Pyjama Boy's Mother: A short story by Nicky Elliott

“About bloody time!”

This ghost-hunting business had taken them 680 dusty kilometres today, and as he slowed the Jeep, Gary could taste his first beer. “Come on, let’s check out the pub.”

Inside the Commercial Hotel, the beer-banter ceased as Gary and Renee strode to the bar. Somebody whistled.

“Glass of white and a schooner of bitter thanks mate!” Gary grinned, enjoying the questions on the faces of the barflies.

Afterall he was a greying university lecturer with his arm around a very pretty girl. His prodigy Renee, 20, was a gifted film-student - ambitious, attractive and ghost-obsessed.

The balding gent behind the bar plucked up a glass. “Not from around here?” he asked pleasantly.

“Making a film.”

“Really?” The man’s eyebrows cocked. The local publican always knew everybody’s business.

“It’s a documentary about Pyjama Boy,” Renee gushed.

“Pyjama Boy!” exclaimed the publican. “Well I’ve certainly seen the sad little buggar. Everyone has, at some time or another.”

Renee whipped out her video camera. “Do you mind? Just pretend the camera isn’t here,” she coaxed, rolling tape.

“Err… I’m not used to being on fill-umm,” muttered the barman. “But they reckon this Pyjama Boy was a little kid who was washed away in the big floods back in the 1800s. He’s been wandering the creek ever since.”

Renee’s eyes gleamed, but Gary felt chilled. He definitely believed in ghosts. In fact, he was still terrified of the dark.

“But do you know what’s really strange?” the publican continued, leaning forward. Apparently there’s some kind of devil-woman down there too. A few blokes round here have heard her calling, but everyone who’s actually laid eyes on her, has woken up dead.”

Beer sprayed out Gary’s nose.

“Did you hear that babe?” Renee cried, happily. “This is better than we thought. We’ll camp out by the creek tomorrow night. Hopefully we’ll get this Pyjama Boy on tape... and now this mystery woman. Wow!”

She nuzzled in close, covering his neck with tiny kisses.

“Sounds great,” Gary sighed. He’d left his wife for Renee. This was just one more crazy thing.

At 8am next morning, they found themselves knocking on the neatly painted door of Mrs Colleen MacDonald, district historian.

The woman who answered was well-scrubbed with a sensible face. She shooed away a chubby corgi and showed them through to a tidy sitting room, re-emerging with several large volumes.

“These are files from our original police station. Over two thousand people back then. Peely Wally Creek was quite a boom-town during the gold rush.”

She lifted out page after page until she found a report dated August 11, 1876, by a Police Constable Albert O’Leary

Messrs Holding and Wright, yesterday eve during heavy rain, urged a man and woman (incomers) not to traverse the flooded creek, which had swollen to thrice its volume.

A small boy clung to his mother’s chest. Mr Wright observed the father anchor a rope to a tree, knotting it around himself and his wife. Upon entering the torrent, they were dragged under. The branch was seen to break away and the three were not seen thereafter. The child was recovered dead from beneath a submerged log.

So the origins of the Pyjama Boy legend were true, then.

Gary noticed that a faded sepia photograph had fluttered to the floor. He retrieved it and found himself staring Pyjama Boy himself, wringing wet and clearly dead.

“He’s buried up on the hill, but the cross bears no name because nobody knew who he was,” murmured Mrs MacDonald. “I’ll get the tea.”

Gary wished he had never seen that fragile face.

Mrs MacDonald re-entered with a rattling tray and a big teapot. “Did the boys at the Commercial tell you about the woman?” she queried briskly.

“Well yes!” retorted Renee. “We did hear that anyone who’s laid eyes on her has died. Is this true?”

Mrs MacDonald nodded tightly and rifled through her paperwork. Renee could not contain herself. She sprang up and snatched the files from the old woman’s hands, gorging herself on the contents.

“Let’s see… first mysterious death in 1946… then 1965. Another in1977. Look, here was a Hector Abbott who died twelve or thirteen years ago. His wife Olga says they were camping when a woman called out and Hector went to investigate. Jeez, look at his face!”

The forensic photo was compelling, an older, grizzled man in the foetal position on the ground, eyes wide open with his features frozen in a mask of terror.

Gary felt sick. He could not believe he’d agreed to go camping by that stream.

Mrs MacDonald frowned.

“You’ve missed the most recent case,” she chastised. “Ray Turner’s boy, Brett. Last year. Poor lad was only 23.”

Ray Turner was waiting on his porch. “Mrs MacDonald phoned,” he smiled. “Come in, come in.”

He seemed a hard-working man with a pleasant face. He led them through the sleep-out. They could see right down the hallway to the backyard, where his wife was pegging out laundry.

Up on the shelves stood framed photos of their lost son, clutching his football trophies. Brett had a broad smile and a handsome country face.

“Quite the footballer then, your boy?”

“Indeed.” Ray smiled patiently. He sensed Renee was a woman on a mission.

“Gary and I are working on a film about the spirit and heart of country Australia,” she cooed. “We came to document the legend of Pyjama Boy, and your son is someone we’d like to pay tribute to. Mrs MacDonald said that everyone in Peely Wally had a lot of time for Brett…”

Her silky trail was broken by Mrs Turner’s arrival.

“Oh hello, I thought I heard voices. I’m Robbi. You’re those film-makers…”

They both nodded.

“So what can I tell you about Brett? He certainly had big dreams of striking it rich,” she laughed. “The old fossickers still pull nuggets out of the ground, you see. That’s why the boys were down by the creek.

“Brett and a couple of his mates took the Friday off, gold-panning. When night fell, they got a fire going, and put the snags on. Then the lads thought they heard a woman calling for help. Brett went to assist, then his mate Mark found his body an hour later. Doctors couldn’t find any medical reason why his heart stopped.”

Renee was wide-eyed. “So what happened?”

Robbi breathed a deep sigh. “Well… I think she took him.”

Peely Wally Creek was dry. A pepper tree wept its branches over what would have been water and the banks were closely wooded with silent and ghostly gums.

While Renee set up the camera gear, Gary paced about edgily, gathering armloads of twigs and branches. He’d have a whole bloody bonfire roaring by the time the sun went down.

He really didn’t know why he was still here. He was petrified of the unknown and yet for hours, Gary obediently stoked the fire, enticing the ghost gums into a flickering dance.

God it was black. There weren’t even any stars.

Please don’t come. Please stay away.

The night crept on. Huddled in a blanket, Gary jolted awake. Had he really nodded off?

It was alarmingly cold. Stiffly he lifted his gaze. The fire was almost dead, he couldn’t see a thing.

Renee was awake too, breathing mist and shivering, her sharp glance darting all around.

What were they looking for? He felt clammy all over. It was too cold, it just wasn’t right.

Oh god, Pyjama Boy is near. I can feel it. Terrified, and with his heart aching inside his freezing chest, Gary waited… and then it materialised.

The little watery ghost was frightened and cold. He seemed to be shivering in his sodden nightshirt, and searching for something.

Was Gary dreaming?

He shot a glance at Renee. She’d recovered sufficiently to grab a video camera. The woman hadn’t forgotten for one moment why they were there.

She sprinted into the shadows after the drifter, camera rolling. Gary leapt to his feet. “Renee! Stop!”

Then he heard it - a woman’s voice! Gary froze.

“Please help me….” came the whisper.

Gary sank to his knees and screwed his eyes tight shut. Please, no! Everyone who’d seen her had died. He couldn’t look, no matter what happened.

“My son,” she whispered softly.

Terror-struck, Gary curled up on the ground. He didn’t want to die. He mustn’t look, couldn’t look. If he just kept his eyes screwed tight, everything would be ok. He couldn’t die just from hearing her.

Could he?

The chill closed in and wrapped around him. The voice was stronger.

“Why do you hide?” She didn’t sound ghostly. In some ways her voice was calming. It was old fashioned and strangely warming. Gary kept his face buried and found the courage to answer.

“I can’t look at you,” he barked. There was an extra cold rush of wind around him.

“No?”

She really didn’t sound scary.

Curiosity took hold and Gary formed a foolhardy plan. If he could point the lens in her direction, he wouldn’t have to look at her directly. He would just be watching an image on an LCD screen.

Eyes still screwed tight, Gary aimed his video camera towards the voice.

Slowly, he opened his eyes and there she was, on-screen. She wasn’t hideous at all. She was youngish with her hair pulled back. Her face was almost beautiful. She was staring directly into his lens.

If this was a dream he would know for sure in the morning when he checked the tapes.

He zoomed in on her face, catching her remarkable grey eyes.

“Did you see my child?” she asked.

“Yes.”

Her handsome features became somber. “There was an accident… He’s frightened, he is crying, but I cannot reach him. I have been searching for so long…”

“How did it happen?” asked Gary.

“We should never have crossed that swollen creek but my husband was due to take up a surgeon’s position over in Donaldton,” she explained, then unexpectedly laughed a gay laugh.

“How I would love to get out of these wet clothes!”

Gary lost all apprehension. “I like you,” he grinned, meaning it.

He sensed there was nothing to fear from this woman, so in a mad moment, Gary lifted his eyes and grinned squarely at her face, allowing the camera to slip from his fingers. It thudded to the ground, tape still rolling.

He shrugged and the woman smiled. She really must have been quite pretty in her day.

“That woman you are with,” Pyjama Boy’s mother added, her voice dropping. “She doesn’t seem to care for you.”

Gary started. “You know what? I think you’re right. I take her everywhere, pay for everything, score her highly in exams… but today I saw how cold she is. She’s been using me. I don’t think I could really love someone like that.”

He was unloading his soul to a ghost and it felt fantastic.

Gary’s mind became crystal clear. His wonderful wife Mandy was waiting at home. In the morning he would jump in the car and go. Amanda would take him back. Everything was going to be alright again. As Gary smiled with relief at his new resolution a terrifying scream ripped through the night.

Oh god, Nooooo!

Renee! So suddenly she was the one frightened of ghosts. He chuckled at the irony.

In the shadows of the trees Gary realized he could make out two recently-familiar faces. Old Hector Abbott looked miserable, but Brett Turner grinned broadly and waved.

“How are the Doggies doing this season?” the lad enquired enthusiastically.

“Fourth.”

“Ripper,” beamed Brett.

Noooo! Please, somebody help! God,Gary wished Renee would just shut up. She wasn’t even there with all the ghost action.

“Hey Brett,” he remembered. “I went to your house today and met your mum and dad.”

The apparition laughed. “Pity I can’t ring them, eh!”

Gary had a brilliant idea. He’d get Brett on video so his parents would know he was safe on the other side… but he couldn’t quite get his hands around the camera. Never mind, he’d do it in a minute. He wasn’t cold anymore and he wasn’t scared. He was starting to enjoy himself.

Brett motioned him. “Look who’s behind you.”

Gary drew breath. Pyjama Boy!

“M’am,” he hissed. “It’s your son. He’s coming this way.”

“Please, where? I can sense him, but…”

The chilled little figure was drifting towards them, searching. “This is our chance!” Gary cried. “Come on little guy…a bit closer.”

He willed the child towards the video camera, which was actively whirring away, exactly where it had fallen. The ghost-boy hesitated, gazed with his big doleful eyes, and then dissolved into a fog around the lens.

Gradually a dim image appeared flickeringly on the LCD screen… and there was that little bewildered face, gazing right back at him.

Gary’s heart leaped and he punched the air, whooping. “We’ve got him!”

“I see him!” wept the woman, laughing through her tears. “My son. My child…” She seemed to disintegrate into silvery particles that hung for a moment in the air.

A moment later she appeared on-screen, scooped Pyjama Boy to her bosom and hugged him tight.

Mama! the child smiled softly, as she rocked him.

Pyjama Boy and his mother would take their final journey together at last. Gary’s chest was fit to burst. It was time to say goodbye.

“I’m glad we met up tonight. But you know, in town they all said you were some kind of devil and that you kill people, just by looking at them. I can’t wait to see their faces tomorrow when I tell them.”

Pyjama Boy’s mother smiled kindly and reached towards him with both arms. “You can talk all you like, Gary, but they won’t hear you.”

Renee burst back into camp, her sobs tearing into the night sky as she shook something roughly on the ground at Gary’s feet. Such drama. Gary ignored her. “Why wouldn’t they listen to me?”

Pyjama Boy’s mother looked bemused as the LCD image faded to black. “My dear Gary, don’t you realize? You died ten minutes ago!”