by Lou Kuenzler
“I say, young Ash.” She smiled at him with a toothless grin. “This frozen dessert is making me chilly. You wouldn’t be a dear and pop to the library for my shawl, would you? I left it there this afternoon.”
“And my scarf,” said (probably) Edith.
“And my sweater,” begged (probably) Ethel.
“Erm…” Ash hesitated. He had popped his head around the door of the library earlier on that day – and popped it out again as fast as he could. It was a dark and gloomy-looking room full of cobwebs and huge black leather-bound books (nothing at all like the lovely, light, bright town library where he’d happily passed many hours researching things back home).
“Go on. Be a love.”
“Be an angel.”
“Be a sweetie.”
A line of gummy grins beamed up at him.
“All right,” said Ash. “I’ll go.” He had quickly grown fond of the grey McEver sisters (now that he knew they were real old ladies and not ghosts). It didn’t seem fair that they should have to be cold just because he was afraid of a dusty old room full of books.
“I’ll be as quick as I can,” he said, hurrying towards the door. If Grave Grange was going to be his home (and it looked like it might be) he couldn’t go on avoiding certain places just because they were dark or dingy. That would count out most of the rooms in the hotel.
“Where are you off to?” called Ivy as he sped across the reception hall (pursued by the swivelling eyes of the huge salmon in the glass case). Ivy was manning the reception desk, in the desperate hope that some new guests might miraculously check in.
“Library,” he called back.
“Oh good. Are you going to work on publicity?” she asked. She had been pestering him all day to start an online campaign to promote Grave Grange. But Ash hadn’t managed to find an internet connection in any of the rooms he had dared to visit so far.
“Just getting shawls ’n’ things,” he shouted over his shoulder, dashing on down the corridor and flinging open the door to the library before he could change his mind.
He was just bending down to pick up a grey shawl from the arm of a big leather chair when he felt a cold draught blowing on the back of his neck.
“Brrr!” Ash rubbed his neck and turned around.
The first thing he saw was another neck – a neck belonging to somebody else.
“A-a—a-arrgh!”
Ash tried to scream, but the only sound that came out was a sort of strangled squeak.
The neck had no head attached to it… The (headless) neck was sticking out of the (headless) body of a small, round man dressed all in green.
“Yikes,” Ash squeaked, “you’re Harold the Headless Huntsman.” Then his knees gave way beneath him.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN: IT’S PROBABLY BEST TO SKIP THIS ONE
It’s probably best to skip this one. It’s Chapter Thirteen … and thirteen is unlucky. Everybody knows that. (And poor Ash is in enough trouble as it is).
CHAPTER FOURTEEN: PING!
Ping!
The silver bell on the reception desk rang.
“Hello!” cried Ivy, jumping with surprise.
She looked up from the huge dusty visitor book she had been reading. According to the empty pages, no new guests had checked in to Grave Grange for twenty-five years. And even those guests were only the McEver sisters, who had clearly never left.
“Welcome…” she began, excited to see who had arrived at long last. But the hall was empty (except for the huge, grumpy stuffed fish glaring at her from the mantelpiece).
Ivy sighed. She had really hoped it might be some of the new guests Grave Grange so badly needed, but it was probably just the invisible poltergeist playing with the bell again. Then she noticed a thick leather glove lying on top of the reception desk.
“Excuse me?” she called. “Is anybody there?” Perhaps someone had passed through and left the glove while she was reading. But Ivy hadn’t heard any of the various creaky doors leading off the hall being opened or closed.
“Hello?” she called again.
Other than the endless banging from the pipes, there was no reply.
“Strange,” muttered Ivy, peering at the glove. It was made of brown leather and seemed far too big to belong to any of the three grey ladies. It didn’t look like it would belong to Grandpa Digby either, Ivy realized with a pang. She desperately wished the old ghost would turn up and explain his plans in bringing them to Grave Grange.
But the glove looked too ancient even to belong to Grandpa Digby. There was something really old-fashioned about it. It was the sort of glove somebody might have worn if they were training a hawk or an owl. Ivy remembered a school trip they’d gone on once, to a big stately home in the middle of the countryside. There’d been a bird display at lunch while they ate their sandwiches. An eagle had tried to steal Ash’s sausage-and-rice-pudding roll (one of Dad’s more experimental packed lunches), until Ivy had waved her own mushroom-and-marmalade baguette in the air like a cudgel and frightened the bird away. (Ash wasn’t very fond of eagles now.) (Or sausage-and-rice-pudding rolls.)
Smiling at the memory, Ivy leant forward to pick the glove up.
It was heavy. Much heavier than she would have expected.
“Odd!” Ivy peeped inside – and wished she hadn’t. “Ew!”
Inside the glove was a hand. A real hand.
The hand was alive. Or, at least, it was wriggling.
The glove leapt free of Ivy’s grasp and began to drum its fingers on the table.
“Can I help?” said Ivy politely. She supposed a receptionist at a hotel ought to be polite to anybody – even to a glove with a wriggly hand inside it. “Would you like a room for the night … or just a cosy drawer to lie in, perhaps?”
The glove scuttled across the desk like a spider and picked up a sheet of old yellowy paper. Then it grabbed a feather-quill-pen from the end of the desk and wrote: Greatings frome the Gory Glove, in a familiar green scrawl.
“Of course!” cried Ivy in delight. “You wrote the scroll for us. That must mean you know Grandpa Digby. Do you have any idea where he is now?”
The glove tapped a finger impatiently on the yellow paper, and Ivy suddenly understood that it wanted her to write her question down.
She took the quill gently from its fingers and wrote in smudgy writing:
Do you know where Grandpa Digby
is? Have you seen him since he
brought us the scroll?
The glove ran its fingers gently over the inky letters, as if feeling the wetness of their shape. Then it took the quill from Ivy and replied:
Ivy stared at the note in confusion. “Nock hear”? What could that mean? Then she remembered the wonky spelling on the scroll.
“Not here? Is that what you meant? Grandpa Digby hasn’t come back?”
She sighed. Where could he be? Ivy thought of the vast lonely moors, and how windy it had been on the night that Grandpa Digby had visited them. The old spirit was only made of mist and air, it seemed. He could have been blown miles and miles off-course as he tried to return to Grave Grange through the storm.
“Oh, Grandpa Digby,” she groaned. “Please hurry. Please find your way home.”
As if in answer, there was a great crashing sound, louder even than the banging in the pipes, and the door that lead to the library was flung open.
“Hello?” cried Ivy, her heart leaping into her throat. “Grandpa Digby? Is that you?” Had he answered her call so quickly?
But she should have known from the sound of pounding feet that it wouldn’t be the gentle old ghost of her grandfather who came wafting through the door. It was Ash – and he wasn’t wafting at all. He was charging flat-out, fleeing with all the force of a wildebeest on the run.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN: YOU LOOK LIKE YOU’VE SEEN A GHOST
“You look like you’ve seen a ghost!” said Ivy as Ash stumbled into the hall.
Then she threw back her head and giggled at him. “I expect you probably h
ave seen a ghost,” she said. “This is a haunted hotel after all!”
Ash tried desperately to answer, but his voice was stuck somewhere deep inside his chest.
Ivy grabbed his sleeve. Her face was suddenly serious.
“It wasn’t Grandpa Digby, was it?” she asked.
Ash shook his head. What he wanted to say was: I just saw hideous Harold the horrible Headless Huntsman. He waggled his neck at me, then disappeared through the wall like green smoke.
But it was no good.
Nothing came out.
Not a word.
Ash could see Ivy wasn’t really listening any more anyway. She was waving a sheet of yellow paper at him. Meanwhile, a strange leathery glove seemed to be scuttling along the reception desk behind her. Scuttling … all by itself.
“Isn’t it brilliant? That’s the Gory Glove,” said Ivy, following his gaze. “It wrote the note for us on the scroll. But it doesn’t seem to have seen Grandpa Digby since the night of the storm.”
The glove snatched a piece of paper from a pile by the inkpot and scribbled something on it. Ash shrunk back as it leapt off the edge of the reception desk and scampered across the floor towards him. It ran on three fingers, holding the piece of yellow paper between its remaining finger and thumb like a crab’s pinchers.
“Help!” cried Ash, finding his quavering voice again at last. The glove snatched hold of the hem of his trousers and started climbing up his leg. “Get off!” Ash tried to grab the glove and pull it away from his shins.
“I wouldn’t look inside it, if I was you,” warned Ivy.
Ash had no intention of looking inside the glove, of course. But as soon as Ivy said it, his eyes were drawn downwards. The glove was swinging off his kneecap and he had a perfect – perfectly gruesome – view down the open end. There was a hand – a whole hand – a whole wriggling hand – still inside.
“Ew!” Ash shuddered.
“I did tell you not to look.” Ivy grinned.
The Gory Glove quickly reached Ash’s chest. “It’s going to strangle me,” he cried, his heart thumping as its leathery fingers stretched towards his neck.
“Nonsense,” said Ivy. “It just wants you to read the note it’s written. Look.”
Sure enough, the Gory Glove had stopped climbing and was waving the sheet of yellow paper under Ash’s nose.
“Er … thank you,” he said, gingerly taking the edge of the note from the glove’s outstretched hand.
The Gory Glove seemed instantly happy. It leapt off Ash’s chest and scurried back to the reception desk, where it sat dangling two fingers off the edge of the table, as if it was sitting on a swing.
“So, what does it say?” Ivy peered over Ash’s shoulder as they both read the note.
“Aw! Isn’t that lovely?” said Ivy, giving the Gory Glove a big thumbs up.
“Very nice,” said Ash weakly. His heart was still racing. “Although there should only be one ‘l’ in welcome, you know.”
“Grrr!” Ivy threw her arms in the air and growled at him in frustration. “Honestly, Ash!” she cried. “A magic spooky glove writes us a note – a really friendly note, as it happens – and all you can do is worry about the spelling. Can’t you see how amazing this place is? Are you even going to try and settle in at Grave Grange?”
“I am trying,” said Ash, crossly. “I just went to the library! Even though it’s just about the most terrifying room I’ve ever seen. And guess who was in there?”
“Shh!” said Ivy, holding up a finger. “Listen. Can you hear that?”
The glove held up a finger too.
Someone was singing.
“That must be Dad,” said Ivy. “See how much he loves it here, Ash, even if you don’t. He’s singing to himself in the kitchen while he cooks.”
“Er… I don’t think that’s Dad singing,” said Ash gently. “It sounds like a woman … and I think that’s … opera.”
Rich, round notes wafted through the air. It definitely didn’t sound like one of Dad’s favourite Elvis tunes.
“Yikes!” Ash leapt backwards as the warbling ghost of an enormous woman wearing a shimmering silver dress, and a sort of Viking helmet with horns on it, materialized in front of them.
The phantom opera singer was as big and round as a hot-air balloon and she was floating about a metre off the ground.
“WELCOME TO GRAAAAAAVE GRAAAAAANGE,” she sang, kissing Ivy on both cheeks.
“Mwah! Mwah!”
Then she floated towards Ash and kissed him too. “Mwah! Mwah!”
“Ahhhh!” Ash shuddered as great gusts of tomb-chilled air whooshed past his ears.
“YOU WILL KNOW WHOOOO I AM, OF COURSEEEEEE,” she sang in a rich Italian-sounding accent. “I AAAAAM THE WOOOOORLD FAMOUS CONTESSAAAAAA.”
Ash and Ivy looked at each other blankly. They had never heard of her. But Ivy gave a little bow.
“Er … it’s an honour to meet you, Contessa,” she said. “Do you know our Grandpa Digby, by any chance? Only, we can’t find him, and he promised he’d be here.”
“OLD DIG GRAAAAAVES?” The Contessa gave a dismissive wave of her transparent hand. “HAVEN’T SEEEEEEN HIM FOR DAAAAAAYS,” she replied, still singing. “NOT SINCE HE VOWED HE WOULD VISIT YOOOOOOUUUU LIVING ONES AND MAAAAAKE YOU COMEEEEE TO GRAAAAAVE GRAAAANGE.”
“Make us come?” said Ash, forcing himself to speak, even though he hated talking to strangers (especially dead, singing ones). “What do you mean, make us co—”
But Ivy interrupted him as usual.
“Where’s Grandpa Digby now?” she cried. “Are you sure you don’t know?”
The Contessa ignored all their questions. “WEEEE AAAARE SOOOO GLAAAAD YOUUUU ARE HEEEERE,” she trilled, bursting into song again. “GHOSTS NEEEEEED AN AUDIENCE OR WE FADE, FADE, FADE…” Her booming voice died away to a whisper as if to make the point.
“An audience?” Ash was confused. What did she mean? Was she suggesting Grandpa Digby had “made” them come all the way to Grave Grange just so they could see some sort of performance? Surely they hadn’t given up their old home, and moved to a haunted hotel miles from anywhere, simply to hear the Contessa sing opera?
But she spread her arms wide and began to bellow something about “GLORIOUS GHOSTS AAAAND SPOOOOOOKS SUPREME, PHANTOMS FAIR AAAND—”
Just at that moment, Harold the Headless Huntsman burst through the wall behind the reception desk.
“Whoa!” Even Ivy jumped a bit at the sight of him.
Ash slunk back. “And what about you, Harry?” he muttered under his breath. “What are you going to do to entertain us? Juggle?” He couldn’t believe he had been brave enough to speak, but the banging in the pipes was louder than ever and the Headless Huntsman had no head (so no ears) to hear him with anyway.
Even so, it made Ash feel better to say something for once, instead of just screaming or hiding under his hat. Grandpa Digby had made promises. But nothing was what it seemed around here. Ash had made a giant effort not to run away from the hotel at first sight. He had tried his best to fit in. But why? What was the point if Grandpa Digby wasn’t even going to show up and explain what they were doing here? A feeling of anger was bubbling inside Ash’s chest like a boiling kettle.
“WITH NOOOO ONE TO SEEEE US, GHOSTS FLICKER AND FAAAADE,” sang the Contessa in deep, sorrowful tones, as she waltzed slowly with the Headless Huntsman around the room.
“Flicker and fade!” echoed the high-pitched voice of a little girl, followed by a rude raspberry-blowing sound, just as a battered brass candlestick flew past Ash’s head.
“That’s the poltergeist,” hissed Ivy, squeezing his arm. “Sorry. I should have told you. I met her before. She’s invisible.”
“No I’m not! Not if I don’t want to be!” The pale shape of little girl in a long white dress, with ribbons in her ringlet hair, swirled round and round above their heads. “The Contessa is right,” she bawled. “Ghosts need attention. I NEED ATTENTION!”
“OH DOOOO
BE QUIET, MIRABELLE,” belted out the Contessa.
“I AM THE STAAAAAR!”
So that was it. Ash suddenly understood.
He looked around at the ghosts who had gathered in the hall: the demon diva, the spoilt poltergeist, the Gory Glove and the Headless Huntsman – not to mention the strange, staring stuffed fish.
“You’re showing off,” he said slowly. “All of you. That’s why we’ve been dragged here, isn’t it? Just so you can have people to show off to … so you have people to scare.”
For a moment, Ash felt triumphant. He was right. He had solved the mystery of why Grandpa Digby had summoned them to Grave Grange. No wonder the old ghost hadn’t dared to show his face since. His whole plan to bring the family here so this crazy collection of spooks didn’t get bored wafting around the crumbling hotel with nobody new to haunt – just three old ladies who were practically ghosts themselves.
The Contessa leant forward in stunned silence.
The dead fish opened and closed its mouth in surprise.
The Gory Glove raised a finger.
Mirabelle gently replaced the candlestick she was about to throw.
Even the Headless Huntsman seemed to sense something was up and he slunk back against the wall.
“That’s better! Now you’re listening,” said Ash boldly. But he realized almost instantly it wasn’t his words which had got their attention at all.
There was another sound – a shrill ringing sound – echoing round the stony hall.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN: RING!
Ring!
Ivy couldn’t believe her ears.
“That sounds like a telephone,” she said in excitement.
There were three reasons why Ivy was surprised by the sound:
One: There was no sign of a telephone anywhere in the hall.
