Not a Ghost Story by Jack Joslin

Jack Joslin – shortlisted for the 2024 Queen Mary Wasafiri New Writing Prize in Fiction – mixes white lies with white ghosts in a sharply-paced schoolboy story.

The 2025 Queen Mary Wasafiri New Writing Prize is open until 30 June 2025. Read the full guidelines and submit your work.

Those of us who knew Wilmot assumed him to be naïve at first, that he was the sort who would swap sandwiches at lunch if you promised a chocolate bar tomorrow, who left out mince pies for Father Christmas, who didn’t know that puppets contain hands with their middle fingers stuck up at you.

He wasn’t naïve though. Wilmot was a liar. Worse: he was a bad liar.

Wilmot’s family moved to the area and dumped him at our school well into the year. By that point, friendship groups were all fixed in stone. We knew who was sound and who wasn’t and none of us felt like making room for a new boy.

We were eleven or so, right on the edge of puberty and ready to bust free from childhood. Permanently riled. We wanted to grow tall and dangerous, to put fear in younger kids like the older kids had put fear in us. No matter what, Wilmot was going to struggle.

He tried to make friends, I’ll give him that, but less than two weeks after starting, he was telling lies. Every morning the dickhead would run up to us in the playground all excited and stutter out a string of outlandish stories about his so-called mates and relatives.

Obvious crap, such unbelievable crap. How dumb did he think we were? What did he expect us to say? ‘Do you know this lad, Wilmot? Yeah, he spent his birthday party in a submarine. He knows the entire City squad and coaches them on Saturdays. His much older girlfriend visits from Scotland when she gets the chance. She stays over and spends the night snogging him.’

‘Look,’ Wilmot said, opening his mouth wide. ‘You can see the bite marks at the back of my throat.’ All I could see was chewed crisps and yellow fur on the wet pink of his tongue.

Bite marks? What did that even mean? How did he think kissing worked? We were only young but still. When he had an actual snog – if he had an actual snog – did he recall this fib and cringe? ‘Oh, that’s how it’s done. What an idiot I must have looked at school, talking about marks in my throat and all that?’

Of course not. It was just one of a million lies. He forgot he said the words as soon as they plopped from his mouth.

Some people at least have the decency to look embarrassed when they spout bullshit. Their eyes apologise, you know? Not Wilmot. No shame. He tumbled over his words, untruths falling out too fast for him to breathe properly.

Lots of liars can’t help being dishonest on account of their unstable family dynamics or whatever. Thing is, his family seemed normal. Better than. His dad was a dentist – or special forces agent, according to Wilmot – and his mum … I can’t remember, but I spotted her once at the school gates on Wilmot’s first day. She must have come out of worry for her precious lamb, to make sure he had survived amongst the rabble. Most parents didn’t come to collect us older kids so it stuck out. We were too old for mushy stuff. She smiled at a group of us as we passed, even though she didn’t know us. We saw Wilmot sidle up to her and she hugged him incredibly tight and kissed his scruffy hair and he squirmed to escape her grip. I’d never seen a parent do that. I maybe stared.

Wilmot’s lies got grander over time. We started needling him with endless questions. He had answers locked and loaded.

Your house is built on top of Atlantis?

'Yeah. There’s a hidden entry in our cellar. The King of Atlantis asked us to keep it sealed, to protect the sea people from land invaders.’

You have a pet lion? Can we come round and see it?

‘Sorry. No. It’s on loan to Whipsnade Zoo.’

You jumped from a plane without a parachute? How are you alive?

‘The SAS taught me to dive and roll. I can fall from any height without dying.’

So when he came over to us yet again and said he’d caught a ghost, it seemed like another one of his stupid little lies.

I called him out:

‘A ghost? You caught a ghost?’

We were all sat in our usual huddle, kicking a pencil case about. Taking the piss out each other. Standard youngster antics.

‘You’re talking shit,’ I said. We usually just ignored him, but I wasn’t in the mood to pretend that day. He looked panicked.

‘I’m going to tell,’ Wilmot said. His lip shook. He scanned our smirks, nervous. ‘You’re not allowed to say that word.’ He ran away, followed by our laughter.

He didn’t tell but did come up to me after our last lesson. Red puffy skin and streaks of snot. He’d been crying.

‘I have caught a ghost,’ Wilmot said. ‘I’ve trapped it in my shed. Stop saying I’m talking poo.’

I happened to know more or less where he lived so decided to call his bluff.

‘Go on then,’ I said. ‘Take us to see it. I’ll stop by. It’s on my way home.’

Sure enough, he started tugging at the cuffs of his jumper. ‘I was going to get pick and mix and go to the video shop.’

‘Thought so. See you, Wilmot. Have fun with your ghost.’

‘Uh.’ He glanced over his shoulder and whispered. ‘Okay. Fine. Let’s go now.’

Didn’t expect him to agree, to be fair, and I wondered how he would explain it when we got to his shed and found sod all in there. Something about ghosts walking through walls, no doubt. But I thought it was worth seeing for myself. I’m a curious type. Always have been, even then.

The two of us walked in silence. No boasts or make-believe for a change. I reckoned he was bricking it. He’d never had to back up his rubbish before.

‘How’d you catch your ghost then?’ I said, bored.

He took a moment.

‘I found it floating on the lawn,’ said Wilmot. ‘I thought it was a plastic bag that the wind blew over but I got closer and realised it was a ghost. I nudged it into the shed with a stick. I brought it a bowl of water. No food. I don’t know what ghosts eat.’

‘Not much, probably.’

We arrived. I’d seen his house before from the road, through the bars of the black electric gate. I knew it was big, but wow. Rich boy. Two cars in the drive. One of them was a kind I’d only seen in a magazine. The grass out front was cut low. He didn’t invite me in but pointed me around the front and down the side. I peered in the windows as I passed by. I saw a gigantic dining table, for a whole family I guess. Paintings on the walls. Enormous telly. Flowers in vases on miniature rugs.

We got to the garden. He had a trampoline, a set of swings, plants that looked deliberately grown. At the end, under a ceiling of tree branches that swung low as if trying to keep a secret, the shed.

We got there and he took hold of the metal ring handle. ‘You won’t scare it, will you?’

‘Nah,’ I said. ‘Aren’t ghosts the ones that scare us?’

‘Promise you won’t scare it.’

‘I promise.’

And I meant it because ghosts don’t exist, and I knew there was nothing in there.

‘Okay,’ he said. ‘Here we go.’

He opened the door and we entered the shed. I breathed a sharp lungful of musty air and stepped back. I wasn’t scared, just surprised.

Because I saw it. Something silver and translucent and barely there, a hazy clot of steam no larger than a basketball, bobbing slightly on the dirty floorboards. It tried to rise up and hover but a frayed dog lead had been looped tight around its middle, with the other end tied to a rusty old lawnmower. It could only fly a foot or two before halting and drifting back down like a tugged balloon.

It was faceless, but I could tell the poor thing was sad and distressed.

‘Oh my god,’ I said. ‘Wilmot. You absolute div.’

I knelt beside it and let white wisps lick my fingers. I felt the nearly frozen air beneath my nails.

‘This isn’t a ghost,’ I said. ‘This is a baby cloud. It must have got separated from its family. You’re not supposed to mess with them. They can lose their scent. Their mothers reject them and leave them alone in the sky.’

He was short of words – weird for him – and spluttered when he finally spoke.

‘What do you mean?’ he said. ‘Look at it. It’s a ghost.’

‘Ghosts aren’t real. Help me get this rope off. How can it get home, banged up in a dark shed like this? Christ. You are so thick.’

‘I don’t understand.’

‘No. You never do.’

I worked the lead loose by myself, trying not to hurt it. Couldn’t believe my eyes. Honest to god this all happened. Never known anyone else who’s seen a baby cloud in the wild, up close like this. Real once-in-a-lifetime sort of thing, if that.

With the lead off, I stood back to give the baby cloud some space and it rose up, inches from my nose. Whether it was trying to say thank you, I don’t know. It might not have even been aware of me at all.

‘Stand back, Wilmot,’ I said. ‘I’m freeing it.’

‘You can’t. It’s my ghost.’

‘It’s a baby cloud. Keeping it like this is cruel. Move.’

He eventually shifted, huffing and red-faced. The cloud skated past him without hesitation. It circled the garden at eye level a few times and then slowly glided upwards. We watched until it was too small to see. I hope it found its way home. The day was overcast, so chances were good.

The next day at school, Wilmot told anyone who would listen that I’d nicked his ghost. When that didn’t stick, he said he’d showed me the ghost and the ghost attacked me. Said I was terrified. Said that he, Wilmot, had fought off the ghost and saved me.

He hadn’t noticed me sat to the side. I could hear him rabbiting on, turning me into the fool of his dumb story. I don’t think he did it to be mean, but it still got my back up.

It was unusual for Wilmot to drag a classmate into his mad tales, so one of the more popular lads, Harry, came over and asked about it.

‘He’s at it again. Wilmot says he caught a ghost. That you saw it and got a fright. He talking bollocks?’

I looked at Wilmot and he looked at me. I saw him jolt and blush.

‘He’s talking bollocks,’ I said to Harry. ‘I went in the shed, it’s true. But there was no ghost. That’s that.’

I didn’t lie. I could have explained further but why bother? What’s the point if Wilmot was going to act like that? I took the time to hear him out and visit his posh house and witness this so-called ghost. He thanked me by making me sound weak, afraid. I’m not those things.

That year was our last at primary. Wilmot and I attended different secondary schools. We never spoke to each other again.

Decades later, I saw a news story online. Don’t know why it caught my eye but I recognised the guy in the photo all right. A few extra wrinkles and stubble but there he was: Wilmot. All the old anger fired up in my gut. I read the article. He had been one of the chief scumbags at some scam business. Vitamin smoothies that claim to help weight loss without hunger pains. ‘With a small investment, you can become a distributor and get rich quickly.’ Sounds too good to be true because it is. Only 2% ever saw a profit, apparently. Almost everyone lost their money. Many lost their families. And these were people who didn’t deserve it. There was a massive legal dust-up when an undercover journalist exposed the company’s shady dealings.

As CEO, Wilmot got the big blame. He was sentenced to two years in prison. I kept tabs on any developments. Thirteen months into his sentence, he made a noose from his trousers and hanged himself. Not sure why. He was over halfway through.

A liar to the bitter end who always wanted more, more, more.

That’s what bothers me so much. We both saw a baby cloud that day. Maybe the most special thing I’ve ever seen in my whole life. And what did Wilmot do? Turned it into a boring ghost story. Starring himself. Always himself. Wilmot the Hero, king of his gigantic house.

He couldn’t understand how lucky he was. I don’t think I’ve ever been able to forgive him for that.

The 2025 Queen Mary Wasafiri New Writing Prize is open for submissions until 30 June. Submit here.

Image: A Riotous Schoolroom with a Snoozing Schoolmaster by Jan Steen via WikiArt