by Lou Kuenzler
“If you just give our porter a moment to catch his breath,” she said, glancing at Ash, who was still bent double from the effort of heaving all the suitcases in from the car. “Then he’ll take you and your luggage up to your room so you can freshen up, before our adventurous chef serves his delicious and daring dinner menu in the dining room.” (She’d seen a dinner menu described as “daring” on a website too – privately she thought Dad’s flavour combinations weren’t just daring … they were downright dangerous. But she kept that thought to herself.)
“Come on then, kid. Jump to it!” said Mr Smith, snapping his fingers so that Ash would pick up the mountain of bags. “Chop, chop!”
It was Ivy’s turn to receive a sharp look from her brother. But, before she could even give him a quick thumbs up of encouragement, all thought of the suitcases was forgotten.
CHAPTER NINETEEN: A GHOSTLY HOWL
A ghostly howl shook the air.
“Misty!” cried Ash, stumbling over the pile of luggage he had dropped at his feet. “I need to go to her.” The poor ghost hound sounded distressed. Maybe she was feeling lonely, or frightened, shut up in his room by herself.
“What was that?” screamed Mrs Smith. “It had better not be a dog. I hate dogs. They leave hair everywhere.”
“Not this one,” said Ash encouragingly. “Just a little drool. And don’t worry if you’re allergic, she won’t even make you snee—”
Ash froze as his words were drowned out by an even louder sound than Misty’s howling.
CHAPTER TWENTY: THINGS MAY SEEEEM STRAAAANGE WHEN YOU STAAAAY AT GRAAAVE GRAAAANGE!
“THINGS MAY SEEEEM STRAAAANGE WHEN YOU STAAAAY AT GRAAAVE GRAAAANGE. TRA, LA LAAA. TRA, LAAAA, LAAAAA. TRA LAAA LAAAAAAAAAAAA!”
The reception hall was filled from floor to rafters with the ghostly sound of phantom opera.
“Don’t worry, Mr and Mrs Smith,” said Ivy brightly. “That’s just the Contessa. She’s one of our other … erm, guests. She’s been … erm, visiting here for years and years. Very famous, actually.”
“I hate opera,” grunted Mr Smith. “I hate all singing. I don’t see the point in it.”
“Right, well, er… I’ll ask her to practise a little more quietly,” said Ivy, still grinning as widely as she could in an attempt to be welcoming – although she wasn’t sure the Smiths deserved to be welcomed. They did seem rather rude. But if Grave Grange had any chance at being a successful hotel, she would have to learn to be polite to anyone who wanted to come and stay.
“As soon as our porter takes your luggage upstairs I’m sure he’ll ask the dog to be quiet too!” she said, thrusting the largest of the six white suitcases into Ash’s arms, as Misty howled again.
“Hurry up!” she hissed in his ear. “We need to get the Smiths to their room before any of the spooks reappear.” From the approaching volume of the Contessa’s song, it sounded like she might be about to materialize in the middle of the reception hall at any moment – and if Mr Smith didn’t like opera singing, Ivy was pretty certain he’d like long-dead phantom opera singers even less.
“Fine,” whispered Ash. “I want to check on Misty anyway.”
Ivy bent down, and was about to pick up another suitcase to add to his pile, when the handle shot out of her fingers and the case flew through the air across the room.
“Mirabelle!” cried Ivy, recognizing the work of the poltergeist at once. “Put that suitcase down, right now.”
“Who the dickens is Mirabelle?” roared Mr Smith.
“My bag!” shrieked Mrs Smith, as it shot past her ear.
“My frocks!” she screamed a moment later, as the case hit the floor and burst open, spilling out mounds of white dresses like a silky-looking snowdrift.
“That’s it!” said Mr Smith. “Don’t bother taking our bags anywhere. We’re checking out of this mad hotel.”
“Wait,” said Ivy, scrambling across the floor on her hands and knees and stuffing Mrs Smith’s frocks back into the open case. “It was just the wind that made your luggage fly across the room like that.”
“Wind?” said Mr Smith.
Ivy knew it was a pretty feeble excuse – especially as a Mr Smith’s spectacles had just flown off the end of his nose and were now whizzing round the room too. From the way they were darting about, Ivy guessed that Mirabelle was probably wearing them on her own (invisible) nose.
Luckily, without his specs, Mr Smith didn’t seem to notice the fleeting figure of Harold the Headless Huntsman passing through the reception hall just a metre or two in front of his face. And Mrs Smith was too busy stamping her feet and screaming about her dresses to see anything at all.
They didn’t even notice the Gory Glove, which had scuttled up on to the reception desk and was waving a piece of yellow paper in the air. Ivy saw the words HOTELL BILLE scrawled across it in green ink.
She leapt to her feet and swiftly swept the Gory Glove into a drawer with one hand, whilst grabbing the floating spectacles from mid-air with the other.
“Appetizer, anybody?” said Dad, choosing this moment to appear from the kitchen, brandishing a tray of the special bite-sized treats he’d prepared for the guests.
“Oh yes, do have something to eat,” said Ivy, handing Mr Smith back his specs. She instantly wished she hadn’t. Mr Smith peered down at the tray of nibbles in disgust. “Are those eyeballs?” he gasped
“Pickled eggs in fruit jelly.” Dad grinned. “Try one. They’re delicious.”
“Absolutely scrumptious!” agreed (probably) Enid, appearing in the doorway behind him.
“Delectable,” echoed (probably) Ethel.
“I’ve had three. They have made me a bit gassy, though,” grinned (probably) Edna.
“Arghhh!” screamed Mrs Smith. “Ghosts!”
“No,” said Ivy quickly. “They’re not ghosts.”
“They’re the only ones who aren’t,” muttered Ash.
“These are the McEver sisters,” said Ivy. “And I’m pleased to say they are very much alive.”
“They look old,” said Mrs Smith rudely. “I hate old people.” She frowned and touched her own powdery-pink cheek as if she was afraid that wrinkles might be catching.
If the old ladies were offended, they didn’t show it.
They smiled cheerily at the new guests … although (probably) Edna did burp very loudly.
“Sorry! I told you those pickles were gassy,” she said with a giggle.
But Mr and Mrs Smith were already striding across the room.
“We don’t want to meet your freaky guests,” said Mr Smith, jabbing a furious finger at Ivy. “We don’t want to eat your revolting food. We don’t want to stay another minute at your creepy hotel. We just want to go home.”
He turned and headed towards the door, clicking his fingers at Ash without even looking back. “Hurry up and bring those bags!”
“No,” said Ash, more loudly than Ivy would ever have thought he’d have dared.
“Pardon?” Mr Smith spun round and glared at him. “What did you say to me?”
“I said no!” Ash’s chin was trembling as he spoke. “You can carry your bags yourself if you want to leave.”
Ivy had never seen him stand up to anyone before. Now here he was with his cap pushed back off his forehead and his chin in the air.
“Well done, you tell ’em!” cheered one of the three old McEver sisters and the other two clapped their hands.
Dad was opening and closing his mouth, looking just as amazed as Ivy. “Ash?” he spluttered, as Mr Smith barged past him.
The furious guest reminded Ivy of a big school bully striding across a playground. “Pick up those suitcases!” he bellowed, wagging his finger right under Ash’s nose. “Pick them up this instant.”
But Ash stood his ground.
“No,” he said, and for a moment his small shaky voice was almost a roar (a proper roar – like a mighty Ash-shaped lion). “You’ve been horrid since the moment you arrived here. We don’t want horrid gues
ts at our hotel. It’s our home.”
“Home?” Ivy couldn’t stop herself gasping in surprise. “Ash? So you do like it here after all?”
“Of course I do. Or at least I’m trying to,” said Ash, his roar dying to more of a mumble now. “I just don’t want guests who are going to be horrid, that’s all.”
“Ha!” Mrs Smith snorted. “You really are a silly boy,” she said. “All guests are horrid. What does it matter? We’re paying you money. That’s what running a hotel is all about.”
“No,” said Ash, so quietly that Ivy wondered if she was the only one who heard him. “It doesn’t have to be like that.”
Ivy wanted to throw her arms around Ash’s neck and cheer him for his courage. She knew he was right. The Smiths were terrible people.
But it wasn’t as simple as that.
Mrs Smith was right too: they were guests and Grave Grange needed guests – any guests – or they’d have to close down.
“Please,” she begged, turning to smile at Mr and Mrs Smith and not even daring to look Ash in the eye. “Please, give us a second chance. Everyone’s been a bit cross and things have been a little … well, a little strange … but we can all start again.” She felt a last wild, impossible wave of hope.
She’d be so distracted by Ash, she had barely noticed, but the ghosts had gone quiet at last.
The Contessa had finally stopped singing.
Misty had stopped howling.
The Gory Glove was locked in the drawer.
If Mirabelle was still here being invisible, at least nothing was actually flying round the room.
The Headless Huntsman had disappeared – off hunting somewhere perhaps.
That only left the spooky salmon, and nobody ever paid any attention to him.
With the ghosts out of the way, Ivy felt they really might be able to make a fresh start and convince the Smiths that Grave Grange really was a lovely place to stay.
“You see, you’re our very first guests,” she explained truthfully. “We’ll get better, I promise.”
Ash nodded reluctantly.
“Exactly. This is all new for us,” assured Dad (who never even seemed to notice the ghosts. He was far too busy in the kitchen). “Whatever the matter is here, I’m sure it’s just a few teething problems.”
“Teething problems – more like full-blown tooth decay!” said Mrs Smith. “We’ll be leaving our online feedback about this place at STAY-WELL-AWAY.COM. And it won’t be a good review.”
“Oh no! Don’t do that,” cried Ivy. STAY-WELL-AWAY.COM was one of the most popular travel sites on the Internet. “Please just give us a chance,” she begged. But, as she spoke, the thumping in the wall started again with a great BOOM!
“Yikes!” screamed Mrs Smith, leaping with fright, and almost tripping over the suitcases behind her. “What was that? Giant rats?”
“It’s just the pipes,” said Ivy quickly. “Don’t worry. We’re going to get those sorted too.”
“Pipes?” said Mr Smith. “Whatever’s making that infernal din, it’s not the pipes.”
“And he’s a plumber,” said Mrs Smith. “So he should know. You can look him up on PERFECT-PLUMBERS.COM. ‘No blockage too big!’ He’s had a hundred per cent satisfaction.”
With that, the couple picked up their own suitcases at last and strode out over the drawbridge.
“Oh dear,” said Dad, staring down at the tray of pickles. “Was that my fault? Was it my appetizers, do you think?”
“No, Dad.” Ivy gently squeezed his arm. “As you said, some people just aren’t ready for ‘experimental’.”
“I’m sorry,” said Ash. “I shouldn’t have been so rude to them.”
“Nonsense!” said (probably) Edna. Her sisters tutted in agreement.
“They deserved it,” said Ivy. “I just wish they could have given Grave Grange a chance.”
She looked out over the drawbridge. The Smiths were already climbing back into their shiny white car.
“There’s something creepy and unnatural about this place,” shouted Mrs Smith. “It doesn’t even have a sauna.” Then they sped away across the windswept moors.
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE: HAUNTINGLY AWFUL!
“Oh dear,” groaned Ash, as he read on through the appalling review that the Smiths had posted online. “Ivy is not going to like this. She’s not going to like it one little bit.”
He was standing on his tiptoes in the darkest corner of the darkest attic in the highest tower at Grave Grange. Less than a fortnight ago, Ash wouldn’t even have stood alone in a half-lit broom cupboard – let alone a pitch-black cobwebbed attic with bats hanging from the rafters. But he had promised Ivy he would try and find a Wi-Fi connection somewhere at Grave Grange, so they could discover exactly what the Smiths had posted in their review of the hotel.
“I wish I hadn’t bothered,” he said, as Misty laid her foggy head against his knee. It was the ghost hound who had made him brave enough to come up here to the tower in the first place. With the dog beside him in the dark, Ash realized that he wasn’t even reciting his seventeen times table to stay calm.
It had been a whole week now since the day the Smiths had tried to check-in and he had found Misty in the Strawberry Jam Suite. Ash had thought she might want to go back there, now the room wasn’t needed again. But Misty had spent every night since curled up on the floor at the end of Ash’s bed. (She had even tried to sleep on his bed for the first night, but they both soon realized there wasn’t enough room for a boy and a horse-sized dog in one small bed – especially as Misty kept stealing the covers and Ash had woken up to find his cheek lying in a truly terrifying pool of drool). With that (and the occasional fart) Misty was banished to the floor, where Ash had made her a soft bed of her own out of an enormous pair of old velvet curtains.
Now Misty followed Ash everywhere. The only time she fled from his heel was if they happened to catch sight of Harold the Headless Huntsman wafting through a wall. For some reason, Misty didn’t seem to want to come face-to-face (or face-to-neck) with her old master. Who could blame her? Ash thought (the headless huntsman really was not a pretty sight). Whatever the reason, Ash was surprised – and delighted – to have such a loyal companion by his side, to help him hold his nerve in the dark and spooky corners of the hotel.
“Oh dear, Misty. Listen to this,” he said, reading from the brightly lit screen of the laptop. He read out the three main reasons why the Smiths would not recommend Grave Grange Hotel. Ever.
One: We are not so foolish as to believe in ghosts, but if we were, we would say this place is haunted.
Two: We are not so foolish as to believe in paranormal activity, but if we were, we would say this place is possessed.
Three: We are not so foolish as to have actually tried the food, but the sight and smell of Chef Grave’s eyeball appetizers will haunt us for ever.
Ash scanned the rest of the page. “They talk about you, Misty,” he said. “Listen: ‘Strange howling, echoing across the desolate moors.’”
“Woof!” Misty wagged her tail proudly, as if she actually understood what he was saying (it was probably just because Ash was tickling her foggy belly as he read).
“They also complain about their suitcases flying through the air,” he said. “And they say there were sounds ‘like a strangled cat’.” Ash giggled. “I think they must mean the Contessa’s singing, don’t you?”
Suddenly, Misty pricked her shadowy ears and turned towards the dark hatch leading up to the attic.
“Who’s there?” said Ash, his heart pounding as the rungs of the rickety ladder creaked.
“Only me!” said a familiar voice and Ivy’s head popped up over the top of the hatch. It was soon followed by the rest of her body, of course, because (unlike Harold the Huntsman) Ivy’s head was still firmly attached.
“Oh, it’s you,” said Ash, but his heart carried on pounding. He knew how much the success of the hotel meant to Ivy and he was terrified of admitting how truly terrible the Smiths�
�� review of Grave Grange really was.
“Tell me the worst,” she said, her anxious face given a sickly glow by the shining light of the computer screen. “How bad is it? Terrible? Really terrible? Or beyond terrible?”
“It’s minus five stars,” blurted out Ash quickly, feeling sure that bad news was better told at top speed. He passed her the laptop.
Ivy read in silence for a moment and then sighed a deep, slow, sad sigh.
“It’s deadly,” she said. “This review is so bad, nobody will ever come and stay at Grave Grange ever again. STAY-WELL-AWAY.COM is a really popular website. A hundred and seventy-seven people have seen the review already.”
“A hundred and seventy-nine, actually,” said Ash, leaning over her shoulder and seeing that the count had already risen. “But it’s only a hundred and seventy-eight, if you don’t include us.” He smiled weakly.
Ivy buried her head in her hands.
“As soon as people see this, they’ll stay away for sure. It’s all over,” she said. “We’ll never make a success of this business now, not without new guests to pay the bills. Dad practically cleaned the last pennies out of his bank account to buy the ingredients for the appetizers. There’s nothing left. We’ll just have to pack up and go home.”
“You mean we’re giving up?” whispered Ash. He was surprised by how hollow and miserable the thought of leaving this spooky old place made him feel.
But Ivy shook her head, rolled up her sleeves and leapt to her feet – a new determination glowing in her eyes.
“Certainly not!” she said. “We’re not giving up. Not yet. But we’re going to have to make some changes, that’s for sure.” Ash leapt to his feet too (which was a mistake, because he hit his head on the beam above him).
“Ouch!” he cried, hopping from foot to foot. “What sort of changes?”
But Ivy had already disappeared down the ladder.
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO: IF ONLY GRANDPA DIGBY WAS HERE
