The Stolen Ghosts Read online

  “I’ve never been subjected to such a thing in my life,” said Mrs Campbell, obviously doing her best to look frightened, but looking as if she’d sat on a pine cone.

  Mrs Campbell detailed the events of the previous day, adding various embellishments for dramatic effect. According to her, they’d heard ominous chanting and unearthly laughter, and seen orbs racing around the castle. The daughter claimed someone recited the Lord’s Prayer backwards in her ear. The son held up his handheld console and announced it no longer worked. Sarah saw the crack in the casing and guessed he’d thrown it at something. Mr Campbell remained silent, his gaze fixed on the ground. A red flush coloured his neck above his collar.

  “We’ve attempted to reach the new family in residence, the McKenzies of London, to ask their opinion on these spooky stories, but haven’t yet been able to speak to anyone. More on this story as it develops.”

  The news changed to the local weather report. Sarah stared at the TV. She couldn’t believe Mrs Campbell would be so spiteful as to announce on TV that Cransland House was haunted. None of her mother’s new friends would want to visit now. She didn’t know why the news people said they’d been in touch when they wouldn’t be able to call without a working telephone line. They wouldn’t get much of a mobile phone signal if the dongle was anything to go by.

  Sarah wanted her father to come home. He’d driven to Newcastle yesterday—her mother had sent him for decorating supplies while she was meeting a new architect, but he was really only going to meet two of his old colleagues. Apparently, they taught at the university her dad would be lecturing at and they wanted to discuss a new research proposal with him. To save a long drive each way, he had stayed overnight and wouldn’t be home until later.

  Hang on…Dad’s a scientist. So if he’s not here, do what he would do if he were. Investigate!

  Sarah hauled herself out of the chair and left the morning room. She stopped in the corridor, brought to a halt by sudden cold. She shivered, although this didn’t feel like the gut-wrenching cold of the library. Sarah looked up and down the corridor to see if a window or door stood open. Stepping to one side, warmer air grazed her skin.

  “Hello?”

  She jumped as a throaty chuckle erupted before her.

  “I dare you to say the Lord’s Prayer backwards!”

  Can ghosts smell fear, or is that just dogs?

  “Good heavens, my dear, I would never do anything as crass as that!”

  Sarah yelped at the sound of the disembodied voice. She ran down the corridor, pausing to catch her breath as she rounded the corner. The corridor towards the library stretched before her—it was the only place she could go, unless she wanted to head back towards the voice. The suits of armour stood to attention in a line against the wall. Against her better judgment, she peered through the narrow eye-slit in the battered helmet of the nearest suit.

  Brilliant blue eyes peeked out at her. Her brain threw up shutters and a ‘Closed for Business’ sign. An icy fist of fear clutched at her stomach and forced a scream upwards out of her mouth. She launched herself down the corridor, skidding on the shiny wooden floor as she reached the library.

  “Is there anyone there?” she called as she pushed open the door.

  The silent library stood before her. The heavy atmosphere had dissipated, and the mirror on the wall was nothing but a benign square of glass displaying an empty room. She caught sight of her reflection and scowled at herself. The girl in the mirror was harassed, yes, but not deathly white, or any of the other things Sarah would expect to see in a scaredy-cat. She stood in the quiet library and took a deep breath. Nothing to be scared of, no ghosts. Just a mystery—yes, a mystery. That gave her something to solve. It was a library, after all—did it have some sort of supernatural section? Sarah browsed the bookshelves until she found one at the bottom of a bookcase near the window. Cransland House was no stranger to hauntings, judging by the number of paranormal-themed books. One title caught her eye. Gold lettering spelled out The Anatomie of the Phantome on the black leather spine. She pulled it out, sat at the table, and began to read.

  * * *

  Fowlis headed back to the attic. He never slept for long, preferring short power naps to long bouts of sleep. He believed that leaving too long between events allowed the humans to convince themselves that it was just their imagination. He required a sustained, calculated approach to ensure the humans found no respite, generating more fear to maintain the Veil and earning him more points in the process. The sooner he could reach the magic number of 529, the sooner he could leave and be reassigned. Really, it was no wonder he kept topping the league tables. He often wondered if he could keep the Veil intact on his own.

  Perching on the chaise longue, he looked at the bats. They squeaked a greeting at him.

  “Good morning, friends. Shouldn’t you be asleep now?” he asked. He doffed his hat towards them.

  One of the bats dislodged itself from a rafter and flitted across to Fowlis. It clung to his front lapel, turning its ugly little face towards him. It squeaked, and Fowlis smiled. He had learned to speak Bat after a particularly difficult haunting in Shropshire. The bats proved indispensable, flitting around the dining room at mealtimes, and invading the ballroom during an important event. Fowlis couldn’t remember the particulars, though he thought a wedding had been involved.

  “Yes, my friend, I shall be here for a while, though hopefully not too long,” he replied. “Though judging by what I’ve seen so far, it shouldn’t be too much of a challenge to complete this assignment.”

  “Happy to lend a hand if you need anything,” the bat squeaked.

  “A most generous offer indeed. I shall certainly notify you immediately if I require your services. One of your families was equally obliging at Hart House.”

  “You worked with my cousin, Pip!” The bat squeaked again.

  “He was one of your brethren? Oh my! His was a truly impressive performance. I should be honoured to have the Northumberland branch of the family lend their aid!”

  The bat peeped. Fowlis stroked its head, and it flitted back to its perch on the other side of the attic. Some individuals at HQ believed enlisting the aid of others, be they animals, insects, birds or plants, was cheating. To them, it cheapened the process of haunting for the true professionals who relied upon their own innate talent to haunt. Fowlis disagreed, often quoting Article 43 of the Haunting Regulations: “Any Ghost may use whatever means at their disposal in order to achieve successful completion of their objective, or haunting.”

  Fowlis thought of the incident with the bats in Shropshire. He smiled again and stretched out on the couch.

  Chapter 4

  Sarah stared at the book. Its archaic language and woodcut illustrations made her head swim, and an hour of intensive studying left her punch drunk. She had learned nothing useful about ghosts, although the cold spot cropped up throughout the documented experiences. The book claimed it was due to the absence of a soul, as if the spirit’s lack of humanity caused the drop in temperature. By that logic, the dead were considered inhuman. It didn’t bear thinking about, but Sarah kicked herself for not investigating further.

  Instead I ran away, like a big baby.

  Sarah returned the book to the shelf. She noticed dusty books on ‘daemonologie’ and ‘wytchcrafte’ but chose to ignore them. She didn’t think demons dressed up and rampaged through paintings. Or did they? All she knew of demons was what she’d seen on Buffy, and she didn’t think a teen TV show was too concerned with reality. She couldn’t be sure, but thought the events in the drawing room had little, if anything, to do with witches.

  A distinct low hum came from somewhere inside the room. She looked at the mirror, expecting to feel that same dull dread, before she realised she’d left the laptop switched on. Her text screensaver scrolled across the centre of the screen, large red capitals spelling out the message ‘I want to believe.’ She’d set it up as a joke after catching an old episode of The X Files on TV, but
now it seemed particularly apt. She ran her finger across the mouse pad to wake the laptop. Her profile appeared on the screen, along with the notification of a new message from Jamie.

  “Just read your message. Weird stuff indeed, SM! Gonna check into a few things at this end. Would advise you investigate as much as poss, unless you’re too scared :-p Could be something, could be nothing. Will get back to you later with more. Later gator, J.”

  Frowning at Jamie’s lack of advice, she switched off the laptop and left the library.

  Sarah returned to the morning room to find she’d left the TV on. What looked like an endless display of antiques filled the screen while a man dressed in tweed dispensed advice about a rusty Victorian cot to two blond women. Sarah flicked off the TV.

  Come on, Sarah. You’ve got nothing else to do until Mum gets home and starts making her to-do list. Might as well try investigating one last time until Dad gets back.

  The corridor outside seemed normal, and the temperature held steady at ‘mild.’ Sarah was disappointed. Was she just imagining things? She hadn’t eaten yet; maybe hunger was addling her brain.

  She wandered down the corridor, pausing in the middle of the crossing. It seemed as logical a place as any. Sarah stood in what she hoped was the middle of the space, facing east. She’d read something about the east being the most spiritual direction. The book mentioned that ghosts came from the east, preceding the sun. At least, that’s what she thought it said. The old English had made it difficult to tell.

  “If our ghost is present, I’d love to meet you if you’re here,” she said.

  Sarah waited for a response, hoping the ghost would make itself known. She peered down each corridor in turn, waiting for a sign, trying to ignore the nagging feeling that she was talking to thin air. If her friends could see her now…she’d never hear the end of it. Swallowing back her vague sense of idiocy, she held her hands out in front of her, but no cold spots presented themselves. She certainly didn’t hear any male voices. Sarah frowned; the investigators on TV nearly always had instant results. She berated Jamie for not giving her more clues.

  Before her grandfather died, he had often taken her to visit old churches in the country, and pointed out those that bricked up their north doors. She couldn’t remember the exact reason, although it had something to do with witches congregating at the north. Was north the most spiritual direction? She didn’t know, but with that in mind, she turned to the north, and repeated her request.

  Silence replied and Sarah’s shoulders sagged. She resumed her wandering, opening the doors to unused rooms, sticking her head into stale air. Studies, drawing rooms, parlours and servants’ quarters lay before her. Every now and then she called out a greeting, but no one responded. She even tried the old “Is there anybody there?” introduction, but the house remained quiet and still.

  She stomped around the forgotten spaces in frustration. One day, guests would use these rooms, once her mother converted the house into a hotel. Sarah focused her attention on the paintings and ignored the old belongings.

  The cavalier was nowhere to be seen, but fortunately neither was the strange presence from the library. Instead, countless strangers peered down from the walls. Their benevolent or vague expressions grew condescending as her search became more hopeless. She returned to rooms she’d visited earlier. Still nothing.

  Sarah rounded the corner and came out beside her mother’s drawing room. She slipped inside. Dull iron clouds filled the sky outside, casting long shadows across the room. Sarah flipped a switch by the door and harsh, pale yellow light flooded the interior. The room felt different without her mother, somehow more inviting. Sarah pictured a fire roaring in the grate, flames leaping and dancing up the chimney.

  The chimney! That’s it!

  Sarah replayed the scene in her mind. The fireplace was the first place anything had happened, aside from the shadow by the grandfather clock. Sooty footprints had spotted the rug in front of the hearth. They couldn’t belong to the Campbells, as the footprints were of boots, and the Campbells had all worn sensible shoes or trainers. The heavy footsteps had sounded like boots on bare floorboards, so she pulled back the rug and ran her fingers underneath the slice of carpet for a clue.

  Nothing caught her attention except stray splinters she picked out of her fingers with her nails. She turned to face the fireplace itself. Faded plaster covered the thick slabs of granite beneath. Moulded cherubs and centaurs frolicked up the foliage sculpted on the corners of the chimneypiece. Sarah grabbed a heavy brass poker from the coalscuttle beside the hearth and prodded the cold ashes. Dust puffed upwards, making her sneeze. The poker struck something and Sarah leaned forward to brush aside the ashes. Streaks of gold gleamed in the soot, and she clutched what appeared to be an old-fashioned cameo necklace.

  A shout and a crash in the corridor interrupted her investigation. Her father must be home. Sarah thrust the poker back into the scuttle and dropped the necklace into her pocket. She brushed the dust from her hands and knees and raced out into the corridor to reach her father before her mother could.

  * * *

  Somewhere deep in the attic, Fowlis stirred in his sleep as a peculiar feeling grasped at his gut.

  Chapter 5

  Sarah burst into the entrance hall. Her father stood by the door, peering at her mother through horn-rimmed glasses while her mother ranted and gesticulated. Both of them still wore their coats and their outdoor shoes.

  “Oh, you’re both back,” said Sarah.

  “We got back at the same time, but your mother dragged me in here before I could unload the car,” replied her father. Mr McKenzie pushed his unruly black hair back from his face with both hands.

  “Some things are more important than wallpaper and fabric samples! You weren’t here to see things moving about on their own in the drawing room! How would you react if a harpsichord started playing by itself?” Her mother glared at her father.

  “Are you sure the strings weren’t just adapting to changes in the temperature?” he asked.

  “The temperature didn’t change one iota, and I’m telling you, someone was playing that blasted harpsichord! And don’t even get me started on the fireplace, belching soot all over the place like it was possessed.”

  “Sarah? Perhaps you can explain?” He turned to Sarah and her mother stood behind him, her fists opening and closing in time with her mouth.

  “A few weird things definitely happened in the drawing room yesterday, when the Campbells were here,” replied Sarah. “The chimney burped lots of soot into the room, which went absolutely everywhere. Then we heard footsteps actually in the room that didn’t belong to anyone.”

  “But there was no one else here!” said her mother.

  “Exactly. It’s not like it was just someone else in the house. Oh, and then some ornaments started moving and the books all started opening by themselves.”

  Her father raised one eyebrow. It looked like a shaggy caterpillar crawling up his forehead. “I see. Well, the chimney needs a good clean, and I daresay that drawing room is incredibly badly insulated—there must be air currents all—”

  “—the painting! Tell him about the painting!” Her mother jabbed a finger in the direction of the drawing room.

  “What about the painting? What painting?” asked her father.

  Sarah hesitated—her father wouldn’t know a Picasso from a Renoir.

  “There’s a painting over the fireplace. It’s normally got a gentleman in it, with his hound, but earlier the man was gone. There was a cavalier instead, and he threw a stick for the dog which ran out of the painting.”

  “Which way?”

  “Off to one side, like it was running off stage in a theatre.” Sarah bit her lip. She’d expected her father to scoff at her, not ask her questions.

  “Interesting. What else happened?”

  “Mrs Campbell noticed what was going on and ran out of the room. Mum went after her, and the cavalier pulled the man from the painting back i
nto view, and then he just strolled away. It all looks normal again now.”

  “Within the painting?” Her father listened, his head cocked on one side. He looked like that when he came across new problems. Sarah had once tried putting her head on one side when faced with tricky schoolwork, but found she still couldn’t work out the problem.

  “Yeah. The man and the hound are back where they always were. The cavalier just strolled back out of the side of the frame.”

  “So there’s no sign the painting might have been tampered with?”

  “No,” replied Sarah. Her heart sank—her father thought she’d imagined it all. Her mother stalked across the hall and pulled off her coat. She slung it over the coat stand in the corner and kicked off her shoes. She sat on one of the antique ebony chairs left by the previous owners.

  “It is strange…very strange…” Her father’s gaze roved across the ceiling.

  “There’s more,” she said.

  “Such as?”

  “Well, I took Mum upstairs after the Campbells left, and put the radio on. I heard her screaming so I ran upstairs, and she told me the curtains had been moving back and forward by themselves, like someone was pulling them. Mum said she heard a male voice coming out of the speakers, and laughter, that had nothing to do with the music,” said Sarah.

  “Did you see or hear anything?”

  “Well no, but the curtains were still fluttering like they’d just been moved when I came in.”

  “They had just been moved,” added Sarah’s mother.

  “And all of this only began with the events in the drawing room?”

  “Yes,” Sarah replied before she could stop herself. She didn’t want to tell him about the library—not yet, at least. No, the library was her room, so the investigation would be hers. She also decided not to mention the Campbell family’s dramatic TV performance. Her mother didn’t need to know about that just yet.

  “I see.” Her father drifted off into another thoughtful silence. Sarah stood in the hall, unsure of what to do. Her mother stared out of the window. Rain drizzled outside, spattering against the windows like cheeky fairies tapping on the glass. Suddenly her father broke from his reverie.