My Family and Other Ghosts

by Lou Kuenzler

  “Yes,” said Ash. “It’s singing… It sounds like it’s coming from the kitchen.”

  “Exactly!” said Ivy. “It’s Dad singing. He must have gone down there since we got the garlic. He’s cooking even though it’s the middle of the night.”

  There was no mistaking it this time. It definitely wasn’t the Contessa. The Contessa did not sing Elvis songs. Dad was bellowing the words to the famous Elvis hit “You ain’t nothing but a hound dog!” (An unfortunate choice, Ivy thought, considering she had just asked Ash’s ghostly hound dog to leave home and never come back.)

  “Misty’s just a ghost,” she said gently. “She’s not even alive, Ash. Not any more. But Dad’s alive … more alive than he has been for years. Listen to him. He’s happy.”

  They heard the clatter of pots and pans over his singing.

  “Dad loves it here,” said Ivy. “He loves being a chef. But he’s going to need guests to cook for. Guests who pay money so he can afford to buy ingredients for all his crazy new recipes.”

  “What about the Grey Ladies?” said Ash. “They’re not ghosts. We can’t just get rid of them.”

  “Exactly,” said Ivy. “But they don’t pay any money either. If we can get proper guests to come to the hotel, we can keep it open. If not, the Grey Ladies will lose their home and so will we.”

  She swung the string of garlic above her head.

  “Go on,” she said, “all of you. Shoo!”

  She tried desperately not to catch Ash’s eye, or listen to the little whimper coming from the enormous spook dog at his heels.

  A fat bulb of garlic flew off the string as she lassoed it above her head. It spun in the air … and passed right through the ghostly figure of Grandpa Digby, who had just slithered under a gap in the dining room door.

  “I see you’re trying to get rid of us,” he said, calmly. “There’s just one thing I think you should know…”

  “What is it?” said Ivy.

  She was too ashamed to even raise her eyes and look at the old spook.

  “Garlic gets rid of vampires,” he said softly. “Not ghosts. Ghosts come and go as we please. I told you that before, remember?”

  “Well you’re going to have to go now. I’m sorry,” Ivy whispered. “I wish there was another way. I wish we could all stay at Grave Grange together.”

  But when she raised her eyes, Grandpa Digby had already vanished.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN: IT WAS (TOO) QUIET

  It was quiet.

  Too quiet.

  Ash sat bolt upright in bed and listened.

  Nothing.

  Not a squeaking floor board. Not a banging pipe. Not a note of opera. Not the smash of flying china hitting the floor.

  Nothing.

  “Misty!” he gasped, scrambling to the end of his bed. But he already knew what he would see.

  Nothing.

  The hound’s velvet bed was empty. Misty was gone. And so was every other ghost in Grave Grange.

  Ash knew this for certain. He could feel it in his bones.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT: RING! RING!

  Ring! Ring!

  Ivy leapt up to answer the telephone.

  “Hello?” she said. “Grandpa Digby? Is that you?”

  She was vainly hoping it might be the old ghost calling to tell her where he was. It had been three nights since the Grave Grange spooks had all vanished, and she still had no idea where to.

  “Pardon?” said a woman’s voice on the end of the line. “Grandpa who?”

  “Sorry,” said Ivy, half-heartedly trying to concentrate on her job. “You’ve reached Grave Grange Hotel. How can I help you?”

  It was silly to think it might have been Grandpa Digby calling. Ivy wasn’t even sure ghosts could use the telephone. The Gory Glove had left them a note, at least – and that was probably all she and Ash would ever get.

  Gone hunting? What did that even mean? It was all they had written. Then the whole ghostly gang had vanished.

  All but the spooky salmon, who was still staring at Ivy from his glass case.

  Ivy suspected the other ghosts might have forgotten all about him – poor thing. Or perhaps he had refused to leave. He did have a stubborn glint in his fishy eye. She wondered how Grandpa Digby had persuaded the others to go. Had they all just wafted away in a sulk? Or had Grandpa Digby coaxed them into going – telling them it was their duty to move out of the hotel so that Ivy and her family could make the business work, live here and be happy? Except Ivy wasn’t happy – not without Grandpa Digby. She hadn’t even had time to get to know him properly yet. It was all her fault. She had driven him away.

  “Hello?” The woman on the telephone raised her voice. “Hello? Are you still there? I’d like to make a reservation, please.”

  “A reservation?” Ivy snapped out of her daze. “Certainly,” she said. “We would be delighted to welcome you to Grave Grange.”

  This was what she had been waiting for. A second chance. At least Grandpa Digby hadn’t vanished in vain. New guests were coming to stay. And this time there wouldn’t be any ghosts or ghouls to scare them off.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE: GRAVE GRANGE IS NOT HAUNTED

  “Grave Grange is not haunted. Grave Grange is a guaranteed ghost-free hotel,” said Ash, repeating the words Ivy had made him practise all day long. Then he smiled (which he had nearly forgotten to do, even though Ivy had made him practise that too). Ivy had also made him wear a home-made name badge she had designed:

  “Hello!” The new arrivals, Mr and Mrs Jones, smiled back at him.

  They seemed nice. Mr Jones had a big bushy beard like a bird’s nest and Mrs Jones had long dangly earrings, which jingled when she moved.

  All the same, Ash hated greeting strangers (even nice ones). He wished he hadn’t left his cap upstairs, now he’d taken to his new hairstyle. His palms were sweating. He hurriedly wiped them on the back of his trousers, before stretching out his hand and offering to take their suitcase.

  “Don’t worry. We can manage,” said Mr Jones kindly. “It’s only the one and it’s on wheels anyway.”

  Mrs Jones was standing at the foot of the drawbridge, staring up at the towering rooftops of Grave Grange.

  “Isn’t it old!” she said. “And you’re absolutely sure it’s not haunted, pet?”

  “Absolutely sure,” Ash reassured her. “There are no ghosts at Grave Grange.” He felt himself blush as he suddenly remembered the Spooky Salmon was still in its glass case on the mantelpiece in the hall. He wondered if he ought to mention it as a point of honesty.

  He decided not to.

  There were three reasons Ash decided not to mention the possessed fish:

  One: Guests do not like ghosts (not even stuffed, fishy ones).

  Two: Nobody ever seemed to notice the Spooky Salmon anyway.

  Three: (and this was the strongest reason of all): If he did mention the ghostly fish, Ivy would probably kill him. (If she did kill him, he too might became a ghost … meaning that Grandpa Digby would have taken the spooks into hiding for no reason … and Grave Grange could no longer guarantee itself ghost-free.)

  “I’m surprised to hear you say there are no spooks here, pet.” Mrs Jones was shaking her head. Ash had obviously not done a very good job of reassuring her, in spite of practising Ivy’s ghost-free greeting and wearing his NO GHOSTS badge. “Only we thought there would be something because of—”

  But before she could finish her sentence they heard the sound of crunching gravel behind them.

  Ash spun round.

  “Yikes!” His heart began to pound.

  But it wasn’t ghosts they had heard approaching.

  It was guests.

  Six more strangers had just arrived in a minibus … and it was Ash’s job to greet them.

  “Welcome to Grave Grange. Grave Grange is not haunted. Grave Grange is a guaranteed ghost-free hotel,” he mumbled. Then he remembered (yet again) he had forgotten to smile.

  “Ghost-free? This old place?”
A tall, nervous-looking woman gripped his arm. “Are you absolutely sure?”

  “Absolutely,” said Ash. But he felt his cheeks burning. He had never been any good at lying and there was still the big fishy problem of the huge stuffed salmon with the staring eyes.

  CHAPTER THIRTY: BEEF WELLINGTON

  “Beef Wellington?” Ivy was worried.

  Everything had to be perfect for the guests. She had no idea where they had all come from, but it wasn’t just the Joneses they had to think about now. There were the new arrivals – the Millers and the Mullers and the Massouds too. And a Madame Moulin from France. As well as a Miss Washington from Sydney, Australia, and a Mr Sydney from Washington, USA. (Not to mention the three elderly McEver sisters, of course.) To be honest, Ivy was finding it a bit hard to keep up.

  It was extraordinary. Ever since Grandpa Digby and the ghosts had gone from Grave Grange, the telephone hadn’t stopped ringing and guests just kept turning up. They were fully booked for next week already … all in spite of the Smiths horrible STAY-WELL-AWAY.COM review. Ivy knew it was crazy, but it was almost as if people knew the hotel wasn’t haunted any more and they had somehow sensed it was safe to come. But that still left Dad’s food to worry about.

  “What’s wrong with beef Wellington?” he said, opening the oven and grinning as he fanned away great billows of steam. “Beef Wellington’s a classic. All the best chefs serve it in their restaurants.”

  “Really?” Ivy had to admit the warm meaty odours wafting out of the oven did smell delicious. But you could never be too careful – not with Dad and his experiments. “It’s just that beef Wellington sounds a bit … rubbery,” she said. “It doesn’t have any actual wellington boots in it, does it?”

  Dad laughed. “Don’t be daft! It’s just roast beef in crispy pastry,” he said. “It’s named after a very famous army general – the Duke of Wellington. Not a chewy old welly boot in sight.” Then he squeezed Ivy’s arm. “Don’t worry, love. I’ve learnt my lesson at long last. I saw the look on Mr and Mrs Smith’s faces when I offered them my appetizers. Next thing I knew they were running for their car.” He sighed and Ivy saw his shoulders sag as if all the air and excitement had gone out of him. Even his bottom lip was wobbling. “I know my food was to blame…”

  “Oh, Dad. It wasn’t your fault,” said Ivy quickly. (At least, not entirely, she thought.) “You mustn’t worry about that.” She couldn’t bear how sad Dad looked. All the same, if he was happy to take a break from pickled eggs in jelly or cabbage and cornflake curry it might be no bad thing.

  Once the beef Wellington was ready, she called Ash to help her and they carried the steaming plates of scrumptious-smelling meat and pastry into the dining room and served the guests.

  “Delicious!” said Mr Jones.

  “Just dandy!” said Mr Sydney.

  “Top notch!” agreed Miss Washington.

  “Très bon!” said Madame Moulin.

  Ivy caught sight of Dad peeping through the kitchen door. She gave him a quick thumbs up. Dad just shrugged. Ivy was surprised he didn’t look more proud. His perfect main course really was going down a storm.

  “How about you?” said Ivy, passing by the McEver sisters’ table. “Did you enjoy your beef Wellington?” (Dad had cut theirs up very, very small so that they wouldn’t have to chew too much).

  “Delightful!” said (probably) Enid.

  “Delectable!” said (probably) Ethel.

  “Disappointing!” said (probably) Edna, with a cheeky grin. “I thought, knowing your dad, there might be some real wellie boot in it.” But she laughed heartily and asked for second helpings all the same.

  Everybody seemed to have thoroughly enjoyed the food. Ivy just wished Dad would look more pleased. OK – it wasn’t one of his own crazy creations, but the classic dish had been a total success with the diners. Ivy knew she should feel happy too. This was exactly what she’d wanted – a busy dining room full of guests all paying for their dinner. But something was missing. In spite of all the chatter, Grave Grange just seemed grey and dull without the ghosts. Ordinary! That was the word that came to Ivy’s mind. It was like serving Dad’s famous tuna-and-marshmallow bake without the marshmallows. Perfectly nice. But dull.

  Ivy only had to look at Ash’s face to see how much he was missing Misty. She noticed he kept reaching out as if to stroke the hound’s foggy ears – but there was nothing there, of course. And she longed to see Grandpa Digby – they had parted on such bad terms and there were so many things she wanted to ask him, stories she wanted to hear. Perhaps she’d never get the chance now. She smiled sadly to herself as she thought what fun the Gory Glove might have had, helping to take down people’s orders in the restaurant.

  She was being silly, of course. The Gory Glove could never work as a waiter, any more than the phantom Contessa could sing opera in the lounge.

  Guests do not like ghosts, she reminded herself. And she thought guiltily of the big spooky salmon, who she had stuffed out of sight behind an umbrella stand in the hall.

  When Ivy took the dirty plates back to the kitchen she found Dad had cheered up again. Perhaps he was proud of his beef Wellington at last. He was leaping around singing Elvis’s “All Shook Up” above the sound of the blender as he whisked some strange-looking bright green cream for the pudding.

  “That’s what it’s all about,” she muttered to herself, as she went back to the dining room. Dinner really was a great success, and now Dad was dancing for joy. He had found his dream job and was truly happy at last. That could never have happened if the ghosts were still here.

  She smiled encouragingly at Ash, who was fidgeting anxiously by the door. She wanted to reassure him everything was going to be all right.

  Yet, as Ivy moved between the tables, asking the guests if they would like any tea or coffee, she noticed that the mood in the dining room seemed to have changed too. Now that the comforting plates of warm beef Wellington were cleared away and finished, it seemed like the guests were waiting for something.

  “Pudding will be served shortly,” she announced. (She had forgotten to ask Dad what it was. Perhaps that was a mistake. She thought of the bright green cream…)

  But nobody seemed particularly interested in dessert.

  A very nervous-looking Ms Muller kept glancing out the window. “It’s very nearly dark,” she said in an excited tone.

  Jolly Mr Jones was tapping his foot under the table (quite impatiently, Ivy noticed). “Perhaps they’ll appear at long last,” he said.

  “Who?” asked Ivy. “Are you expecting more guests … only if you are, I’ll have to make up some extra beds.”

  She glanced at Ash and sighed. They seemed to have done nothing but make beds all day.

  “Shh!” said Professor Massoud, taking off her glasses. “I think absolute quiet is best.”

  “Mais oui! Silence absolu!” commanded Madam Moulin. She was holding her slender white-gloved hand a few centimetres above her glass of water, gently humming to herself.

  They’re waiting for something, thought Ivy. All of them. But what was it – what were all the guests at Grave Grange waiting for as darkness fell?

  She turned to ask Ash in a whisper what he thought it might be. But Ash wasn’t there. She caught sight of him running at top speed out of the dining room.

  “Wait!” she called. “Where are you going?” But he didn’t stop.

  “Shh!” hissed the guests.

  “Don’t make so much noise, pet,” said Mrs Jones kindly. “Or the ghosts might never come.”

  “Ghosts?” Ivy let out a nervous laugh. “I told you, Mrs Jones, there are no ghosts at Grave Grange.”

  “Don’t be silly, my dear,” said Professor Massoud. “Of course there are ghosts.”

  “This spooky old hotel is haunted as sure as I’ve got a nose on my face,” said Mr Sydney.

  “We read the review,” explained Mrs Miller.

  “The one on STAY-WELL-AWAY. COM,” agreed Mr Muller.

  “Y
ou read the review?” Ivy gasped. “All of you?”

  Panic was rising in her throat as she looked around the dining room and the guests at every table nodded their heads.

  “But it made Grave Grange sound so terrible,” said Ivy. “We got minus five stars. If you all read the review, then why on earth are you here?”

  “To see the ghosts, of course,” said Professor Maussoud.

  “Mais oui, des fantômes,” agreed Madame Moulin.

  “We sure can’t wait to meet those spooks,” said Mr Sydney.

  “You mean … you want to see the ghosts?” said Ivy, as realization began to dawn at last. “You want to stay in a haunted hotel?”

  “Of course we do, pet,” said Mrs Jones, her big pink cheeks glowing with colour. “That silly review by those awful Smith people made it sound so exciting.”

  “Oh!” Ivy grinned. In a great whoosh she felt her heart fill with bubbling joy (like a cup of Dad’s fizzy sherbet tea). “That’s wonderful.” A huge weight lifted off her shoulders. These guests didn’t mind that there were ghosts at Grave Grange. They were pleased. They had come here specially to see the spooks.

  Except…

  The smile froze on Ivy’s lips, her tummy churned and the great weight came crashing back down on to her shoulders like a boulder falling from a cliff.

  Except…

  There were no ghosts at Grave Grange. Not any more. She had sent them all away. She had banished Grandpa Digby and his spooky friends for nothing.

  One thing was certain: she would have to get the ghosts back.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE: THE DARK, DARK MOOR

  The dark, dark moor spread out beyond Ash in the dark, dark darkness.

  Standing at the edge of it, he could see where Darkmoor had got its name from – it was certainly dark. Very dark.

  A pale, greenish moon cast strange, eerie shadows across the dark ground, catching a twisted thorn tree here and a hunched rock there.