The Stolen Ghosts Page 10

  “I have little choice. I cannot go back to the attic to sleep while you are holding my anchor, so what else do I do with my time? No, I have to stand here and answer your questions until you choose to put down the anchor.”

  “So ghosts do sleep?”

  “Yes, we do. It takes a lot of energy to manifest and create disturbances, and we need to recoup that energy in some way. Sleep is the most efficient way to do that,” replied Fowlis. He yawned.

  “So this is tiring you out?”

  “On the contrary. If I manifest because a human is holding my anchor, then I do so using their energy, not mine. So technically…this is tiring you out. That is why you fell asleep during our conversation last night.”

  Another yawn fought for her attention. She blinked hard and stretched her arms as far as she could.

  “Sarah? Sarah, are you up now? Breakfast is ready.” Her father knocked on the door. Sarah dropped the cameo in surprise. The cavalier winked as he dissolved from view. Sarah looked at the pendant but decided against picking it up.

  “I’m up, Dad,” replied Sarah.

  She swung her legs off the bed and stood up, then hauled the heavy curtains back to flood the room with morning. Clouds scudded across the blue sky, casting shadows on the rolling meadow below. Sheep dotted the fields and Sarah almost envied their tranquil outdoor existence. The trees on the fringe of the forest waved in the breeze, and she wondered what the animals were up to. Her mother didn’t like her going into the forest, but she never went far. She’d already seen a fawn, some rabbits and a woodpecker. The rabbits didn’t run away when they saw her.

  Sarah yawned and slowly changed her clothes, sparing glances at the cameo on her bed. She couldn’t touch it again, not when she was so tired. She pulled the sleeve of her sweatshirt over her hand and grabbed the pendant through the thick material. She slipped it into the pocket of her jeans. Sarah patted the cold lump of the pendant, satisfied that Fowlis would come back when she called him. She smiled. She’d made a friend.

  Chapter 14

  Fowlis wandered through the house. His gaze roved across paintings and he paced up and down the same corridor. He cursed himself for letting his anchor fall into the possession of a mortal. He abhorred that kind of carelessness. Other ghosts lost their anchors, not the great Fowlis Westerby. He would never win the championship again if anyone found out.

  Fowlis flopped into a hard Queen Anne chair in the corridor and let the wood take the weight of his core. Brie appeared from a nearby mouse hole. Fowlis smiled—the mouse seemed to know exactly when he needed company. She climbed the frame of the chair and perched on the arm. Her ears twitched constantly.

  “I do believe my entire haunting ethos may need a spring clean for this haunting to work. I shall never be able to generate enough fear to complete the assignment at this rate,” said Fowlis.

  “Are you sure? The lady seems pretty terrified,” said Brie. She flicked her tail.

  “You’re right, the mother alone generates enough fear to keep the Veil intact, but the girl is too fascinated. I believe she is rather lonely.”

  “I can think of someone else who is lonely,” said the mouse. Fowlis grimaced.

  “No, she and I are not the same. I work alone, that is the nature of my occupation. She is lonely as she has no friends. No, I think I may have to consider her a lost cause in relation to my work. Unless I can catch her unaware, I believe she is too interested to be afraid.”

  Brie looked down the corridor towards the scientist’s office then back at Fowlis.

  “That is another thing, dear little Brie! HQ must have known that the father is a scientist. It has been an unwritten rule since that rather embarrassing incident with Madame Curie that households involving scientists or genuine psychics are to be considered off-limits, and not to be haunted. Someone at HQ mustn’t like me very much.”

  Brie ran along the arm of the chair and climbed back down to the floor. She squeaked and darted away in the direction of the office. Fowlis smiled. If he didn’t know better, he’d think the little mouse was trying to get him back into his work.

  He stuck his head into the office. The room was empty and the faint smell of shoe polish hung in the air. Fowlis slipped through the door to get a real feel for the interior. He drifted around the room, moving equipment, hiding paperwork and rearranging the magnets on the filing cabinet drawers.

  Brie ran across the floor, then paused in front of the blackboard. She squeaked at Fowlis to get his attention. Fowlis grinned.

  “A marvellous idea, little madam!”

  He manifested long enough to grasp a chalk and scrawled a drawing on the board. Part of him was glad to see the scientist hadn’t adapted to these modern boards with smelly marker pens. He stepped back to admire his handiwork. An apple floated from a rather cartoonish tree towards a man with curly hair and a big head.

  “That’s wonderful!” squeaked Brie.

  “Thank you! I know, I know, humans are silly to have taken so long to grasp the concept of gravity.”

  “Why isn’t it just obvious to them?” Brie wrinkled her nose and Fowlis laughed.

  “Indeed, Mistress Mouse! Humans needed the intervention of fruit, unlike darling animals, to whom the concept is as obvious as the difference between night and day!”

  Fowlis picked up a stick of chalk and added a smiley face and a pair of wings to the falling apple. Brie giggled, prompting another chuckle from the cavalier. Fowlis couldn’t help but smile as he looked at his creation. In life, he had eschewed art out of bitterness for his own lack of talent, and while he was no Rembrandt in death, his work had an element of playfulness and genuine exuberance at odds with the fact that he was dead.

  Fowlis dragged the filing cabinet across the room. He tried to open it to peek inside but he couldn’t find the key. He stuck his head through the side and saw only folders. They didn’t look organised and he doubted the scientist would notice if he altered them. He chose instead to tidy them, quickly arranging them into alphabetical order. Fowlis smiled to himself, trying to remember the last recorded instance of a ghost conducting a haunting by tidying up. For once, he hoped HQ was observing him.

  He looked around the room but saw little else to do besides rearrange the contents of the bookcase. He pulled several tomes from the shelf to build a house of books on the desk. Dabs of ectoplasm held the books together.

  “Mr Westerby!” A terrified squeak came from the mouse hole near the door. It swung inwards and Fowlis froze, a thick book about string theory in his hand. The scientist sauntered into the room and Fowlis relaxed. He remembered he was a ghost, and as such only visible to his own kind, or Sarah.

  “Good God!” exclaimed Sarah’s father. Fowlis chuckled. Most scientists had little contact with the supernatural, and those who did wrote their experiences off as the product of an overactive imagination, a sign of stress, or maybe just plain, ordinary hallucinating. The reasoning humans often came up with to explain the supernatural fascinated Fowlis.

  Fowlis wiggled the book and Sarah’s father started. Fowlis grinned. Perhaps this haunting wouldn’t be so difficult after all. Scientists always sought explanations rooted in the logical, rational planes of reality, but they couldn’t see that the supernatural was also natural. It just wasn’t readily visible, unless you had the Sight. From the way the scientist looked around his lab, it was clear he couldn’t See.

  Fowlis leapt about, still holding the book. He wondered what this looked like to the scientist, an unwieldy paperback dancing about in mid-air. He took a deep breath and unleashed a booming chuckle that reverberated inside his ribcage. The scientist’s jaw dropped, his eyes round with surprise. The chuckle was another Westerby trademark. He took a deep breath, ready to speak his mind in his booming oratorical tone, when—

  “Mr Westerby!”

  Fowlis dropped the book with a thud and the scientist rushed across the room. He passed through Fowlis as he retrieved the book and shivered. Fowlis looked around, trying to s
pot who had called his name. Maybe HQ had sent a second ghost to help him salvage something now that his anchor was in the hands of the girl. That would upset him. Only trainees or the truly inept were sent help.

  “Mr Westerby! Are you there, sir?”

  “I’m in here, who is it?” he replied.

  “Handle. I’m in the mirror in the hall.”

  “I’m in the middle of a haunting episode, can’t this wait?”

  “I don’t like to interrupt, sir, but I wouldn’t if it wasn’t important.”

  Dr McKenzie was walking around the lab with his arms out. He looked like a man trying to navigate a darkened room, hoping not to bump into anything. Fowlis shook his head, amazed that a man of science could be so foolish. Did he really think he could just reach out and touch a ghost? He tugged the scientist’s ear as he passed and laughed to himself as Dr McKenzie spun around in circles. Fowlis couldn’t resist another chuckle as he reached the door. The scientist whirled to face him. Normally Fowlis would melt through the door, but this time he decided to open it. Concentrating hard on his hand, he grasped the knob and turned. The latch popped and the door swung open. Fowlis sauntered into the hall and the scientist rushed over to examine the door.

  The chaotic atmosphere of the office faded into the tranquil cool of the corridor. Fowlis straightened his coat and ran a gloved hand along the brim of his hat. His feather, knocked askew in the exertions of the morning, needed to be combed back into place. He ran a moistened finger along his moustache with one hand then straightened the feather with the other. He strolled down the corridor to find a mirror, confident that his appearance was in order.

  Fowlis found the mirror further down the hall, between an ornate and entirely superfluous hat stand, and a dark portrait of an austere man in Tudor dress. A moth-eaten bowler hat hung on the stand and partially obscured the edge of the mirror. Handle appeared in the glass, wringing his hands. His hair stuck up at all angles and his clothes hung off him in a rumpled mess. Fowlis suspected Handle had spent the night at his desk at HQ.

  “Handle? What are you doing here?”

  “I’m so sorry to disturb you, sir, but something strange is going on up here,” replied his assistant. Handle looked at everything except Fowlis. The assistant focused his attention on a spot on the desk.

  “Something going on? How did you get to the Mirror Major? Where is Abercrochie?”

  “I sneaked away while everyone’s at dinner—I think the Mirror Minor network is being watched, sir. There’s absolute uproar because they can’t find your anchor.”

  “Oh. That.” Fowlis sighed.

  “Where is it? I told them I’d sent it to the fireplace in the drawing room but they couldn’t find it when they tried to recall it,” said Handle.

  “Why did they try to recall me? I’ve barely started,” scowled Fowlis.

  “They want you back to try and help figure things out. They were awfully angry when they couldn’t find your anchor. I’m sure I sent it to the fireplace; in fact, I know I did. Now they think I’m an idiot and the council want to fire me,” said Handle, clearly fighting the tremor in his voice.

  “It was indeed in the fireplace, as you say, but the mortal girl found it. I have tried to get her to put it back, but I cannot. She is determined to keep possession of it,” replied Fowlis. “Although, why have the council not already fired you? If they want to do something, they generally just go ahead and do it.”

  “He won’t let them.”

  “Who?”

  “Templeton.”

  Fowlis gasped. He knew Handle was blameless and that it was not his fault that Sarah had removed his anchor. However, the council clearly didn’t know this, and as such were within their rights to fire Handle and banish him to the Beyond. Something big must be going on if Templeton Peace was involved.

  “I know, sir, it came as a shock to us too, but he had no choice. Someone has been recalling ghosts at an alarming rate, but no one knows where they’re going when they come back,” said Handle. He finally looked at Fowlis.

  “That is simple. Simply trace their anchors.”

  “They can’t, sir. Their anchors disappear when they get back to HQ, and no one can find them. So far, sixty-eight ghosts have been recalled, and sixty-eight anchors are missing. The council don’t know what’s going on, so Templeton came out of retirement. He’s been trying to establish some kind of order. Everything’s gone mad up here.”

  “That is very strange, indeed.” Fowlis creased his brow. “What do their assistants say about their missing masters?”

  “No one knows, sir. The assistants are going missing, too. Sixty-eight. I’m really sorry, sir, but I haven’t had time to investigate your little problem with the library, what with all of this going on.”

  “That is quite understandable, Handle, but what has been done about these missing individuals?”

  “Routine investigations for now. The council are trying to act as though nothing is going on, and they don’t want the new assistants to panic and recall their masters too soon. Templeton asked to speak to you personally but the council told him you’re too busy with your haunting. They didn’t want to tell him that you’re effectively lost at the moment, but he’s ever so insistent that you be recalled.”

  “Hm. I shall have to get that dratted girl to return my anchor. Will you know when it is in place?”

  “I think so.” Handle tossed a furtive glance behind him.

  “You need to go?” asked Fowlis.

  “I think so, sir. You don’t mind, do you? Only I don’t want to get in any more trouble.”

  “That is fine, Handle. Make sure to keep me informed.”

  Handle bowed, and walked out of the mirror, disappearing beyond the right side of the frame. The mist coating the glass cleared and reflected the corridor around Fowlis. He stood before the mirror and stroked his beard. Only assistants could recall their masters but they could only do so with the authority of a council member. How could sixty-eight ghosts be recalled in just one day? That must be some kind of record. Even during the Witch Wars of 1812, they could only manage to recall forty per day.

  Fowlis looked back down the corridor towards the lab. He didn’t feel up to haunting the scientist any more this morning. Tormenting the living could be tremendous fun, but this latest development proved to be too much of a distraction. He wanted nothing more than a quiet lie-down in the attic. He needed to think this over. Templeton’s involvement meant that the situation surely required his full attention. Sarah’s lunch date with her father would have to proceed without him.

  With that, Fowlis strode towards the stairs. He passed through the entrance hall to find his armour sculpture dismantled. The suits stood on their plinths either side of the door. He frowned at the destruction of his work, but he had larger concerns now. He propelled himself upward, through the ceiling and into the attic. The bats slept among the rafters, and he crept between the piles of furniture to his favourite chaise longue.

  Chapter 15

  Sarah flicked through the digital photos on her laptop screen. She’d stumbled across the suits of armour in the hall and almost filled her phone’s memory with photos of it. Whatever had held them together weakened during breakfast, and her father had taken them apart before her mother returned. Sarah marvelled at the sculpture and wondered where a cavalier could have encountered a penalty shoot-out. She contemplated sending the photos to Tim, but he still hadn’t been in touch about the evidence he’d gathered himself.

  Sarah clicked away from the photos and opened up the social networking site. Her heart sank when she had no new notifications, not even a message from Jamie. Indignation fought with disappointment in the pit of her stomach. She browsed a handful of profiles of the friends she’d left behind. Her public messages to them had gone unanswered while they indulged in pointless gossip with each other. Her hand strayed to the bulge of the pendant in her pocket.

  When she had first taken the photos of the armour, Sarah had intended t
o upload them. She thought it might catch her some attention, even if people didn’t think a ghost had posed the suits. Now she decided against putting the photos online. No one would even look at them, let alone believe or disbelieve her.

  I might as well be a ghost too, it’s not like anyone even sees me anymore.

  An electronic ping chirped in the silence. An email from Tim popped up in her inbox. She clicked on the blank subject line.

  “Hi Sarah,

  Really wanted to send you the photos from the investigation but it’s the weirdest thing; the folder on my laptop was empty when I got home. I’ve sent my laptop to a friend of mine in the hope he can retrieve something but time will tell. No evidence to report on the other equipment. I’ll email again when I have more news.

  Thanks,

  Tim.”

  Sarah slumped in her seat. How could the folder be empty? He hadn’t imagined those images. She’d seen them too. If the rest of this investigation was anything to go by, his friend wouldn’t have much luck retrieving any data.

  She pushed her laptop to one side and reached for the book she’d found on the shelf while waiting for her photos to transfer from her phone. Supernatural topics took up three entire bookcases, and one book stood out. Its dark green leather binding caught Sarah’s eye and flaking gold leaf spelled out The Ghostlie Manifestoe on the cover. She opened it with shaking hands and discovered that the book was a directory, or ‘Who’s Who’, of the spirit world.

  English history had never featured highly on her school’s curriculum, so Sarah located an encyclopaedia before reading further. According to a lengthy entry annotated by pencil scribbles, the cavaliers had supported King Charles I in the English Civil War. The books called it a ‘war’ in the singular, but there had been three conflicts between 1642 and 1651. The Parliamentarians had eventually won the war, and installed Oliver Cromwell as the Puritan leader of the nation. Charles had been beheaded, which Sarah thought was a slight overreaction from the winning side. She made a mental note to ask Fowlis if he’d died during the war. The engravings and paintings in the encyclopaedia certainly matched the type of outfit Fowlis wore, though his hat was more impressive than the ones in the book. She made a mental note to tell him that too.