She looked up, as if struggling to remember something. “Follow this the… No, wait, that’s not it. Wherever this goes…”
She frowned and scratched her head. “No. No. Something something pendant follows.”
“Was the something something bit important?” Denzel asked.
“Aye, probably,” Mrs Gourlay admitted. She shrugged. “I can’t remember the exact wording, but it basically said that this should follow the Ghostfather.”
Denzel looked down at the pendant again. The hollow eyes of the skull stared blankly back up at him. “How can it follow the Ghostfather?”
“I have no idea. That’s all I know. You need to wear it, and it should follow the Ghostfather.”
“So I need to follow the Ghostfather?”
“Maybe,” said Mrs Gourlay. “I mean, it’s no’ got any legs of its own, so I suppose that must be it. All I know is I’ve waited years to give that to someone, so I really hope you’re the right lad.”
Denzel hoped he wasn’t, but didn’t say as much. “Years?”
“Decades, probably!” Mrs Gourlay replied. “Probably. I lose track. What century is this?”
“Twenty-first,” said Denzel.
“It never is!” the old woman gasped. “Already? Good grief, when did that happen?”
Denzel wrinkled his nose. “Just, you know, after the twentieth. It went sort of nineteenth, twentieth—”
Before Denzel could say more, her hand clamped across his mouth again. “Shh,” she urged, her eyes darting back to the ceiling. “They’re here.”
Denzel looked up, but saw nothing. The only sounds he could hear were the howling winds and rattling rain, but something had spooked Mrs Gourlay. Considering that she was a literal spook, that didn’t bode well.
“I need you to wait here for a wee while,” she told him. “I’ll go give our visitors a piece of my mind. If I don’t come back… Well, if I don’t come back, it was a pleasure to finally meet you.”
She gave the necklace a prod. “Put that on. Keep it safe. And keep yourself safe too.”
Denzel heard a sound from out in the hallway. It was the slow, metallic shinkt of a sword being drawn from a scabbard. A second followed, then a third. Denzel’s pulse quickened. The Samurai-ghosts had found him.
Mrs Gourlay removed her hand, shot a sad look back to her skeleton, then smoothed down the front of her nightdress.
“Right, then,” she said, and before Denzel could warn her what was waiting for her, she slipped past him and straight through the wall.
Her voice came from the other side, muffled by the decaying plaster. “Hasn’t anyone ever taught you lassies to knock before entering?” she asked. “I’m afraid I’m going to have to ask you to—”
There was the sound of a sword whumming through the air, a faint “Ya!” from one of the Samurai-ghosts and then silence.
Denzel held his breath, the necklace making a little chinking sound as it trembled in his grip. They’d killed her. Or … double-killed her. Or whatever it was that you did to ghosts. She’d tried to help him, and they’d double-killed her. And now he was trapped in here with them lurking just outside.
He had just started to quietly backtrack towards the window when Mrs Gourlay’s voice came again. “Well now, that wasn’t very nice, was it?”
Denzel could almost feel the Samurai-ghosts’ confusion radiating through the wall. A sword whummed again, hacking and slashing a few times in quick succession.
There was silence again. Denzel glanced back to the window, convinced that they’d definitely double-killed her this time. Maybe even triple-killed her.
He was wrong.
“Och, now look what you’ve done,” said Mrs Gourlay, sounding really quite annoyed. “Looks like I’m going to have to teach you lassies a lesson.”
A sound followed. Denzel knew he’d never be able to describe what the sound was like if asked. At best, he’d be able to say it was the sound of something small becoming something much larger in quite a short space of time.
The floorboards creaked in protest. The wall ahead of him shook, sending cracks racing across the rotten plaster.
There was a short, sharp scream that ended very abruptly.
There was some frantic sword-slashing, followed by a splat.
There was some high-pitched shouting in a language Denzel didn’t understand. It became a gargle, then a wheeze, then a squelchy sort of farting noise that eventually faded into silence.
Denzel eyed the window again, considering whether he should make a run for it while he had the chance. Before he could come to a decision, though, the bedroom door flew open and the room was filled with a blazing white light.
Hissing and shielding his eyes, Denzel stepped back. He watched through his fingers as the blinding glow took the form of Mrs Gourlay.
Except, she wasn’t Mrs Gourlay. Not really. She was much younger, her grey hair tumbling in long auburn locks down her back. Her frail, fragile body now looked supple and strong. Her skin was perfectly smooth, as if someone had carefully ironed out every crease.
Her eyes were no longer clouded. They shimmered in the light that seemed to be radiating from somewhere inside her. Where the light touched the structure of the house, it too was renewed. The rot and damp were pushed aside, restoring the paintwork and wallpaper. Denzel watched in wonder as the room repaired itself around him, and the threadbare carpet bloomed back to its original colour and thickness.
Mrs Gourlay floated into the room, hovering several centimetres above the floor. She trembled slightly, her hair blowing in a wind that Denzel couldn’t feel or hear.
“All right?” Denzel asked her. It felt a bit understated, given the circumstances, but he knew he had to say something, and that was the best he’d been able to come up with.
“You’re safe now, Denzel,” Mrs Gourlay replied. Her voice was stronger, and yet somehow lighter, as if she was about to break into song. Denzel really hoped she wasn’t. The situation was already weird enough. “For the moment, at least. But I fear great danger still awaits.”
“Yeah, it usually does,” Denzel said.
“Put the necklace on,” Mrs Gourlay instructed, and Denzel thought it was probably best not to argue. He pulled it over his head and tucked the pendant inside his jacket.
He looked around the bedroom. It now looked immaculate, spoiled only by the skeleton propped up in the bed. Although, Denzel noted, even that looked as if it had been given a quick polish. “What happens now?”
“Now my work is done. I’ve finished the job,” said Mrs Gourlay. “I can rest now.”
Her face was a picture of joy, her eyes gazing at something behind. A sob caught in her throat. A tear rolled down her perfectly smooth cheek.
“It’s beautiful,” she whispered.
Denzel turned in the direction Mrs Gourlay was staring. He saw nothing but the curtains, and they weren’t anything worth writing home about. Nothing to get emotional over, anyway.
It occurred to him that she might be seeing something that he wasn’t. Either that or she really liked those curtains.
“Goodbye, Denzel,” Mrs Gourlay said. She smiled at him, and he felt warmth tingle across his skin. “Goodbye and good luck.”
The glow that was radiating from her became painfully bright, forcing Denzel to bury his face in his arms and screw his eyes tightly shut.
And then, as quickly as it had started, the glow faded. Denzel waited for a few moments before daring to open his eyes.
A single candle sat on the floor, casting its glow across the dirty, stained walls and worn carpet. The ghost of Mrs Gourlay was gone, and all her magical DIY home improvements had gone with her.
Denzel bent to retrieve the candle and crept out into the hallway. Three gloopy green smears were splattered across the floor and walls. As Denzel watched, three Samurai swords became mist, then drifted away.
Suddenly a figure came lunging through the cottage’s front door, making Denzel scream in fright. It stumbl
ed towards him, eyes wide, hair standing on end, hands grabbing.
It took three seconds for Denzel’s brain to process what he was seeing, and a further two for him to stop screaming.
The wild-looking ghostly figure beamed happily at him.
“Wow, it’s windy out there,” said Smithy, smoothing his hair down. He looked Denzel up and down, glanced briefly at the ectoplasm splodges, then puffed out his cheeks. “So then, what did I miss?”
Denzel had too many questions of his own to launch straight into an explanation of what had happened to him.
“Where’s everyone else? Are they OK? What happened to the hood guys?” he asked.
Smithy counted on his fingers. “Hood guys magicked away, everyone’s OK …”
The door was kicked open and Boyle charged in, blaster rifle raised. Samara entered behind him, hands raised and glowing with magical energy.
“… and here they are now,” Smithy concluded.
A finger tapped Denzel on the shoulder, making him scream in fright again. He turned to find Tabatha standing there, looking almost as dishevelled as Smithy.
“Sorry, didn’t meant to frighten you,” she said.
“I wasn’t frightened,” Denzel insisted.
“Then why did you scream?” Smithy asked.
“It wasn’t a scream. It was a…” His mind raced for a moment, then he shrugged. “No, you’re right, it was a scream. Fair enough.”
He eyed Tabatha suspiciously. “So … she’s not a bad guy?”
“No! It was just a trick,” said Smithy. His face took on a vague, dream-like appearance as he stared at the other ghost. “Just a trick. Just a clever, cunning, beautiful trick.”
Tabatha gave a little wave of her hand. “Aw, tweren’t nothing,” she said.
“Clear!” barked Boyle, lowering his weapon. The sudden shout snapped Smithy out of his daze.
“Uh, yeah. We noticed,” said Smithy. “But thanks for double-checking. Good job.”
Samara rushed to Denzel and began checking him over. She placed her thumbs on his cheeks and pulled down so she could get a better look at his eyes, then tilted his head back and looked up his nose.
“What are you doing?” Denzel asked.
“I’m checking you’re you,” Samara told him. She pulled open his mouth and peered inside, then prodded his tongue. Something electrical sparked through it, snapping Denzel’s mouth shut.
“Ow! What was that?”
“Spectral resonance test,” Samara said. She licked her finger and stuck it in one of Denzel’s ears. “Say ‘Aah’.”
“Cut that out!” Denzel protested. He tried to pull away, but Samara’s finger squirmed deeper into his ear. “Fine. Aah. There. Happy now?”
Samara nodded and stepped back. “OK, good.”
“One more thing,” said Smithy. He lunged forward and twisted both of Denzel’s nipples.
Denzel cried out and jumped clear. “Ow! What’s that meant to test for?”
“Hmm? Oh, nothing,” said Smithy with a smirk. “Just thought it’d be a laugh.”
Boyle’s boot squelched in a blob of the green goo. He scowled as he raised his foot, and the gloop stretched from the bottom like elastic.
“Ectoplasm,” he said. “Where did this come from? What happened here?”
“Three of those ghosts with the swords,” Denzel said.
“And you dephantomised them?” said Boyle, his eyes widening with surprise.
Denzel shot Samara a questioning look.
“He means did you turn them into goo?” she explained.
“Oh. No. Not me,” Denzel said. He pointed through the door into the bedroom. Mrs Gourlay’s skeleton grinned at them through the darkness. “Her.”
Everyone peered into the room.
Then everyone looked at Denzel.
After a moment, Samara stuck a finger back in his ear again.
“Get off!” Denzel protested. “Not the skeleton! Her ghost. Her ghost was here. She took care of the sword ghosts. And she gave me something.”
“Was it a big kiss?” asked Smithy.
“Ew! No!” Denzel replied. “Why would she…? Doesn’t matter, forget I asked.” He unzipped his jacket a little to reveal the pendant. “It was this.”
Everyone stared at it for a while. Eventually, Tabatha gave a low whistle. “That is one ugly necklace.”
“I quite like it,” said Smithy. “It’s understated.”
Boyle grabbed the necklace and yanked Denzel closer as he examined the pendant.
“Just go ahead and help yourself,” Denzel told him. “Don’t mind me.”
“What is it?” asked Samara.
“Give me a second,” Boyle told her. He studied the skull carefully, clicking his tongue against the roof of his mouth as he turned it over a few times, checking it from every angle.
“Mrs Gourlay, the old woman, she said it should follow the Ghostfather,” said Denzel.
“How can it follow the Ghostfather?” Samara wondered.
Denzel shrugged, which seemed to really irritate Boyle, who was still examining the necklace.
“Stay still!”
“She also showed me a vision,” said Denzel, his skin itching at the memory of it. “Of the Ghostfather. It wasn’t very nice.”
“What happened in it?” Tabatha asked.
Denzel puffed out his cheeks. “Everyone died, basically. Whole world destroyed, oceans boiling, cities falling. That sort of thing.”
“Ah. The usual then,” said Samara.
Denzel smiled weakly, having grave second thoughts about being part of an organisation whose members referred to the end of the world as “the usual”.
With a grunt, Boyle shook his head and looked up from the skull pendant. “It’s nothing. It’s just an ugly skull necklace.”
“Let an expert have a crack at it,” Samara said, stepping in and taking the pendant from him, forcing Denzel to shuffle around to his right.
“I could take it off, you know,” he protested. “You just have to ask.”
Samara angled the pendant towards the candlelight. She examined it in silence for a while, very occasionally giving a little “Mm-hmm” as if figuring out some new piece of information.
“No, you’re right, it’s nothing,” she finally admitted.
Tabatha held out a hand. “May I? I’m pretty experienced when it comes to this sort of thing.”
“I bet you’re brilliant at this sort of thing,” Smithy told her.
Samara shot Boyle an uncertain look. He gave a brief shake of his head, but Samara decided to ignore him, and passed the pendant to Tabatha.
“Seriously, I’ll take it off,” said Denzel, shuffling around again.
Tabatha glanced briefly at the necklace’s thick chain, then brought the pendant closer to her nose and sniffed deeply. She thought for a moment, then had another sniff.
“What is she doing?” Boyle grunted.
He grimaced as Tabatha licked the skull’s gold face, then flicked her tongue in and out a few times.
“You know that’s been in a dead woman’s drawer for, like, a hundred years, right?” said Denzel, his nostrils flaring in disgust.
“This is a waste of time,” Boyle said.
“It’s Mesopotamian,” Tabatha announced. “It was crafted in 3,500 BC.” She gave it another lick. “On a Wednesday. Around teatime.”
Boyle snorted. “Shut up! There’s no way she can know that.”
Tabatha grinned. “OK, I’m lying about the Wednesday teatime thing, but the date’s not far off.”
“Except that symbol isn’t Mesopotamian,” Samara pointed out. “There are no records of them using any similar designs.”
“Well, they must have,” Tabatha said. “The taste test never lies. Although…” She licked it again. “It’s been somewhere else too. More recent.”
“Is it Scotland?” Boyle sneered.
“I meant somewhere between Scotland and Ancient Mesopotamia,” Tabatha replied. “Japan,
I think.”
“That would tie with the Samurai-ghosts,” said Denzel.
“You’re welcome,” said Tabatha. She let go of the pendant, letting it fall back against Denzel’s chest.
Smithy clapped his hands and nodded his approval. “Great detective work! Really impressive.”
“It’s not impressive,” said Boyle. “She licked a necklace and then said some stuff we can’t possibly verify. How is that great detective work?”
Smithy leaned closer to Tabatha. “Don’t listen to him. He’s a Jealous Jenny.”
“I’m a what?” Boyle demanded. He shot Samara a sideways look. “What did he call me?”
“I think he said you’re jealous,” Samara replied.
“Of what? Of her?” Boyle snapped. “Jealous of being able to lick a piece of old jewellery and make some stuff up?”
“Jealous Jenny, Jealous Jenny,” Smithy sang.
Boyle dead-eyed him. “I will blast you,” he warned. “I will blast you in the face with this ghost-gun.”
“I think we should head back to base,” Tabatha said. She gestured to the door with her cane. “There’s no saying those cult guys won’t come back.”
“Good idea,” Samara agreed.
“What? Why are we listening to her now?” Boyle demanded. “Since when was she part of the team? Who even is she?”
“Her name’s Tabatha,” Smithy explained. “She’s a gho—”
“I know who she is!” Boyle snapped. “But why’s she giving orders all of a sudden? She doesn’t get to decide when we go back to base!”
Tabatha raised her hands in surrender. “He’s right. I’ve overstepped the mark. It’s not my call to make,” she said. She raised her eyebrows and smiled innocently at Boyle. “What do you suggest we do?”
All eyes went to Boyle. He shifted uncomfortably in the puddle of goo, then gave a sigh. “I think we should go back to base,” he muttered.
Tabatha spun her cane and tucked it under her arm. “Good call,” she said, then she motioned to Samara with a flourish. “Shall we?”
Boyle muttered darkly below his breath. Samara found herself fighting back a smile. Her fingers weaved a pattern in the air and light trails sparkled around them.
Rise of the Ghostfather Page 7
