by Lou Kuenzler
“Fine!” He gulped. “But after that we’re going straight home.”
Misty led the way towards the tiny tumbledown dwelling. Sir Harold’s head was still swinging like a creepy Christmas bauble hanging from her jaws. Ivy followed with the candle barely more than a flicker now.
Ash stuck as close behind her as he could. As he tiptoed forward, he realized he was muttering something under his breath … and it wasn’t his seventeen times table:
“In the dark, dark wood,
there was a dark, dark hut.
In the dark, dark hut,
there was a dark, dark door.
Behind the dark, dark, door
there was a dark, dark room.
And in the dark, dark room,
There were some …”
CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX: GHOSTS!
“… Ghosts!” cried Ivy in delight.
Cold shadows moved around her as she used the last flicker of the candle to light a dusty iron lamp hanging from the lopsided ceiling of the old hunting lodge. She saw at once that they were all there.
“Hello.” She smiled shyly at Grandpa Digby, not sure how he would feel about seeing her. But he floated forward and ruffled her hair with a delighted ZING!
“Hello, young nipper!”
Ivy ducked as something long and sharp whizzed past her ear. Mirabelle was idly throwing a quiver full of arrows into a tapestry on the wall as if it was a dartboard.
The Contessa belted-out a greeting in her rich Italian singing voice: “BRAVO BRAAAAVE HUNTERS, FROM THE MIDNIGHT MOOOOOORS.”
And the Gory Glove scribbled “Hellow! Wellcome to the hunting lodje,” with the end of its finger on a dusty tabletop.
“Hello, everybody!” Ivy smiled. “…And hello, especially, Sir Harold’s body,” she said as the headless huntsman stumbled forward from the shadows and grabbed his head from Misty’s jaws.
“Gadzooks! That’s better!” he cried, resting the decapitated head snuggly in the crook of his elbow. Then he bent down and gently patted Misty’s ears. “Good dog,” he said. “Brave hound.”
Misty squirmed with delight, then padded back to Ash and sat on his feet.
Ash was still looking utterly terrified, but he managed to smile weakly once Misty was with him again. “Hello, Grandpa Digby,” he said. “Hello, ghosts.”
Ivy glanced around the tiny hunting lodge. It didn’t look as if anyone had been here much since Sir Harold’s day. Certainly, if they had, they hadn’t done any decorating. It was more like a shack really, with holes in the roof and the roots of trees growing up through the floor. This was a big step down for the mighty ghosts of Grave Grange, who were used to having an endless choice of grand old rooms and echoing passageways to float through.
“I’m so sorry I drove you out of the hotel,” she said quietly.
“No. I’m sorry for being such a stubborn old fool,” said Grandpa Digby. “I listened to what you said about us spooks wanting someone to haunt, and your guests not wanting to be haunted. I knew you were right: ghosts and guests could never make a go of it at Grave Grange. Then I remembered this old place. I thought we might be able to hole up here for a bit and see if we could find some campers to scare from time to time.”
“Hunting!” said Sir Harold brightly.
“No luck though, I’m afraid,” said Grandpa Digby. “A big fat waste of time!” Mirabelle stamped her shadowy feet in their pretty little white shoes.
“NOT A DICKIE-BIIIIRD,” sang the Contessa.
Nufink! scribbled the Gory Glove.
“Not even any day-trippers.” Grandpa Digby sighed.
Ivy wasn’t surprised. They were in a dark, dark wood on top of dark, dark Darkmoor. If you were to look up “Miles From Anywhere” on a map, you would end up here. It wasn’t exactly the sort of place hordes of hikers came flocking to for a nice cream tea and a photo of the view.
“It doesn’t matter any more, anyway,” she said.” I was wrong. Some guests do like ghosts. We’ve got a whole hotel full of them, waiting for you right now. They’re just desperate to be scared silly. I’m sorry, Grandpa Digby. I’m sorry all of you. I was wrong.”
“Oh, lass, don’t upset yourself,” said Grandpa Digby kindly. “As long as we can come home to Grave Grange, that’s the main thing.”
“You can. You can come tonight,” said Ivy, glancing out the window. It was still pitch black outside. “If we hurry, you might even be able to get some decent haunting in before dawn.”
“Splendid!” cried Grandpa Digby. “What are we waiting for?” He stepped forward and ruffled Ash and Ivy’s hair.
“Brrr!” The pair shivered as usual.
The Gory Glove kicked dust in the air and did a little jig on the tippy-tips of its fingers.
“Tally-ho!” cheered Sir Harold.
The Contessa banged on the table for silence and then sang a slow and rather-moving song called “HOMEWARD BOUND!” It made Misty howl like a wolf.
“Lead on then, lass,” said Grandpa, smiling at Ivy and gesturing to the door once the singing was done.
But one ghost was not happy.
“No!” screamed a furious voice. “I’m not going anywhere! I shan’t, shan’t, shan’t!”
Ivy ducked just in time as a fresh flurry of real arrows – with very sharp ends – flew past her head.
THWACK! THWACK! THWACK!
They landed in the door.
“I’m going to stay right here,” sulked Mirabelle, stamping her foot again.
Ivy was tempted to ignore her. She was tempted to set off anyway and hope that Mirabelle followed. But she knew she couldn’t do that. Mirabelle was only a very little ghost after all.
“You told us to go away, now you say we have to come back. I don’t like you! You’re bossy,” whined Mirabelle, sticking her (ghostly-blue) tongue out at Ivy and blowing a huge raspberry.
“Well…” Ivy was thinking fast. But it was Ash who stepped forward and saved the day (perhaps because he was desperate to get out of the creepy shack as fast as he possibly could).
“How about if we make it worth your while to come back with us?” he said. “There must be something that you want?”
“You mean a present?” Mirabelle screeched with joy. “Yes! Yes! Yes! I want a present! I do.”
“Brilliant!” Ivy gave Ash a quick thumbs up. She should have known a spoilt spook like Mirabelle would be open to bribes.
“What do you want us to get you? You can have anything you like,” she said.
“Let me see now…” Mirabelle began to twirl her ringlet-y hair between her fingers. “Hmmm!”
“I WANT SOMETHING NICE TOOOOO,” sang the Contessa. “OR I SHALL NOT COMEEEE EITHER.”
“Fine!” said Ivy. “You can all have something. What would you like, Contessa?”
“I WANT A PUUUUUDDING,” she sang.
“A pudding?” Ivy smiled. Well, that was easy. “I’ll get Dad to make you a delicious dessert as soon as we get home,” she said.
“I DON’T WANT TO EAT ONEEEE!” trilled the Contessa.
“Ghosts can’t eat anything. Not a morsel,” Grandpa Digby explained.
“Ah!” said Ivy (at least that answered that question; she’d been wondering for a while).
“It’s a rotten pity.” Grandpa Digby sighed. “I’d sell my eternal soul for a grape and gherkin sandwich with extra jam and chilli sauce.”
Ivy giggled. (That explained where Dad had inherited his peculiar taste in food, at least.)
“But if you can’t eat, then why do you want a pudding?” she asked the Contessa.
“I DON’T WANT TO EAT A PUUUUDDING, I WANT A PUUUUDDING TO HAVE MY NAME!” trilled the Contessa – then she blew out her cheeks as if she was utterly fed up with singing and started to speak in a soft English country voice, which took Ivy quite by surprise.
“T’aint fair. That Dame Nellie Melba, she were an opera singer like me and they named Peach Melba pudding after her. Proper lovely, it is. Ice cream and peaches – soft
as you like. And that swirly, twirly Anna Pavlova what were a ballet dancer, she got Pavlova pudding. Scrumptious it is. All white meringue and cream. You ain’t anybody really until you’ve had a pudding what’s got your name.”
“Oh!” said Ivy. She’d had a Pavlova once. It was delicious – but she hadn’t realized these puddings were named after famous performers from the past. (Sounds a bit like beef Wellington and that old army general, she thought. What was it about dead people trying to get themselves remembered on menus? Still, if it was good enough for old General Welly-boot, it was good enough for their phantom opera singer too.)
“You shall have a pudding of your own, Contessa, I promise,” she said. “A wonderful one! I’ll ask Dad to name a dessert especially for you and we’ll put it on the hotel menu in your honour. People will come from miles around just to eat a Contessa Custard or a … what’s your surname, Contessa?
“SHUFFLEBOTTOM,” she sang. “DOTTY SHUFFLEBOOOOTTOOOOM.”
Ivy tired her very best not to laugh. “Maybe a stunning Shufflebottom Soufflé?” she said. “Or a delicious Dotty Dumpling? I’ll get it all arranged as soon as we get back to Grave Grange. Now … does anybody else want anything before we leave?”
New qwill penne? scribbled the Gory Glove.
“Of course,” said Ivy. That seemed reasonable enough.
“I desire only to hang on to my precious noggin’,” said Sir Harold wisely, tucking his head tightly under his elbow and glaring at Misty over the top of his sleeve.
“I’m just pleased to be coming home with my grandchildren who I’ll have the chance to get to know,” said Grandpa Digby happily.
Ivy grinned, though she suddenly felt a tear in the corner of her eye and had to blink. “Thank you,” she whispered. “I can’t wait either.”
“Nor me!” said Ash
Misty wagged her tail, which Ivy guessed meant something similar.
“Well that’s it, then,” she said. “We’re all sorted. Shall we go?”
Unfortunately, she had forgotten that the young poltergeist had not yet made up her mind.
“Wait!” Mirabelle flew across the ceiling, cackling with delight. “I know what I want!” she screeched. “I want a pony!”
CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN: THE WAY HOME
The way home over the moors was even worse than the journey to the hunting lodge had been.
There were three reasons why Ash found it even more terrible (and none of them were good reasons).
One: It was colder than before.
Two: It was wetter than before.
Three: It was darker than before.
Worse still, Mirabelle kept throwing stones and whining about when she was going to get the pony she’d been promised.
“I want a Darkmoor pony,” she said. “A really cute one!”
“Keep your eyes peeled,” said Ivy. “You might spot one out on the moors if you’re lucky.”
“Probably galloping around with no head,” muttered Ash, but he was surprised to feel his spirits soar as he saw the pale lights of Grave Grange over the hill.
Even Mirabelle stopped whining.
“Now listen up, everybody,” said Grandpa Digby. “We’re going to go in there and have some fun. We’ll scare those guests silly. Mind you don’t hover around too long, though.”
“Just a glimpse,” agreed Sir Harold.
“A SPOOOOOKY SERENADE,” sang the Contessa (her Italian accent back again, although they all knew now she was really Dotty Shufflebottom).
“And, Mirabelle,” warned Grandpa Digby, “don’t actually hit anyone when you’re throwing things around.”
“Aw!” Mirabelle looked like she was about to have another fit.
“You’d better get going,” said Ash quickly, before she could erupt.
“Happy haunting!” cheered Ivy.
“And don’t scare anyone too much,” said Ash.
Most of the ghosts had already vanished inside. But Grandpa Digby turned and looked back at them. “Aren’t you two nippers coming in to see the fun?” he asked.
Ash shook his head. He’d had almost more than he could take for one night. “I think I’ll stay out here a minute more,” he said. “I’m just going to catch my breath.”
Misty lay down by his feet, but he was surprised when Ivy said that she’d stay too.
“Suit yourselves,” said Grandpa Digby. “I’ll see you later on. We’ve got a lot of catching up to do, young nippers.”
With that he slid through a tiny gap in the lounge window and vanished like smoke.
“Listen,” said Ash. “I can hear singing.”
It wasn’t the Contessa (not yet).
Ash held up a hand to Misty. “Stay!” he said, and she lay down obediently on the grass.
Then he and Ivy crept round the corner of the building and saw Dad dancing in the moonlight as he belted out an Elvis tune and emptied a bucket of kitchen scraps into the compost bin behind the murky black pool.
“Hello, you two.” He smiled, looking up and seeing them. “You come out for a breath of fresh air?”
“Something like that,” said Ash.
“Have you had a good evening feeding all those guests?” asked Ivy. “Are you enjoying it here?”
“I’m loving it,” said Dad and his face lit up. “I know they liked the beef Wellington. That’s a classic. But I think it was my pudding which was the real hit.”
“Really?” said Ash. “What was it, exactly?”
“A thick spongy bottom, with wobbly pink jelly on top,” said Dad.
So far, so good, thought Ash. “It sounds a bit like a trifle.”
“Ah, yes, but here’s the fun bit.” Dad beamed. “Instead of custard, I added a layer of curry sauce. Then I topped the whole lot off with a lovely green bean cream.”
“Right!” said Ash, feeling a little queasy. “Good to see you haven’t lost your experimental streak.”
“And what did you call this wonderful wobbly pud?” asked Ivy, catching Ash’s eye.
“That’s just the thing,” said Dad. “I can’t decide.”
“Call it the Dotty Shufflebottom,” said Ivy and Ash at exactly the same time.
“Hmmm. The Dotty Shufflebottom?” said Dad. “Yes, I like that.”
He picked up the empty scraps bucket and turned to go back inside.
“Dotty Shufflebottom,” whispered Ivy. “The Contessa will be over the moon.”
“A Grave Grange special!” Ash laughed.
But Dad stopped suddenly in the kitchen doorway and spun around.
“What’s that?” he said, pointing towards the murky pool. “Over there? I thought I saw something drinking from the pond?”
Ash stared through the darkness. His heart was pounding. What new terrible thing could be lurking out there on the moors?
“Look,” said Ivy, grabbing his sleeve. “It’s a little pony. A Darkmoor pony.”
“Isn’t it cute,” said Dad and he carried on inside, singing another Elvis song under his breath.
It was only after Dad’s back was turned that the shaggy creature lifted its head and looked up at them across the water. It had bright red, glowing eyes and fire burning in its nostrils.
“Adorable,” said Ash with a shudder. At least it had a head. “Mirabelle will be thrilled.”
A moment later there was a sudden sound from inside the hotel. The Darkmoor pony reared up on its hind legs and galloped away into the night.
The sound which had startled the red-eyed beast was a scream. A human scream … as if someone inside the building had just seen a ghost.
This was followed by a second scream and then a third.
There was a loud crash, as if a china plate had been thrown. Then another scream as the sound of distant, eerie opera singing wafted through the night air.
Misty, who had bounded back to Ash’s heel, raised her head and howled like a wolf.
“Look!” said Ash. He saw Grandpa Digby’s shadowy shape wafting past an upstairs window. The old
ghost stopped for a moment and gave them a quick spooky thumbs up.
“Brilliant!” said Ivy.
“Excellent!” agreed Ash.
Everything was going to plan.
The guests at Grave Grange were having a perfectly scary time.
FIVE STAR REVIEW
WWW.HAUNTEDHOLS.COM
GRAVE GRANGE, DARKMOOR.
A spookily good place to stay. Brilliantly creepy. Everything was perfect – even the food (although we weren’t quite sure about the pudding).
Mr and Mrs Jones
A SALES PITCH
Dont bye this sillie booke by Loo Kuefvzlerrr (I’m not even going to try and speel that). Bye mine. Its muche bettre.
The Trooo Storie ov Grave Grange by the Gory Glove
(With realley woobbly speelling.)
ANOTHER SALES PITCH
Buy the brilliant recipe book every chef is talking about:
Gory Gourmet
By Chef Dug Graves
Recipes include: The Famous Dotty Shufflebottom Desert, Brussels Sprouts Biscuits and Beef Wellington (now with the addition of real welly-boot!)
END NOTE: SOMETHING FISHY
Something fishy was lurking, forgotten, behind the umbrella stand in the Reception Hall.
Typical! thought the stuffed salmon. Why do they always forget about me?
ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS
It is SPOOKY how much incredible help I have had with this book! Huge thank you’s to: Claire Wilson and Miriam Tobin at RCW, my wonderful editor Eishar Brar, eagle-eyed Pete Matthews, Steve Brown for his fabulous cover and illustrations and Bethany Mincher for design. Also Lauren Molyneux and Bethan Chaplin-Dewey in Sales and Marketing and all the bone-rattlingly brilliant team at Scholastic.
Scholastic Children’s Books
An imprint of Scholastic Ltd
Euston House, 24 Eversholt Street
London, NW1 1DB, UK
Registered office: Westfield Road, Southam, Warwickshire, CV47 0RA
