My Family and Other Ghosts

by Lou Kuenzler

  “Misty!” Ash hollered, jumping at the sound of his own voice. “Misty, are you out there?”

  Ash’s knees were shaking. He longed to turn and run, back to the bright dining room full of chattering guests and to Ivy and Dad, but he had to at least try and see if Misty was still somewhere nearby.

  Ash had never had a pet of his own. Even when Ivy had volunteered to bring the class hamster home for the Christmas holidays once, he had refused to let her. Too much scuttling. (And he’d probably have been allergic anyway.) But now that Misty was gone, Ash knew that there were even worse things about having a pet than the sneezing or the scuttling. There was the deep, dark hole of loneliness left behind when the pet was gone.

  “Misty!” he called again. “Misty. Can you hear me?”

  Maybe she was missing him as much as he was missing her.

  But that was foolish. Of course Misty wasn’t missing him. She didn’t even belong to him. She belonged to (headless) Sir Harold Graves. She was a phantom hound, a proud and ghostly hunting dog, and she had been haunting the rooms of Grave Grange and the hills of Darkmoor for centuries before Ash came along. What use would she have for a silly, scared, skinny boy? The sort of boy who jumped at his own shadow.

  Ash whistled (or at least he tried to whistle. He had never been very good at whistling).

  “Misty!” he hollered.

  He waited for a moment more, counting as slowly as he dared to seventeen inside his head. He was hoping for an answer to his call. He wished he was brave enough to venture on across the moor. But when he was met with only silence and the sound of the wind, he turned and began to run back towards the lighted doorway of the hotel.

  “ARH-WOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO.”

  A ghostly sound of howling filled the air.

  “ARH-WOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO.”

  Ash stopped dead in his tracks. Something was coming closer … and closer … running towards him from far away across the moors.

  “ARH-WOOOOOOOOOO - OOOOOOOOOO.”

  “Misty,” whispered Ash, hardly daring to turn his head. “Is that you, Misty?”

  He really, really hoped it was his beloved ghost hound and not some other terrible creature hurtling straight towards him in the dark.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO: A HAUNTING HOWL

  A haunting howl echoed through the dining room from somewhere far away across the moors.

  ARH- WOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO.

  ARH-WOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO.

  “What was that?” squealed jumpy Ms Muller, leaping up in her seat and spilling her large glass of tomato juice down her white shirt like a pool of blood.

  “A hound of hell,” cried Mr Sydney. “Sounds like it’s coming this way.”

  “Perhaps a werewolf,” said Professor Maussoud, scribbling something in her notebook.

  “A ghost of some sort, that’s for sure,” said Mr Jones, as a cheer went up from all the other guests.

  Ivy turned and ran towards the door.

  “Please, remain in your seats,” she shouted over her shoulder. “Dessert will be served at any moment. It is … well, I have no idea what it is… but it will a surprise.”

  Then, before anyone could ask her any questions (either about ghosts or puddings or hounds of hell), she dashed out of the dining room, across the reception hall and over the drawbridge into the dark night.

  Ivy paused only to grab three things.

  The three things Ivy paused to grab were:

  One: her coat (it was a cold night).

  Two: a candle (it was a dark night).

  Three: a box of matches (it was a windy night and the candle was bound to get blown out).

  The candle Ivy had chosen was the tallest, brightest one she could see. It was mounted on a large brass candlestick (the big, slightly-dented one that Mirabelle the poltergeist had particularly enjoyed throwing at the wall).

  “Ash?” she called out, still managing a gentle jog while keeping the light aflame. “Ash? Are you out here?”

  “Over here,” came his reply, at the same time as another ghostly howl.

  ARH - WOOOOOOOOOOO - OOOOOOOOO.

  Ivy held up the candle and saw Ash’s slender figure silhouetted against the moon as he stood on the far bank of the murky black pool behind the kitchen bins (the one which she had hoped the Smiths would avoid).

  A great dark shape was bounding towards Ash like a demon. Ivy gasped as she saw a huge dog leap towards his neck – then she laughed as it threw its paws across his shoulders and big wet globs of green slobber shone iridescent in the moonlight.

  “Misty!” she cried, as the dog ran in wild circles round and round and round Ash’s legs, barking and chasing her own tail.

  “Hello, old girl,” Ash whispered, bending to pat the ghost hound’s foggy ears – even from this distance, Ivy could hear a crack in his voice. He cleared his throat and coughed.

  “All right. That’s quite enough now. Sit!” She saw him bend down and wipe his sticky slobber-covered hands on the stubby grass.

  Ivy approached as slowly as she could, giving Ash and Misty time to greet each other, but her own excitement meant she couldn’t hold back for long.

  “Oh, Ash.” She gasped, running up to them both. “Thank goodness Misty’s here. Any sign of the other spooks?” She held up the candle and scanned the dark moor behind them. “You’ll never guess what, but these guests actually really like—”

  “Ghosts,” said Ash. For once, it was him finishing her sentence. “I sort of figured that out.”

  “They read the Smiths’ review – all about how Grave Grange might be haunted – and it made them want to come and stay. Isn’t it brilliant?” said Ivy. “It means we can fill the hotel rooms with ghost-hunting guests and phantom fanatics galore!”

  “Spirit spotters!” Ash laughed.

  “Exactly,” said Ivy. “The sort of people who want to stay in a run-down, spooky old hotel. The sort of people who like being haunted. Except there’s just one problem…”

  “The ghosts are gone,” said Ash, finishing her sentence yet again. “And if there aren’t any ghosts, those guests are going to be awfully disappointed. There’ll be more bad reviews.”

  “It’s all my fault,” said Ivy, crouching down and letting Misty rest her warm foggy head on her shoulder. “I sent Grandpa Digby away. I told him it was either him or us. The other spooks too – I drove them all away.”

  “Misty came back,” said Ash kindly. “So perhaps they all will.”

  “Do you think so?” Ivy leapt to her feet. “Hello?” she called. “Hello, Grandpa Digby? Are you there?”

  There was no reply.

  “They could be anywhere,” said Ivy, staring into the darkness. She remembered the Gory Glove’s note. “Gone hunting? What does that even mean?”

  “I don’t know,” said Ash, as he called out for Grandpa Digby too.

  “Mirabelle?” tried Ivy. “Mirabelle, sweetie-pie, are you there?”

  “Sweetie-pie?” Ash sounded like he might choke on his words. “There is nothing sweet about that poltergeist … even if she is a little girl with ringlets and bows in her hair.” He dropped his voice to a whisper. “She’s a spoilt-rotten ghost-child, Ivy, and you know it.”

  “Maybe!” Ivy shrugged. “But I’m fond of her all the same.” She called again but there was still no reply. “Sing something,” she said, digging Ash in the ribs.

  “Sing?” Even in the dark she could feel Ash blush. “No way!”

  “Go on! The Contessa might like it,” said Ivy, lifting her own voice to the moon. “COME HOME, CONTESSA! OH, CONTESSAAAAA. COME HOOOOOOME.”

  Ash flat-out refused to join in, and it was hopeless anyway. The Grave Grange ghosts could be miles away across the moors by now. Grandpa Digby might be so furious with her for driving him out that he would never come back, no matter how hard she looked or how loudly she called.

  “I suppose we could get Misty to help us,” said Ash quietly. “I mean, she must have been with them when they left. So
perhaps she can find them again. She is a hunting dog, after all.”

  “Ash, you’re brilliant,” cried Ivy. “We can get Misty to track them and lead us to where they are.” She flung her arms around his neck.

  “Careful!” Ash yelped. “You’ll set me on fire with that candle.” But it had gone out anyway.

  As she bent down to relight the flame, Ivy suddenly had an idea. “We can use the candlestick to guide Misty’s sense of smell,” she said, pulling it away from the white, waxy candle and waving the long brass holder under Misty’s foggy nose like a bone. “Think how many times Mirabelle used to hurl this candlestick against the wall. Perhaps it’s got her scent on it … if ghosts have a scent.”

  Ivy had seen a television programme about how the police trained dogs to track down criminals by giving them the scent from something the baddies had owned. It had to be worth a shot.

  “Here, girl!” she said, waving the candlestick in the air to entice Misty to sniff it. “Here, girl. Go find Mirabelle. Go find Grandpa Digby.”

  She threw the long, thin candlestick out into the darkness and waited for Misty to set off on the chase.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE: THE MYSTERY OF THE MURKY BLACK POOL

  The mystery of the murky black pool had not been revealed for many centuries. Ash wished it could have stayed that way. However, the moment Ivy threw the candlestick in the air, three things happened to change all that:

  One: SPLOSH! The candlestick landed right in the middle of the murky black pool.

  Two: SPLASH! Misty dived into the murky black pool to fetch the candlestick back.

  Three: SPLISH! Misty bounded out of the murky black pool with something in her mouth.

  “Good girl!” cheered Ivy, clapping her hands as Misty wagged her tail from side to side with furious pride.

  As a beam of moonlight broke through the clouds, Ash tried to speak. He tried to scream. He tried to yell.

  But, in the end, all he could do was point.

  Misty was not carrying a candlestick in her mouth – she was carrying the long-lost head of Sir Harold Graves.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR: TALLY-HO

  “Tally-ho!” cried Headless Harold’s dripping wet head. Then its eyes blinked and looked up at Ivy and Ash in surprise. “Who art thou?”

  “Hello.” Ivy gave a little sort of half curtsey. She wasn’t quite sure how to greet a “sir” (especially one who was only a dripping wet, pond-weedy head being held in the jaws of a ghostly hound).

  “I’m Ivy,” she said. “And this is my twin brother, Ash.” (It was obvious Ash was in no fit state to speak for himself.) “I’m the oldest. By twenty-two minutes.”

  “Bring me my body,” cried Sir Harold. “And make haste about it.”

  “He thinks we’re his servants,” said Ash in a tiny quivering voice.

  “Ah… No, there’s been some sort of mix-up, Sir Harold,” said Ivy politely. “We’re not your servants. We’re actually your distant relatives. We’re in the Graves family too, you see. You might be our great, great, great … well, lots and lots of greats … uncle.” She grinned triumphantly. “We’re Digby Graves’ grandchildren.”

  She held out the candle so they could both see each other better. It was hard to tell if there was any real family likeness. Sir Harold’s head had a massive bristly black beard. But he certainly had Grandpa Digby’s bushy eyebrows and the Graves’ sticky-out ears.

  “Relatives? I hate relatives,” roared Sir Harold. “Fetch me my body and I’ll be done with thee!”

  “Right.” Ivy could see he wasn’t going to be the sort of uncle to sit down on the sofa and share a family photo album with. He didn’t look like the sort to remember birthdays, either. Still, it wasn’t surprising Sir Harold was a little grumpy. After all, his poor head had been lying lost at the bottom of the murky black pool for decades, or maybe even centuries. “The thing is,” she said, taking a tiny step backwards, “the whole finding-your-body-thing might be a teeny bit tricky just now. We’re not exactly sure where it is…”

  “Then find it,” he roared. “Hunt for it! Send out the hounds.”

  “Well, we do have one hound,” said Ivy, pointing to Misty, who was still clutching Sir Harold’s head by the hair. “But we’re just not quite sure how to—”

  “Silence!” roared Sir Harold as he rolled his eyeballs upwards. “Be this the mangy cur that stole my noggin?”

  His head spun round and round like a spinning top as he tried to get a better look at Misty.

  The frightened hound shrunk back and her foggy tail drooped between her legs.

  “Don’t shout at her. She doesn’t like it.” Ash stepped forward. “Misty did not steal your head, Sir Harold.” Ivy could see that his knees were shaking like a bowl of Dad’s pickled onion jelly, but he was determined to protect his ghostly pal. “She just found your head in the bottom of the murky pool. It’s thanks to Misty that you got out of there at all.”

  But Misty whimpered, dropped Sir Harold’s head (which bounced across the ground) and cowered behind Ash’s legs.

  “Nonsense!” roared Sir Harold’s head (still bouncing, until it came to rest against a patch of scrubby heather). “I’d recognize that pesky pooch anywhere. She stole my head from under my arm and ran off with it over two centuries ago now.”

  “How did it … erm, I mean … how did your head come off in the first place?” asked Ivy bravely. She didn’t like to interrupt Sir Harold’s story, but she really was desperate to know.

  “Unfortunate accident with a pike,” said Sir Harold.

  “A pike?” Ivy hardly dared to interrupt again, but she couldn’t let it go. “Isn’t a pike a kind of fish?”

  “Not that kind of pike,” roared Sir Harold. “Nobody has ever had their head knocked off by a fish! It was a sharp pike … like a spear.”

  “Ah,” said Ivy. “Yes.” (She could see that did make more sense.)

  “I died in glorious battle, young lady. Not on a trip to the fish market,” growled Sir Harold. “Now, where was I, before I was so rudely interrupted…”

  “You were dead,” said Ivy. “I mean, obviously … sorry.” She felt her cheeks burn. “What I mean is, you were a ghost, carrying your head around under your arm, and Misty here was a ghost too, and…”

  “Ah, yes!” Sir Harold’s head bellowed. He jutted his chin towards Misty who was still cowering behind Ash’s legs. “One fair morn, that ghostly hound gets bored and decides to play fetch with my noggin. Only she didn’t play fetch, did she? Because she took off and never brought it back!”

  “Misty lost your head!” Ivy gasped. No wonder the poor ghost dog always scurried away when Sir Harold’s body materialized through the walls at Grave Grange. She must feel terrible.

  “It wasn’t Misty’s fault,” said Ash. “I expect she just forgot where she put it, Sir Harold. She did the same thing with a pair of my socks yesterday…” He trailed off. Ivy could see Ash realizing this wasn’t one of his better arguments.

  “I’m sure now that Misty’s found your head again, she can help find your body too,” said Ivy. “After all, she was bred for hunting…”

  “Exactly! I bred her myself. I had the finest hunting dogs in all England,” boasted Sir Harold. “First sensible thing you’ve uttered!”

  Ivy smiled and gave another little bow. A plan was coming together in her mind. A brilliant plan. If Sir Harold really could persuade Misty to lead them to wherever his body had gone, then they would find Grandpa Digby and the other spooks too.

  “I’m sure you’re an excellent huntsman. The very best,” she said, smiling down at his head, which was lying like a football in the moonlit heather. “With your wonderful skills to help us find the scent, Misty will have your head back under your arm in no time at all.”

  “’Tis true!” Sir Harold’s head raised a bushy eyebrow as he looked at her. “Perhaps thou art a Graves after all. There’s brains in thy noggin, I can tell.”

  “Well, thank you very much!” said Ivy, with
a full-blown curtsey. She couldn’t resist turning round and gloating to Ash. “Did you hear that? Brains in my noggin, he said.”

  “Tally-ho!” cried Sir Harold. “Fetch!”

  Misty picked up his head by the hair and carried it in her jaws once more.

  “Find!” bellowed Sir Harold.

  Misty sniffed the air, then set off at full speed across the moor.

  “Come on, Ash,” cried Ivy. “We’re going on a ghost hunt! We’re going to find the Grave Grange ghosts.”

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE: THE GHOSTLY CHASE

  The ghostly chase across the moors was something Ash would never forget.

  There were three things which made the hunt so unforgettable (and none of them were good):

  One: It was cold.

  Two: It was wet.

  Three: It was dark.

  It was terrifying being dragged across the cold, wet, dark hills of Darkmoor by the screaming head of a (headless) huntsman’s ghost.

  “Faster!” roared Sir Harold’s head. “Faster, you festering ferret-footed children!”

  Misty was magnificent. With her nose close to the ground, she never faltered. She stopped only twice – both times to sniff the air, once turning right and once turning left.

  At last they entered a small, dark wood.

  Every bone in Ash’s body wanted to turn around and run. But, as they stumbled down a twisting path between the dark trees, the ghost hound suddenly stopped for a third time and pricked her ears.

  “Zounds!” cried Sir Harold’s head. “I know this place. My hunting lodge lies yonder.”

  With a pounding heart, Ash peered into the gloom. Sure enough, as Ivy held up the stubby candle, he could just make out the black shape of a small, dark building through the tangled branches of the gnarled old trees.

  “I’m not going in there,” protested Ash. “Nothing is going to make me go in there!”

  “Don’t worry,” said Ivy. “You’ll be fine. We’ll all stick together.” Ash knew, of course, that the only other choice was to stay out here. Alone. With no candle. Amongst the strange sounds of the eerie wood.