Leo's Ghost Rearranges His Socks

Leo was almost asleep when he heard the socks.

Not the soft shuffle of his own feet. This was a dry, papery sound, like two leaves rubbing together. It came from the corner of his room, near the laundry basket.

He sat up. In the dim light from the street, something bent over his floor. It was grey and blurry, the shape of a person made of fog. It was folding his socks.

“Hello,” said the shape. “These were all tangled. I hope you don’t mind.”

Leo’s mouth opened. Nothing came out.

The shape straightened up. It had a thin face, kind eyes, and a small moustache that curled at the ends. It wore a waistcoat, or the memory of one.

“My name is Harold,” it said. “I’m sorry to startle you. I do try to be quiet.”

“You’re a ghost,” Leo whispered.

“Yes, I suppose I am,” said Harold. “That’s not usually the first thing people say, but it is accurate.”

Leo pulled the blanket up to his chin. The ghost held out a pair of socks, neatly matched.

“These are yours,” Harold said. “The stripy ones. They were under the bed.”

“Thanks,” Leo said, because his mother had raised him to be polite, even at midnight, even to a ghost.

“You’re welcome,” said Harold. He looked around the room with a small, sad smile. “It’s a nice room. Lots of space for socks.”

***

Leo did not sleep. He lay awake and watched Harold drift around the room, straightening things.

When the first grey light came through the curtains, Leo made his plan. Ghosts were scared of noise. Everyone knew that. Ghosts were scared of light, too.

He threw off the blanket and grabbed his torch from the shelf. Then he switched it on and pointed it right at Harold.

“BOO!” Leo shouted. “RAHH! GO AWAY!”

Harold blinked. The light went straight through him and landed on the wall.

“That’s a bright one,” Harold said. “Is it for reading?”

Leo stomped his feet. He banged a book on the desk. He howled like a wolf, which he was quite good at.

Harold waited politely until the howling stopped.

“Was that a song?” he asked.

“It was supposed to scare you,” Leo said, breathing hard.

“Oh,” said Harold. “I’m sorry. I don’t scare easily. I’ve been dead a long time.”

Leo flopped onto the bed. “So you’re not leaving?”

“I could help tidy,” Harold offered. “Your desk is a bit of a state. I noticed the pencil shavings.”

“Mum says the same thing.”

“Your mum sounds sensible,” Harold said. He picked up a stray sock and folded it without looking. “I used to fold socks with my wife. She was much better at it than me.”

Leo frowned. “You had a wife?”

“Still do,” said Harold. He set the sock down gently. “Somewhere.”

Priya lived two doors down, and she was the only person Leo knew who took everything seriously. He found her on her front step, sorting a tin of buttons into colours. She did not look up when he sat down.

“There’s a ghost in my room,” Leo said.

“What kind?” Priya asked, dropping a green button in the green pile.

“The kind that folds socks.”

Priya stopped sorting. “That’s a new one.”

Leo told her everything, right up to the part about the wife somewhere. Priya listened with her chin on her fist. When he finished, she tapped the tin lid twice, which was what she did when she was thinking.

“So he’s polite,” she said.

“Very polite.”

“And he doesn’t want to scare you.”

“He can’t. I tried.”

Priya put the lid on the tin. “Then maybe he wants something.”

“Ghosts want things?”

“Everyone wants things,” Priya said. “My gran wanted her garden gnome back and she made us dig up the whole flowerbed. People don’t just stand in a room folding socks for no reason.”

Leo pulled at a loose thread on his sleeve. He had not thought about it like that. Harold had been standing in his room for three nights now, quiet as a coat on a hook, folding things that were already folded.

“So what do I do?” he asked.

“Ask him,” said Priya. “That’s what I’d do. You can’t help someone if you don’t know what they lost.”

“What if he doesn’t know?”

Priya shrugged. “Then you find out together. That’s still helping.”

***

That night Leo left his torch off and sat on the end of the bed with his hands on his knees. Harold appeared in the corner at exactly the same moment as always, the way a shadow arrives when you turn a lamp on.

“Evening,” Harold said. He picked up a school jumper and began folding it into a neat square.

“Harold,” Leo said. “Can I ask you something?”

“You can ask me anything. I’ve got the time.”

“What do you want?”

Harold’s hands went still on the jumper. For a long moment he just looked at the fold he had made, and the room felt like it was holding its breath.

“That’s a fair question,” he said at last. “I’ve been dodging it.”

“You don’t have to answer.”

“No, I do. I’ve been standing in your room for three nights because I don’t know where else to stand.” Harold set the jumper down. “I’m waiting for my wife. We agreed we’d meet up, you see. After. And I’ve been waiting a long while now, and she hasn’t come.”

Leo swung his feet. “Maybe she’s late.”

“She was never late,” Harold said. “Not once in fifty years. She was the one who made me early.”

“So where is she?”

Harold looked around the room, at the desk, the lamp, the tidy rows of folded socks. “I don’t know,” he said. “I can’t find her. And I’ve looked, Leo. I’ve looked everywhere I know how.”

Leo didn’t sleep much that night. He lay awake thinking about Harold standing in the dark, waiting for someone who never came. In the morning, he decided to look for her.

He started in the attic, where the air was dusty and warm. Boxes were stacked to the roof, and an old trunk sat under the window. Inside were letters tied with string, a broken clock, and a shoebox of photographs.

Leo lifted the lid. The first photo showed a young man in a suit and a woman in a flowered dress. They were laughing at something outside the picture. The man had Harold’s kind eyes and his same crooked smile.

“Gran?” Leo called downstairs. “Who’s this?”

His gran climbed up slowly. She took the photo and smiled. “That’s Harold and Iris. They lived here before us. Lovely couple. She passed years ago, and he wasn’t long after. He always said he’d meet her at the gate.”

Leo stared at the picture. Iris had a mischievous grin. She looked like someone who would never be late on purpose. “So she’s not coming,” he said quietly.

“No, love. But he waited anyway. That’s love for you.” Gran handed the photo back and went down.

Leo sat in the dust, holding the picture. Harold wasn’t lost. He was just looking in the wrong place.

***

That night, Leo waited up. Harold appeared by the window, folding a tea towel that didn’t belong to him.

“I found something,” Leo said. He held out the photograph. “This is you, isn’t it? With Iris.”

Harold went very still. His hands stopped folding. “Where did you get that?”

“The attic. She’s beautiful.”

Harold took the photo gently, like it was made of light. “She is,” he said. “She always was.” He looked at it for a long time. “I remember this day. We were at the seaside. She ate three ice creams and blamed me for all of them.”

“She’s not coming, Harold. She died years ago. You can go to her now.”

Harold looked up. His eyes were bright. “You’re sure?”

“I’m sure. She’s waiting. She’s just early.”

A slow smile spread across Harold’s face. “She was never late,” he said. “Of course she’s early.” He set the photo on the desk. “Thank you, Leo. You’re a good lad.”

“Will you be okay?”

“I will. I’ve got somewhere to be.” Harold straightened his collar. “And someone to see.”

He began to fade, starting at his shoes and moving up. The last thing Leo saw was that crooked smile. Then the room was empty, except for the folded socks and the photograph.

Leo put the picture back in the shoebox. He left the socks exactly where Harold had stacked them. Then he climbed into bed and slept better than he had in days.