The Stolen Ghosts Read online

  “You’d best get yourself some lunch. We’ll get changed and unpack the car,” he said.

  “I’m glad you’re back. Did you have a good trip?” she asked.

  “I did. Simon and Ravinder have some remarkable research going on, but we’re hoping to pool resources to really make the Americans sit up and pay attention,” replied her father.

  Her mother groaned and stalked upstairs.

  “Glad to hear it.” Sarah smiled. Her father grinned. Sarah hugged him, and headed through the arch into the corridor.

  Her mother would be all right now that her father was home. Things like ghosts seemed silly and childish with a scientist around.

  Sarah padded along the corridor towards the kitchen, examining the paintings lining her route. Grand ladies and bored horses gazed back at her. Did the people in the paintings ever move? Maybe they only did it when no one was looking. They certainly did it in the Harry Potter books. JK Rowling must have gotten the idea from somewhere—why not real life? She looked closer but there was still no sign of the cavalier. Was he sleeping? She couldn’t think of another reason why he’d suddenly disappear, and haunting seemed as if it would take up a lot of energy. She remembered the strength of the presence in the library and shivered—surely an appearance like that would wear out even the strongest ghost. Of course, unless she actually met the cavalier, she wouldn’t have an opportunity to ask.

  Sarah reached the kitchen and rooted around in the fridge. She heated some butter in a pan on the stove, and beat the eggs in a glass jug. She knew her mother preferred to use the Aga for cooking but it took too long to heat up and Sarah couldn’t get the hang of it. The stovetop her father had installed the day they moved in would be easier.

  Sarah pushed the egg mixture around the pan. She wondered if the books in the library contained anything that was either useful, or easy to read. Maybe she could find a book online. Amazon was bound to be full of books about paranormal events.

  She remembered the faces of her friends when she had told them her mother had inherited a country house. Most of the girls had squealed with excitement before launching into elaborate plans for parties in the entrance hall, and some of the boys had suggested installing a bowling alley. No one got excited about the library.

  No one except me.

  Now they didn’t even ask about the house. She frowned and took her pan off the stove. She shuffled her scrambled eggs onto a plate then pulled up a stool at the table. Her father came in and went over to the sink to fill the kettle. He picked up a mug off the draining board for his tea. Sarah smiled weakly to see him using the ‘Best Dad’ mug she’d bought him for Father’s Day last year.

  “So how are you? Settling in okay?” He flipped the switch on the kettle.

  “I guess. There’s not much for me to do until Mum decides where she wants to start on the conversion,” replied Sarah.

  “But you’ve been able to explore a bit?”

  “I’ve looked around but I don’t want to touch anything until Mum’s looked at it. Some of the stuff is pretty old.”

  “Sarah, I’m sorry I haven’t been around much this past week.” He leaned against the kitchen bench behind him and fiddled with his watchstrap. His glasses slipped down his nose but he didn’t push them back up. He was tall, with broad shoulders, but always hunched over as if he wanted to be smaller. Today he wore faded khaki trousers with a royal blue sweater. The colour clash was symptomatic of her father’s attitude towards fashion.

  “That’s okay, Dad, I know you’ve had stuff to do too.”

  Her father looked up at the window set high in the wall. Sunlight streamed into the kitchen, throwing a lattice shadow across the table. Sarah stared at her eggs, wondering what to say next. Her father sometimes got lost in his research and forgot about things, and she tried not to take it personally.

  “Is Mum okay?” she asked.

  “Oh yes. She’s unpacked the car and she’s sorting through the samples I picked up. Apparently, the meeting with the architect went well, so hopefully we’ll meet her soon as well,” replied her father, looking away from the window and back to Sarah. “I just hope the house settles down before we invite a stranger into it. Well, another stranger. I’m sure that dreadful family were strange enough, in their own way.”

  “Did she say any more about what happened in the drawing room?”

  “A little. It’s fascinating, but once she got over the initial shock, she was more concerned about how to clean up all the soot. We stayed somewhere shortly after we got married where something similar happened, but the cause was far from supernatural.”

  “You don’t think it’s a ghost, then?”

  “I can see why it would appear to be so, but there has been little conclusive evidence to suggest that ghosts, or spirits, or phantoms, really exist. I would like to believe, if only because it’s a nice idea that people aren’t entirely gone when they die, but I just find it difficult. Having said that, I have read some interesting pieces on the subject. It seems that if you ask eight different scientists, you’ll get eight different theories.” Her father paused to make his cup of tea.

  “Like what?”

  “Well, one theory believes that the high silica content in building materials is to blame, especially in much older properties. The very fabric of the building acts like a collection of computer memory chips, recording what happens within, and then replaying these events back at random intervals,” replied her father.

  “That would be a lot of memories to replay,” said Sarah. She made a mental note to research some of these theories later if she could get online.

  “Indeed, and that is one of the problems with the theory, not to mention the fact that the theory originally came from a 1970s film. The Stone Tape, I think it’s called. Then again, others have extended the theory and add that the vast quantities of energy required to create an imprint on the silica would only be released in times of great emotion, such as charged situations like violent death.”

  “I suppose that would make sense.”

  “I don’t know. I suppose anything is possible in theory, but that doesn’t mean that it’s necessarily possible in reality,” said her father. “But if it isn’t a ghost, then we need to find out what is causing the disturbances so we can put them to bed, especially if your mother is still hell-bent on turning this into a guest house. Maybe it’s nothing more sinister than something getting caught in the chimney.”

  Sarah nodded, although she was convinced the bald man in the mirror, and the freezing sensation in the library were more than just something stuck in a chimney.

  Though I never checked the chimney in the library, did I?

  “There might be another room under the drawing room,” said Sarah, trying to distract herself from thoughts of the bald man. She’d never seen the plans for the house, but most of these old places had cellars, didn’t they? Who knew what was down there?

  “That’s a good point. I hadn’t thought of that. I’ll dig out the plans and have a look. The drawing room is in the Regency addition to the house, but old cellars from the original medieval block might extend below. There may even be an underground stream of some sort.”

  Sarah smiled at her father. He was trying to remain impartial and scientific, but she could tell he was interested, despite himself. He stood, running his hands through his hair.

  “I’ve got work to do for the rest of today. Your mother might resurface in a couple of hours. Will you be all right by yourself?”

  “Yeah, I might do some drawing later, start coming up with logos for the castle,” said Sarah. Her father smiled back at her. Sarah knew they’d never use her logos, but at least they’d have something to show the designer when they got around to hiring one.

  “Good girl. Put that eye for graphic design to good use! Have fun, and I’ll see you later.”

  The kitchen felt bigger, and emptier, after her father left. Sarah’s interest had been piqued by the idea of subterranean chambers or cellars
below the house, and the dusty books in the case by the window lost their appeal. She considered searching for an entrance into the cellar, but decided against it. With both of her parents absorbed in their work, no one would notice she was missing for hours if she managed to get under the house and ran into trouble. No, she would spend the day sketching logos for the castle as a hotel. She could explore the house with her father when he finished working.

  Chapter 6

  Fowlis sat on the kitchen counter and listened to Sarah’s conversation with her father. A small brown mouse hid behind a bread bin beside him. Fowlis stroked its head with a spectral finger and its little nose quivered.

  “That’s a scientist, old girl,” said Fowlis, pointing at Sarah’s father. The mouse peeked around the side of the bread bin.

  “I rather like him. I think he must be a physicist of some sort. We had such men in my day, only they often peddled their wares as magicians or astrologers. We have an alchemist at HQ, a mad old gent named Phillarch, who steadfastly refuses to believe that lead can’t be turned into gold. No, those men are nothing like this fellow.”

  The mouse looked at the scientist, and up at Fowlis. Her ears twitched and Fowlis tickled her head again. The scientist could say he was sceptical until he was blue in the face, but curiosity gleamed in his quick eyes. His profession prevented him from believing in ghosts, but he accepted the possibility on a more personal basis.

  The talk of underground streams or medieval cellars had caught his attention. A river wound its way under the house below the oldest cellars, one of which lay below the drawing room. Fowlis’s supernatural hearing had picked up the flow of water when he played the harpsichord, and he wondered if it was worth exploring down there. Rats often made their homes in cellars or crypts, and they were only too happy to assist with hauntings, as it gave them something new and exciting to do. He’d never liked rats in life, but having conversed with several after death, he found them intelligent and charming company.

  “I say, madam. Have you been down underneath the house?” asked Fowlis.

  “No, I stick to the upper floors,” the mouse squeaked and flicked her tail.

  “Oh, I see! Do you know what’s down there?”

  “I don’t, as it’s a bit out of my way, but my cousins know,” replied the mouse. She wiggled her nose.

  “Oh! Capital. I say, do you think your cousins would show me around? I daresay a guided tour would improve my experience of the place.”

  “I shall enquire!”

  The mouse squeaked and scuttled off along the counter, careful to stay behind boxes or crockery. She disappeared into a thin crack in the tiling. Fowlis turned back to the girl and her father. The scientist left the kitchen, and the girl pushed the food around on the plate. Perhaps she was pondering these logos that her father talked about. Fowlis wasn’t sure what a logo was, but it clearly involved artistry at some point.

  The mouse reappeared through the crack, bringing with her a slate grey mouse. The brown mouse waited until the girl went to the sink to turn on the tap.

  “Mr Westerby! This is Brie. She’ll take you down to the cellar and introduce you to the rats. But only if you do something for us,” said the brown mouse.

  “Such as?” asked Fowlis. He’d never been asked for a favour by a mouse before.

  “There’s something peculiar in the library. None of us like going in there anymore, which is a shame because it’s a lovely room. Would you be able to take a look at it? We wouldn’t normally ask since you’re so busy, but the bats spoke very highly of you,” said the brown mouse.

  “Then I shall give it my full attention as soon as I am able,” said Fowlis.

  “Excellent! I’ll take you down to the rats then. They’ll give you a tour of the cellar, if you like,” said the grey mouse.

  “My eternal gratitude, little madam!” said Fowlis. The brown mouse nodded and disappeared behind the bread bin. Brie sprinted in the opposite direction across the counter. She disappeared in a small hole behind a basil plant, and reappeared from a hole in the skirting board. The grey mouse shot out of the door while the girl’s back was turned. Fowlis followed but paused long enough to pull the collection of aprons from the hooks on the kitchen door. He chuckled when the girl turned around to see the aprons fly across the room.

  “Mr Westerby! I hardly think that we have the time!” Brie squeaked a rebuke at him.

  “I’m sorry, m’lady. On my way,” said Fowlis, and followed the mouse.

  Brie led him along the corridor to a section of the wood panelling. Only the handle gave away its function as a door. A thick layer of dust carpeted the floor in this part of the corridor. Brie squeezed through the gap under the door, and Fowlis drifted through the woodwork.

  The stairwell on the other side of the door lay in complete darkness where rough-cut stone steps descended. Brie squeaked from the bottom of the steps. Fowlis drifted downwards into a low-ceilinged corridor. Rooms opened out on either side, their rough-cut walls betraying their status as storage. Some had deep recesses set into the wall for holding bottles of wine, while others bore deep grooves in the stone floor from centuries of use. All of the rooms were empty and smelled strongly of damp and disuse. Running water burbled far below the floor, no doubt the buried stream. Fowlis shook his head. The stream wouldn’t trouble the foundations, let alone the occupants upstairs.

  Brie led him into the cellar room furthest from the steps, where a large black rat sat opposite the door.

  “Brie! So lovely to see you! We heard someone coming but I had no idea it would be you,” said the rat.

  “This is Mr Fowlis Westerby, here on a haunting. He was wondering if you could give him a guided tour of the cellar? And, um, maybe tell him about our library issue?”

  “I’m not sure how much help I’ll be, but I’ll do my best. Mr Westerby, you may call me Mrs Shelley,” replied the rat. Fowlis bowed in greeting before Brie ran back across the floor and out of the door. Fowlis thanked her for her help and called out a goodbye.

  “It doesn’t look like there’s much to see down here. I must say, I am rather disappointed,” said Fowlis. The room in which he stood was smaller than he’d expected.

  “Look closer, Mr Westerby,” replied Mrs Shelley. She nodded at the wall behind her.

  Fowlis stepped back and took another look at the brickwork. A patch of lighter bricks became obvious—a patch in the shape of a door. Judging by the cement, it was a fairly recent addition. Perhaps within the past ten years or so.

  “Is it worth me taking a look on the other side of that door?” he asked.

  “Depends on what it is that you’re looking for. All of the cellars beyond that wall are empty,” replied Mrs Shelley. She twitched her nose.

  “Oh, I see. Then why did they brick those rooms up if they’re empty?”

  “The last owners had some problems with damp. They’d stored things down here and they’d gotten damaged. I don’t know whose brilliant idea it was but some of the rooms were bricked up. I suppose it’s to stop people using them,” she said.

  At that, Mrs Shelley grew agitated, so Fowlis manifested and knelt on the floor to stroke her head. She calmed at his touch, then slowed her chatter.

  “Best thing the owners ever did, if you ask me. There’s something not right down here, not right at all! So we all moved out, and we abandoned the holes through the walls into the blocked-up cellars because those rooms lay under the library.”

  “And why is that important?” asked Fowlis.

  “We don’t like the library, especially that shiny window. I’m guessing the mice have told you about it?”

  “They just asked me to investigate the library. Hm. Have you seen anything?”

  “No, but the room isn’t right. It’s a…sick room,” replied Mrs Shelley, searching for the right word.

  “And it’s not another haunter?” asked Fowlis

  The rat shook her head.

  “I see. That sounds like an infringement of policy—the
house is my assignment; there shouldn’t be anyone else here, though if it’s not another haunter I don’t know what it is. However, I shall look into it for you.”

  “Thank you, Mr Westerby,” said Mrs Shelley. She rubbed her head against Fowlis’s hand.

  “It is not a problem, Mrs Shelley. If I require your help, may I ask you for assistance?”

  “Indeed. You can expect aid from all of the rats, should you need it.”

  Fowlis stroked the black rat again, and bade her goodbye. Mrs Shelley disappeared into a hole in the brickwork near the door. Fowlis strode along the corridor and drifted up the steps to the main house.

  Back in the ground-floor corridor, Fowlis paused outside the kitchen. What had Mrs Shelley been talking about? She’d mentioned intense cold, and a feeling of being watched. Apparently, the other rats were too afraid to venture into the library, even the rooms beneath it, because they were scared of the strong presence in there. It certainly sounded like a haunting, albeit a very localised one, although assignments of a single room were not unheard of.

  Fowlis ventured along the corridor towards the library. The kitchen and cellars stood in a separate wing, connected to the rest of the house by a single-storey passage that opened into the entrance hall. Fowlis paused in the hall long enough to tinker with the grandfather clock. The family would be sure to get a shock when it chimed thirteen.

  Fowlis reached the library where he knocked on the door. He waited for a response before passing through the woodwork.

  “Hello? Is anyone here?”

  The girl’s laptop sat on the table but there was no sign of her. Fowlis guessed she would be found drawing in the morning room where the TV was. Humans seemed fascinated by the flickering box of light and sound.

  “Is someone haunting in here? I jolly well hope not, since the house was my assignment,” said Fowlis.