the plan — to himself. In case he failed. In case he gave up. He wasn’t really sure he could do it. He heaved a sigh.

  Leo galloped over, the perennial puppy, stick poised, and shook water all over Ty.

  “Idiot!” He tossed the stick.

  Ty would need some money. He could cut out treats and use his salary from Robin Nixon. She paid him better than minimum wage for mowing the lawns, weeding her garden, and doing odd jobs. He had some in the bank too. Parts — Nat’s big brother had a junkyard with old cars, motors, the works, on the outskirts of Benton. Hitch a ride into Benton when he needed supplies. He would need time and patience too.

  It would take most of the summer. Then he’d have a car. He’d worry about getting it registered, insured, and all that stuff later. He could already drive, not legally of course, but he’d driven farm vehicles, old trucks, even his mom’s car, when she still had one, around the farm. Ty loved driving. It was something he was good at. He liked the feeling of power it gave you. He couldn’t help himself. His heart leapt like a deer just imagining himself behind the wheel of the repaired and repainted Volkswagen, driving it down the highway.

  The wind came up, blowing off the lake, pushing against Ty’s face, tossing his dark hair behind him. The breeze smelled of deep lake water and fish, and felt like some kind of promise. He had a challenge on his hands.

  Ty climbed down from the spit of rocks, tossed a piece of wood for the stupid dog. Leo dashed after it into the cold, dark water without a second thought. Ty wished he were as brave as the dog, or as foolish.

  He picked up his worn sneakers and made his way up the
path. The dog brought his soggy log with him, dropped it beside Ty, and shook his wet coat again. He smelled like a combination of old horse blankets and wet dog.

  “Idiot!” The water drops sprinkled sharp and cold as ice. “Go home, Leo.”

  As Ty trod through the grass and clover, his bare feet feeling the solid ground beneath him, the hard packed clay rut from his father’s boat trailer, he whistled a crazy pop tune that had been running through his head all day. It was all about being strong enough. As one of the best wrestlers at Benton High as well as being smarter than the average Kootenay Valley kid, he should feel more confident than he did. Fixing the car would be good.

  He wondered if the ghost would show up again. Would the ghost mind if he fixed the Beetle and used it himself? Is that what he wanted? Ty let himself in the back door, left his sneakers on the porch, and tiptoed up to bed. The house was in darkness. Veronica was sleeping over at Grandma’s. They’d had a birthday lunch for her, earlier in the day. Grandma had served all her favourite foods and a Minnie Mouse chocolate cake.

  His parents would be in bed. Ty washed his sandy, sticky hands, and cleaned his teeth in the halftone world of the bathroom night-light, a Mickey Mouse that Veronica loved. She carried a plastic Mickey with her everywhere. She had three of them because she couldn’t stand being without. Ty had given her a Minnie Mouse T-shirt for her fourth birthday. He sighed. It was weird for a little girl to be so dependent on a hard plastic Mickey Mouse, a Disney mass-produced toy, for her security and comfort. It worried him. Did all human beings need something to hang onto?

  Ty would fix the Beetle. It was the best he could do.

  Chapter 5

  “Who owns Uncle Scott’s car?” Ty reached for another of his grandma’s homemade cinnamon buns, the fresh cream cheese icing dripping onto his fingers. He was sitting at Grandma Graham’s kitchen counter on a maple stool, his legs wrapped around and hooked on the rungs. The seat groaned under his weight.