Rise of the Ghostfather

by Barry Hutchison

  “Great, this again,” Denzel groaned.

  “Oh, quit complaining,” Samara told him. “You’ll barely even notice you’re moving.”

  The last couple of words of the sentence were drowned out by the sound of Denzel’s head collapsing into his chest and his feet becoming long, stringy tendrils of meat and gristle. His eyes inflated inside his shrinking skull. His arms folded inwards and outwards at the same time, as all his internal organs began an elaborate dance around the twisting labyrinth of his insides.

  The universe became a kaleidoscope of colours, shapes, and even concepts that he couldn’t put words to. The cottage’s walls tumbled away. The ceiling imploded. The floor made its excuses and left quietly through the back door.

  And then, with a jolt that rattled his teeth in their sockets, Denzel was deposited in a mostly featureless white room back at Spectre Collectors Headquarters. The others appeared around him one by one, with Samara arriving last of all.

  There was a loud ringing in his ears that was giving him a headache. It screamed at him from every direction at once, drilling into his skull almost like an—

  “Alarm!” barked Boyle, bringing up his blaster rifle and spinning towards the room’s only door. “That’s the alarm.”

  “What does that mean?” asked Denzel. He tried to stand up, but his legs hadn’t fully recovered from the magical transportation, and he just sort of flopped on the floor like a fish.

  “It means we’re in trouble,” said Samara. She flicked her wrists and two balls of flame appeared around her hands. “Spectre Collectors HQ is under attack!”

  “Under attack?! We can’t be under attack!” Denzel yelped. “How can we be under attack?!”

  As if in answer to his question, the door to the room exploded off its hinges and slammed against the opposite wall. Something bear-sized and slimy stumbled in, a multitude of eyes blazing angrily. Six differently shaped hands balled into fists when the thing saw them.

  “What the heck is that thing?” Denzel yelped.

  “It’s OK, I’ve got this,” said Smithy, stepping forward. “Question One. Are you a good ghost?”

  The thing roared at him. Its whole face opened as if on hinges, revealing hundreds of tiny, gnashing mouths.

  Smithy stepped back again. “I’m going to take that as a no,” he said.

  Boyle pumped several energy rounds into the thing’s chest. They didn’t seem to do much damage to it, but they did force it back out of the room.

  Samara stepped past him, her hands weaving a complex pattern in the air. There was a whumpf as the monster was compacted into a tiny cube. Almost immediately, the walls of the box began to buckle and bulge.

  “Can’t hold it,” Samara warned, her hands shaking. “It’s too strong.”

  Tabatha slipped past her, swinging her cane like a baseball bat. It hit the cube with a crack, launching it across the corridor. It slipped through the opposite wall like a ghost and, presumably, kept going.

  “That should buy us some time,” Tabatha said.

  “Brilliant!” said Smithy, grinning goofily at her. “You saved us.”

  “I shot it!” Boyle pointed out.

  “Joint effort,” Tabatha said.

  Denzel poked his head out of the room. From both directions along the corridor he heard what he could only describe as “a racket”. It was a mix of blaster fire, roaring, wailing, magical explosions, and just a suggestion of screaming. Add in the wailing of the alarm, and Denzel reckoned he was going to have a migraine for the rest of his life.

  Of course, quite how long that life would be was another matter entirely.

  “Scanning for paranormal energy,” Boyle announced, taking a handheld device from his belt. It bleeped a few times, then let out a continuous high-pitched tone.

  A moment later, it exploded.

  “I’m guessing that’s not good,” Denzel squeaked.

  “Considering I hadn’t even turned it on, no,” said Boyle. “Not good.”

  “Containment has been breached. The Spectral Storage Vaults have been emptied,” Samara announced. Her eyes were white and glowing faintly, her hair squirming around on her head like snakes. “They’re everywhere.”

  “What do we do?” Denzel asked.

  “They must be here for you,” Samara realised. “We need to get you out of here.”

  Denzel felt like he should probably put up some sort of protest. He was technically a Spectre Collector, after all. He should offer to stay and help.

  From along the corridor, a monstrous roar was followed by several frantic cries for help.

  “OK, sounds like a plan,” said Denzel. “I mean, if they’re looking for me and I’m not here, they might leave. Right? In a way, I’ll actually be helping.”

  “My hero,” said Boyle. He was tucked in against the door frame, his weapon raised, and was itching to join the battle. “Now, hurry up and magic him out of here while we still have a building left.”

  “Smithy, Tabatha, stay with him,” Samara urged, her fingertips dancing.

  “I can help here,” said Tabatha.

  “Help him,” Samara replied. “Keep him safe.”

  Tabatha looked to the door for a moment, then back to Samara. Finally, she nodded. “Deal. Do your thing.”

  “Hold on. This might get bumpy,” said Samara.

  Denzel’s eyes widened. “Surely not bumpier than last time!”

  “Guess you’ll find out,” said Samara. She thrust her hands forward.

  Denzel braced himself.

  “Nng,” he said, screwing his eyes shut.

  He clenched his fists by his side.

  “Mnk,” he said, gritting his teeth.

  After a few moments of this, he opened one eye. They were still in the same room, still being assaulted by the same din.

  “That wasn’t bumpy at all,” said Smithy. “I didn’t even feel us move.”

  “You didn’t move,” said Samara. She studied her fingertips for a moment, then thrust them out again. A few disappointing sparks spat from the ends and tumbled to the floor where they died away. “They’re blocking transport spells. I can’t magic you out. They don’t want you getting away.”

  Something exploded elsewhere in the complex. The echoing bang was followed by a series of ghostly moans and whistling whoooos that made Denzel want to run and hide under the covers of the closest available bed.

  “What do we do?” Smithy asked.

  Denzel swallowed and pulled himself up to his full height. It wasn’t nearly as impressive as he’d hoped. “I guess I help fight.”

  Boyle snorted. “Good one. We can send you in one of the escape pods,” he said. He twisted a dial on his rifle and something that looked a bit like a watch was ejected from the side. He tossed it to Denzel, who didn’t react fast enough.

  “Ow, careful!” Denzel protested, rubbing his forehead where the device had hit him. He bent to pick it up, then turned it over in his hands. “What’s this?”

  “Security key. It’ll activate the pods and let you set your destination.”

  Denzel slipped the device over his wrist. It immediately shrank to fit. “And what is our destination?” he wondered.

  Another explosion rocked the complex. More ghostly moans came echoing along the corridor.

  “Anywhere but here,” Samara suggested. “You ready?”

  Denzel nodded. “Ready.”

  “Smithy?”

  Smithy blinked. “Hmm?”

  “Are you ready?”

  “For what?” asked Smithy. “I wasn’t really listening.”

  Tabatha clamped a hand on his shoulder. Smithy gave a contended little sigh. “He’s ready,” Tabatha said. “Let’s do it.”

  Denzel raced along a raised walkway, ducking low with his hands over his head as laser fire, bolts of magic and ghostly ectoplasmic blasts screamed past above and below him.

  “Oh god, oh god, oh god,” he whispered, scampering as quickly as he could towards the staircase at the other en
d of the narrow platform.

  He was high above one of the underground complex’s grand halls, trying very hard not to look down to the floor far below. This hall was the only one in the building big enough to hold all the Spectre Collectors at once, and was usually reserved for parades or big events.

  There was definitely a “big event” taking place in it today, although not one it had ever been intended to hold.

  The whole placed heaved with Vulterons in body armour, and Oberons with enchanted shields. They fired weapons and launched fireballs at a vast boiling cloud of Spectral Energy that thrashed in the air above them. Every few seconds, a shapeless apparition would break from the heaving mass and swoop in to attack the Spectre Collectors below, leading to more panicky firing and several outbursts of angry shouting.

  The walkway that Denzel and the others were running across was so high that they were above the ghost cloud. For the moment, none of the spooks seemed to have noticed his presence, but if his usual luck was anything to go by, it would just be a matter of time.

  Sure enough, just as Denzel reached the top of the staircase, something white and vaporous came flying up the top few steps. He felt a blast of arctic coldness as the thing passed through him, and then his lungs cramped up and his muscles went tight.

  He tried to turn, but his limbs were no longer obeying instructions; tried to speak, but his mouth was no longer under his control.

  Samara placed a hand on his back. “Vacate,” she hissed, and Denzel saw the ghost go shooting out from inside his chest. He sagged to the floor just as Boyle shot the spirit with an energy bolt, turning it into a blob of spectral slime.

  “Thanks,” Denzel wheezed.

  “You’re welcome,” said Samara. She gestured to the stairs. “You three go. Get to the escape pods and get out. We’ll find you.”

  “What will you do?” said Denzel. “You should come with us.”

  Samara shook her head. “We have to stay here and help.”

  She joined Boyle by the railing and peered down into the spectral cloud. Their eyes met for a moment, and then they nodded.

  “See you down there,” Boyle said. He vaulted over the railing and fell, roaring and firing, into the ghostly fog.

  Samara stepped up on to the railing, muttered a quiet incantation, then fell forwards like a diver from the top board. Her hands radiated magical energy as she was swallowed by the thrashing mass.

  “OK, even I have to admit that was pretty cool,” said Tabatha. She caught Denzel by the wrist and dragged him down the stairs. “Now, come on, Chosen One. We’re getting you out of here.”

  Denzel and Smithy skidded around a corner into a corridor swarming with ghosts, monsters and other general unpleasantness.

  They got a brief glimpse of two Spectre Collectors – one Oberon, one Vulteron – standing back to back in the centre of the horde before Tabatha caught them both and pulled them into cover.

  “OK, not that way,” she said, turning and searching for another exit. The room they were in was a smaller hall attached to the main one. Spectral Energy was seeping through the wall and oozing down it like a thick green sweat.

  “Cor, this is exciting, isn’t it?” Smithy whispered. “Here, Denzel, what would you rather, right?”

  “Not now, Smithy!” Denzel hissed. He peeked around the corner into the corridor they’d almost run down and realised with a start that the Spectre Collectors currently surrounded by scary things were Knightley and Rasmus.

  They were vastly outnumbered, and from the way Knightley was swinging with her fists, it looked like she was out of ammo.

  Denzel groaned. “We have to help them,” he said.

  “No, we have to get you out of here,” Tabatha replied. “They’re all here looking for you. We can’t let them get you.” She gestured ahead to another corridor that looked to be ghost-free. “Come on, this way.”

  Her hand clamped around Denzel’s wrist again, tightening like a handcuff. With a tug, she pulled him away from the corridor, leaving Knightley and Rasmus to whatever grisly fate awaited them.

  They’d never liked Denzel.

  Denzel had never liked them.

  He sighed. Still, he couldn’t just leave them.

  “Hey! Chosen One right here!” he hollered.

  Along the corridor, a multitude of misshapen heads turned at the sound of his voice. A legion of horrifying faces twisted in rage.

  “OK, so that was a mistake,” Denzel whimpered.

  “Run!” Tabatha cried, pushing Denzel ahead. She twirled her cane and opened fire with a volley of blasts as the monsters came lumbering after them.

  “We can get to the escape pods this way,” Smithy said, grabbing Denzel and plunging into the mouth of another corridor.

  “How do you know that?” Denzel wheezed.

  “I can sense it,” said Smithy. He pointed to the wall. “And there’s a big sign there that says ‘Escape Pods’ on it. That also helped.”

  Tabatha caught up with them a moment later. She shoved them both on, forcing them to run faster.

  “Did you get them?” Smithy asked, shooting her a look back over his shoulder.

  “Yes,” she said. There was a chorus of roaring from somewhere behind her. “If by ‘getting them’ you mean making them much, much angrier.”

  “There!” cried Denzel, spotting a door marked “Escape Pods”. Tabatha paused to fire a couple of blasts backwards along the corridor, then followed the boys.

  Denzel gulped down a quick breath before Smithy pulled him through the door. They stumbled into a brightly lit room with a dozen telephone-box-sized metal boxes spaced evenly around it.

  “Go, go!” Tabatha urged, spinning to watch the door.

  “Which one?” Denzel asked. “Does it matter?”

  “Any one!” Tabatha yelped. A skull-like head appeared through the door. She thwacked it with her cane, driving it back. “Just hurry!”

  Smithy stopped between two of the boxes. “Eenie, Meenie, Miney…”

  “This one!” Denzel decided, pulling open the door and jumping inside. The space inside was a tight fit for him and Smithy, and even more so when Tabatha squeezed in beside them. She and Smithy found themselves face to face. Smithy’s pale skin blushed bright red. He tried to smile, but it turned into a weird sort of grimace instead.

  “H-hi there,” Smithy stammered. “I’m Smithy.”

  Denzel groaned. “Oh, good grief. She knows your name, Smithy.”

  Smithy sighed happily. “She knows my name!”

  The door slammed shut. A locking mechanism went clunk. From outside there came the unmistakable kaaraack of a door being smashed down.

  “How does it work?” asked Denzel, frantically searching for some sort of launch button. “How do we make it—”

  The bracelet Boyle had given him buzzed on his wrist. Denzel screamed as the pod rocketed upwards. It was only the fact that he was squashed between Smithy and Tabatha that stopped him being slammed against the floor as the escape pod screamed up through a tube in the ceiling.

  As it rose, the metal of the pod became semi-transparent, affording Denzel an all-too-clear view of the smooth tube walls that hurtled past just centimetres away on either side of them. The ceiling was see-through too, and Denzel found himself becoming increasingly concerned about the dead end that seemed to be looming ahead of them in the half-darkness.

  He screamed again. It seemed like the only sensible solution.

  “We’re going to crash!”

  Just before they did, the barrier opened, as if on a hinge. The pod rocketed out of the darkness and into bright sunshine. Denzel caught a glimpse of a headstone and an open grave, then of a graveyard and the church building built on top of the Spectre Collectors’ underground headquarters.

  The pod climbed quickly, and in moments the church and other buildings around it looked like toys. Denzel closed his eyes, fighting back a panic attack.

  When he opened them again, the whole town was spread out below him
like a map. And they were still climbing.

  “Where are we escaping to?” he whispered. “Space?”

  “Whoa! That would be cool!” said Smithy. “I’ve always wanted to go to space!”

  “I haven’t!” Denzel squeaked. Beads of moisture formed on the outside of the pod, and Denzel realised they must be passing through a cloud.

  “Nah, nor me, until about five seconds ago,” Smithy admitted. “Still, exciting though. You think there’ll be aliens? I bet there’ll be aliens.”

  Before anyone could respond, a soothing female voice chimed from a hidden speaker. “Escape velocity achieved. Please select destination.”

  “Space!” said Smithy.

  Denzel elbowed him.

  “No, not space!” he said. “Down. Take us down!”

  “Destination confirmed,” said the voice of the pod.

  They stopped abruptly, lifting Denzel off his feet and slamming him into the ceiling. He’d barely had time to register this before the pod began to fall. The air whistled around the pod as it plunged towards the ground below. Still pressed against the ceiling, Denzel came to the conclusion that “down” may not have been the best instruction to give.

  “Change destination,” Tabatha said. She and Smithy had braced themselves against the sides of the box so they didn’t go flying upwards like Denzel had done. Unlike Denzel, there was a very good chance the ceiling wouldn’t have stopped them.

  The pod continued to drop, the whistling increasing as it picked up speed. From up on the ceiling, Denzel saw the world growing steadily larger.

  “Alter destination. Change course. Amend route,” Tabatha instructed, her voice becoming a touch more hysterical each time. The pod ignored her.

  “I’m not a Spectre Collector,” she concluded. “One of you needs to do it.”

  “Stop!” said Smithy.

  The pod stopped in mid-air. Denzel barely had time to eject a terrified snort before he was hammered against the floor. The sudden halt temporarily turned Smithy incorporeal. He passed straight through the floor, continued downwards for thirty or forty metres, then drifted back up into the pod.

  “Yikes. That was close,” he said.