Chapter Text
“Y’know, mate, they say that old brick house at Imola is haunted. That’s why it’s been abandoned since, like, forever.”
“Ooooooh~ Ghosts~! Go on, Max, I dare you to check it out. Tell us if there are any actual ghosts in there… Oh, you’re not scared, are you?”
No, Max was not scared, but he was definitely irritated, trudging through bushes and tall grass in his race suit just to get to this stupid abandoned house to prove to his stupid fellow racers that he wasn’t one to back down from a challenge.
He knew, deep down, that he had nothing to prove to them by doing this. They weren’t ten anymore, they were sixteen and Max had just won two Formula 3 races in a row at Imola. He’d be driving in Formula 1 next year, skipping ahead most of them. But still, the thought of drivers like Pierre Gasly, Jolyon Palmer, and Esteban Ocon mocking him for backing down from a dare still made him feel uncomfortable. What if word of him being a coward made it back to his father?
So here he was. At the entrance of the old brick house on the outskirts of the Imola circuit. It still looked pretty sturdy for a building that hadn’t been lived in for decades, standing strong despite the vines and other foliage threatening to consume it whole. It wasn’t too big, probably built for a simple family of three or four, with a couple of sheds dotting the area, making the forest property look more complete.
A gap in the wall signified where the front door once must have been. It was dark inside, as the house had few windows, but Max wasn’t afraid. He didn’t believe in ghosts and knew that, at most, he’d just find some squirrels or lizards. So he turned on his phone’s flashlight and delved inside.
Empty, furniture-less rooms. Barren walls. Cracked floors with weeds popping up at every opportunity. And–oh, yep, there was a lizard on a windowsill. So it was exactly what he had been expecting, with no surprises and nothing interesting.
This is stupid, Max thought. At least he’d done it, and could now go back and boast to the other drivers that he went into the house they were all too scared to explore themselv–
Something tapped him on the shoulder.
Max yelped and instinctively swiveled to smack whatever touched him, but there was nothing there when he turned around. Just empty darkness.
“Hello?” He said, hating how shaky his voice sounded. It could’ve been a leaf or a bug, he told himself, but another part of his brain shouted that felt like a human finger.
Around him there was nothing but silence, but after a few moments, Max heard quiet noises coming from upstairs, which he hadn’t explored yet. It sounded like footsteps and… humming?
Was there another young driver here? Perhaps someone like him, another victim who’d been dared to come explore the Imola haunted house? There was another possibility, of course, but Max didn’t believe in ghosts and spirits and that sort of stuff.
Max made his way up the old stairs, almost tripping on some steps that’d been decayed and broken throughout the years. The humming became more audible as he approached one of the 2nd floor bedrooms. It sounded like someone was softly singing some kind of old hymn or lullaby.
Taking a deep breath just to steady himself (he was not scared, this was just preparation for social interaction, he told himself), Max opened the door to the bedroom he heard the sound coming from. The old wooden door creaked, an unwelcome discord to the humming that was, admittedly, quite pleasant to the ear despite some parts of it being off-tune. Inside the bedroom was a humanoid figure sitting on an old coffee table, the only intact piece of furniture among piles of wood that appeared to once have been chairs.
It was a boy, probably around his own age. Tall, with short brown hair that curled around his forehead and long limbs stretching out from his t-shirt and shorts. Max didn’t mistake him for a fellow racer who’d been dared to explore the house, however. This boy was transparent and glowed a faint cyan light.
A ghost.
“Hello?” Max offered, and the ghost stopped his humming. He turned to face Max, and his eyes were a blue so piercing it made Max’s heart skip a beat.
“Hello there,” the ghost said. He had a British accent, his regal voice sounding distant and echoey despite his close proximity. It matched his looks perfectly, his pristine features and clear skin making him look otherworldly in ways completely unrelated to the fact that he was, by definition, not quite of the living world. It was impossible to look away.
Max hadn’t realized he’d been staring until the ghost smiled awkwardly, as if he’d been expecting a reply but realized he wasn’t going to get one. “I don’t get visitors very often,” the ghost said. “Real ones, I mean. Most people stay away, and those who do enter usually run screaming after noticing me.”
It made one wonder how many people had tried to talk to him. “That sounds a bit lonely,” Max said, words tumbling out before he realized he was speaking.
The ghost’s expression turned sad. “Yeah. A bit.”
“Are you, uhm,” Max started, awkwardly. “Confined to this house?”
He shrugged. “This track. But I stay here most of the time. Don’t really want to scare everyone away, so I keep to myself.”
Max’s heart, which had been beating quickly, slowed down, and his muscles relaxed. It didn’t feel like he was talking to a supernatural horror. It just felt like he was talking to a teenage boy. One who seemed quite polite and lonesome.
“Do you have a name?” Max asked.
Those blue eyes studied him for several moments before he answered. “My name was George. I guess that would still be my name, even though I’m a ghost now.”
“What, so you’re not granted a fearsome ghost name upon death? That’s a bit disappointing.”
George’s eyes widened with shock, but then he started laughing, and it was even more beautiful than his earlier humming. “Unfortunately not! Though I’ve never met another ghost besides myself. Maybe some do it differently.”
The way his British tone rose midway through his sentences made Max’s steady heartbeat once again not so steady. It wasn’t as if he had a thing for British accents, it was just George he wanted to listen to for hours. Preferably while watching him, too, because he was way too beautiful, for either a ghost or a person. He looked like a prince.
It made Max wonder what the hell the ghost of a princely British boy was doing in Emilia-Romagna, Italy. On the Imola racing circuit, specifically. Did he live in this house, perhaps having moved here from England with his family? Was he some kind of racer who’d died in an accident? Max wondered if it was a little too early in their conversation to ask the question How did you die?
“You’re wondering how I died,” George suddenly said, breaking through Max’s thoughts.
“Oh, I, uh,” Max stammered. He scratched the back of his head nervously. “Maybe. I’m wondering a lot of things. I’ve never met a ghost before.”
George giggled. “You’re cute,” he said, and Max felt his entire body heat up. “Maybe I’ll tell you, but you haven’t even introduced yourself to me yet.”
“Oh, sorry,” Max mumbled, head feeling a bit light as it replayed George calling him cute over and over. “I’m Max. I’m sixteen. I’m a racing driver.”
George tilted his head, feet swaying back and forth over the side of the coffee table. “I figured that last part. You young racers often dare each other to come in here.”
“Yeah, that’s actually exactly what happened. I thought it was stupid, but I didn’t want them to be annoying about it forever, so I came.”
“Very brave. Not only did you come into my spooky haunted house, but here you are talking to me, a spooky, scary ghost.”
Max chuckled. “It’s not quite that dramatic. I didn’t even believe in ghosts till now. I, uh, I’m glad I came, now, and had my mind changed.”
George grinned playfully. “Get to brag to them now that you met the Imola ghost and didn’t run away?”
Max shook his head. “No. Well, yes, I guess I can do that, but I was more talking about the fact that I met you, you as George. You seem amazing. Wonderful.” He regretted the clumsy-sounding words as they poured out, but he couldn’t stop them. Part of him blamed his novice understanding of the English language, but even in Dutch, Max knew he wasn’t exactly eloquent.
George’s smirk fell, surprise replacing the slyness on his face. He looked like Max had just told him that, in a world of only darkness, light exists.
“What’s it like, being a ghost?” Max asked before George could reply and he was forced to acknowledge his embarrassing comments. “Are you always visible, or can you turn invisible? You’re sitting on that table and you tapped me on the shoulder earlier, but can you go through walls and float and do all that other cool stuff ghosts do in stories?”
“Hah, it sounds much more exciting when you say it.”
“Can you show me?”
George gave him a puzzled expression, but then his glowing body floated off the coffee table like a balloon released from its string. He stopped ascending several meters in the air, then glided over to a wall, all effortlessly, while still in his casual sitting position as if the table was still underneath him. He disappeared behind a wall, completely phasing through, before returning into eyeshot and flying back to his original position.
“Cool,” Max said. “So you choose whether to touch something or go through it?”
“Kind of. It takes effort to interact with the physical world. I can’t do much more than tap someone on the shoulder or sit on old furniture. Here, let me show you.” George held out a hand.
It took Max a few seconds to realize he was expecting him to hold out a hand of his own. When he did so, George closed the gap and locked their hands together, a gesture that had the butterflies in Max’s stomach as excited as his heart rate. George’s skin was soft and his fingers were long, but other than his personal attributes that Max was paying too much attention to, he felt just like any other living person.
Neither spoke for several moments, just holding hands in the dark. George’s blue eyes were calmly fixed upon their contact, as if expecting something to happen. And sure enough, after a minute that felt like an hour, yet still somehow didn’t feel long enough, George’s hand suddenly lost physicality, phasing through Max’s.
“That took longer than usual,” George remarked with interest. “But yeah, that’s how that works. It’ll be a little while before I can touch anything again.”
While he spoke, Max took several deep breaths to steady himself. It was silly that George was getting him this worked up, especially since being a ghost had very little to do with it. It was his pretty hair, his gorgeous eyes, his soft hands, the way he carried himself so elegantly, crossing his legs as he sat back down. Jesus, he was beautiful.
“Can you train it?” Max asked, shaking himself out of his quiet admiration. “Like, learn to touch things for longer?”
George tilted his head, his lips puckering a bit as he considered it. It was utterly unfair, for someone to be that beautiful and cute as hell. “I’m not sure, actually. I wasn’t given a rulebook on how to be a ghost after I died. I just woke up like this. You’re quite curious, aren’t you? I like that.”
Max had several more questions and comments in response to that, but as soon as he opened his mouth, a ringing noise sounded from his back pocket.
“Kut,” he swore in Dutch, taking out his phone. “It’s, uh, it’s my dad. I must’ve been gone longer than they thought.”
George nodded slowly, but the disappointment on his face wasn’t well hidden. “You'd better be off then, Max. It was nice to meet and talk to you.”
Max shuffled his feet. He didn’t want to leave, but he really didn’t want to face the wrath of his father, which would be intensifying every minute he lingered. “I… I want to come back and see you again, but I’m leaving Imola tonight. I… fuck, and there’s no Imola in Formula 1 next year. I’ll find a way, but you’ll still be here when I come back, won’t you?”
George smiled a bit sadly. “I can’t really go anywhere.”
God, he looked so lonely. Max didn’t miss the way his arms were now wrapped around his knees, or the way he avoided Max’s gaze as he said that. “I gotta go, but I will come back and talk to you again, I promise. Just wait for me, George.”
A small smile crept up on George’s lips as he nodded, but it was one of skeptical hope, as if he liked the thought of Max’s promise but didn’t fully believe it. Were there others in the past who said they’d come back, but never did? If that was true, Max felt determined not to be another one.
“If you come back,” George finally said. “I promise to tell you how I died.”
Max had forgotten he had even been wondering that. “Deal. Goodbye for now, George,” Max blurted out before bolting out of the old house. All he could think about was his schedule and where in the coming months he’d be able to fit in another trip to Imola.
The trees surrounding the Imola circuit glittered orange and yellow in the afternoon sun as Max navigated through undergrowth to get to the abandoned brick house. It was more overgrown than last year, but Max didn’t care. A bit of dirt on his jeans was worth it for the sight now in front of him—the Imola haunted house, which, unlike the lively forest, remained completely unchanged.
He brushed his hands through his hair, straightening out the tangles, then took one final breath before entering the building. He wasn’t nervous. Definitely not. Well, okay, maybe a little bit, but only because it’d been almost a year since he met George and he wasn’t sure if the ghost would want to talk to him again because of how long it’d been. Was a year a long time for a ghost? It had felt like too long for Max, but the Formula 1 calendar was extraordinarily busy. He had almost no free time, barely managing this one-day trip to Imola because of how close it was to the Monza Grand Prix.
“Hello?” Max said upon entering the house. “George? You there?”
No answer. Maybe he was upstairs again.
But when Max scaled the stairs and checked the bedrooms, including the one he had found George in last time, he found nothing.
“George?” He called again. “It’s me, Max. Remember me? I promised to come back. You promised to tell me how you died.”
It sounded quite morbid of a promise, saying it out loud. But then again, George was literally a ghost. Couldn’t get much more morbid than that. He was dead.
He also wasn’t responding. An uncomfortable pit started growing in Max’s stomach as possibilities raced through his mind. Did Max take too long, and now George didn’t want to talk to him anymore? Do ghosts disappear over time?
Or… he did say he was confined to the track, not the house. Max took a deep breath to steady himself. It was possible he was just elsewhere on the Imola circuit.
Max exited the building and started wandering the perimeters of the circuit. Leaves littered the ash-colored track like specks of amber, where they’d stay for weeks, if not months, before being raked up in preparation for another racing event. Given that it was already September, they might remain untouched until the new year. With no events in the near future, the Imola circuit was as desolate as the haunted brick house, albeit in a far less neglected state.
His stroll eventually led him back to the paddock and pit wall, where, somewhere, a Toro Rosso intern was catching up on engineering homework while waiting for Max to be done. Max had paid him for the ride, being still a few weeks away from his driver’s license himself. Still, he’d feel a bit bad if he returned so soon, unsuccessful in his search, so he decided to do another lap or two around the circuit. If George didn’t show up, at least this trip had been a nice getaway from the chaotic life of a Formula 1 driver.
Max found himself relaxing as he walked. The autumnal smells of spice and forest wood, the sound of birds and rustling leaves in the wind. Max took it in, breathing deeply in and out and–
Something tapped him on the shoulder.
Max didn’t yelp, this time, but he still jumped a bit, startled out of his state of relaxation. When he did, the ghost next to him giggled with mischief.
“Aye, mate, you can’t keep doing that,” Max said, though despite his words, a wide smile appeared on his face. “You’re gonna give me a heart attack before I turn eighteen.”
“I’d hope a racing driver would be in good enough health to avoid a heart attack by eighteen.”
Underneath the afternoon sun, George’s transparent body shimmered like rays of light shining through morning fog. He beamed with playful smugness in a cardigan and trousers—hold on, those were different clothes than last time, weren’t they? Max took another look at his face and realized it was slightly more chiseled, his hair a little bit longer, framing his perfect face like a picture frame.
“You look gorgeous,” Max whispered, without thinking. “Ahem, I mean, yeah mate, you look a bit different. Older? Do ghosts age?”
“You silly goose,” George said, and Max couldn’t believe such ridiculous words sounded so natural coming from such a beautiful, elegant-looking individual. “People don’t age once they’re dead, unless you wanna count the process of decomposition. I’m just matching you. Hope that’s alright, people usually feel more comfortable talking to people their age.”
“Yeah, it’s all good,” Max said, but George’s words made him wonder how old he’d been when he died. Was Max crushing on some forty-something-year-old man parading as a teenager in ghost form? Would that be weird?
“I can only do this for a few more years, though,” George said, as if he’d heard Max’s inner monologue. “I didn’t make it far into adulthood. Died young.”
“Ah,” Max awkwardly remarked, because how does one appropriately respond to that? He decided to change the subject. “I was worried you had disappeared or something, you know. You weren’t in the house, and I’ve been wandering for, like, half an hour.”
George’s smile weakened. “Oh. Sorry. You came on one of the few days I leave the house. It was too nice outside for me to stay indoors.”
“Well, I can’t blame you. I’m just glad you’re still here.”
George shuffled his feet, averting Max’s gaze. “Yeah. I’m, uh, I’m glad you came back. Having one conversation with someone is rare enough. I don’t think I’ve ever had a second.”
Instinctually, Max reached out to put a hand on his shoulder as a gesture of comfort, but his hand phased right through. As Max’s cheeks flushed with embarrassment, George once again giggled at his expense. Maybe he really was an evil ghost, teasing him like this.
“Wanna walk with me?” Max asked, recovering. “We can take in the nice day together.”
George nodded, and the two of them continued along the Imola circuit, side by side. George didn’t walk, per se, he more so glided and pranced like a deer in low gravity, occasionally floating over to check out a bird nest or fallen leaf. It was cute, how curious and enamored he seemed to be of the smaller things of the world, things Max hardly gave half a thought to.
“Before you left last time,” George said as he followed the path of a leaf blowing in the wind. “You mentioned Formula 1. Is that the category you race for?”
“Yep,” Max responded. “This is my first year. I’m a rookie in the Red Bull junior program racing for Toro Rosso.”
George raised an eyebrow at him. “Those team names are unfamiliar to me, unfortunately. You’re pretty young for F1, aren’t you?”
“I’m the youngest driver to start an F1 race, ever.”
“Impressive. What’s it like? Tell me about it.”
So Max did. He told George about the thrill of driving an F1 car at 200+ kilometers per hour, as well as the exhausting schedule that gave him so little free time. He talked about his season so far, including the crash in Monaco and the fourth place in Hungary, all while George listened attentively and chimed in with questions and comments. Max found himself admitting several things to George that he’d never said to anyone else, including how stressful the media sessions were and how he truly believed he was a better driver than both Daniel Ricciardo and Daniil Kyvat.
“In that Red Bull,” Max said. “I bet I could beat both of them. I think Helmut Marko knows that.”
George was gliding alongside him now, so close their shoulders would have been touching if George were a normal person. “And that’s why you think you’ll be promoted to the senior team next year?”
“If one of them starts to underperform, even a little, then yeah. I’m in.”
George whistled. “This Red Bull team seems rather cutthroat! Even for Formula 1 standards. They’re like the Williams of modern day.”
“A bit,” Max said, chuckling. “Hey, you seem relatively familiar with Formula 1. Not the modern stuff, but in general. The way it works. I don’t have to explain racing terms to you.”
George flashed him a sly smile. “Three guesses why.”
“You were a racing driver, weren’t you?”
The ghost nodded. “I was. Never made it to Formula 1, though. I think I could have, I know I could have, actually, but death had other plans for me.”
“Did you, uh,” Max stammered over his words. Part of him worried that one wrongly placed word about George’s death would make him not want to talk to Max anymore, but George himself was also rather unafraid to slip in quips about his own death into normal conversation, so maybe it was okay. He had promised to tell Max how he died, after all.
So Max took in a breath and shook away any nervousness. “Was it a racing accident?”
George said nothing for several moments, eyes just staring off into the distance, as if reliving his death in his mind. “Yeah. You could say that.”
The silence that followed was uncomfortable, for Max at least. He didn’t know what to say.
“How did it happen?” He finally asked.
Silence, again. Max’s chest started to tighten. Should he not have asked that? George didn’t look offended but he was still staring ahead blankly, an empty look on his usually expressive face.
“Sorry, you don’t have to talk about it,” Max offered.
“No, no,” George said. “It’s okay, Max. I’m just not sure how to answer.”
“What do you mean?”
“I mean that I don’t really remember.”
“You…” Max was more confused now. “You died in a racing accident, but you don’t remember it?”
George pursed his lips and wiggled his shoulders in a half-shrug. “Pretty much. I was racing. Then I wasn’t. Then I was a ghost. I don’t know how it happened, I’ve never been able to remember it clearly.”
Before Max could reply, George broke their shoulder-to-shoulder position and pranced ahead. They were at the first chicane, but instead of turning left to follow the track, George slighted right, heading towards the forest and river. He turned back to look at Max before phasing through the barriers, as if giving a silent instruction to follow.
Max followed, stepping over the barriers and navigating through the brush just like he’d done when going to and from the old brick house. He had a guess as to where George was going—he was a racer, and every racer knew what had happened at this corner. Max knew there was a path alongside the river with a statue, only several meters away from the track. He’d visited it before.
Sure enough, George was cross-legged midair in front of a statue of a man sitting solemnly. Text on his cubic seat detailed his life achievements while flags, flowers, and other offerings littered the ground surrounding him.
Ayrton Senna.
“I don’t know who he is,” George said when Max approached. “He could have existed during my time, but I have no memories of him. He must’ve been a big deal to get this much love and recognition after death. People often visit this statue and talk about him with reverence.”
Max fell back in position, standing next to George. “He was a big deal, for sure. One of the best racers ever. I don’t really idolize any drivers, but if I did, he’d probably be one of them.”
George stared at the statue, expression unreadable. “If he were in my position, a ghost who can barely remember who they were, at least he’d be able to learn more about himself through all of this.”
Max didn’t say anything. He just listened.
“I don’t have anything,” George continued. “I know I died here, on this track, but I’ve explored every inch of this place and there’s nothing even acknowledging my existence. No tombstone, no memorial. I’m not expecting anything like this Senna guy, of course, it’s not like I was a well-known Formula 1 champion, but… sometimes it feels like my life is the ghost, and I’m the real one.”
“George…”
“I don’t even remember my last name,” George said, curling his arms around his knees, just like he had before Max left. “Just George.”
Max shuffled a little closer to him. If George were corporeal, they might’ve been able to feel each other’s breath. “What do you remember?”
“I… I’m George. I grew up in King’s Lynn, England, on my parents’ farm. My mom used to sing to me before bed and she made delicious roasted vegetables. I started racing when I was eight, and I was good. Really good. I wanted to make it to Formula 1, but… well, you know.”
“Do you remember when you lived? Birth date?”
George shook his head.
“Shit,” Max cursed, running his hands through his hair. “I’m, uh, I’m sorry, George. I could try to look for you in records, but without a date or last name, it’s–”
“No need for that,” George said. Despite the visible pain in his eyes, he still flashed Max a sweet, apologetic smile. “Thank you for listening and talking with me. That’s all I could ask for.”
Max wasn’t satisfied with that, and he had suspicions that George was forcing himself not to ask for more out of politeness. But he nodded, accepting George’s words in the moment. If he internally decided to do a deep dive into casualties at the Imola circuit later on, that didn’t need to be said aloud.
Instead, Max reached a hand out and brushed it against George’s. There was no contact, only air, but he meant it as an invitation or suggestion, which George understood. When the ghost’s hand became something that could be touched, Max reached out again and took it in his own.
“I’d like to keep listening to you, and talking with you,” he said, caressing George’s palm with his thumb. His hands were soft, perfect, and Max wanted to make the most out of feeling them while he still could.
George smiled shyly, a little more color on his translucent cheeks. “Well, I’ll be here whenever you want to come back. I’d love it if you kept coming back, it makes me feel more… real.”
“We’ll make new memories, okay? No matter how you died, no matter your last name, you’re real to me right now.”
George wiped his eyes with his sleeve and whispered, “Thank you.”
george king’s lynn racing accident 1980s
Nothing.
george karting accident imola 1970s
Still nothing.
king’s lynn george racing results 1960s
Technically it wasn’t like nothing was coming up, but Max scrolled past all the search results on his laptop because none of them were relevant. He’d been trying aimlessly for almost an hour, but there were too many English people named George for the name to help narrow things down within the numerous junior categories and it was difficult to find public records of casualties at Imola besides Ayrton Senna and Roland Ratzenberger.
Was his death not recorded anywhere? If he had been a promising talent, like George said he’d been, there should have been some media attention on him and his death. Or… was George misremembering something? Could George not even be his real name?
He’d been onto something when he said his life was more of the ghost than his ghost self. It was as if he never lived at all, and that was a bit disturbing.
Frustrated, Max shut his laptop and turned off his desk lamp for the night.