Witch Baby and Me After Dark

by Debi Gliori

  ‘Right, Sissster dearest,’ the Nose hissed. ‘Let’s get ready to entertain these precious little children you’re sssso fond of . . . hmmm? Turn the oven on to “high”.’

  The Toad gulped. ‘Ov-ov-oven?’ she quavered. ‘B-b-but we’ve already had sup-sup-supper.’

  The Nose frowned. ‘Supper? Whatever are you on about, Toad?’

  ‘Er. Um. Ahhh,‘ the Toad bleated. ‘You remember? Spaghetti bolognese, garlic bread, apple pie and ice cream?’ Not to mention the four dark chocolate mints you hoovered down, you greedy pig, she added under her breath.

  The Nose swooped down and put her face close to the Toad’s. ‘‘I asssked you,’ she spat, ‘to put the oven on to “high”, not to reel off a menu, you cretinous wart-sack. Now do as I say or there will be trouble,’ and breathing heavily, she waddled through to the living room.

  Seconds later the Toad heard the sofa springs twang in protest as the Nose flung herself down in front of the television. Soon the theme music from one of the Nose’s favourite programmes could be heard drifting out from behind the living-room door.

  The Toad remained in the hall, unable to decide what to do next. If she ignored the Nose and didn’t turn the oven up to ‘high’, her Sister would be furious. There would be screamies and stampies and it was entirely possible that the Toad’s kitchen would be trashed (again). On the other hand, what did the Nose need the oven for? After all, she couldn’t even boil an egg, so why her sudden interest in the oven? And why did she want it turned up to ‘high’? ‘High’ was for roasting things. Things like potatoes, or chicken . . . or chil . . . chil . . . The Toad’s breath caught in her throat.

  ‘Do we have any rosemary?’ the Nose demanded, appearing behind the Toad and causing her to jump.

  ‘Rose – rose-m-m-mary?’ squeaked the Toad. ‘Um. Yes. Ah. In the g-g-garden. Erm. Why do you ask?’

  ‘Is that oven turned up yet or do I have to do everything myself?’ the Nose snapped, heading for the kitchen. ‘I’ll do the blooming oven. You get the rosemary. Understood?’

  ‘Um . . . ah . . . yes . . . that is to say . . .’ the Toad gasped, then, catching sight of the Nose’s expression, she uttered a squeak of terror and yelped, ‘Yes! Right away. Rosemary, here I come.’

  It wasn’t until she found herself standing under the rosemary bush that she realized two things. One: she’d completely forgotten to bring scissors, a knife, a saw – anything to cut a sprig of the herb – and two: she could hear the sound of approaching voices. Children’s voices. Fifteen minutes ago the Toad would have been delighted to hear the sound of small people coming up the drive. Now, with the Nose demanding to have the oven on high and her sudden desire for the herb most often used to garnish roast meat . . .

  Try as she might, the Toad was unable to dispel the ghastly image of her Sister shepherding little children into the kitchen and pausing to sprinkle them with rosemary before popping them straight into the hot oven. The Toad gave a moan of terror. This couldn’t be allowed to happen. The Sisters of Hiss were trying to avoid discovery, not doing something so awful that it would alert the entire population of Scotland to the fact that there were three witches living at Arkon House. No, no, no Roasting children was all wrong. Somehow, the Toad had to stop her Sister’s awful plan from succeeding.

  DO something, the Toad told herself. Don’t just squat there, DO something.

  Eleven:

  Go on, I dare you

  It had been Craig’s idea to go guising. It had been his idea to try to gate-crash Annabel and Jamie’s posh party as well. And go bang on the door of the Haunted House. Craig was crazy, Shane decided. At school he was always getting into trouble with Mrs McDonald, but no matter what she said, Craig just carried on as if he hadn’t heard. He was fearless as well, which was great sometimes, but far more often meant that both of them landed in deep poo because he just didn’t have the sense to know when to quit.

  Like now, for instance.

  Somehow Craig had managed to miss a turning in the dark, and for a while they’d been well and truly lost, stumbling blindly through endless trees with their hands outstretched to protect their faces. After what felt like hours of staggering about, they’d seen dim lights up ahead and realized that they weren’t really lost after all. Shane decided that thinking you were lost was nothing like as bad as not being able to see properly in the dark. The second they had wandered out into the woods beyond the lights of the estate where Craig and he lived, it had become dead creepy. As his foot slipped in something slimy that he couldn’t see, Shane decided he really, really hated the countryside. Not only was it dark and slimy, but being out in it made him feel like he was the last person left alive. Where was everyone? What kind of people were mad enough to want to live out here?

  The woods were thick with shadows and there were weird rustling noises coming from all around. It was freezing cold and the wind plucked at their stupid bin-bag wings and made them flap and slap in their faces. To take their minds off how much fun they weren’t having, they began daring each other to be the first one to march right up to the front door of the next house, bang on the letterbox and wait to see who answered the door. To Shane’s horror, he realized that the next house was the one everyone called the Haunted House.

  That was when a little voice whispered inside Shane’s head – What if it really is haunted? Then what’re you going to do? Run? Ghosts can run faster. Scream? Who d’you think would hear you, stuck out here in the back of beyond? And all the time this little voice was whispering inside Shane’s head, his feet were carrying him closer and closer to the object of his fears.

  Up ahead, Arkon House loomed threateningly, its jagged silhouette like a vast gash torn in the sky. Slipping through a hole in the surrounding fence, Craig and Shane found themselves walking on tiptoe as they approached the front door. Off to one side, an enormous pit opened up, full to the brim with glittering black liquid.

  ‘Wh-wh-whassat?’ Shane squeaked, clutching at Craig’s arm.

  Craig shook him off and hissed, ‘Shut up. It’s a swimming pool. Come on. Quit being such a wuss.’

  Shane winced. The last thing he wanted Craig to call him was a wuss. Somehow he had to salvage his pride, pull himself together and show Craig that he, Shane, was braver than a . . . braver than a . . . Seeking inspiration, Shane looked up at the moon.

  And that was the moment when the Toad launched herself out of a tree and dropped straight onto Shane’s upturned face.

  ‘We have to go and check out Arkon House,’ Vivaldi says, adding, ‘You know why. Because Double-U, Double-U, the Smelly One might be there.’

  We’re both trying to avoid saying WayWoof’s name since Daisy dissolves into a little puddle of woe if anything reminds her of her lost pet. But do we really have to go to Arkon House? Surely WayWoof wouldn’t have gone there? I can’t think of any reason why a dog (even an invisible one) would want to visit a creepy old house like that. Brrrrrrr. It gives me goose pimples just thinking about it.

  Daisy seems to share my lack of enthusiasm for visiting whoever lives there. She’s slowed down and is now dragging way behind Vivaldi and me, muttering to herself.

  ‘I can’t smell our four-footed friend,’ I say to Vivaldi.

  ‘That doesn’t mean anything,’ she replies. ‘If our canine companion is inside Arkon House we wouldn’t be able to smell her from out here.’

  ‘Who d’you think actually lives there?’ I’m whispering now, because I’m feeling more and more nervous the closer we get to Arkon House’s front door. My stomach is acting like it’s falling off a cliff, my tongue feels like a shrivelled bit of ham and my lungs can barely drag in enough oxygen to keep me alive. I’m on the point of grabbing Vivaldi’s arm and begging her to turn round and call off the search for WayWoof when we hear a ghastly scream from up ahead.

  ‘YAAAAAAAAAAA. Craig, man, get it OFF MEEEEEEEEeeeeee.’

  And another voice yelling, ‘Get away from me, you freak. Gawn, Shane. Get away from me
.’

  Craig? Shane? Vivaldi and I stop in our tracks. Daisy catches up and peers round my legs, obviously reluctant to find out what lies up ahead.

  ‘HELLLP. URRRRGGGGHHHHHHH. It’s got its feelers up ma NOSE’.

  There’s the sound of footsteps and Craig appears, running flat out to get away from whatever is attacking Shane. He doesn’t stop when he sees us, just flaps his bin-bag wings and dodges past into the trees.

  There’s a crash, a howl, and I see him stumble back onto the path, half stunned and staggering from side to side. What an idiot. He must have run straight into a tree. I’d feel a lot sorrier for him if he hadn’t abandoned poor Shane to the Thing in the Darkness. Help. Whatever it is, it sounds awful.

  ‘NAWWWWWWW. Get OFFFFFF. Yeurrrrchhhhh. Eughhhhh.’ And then, suddenly, Shane appears up ahead. He looks completely normal, which is very surprising, considering the fuss he’s just been making. I’d been expecting lakes of blood, buckets of gore, missing limbs and eyeballs hanging halfway down his face; but apart from looking a bit wild-eyed, with his hair sticking up like a hedgehog, Shane looks perfectly OK.

  He also ignores us completely and strides over to where his friend Craig is sitting dazed at the foot of a tree.

  ‘Thanks a million for all your help back there, you big creep,’ he yells.

  Craig rubs his head and groans. ‘Aw, come on, Shane. I had no idea what the heck that thing was on your face. For all I knew it was gonny eat me next . . .’

  At this feeble excuse, Shane screws up his face like he’s just bit into a lemon. I can’t say I blame him. Friends are supposed to stick together through thick and thin, not run off at the first sign of trouble.

  ‘What was that thing, anyway?’ Craig mumbles, getting up somewhat unsteadily, still clinging to the tree for balance.

  ‘No idea,’ Shane mutters, rubbing his face as if he’s trying to wipe off the memory. He stares at his faithless friend, and then suddenly his expression changes into one of utter terror. He begins to back away from Craig, holding his hands out in front of him as if to ward something off . . .

  ‘What?’ Craig demands. ‘What is it noo?’

  Shane appears to be barely able to get the words out: ‘Ohhhh, man – it’s . . . it’s on your . . . your – eughhhhh, horrible – aw noooo . . .’ He runs off as fast as he can.

  ‘WHAT?’ Craig yells. ‘What is it? What’re you talking about? What’s going on?’ And he turns to look at Vivaldi.

  She stares at him as if she can’t believe her eyes and gasps, ‘Ohhhhh, NO. That’s hideous. Oh, you poor thing—’

  With a shriek, Craig starts beating at himself with his hands, trying to get rid of . . . what? I can’t see anything. I look at Vivaldi – what’s going on? – but she has her hands over her mouth and her shoulders are shaking while Craig is doing the full-on Dance of Doom in between screams and howls of ‘Geddit off me!

  YEEEurchhhhh! Get off me! HELP!’

  Up ahead, Shane is no longer running and has turned back to watch the show. It’s a few minutes before Craig works out that he’s the victim of a wind-up. With a blood-curdling yell, he takes off after Shane, vowing revenge.

  Vivaldi rolls her eyes and turns to me, then frowns. ‘Where’s Daisy?’ she asks.

  I turn round, sure that my little demon-Daisy is right behind me, but she isn’t. Behind us are the dark, dark woods. Up ahead are the dim lights of Arkon House. There’s no sign of a SMALL red DEMON anywhere. Vivaldi and I stare at each other in horror. This is as bad as it can get. In our search to find the invisible dog, we’ve lost the baby.

  ‘You go on,’ Vivaldi says. ‘I’ll go back and look in the woods. Don’t panic, Lil, she can’t have gone far.’ And without waiting for my reply, she heads off, back the way we’ve just come. Up ahead, the lights of Arkon House flicker through the trees. Has Daisy gone there on her own? Has she spotted WayWoof and gone haring off to find her?

  ‘Daiseeeeeeeee?’ I call. ‘Are you there? DAAAAAAAZE?’ I’m running now, heading for the Haunted House Oh, Daisy, where are you?

  Twelve:

  A bolt from the boo

  The Toad was delighted with how well her save-the-dear-little-children-from-being-roasted-with-rosemary-in-a-‘high’-oven plan had gone. Admittedly, the child whose face she’d landed on wasn’t even remotely grateful for being saved, but no matter. Sliding down the trunk of the tree she’d leaped into to escape the graceless boy, the Toad began to hop back to Arkon House. So pleased was she with her own cleverness that she didn’t notice the red imp until it was too late.

  ‘Ahhhhhhhh,’ said a voice, and suddenly the Toad found herself being scooped up by something with hot breath and hands that smelled of chocolate.

  ‘Pitty fog,’ the voice continued, patting the Toad rather too enthusiastically for her liking.

  ‘Oi!’ the Toad croaked. ‘Easy does it. I’m not a dog.’

  Uh-oh she thought as hot, salty drops began to rain down on her head. Obviously not the right thing to say.

  ‘Notta dog. NOTTTTTA DOOOOOOOG,’ the voice insisted. ‘Wanta my WAYYYYAWOOOO.’

  More tears rained down as the Toad tried to slither out of the chocolaty clasp of what appeared to be a stunted red imp. For such a little creature, it possessed a surprisingly tight grip, and try as she might, she couldn’t escape.

  She wriggled and squirmed, but the red imp clung on. Annoyed, the Toad closed her eyes and tried a very small spell. Nothing too major, she thought. Just a little bolt-from-the-boo spell; a teeny-weeny little electric shock of 10,000 volts or so; enough to make anyone drop whatever they were holding. Like a toad, for instance.

  There was a flash, a crackle and a . . . nothing. The Toad remained in the embrace of the red imp. This was unheard of. Perhaps the red imp needed to be stung twice before it got the message. The Toad tried again. Still nothing happened. The Toad began to panic. This red imp was far stronger than she’d imagined. The Toad needed to call for reinforcements. She wriggled round till she could just about make out the lights of home up ahead. Good. That meant the Nose was still awake. Thinking rapidly, she calculated that if only she could persuade this pesky imp to carry her within earshot of the Nose, between herself and her Sister, surely they’d be able to raise enough magical Vim and Vigour to force the red imp to let go.

  ‘Um,’ she said, ‘this, er, Waywoo you mentioned?’

  WAAAAAYYYYYWOoOOOoOO, Way – my Wayyyy-hic-Way-hic-WOoOoo?’

  ‘Yes – arrrgh – ouch don’t – squee — OW!’ the Toad squawked. ‘I think I saw your – OW – Waywoo head for that – OW – house up there.’

  Immediately the tears and hiccups and squeezes stopped, and in the sudden hush the Toad could hear the sound of the red imp breathing heavily as it gave the Toad’s brazen lie its complete attention. After a minute’s deep thought, the creature seemed to reach a decision; then, clasping the Toad firmly under her arm, Witch Baby set off for Arkon House to find WayWoof.

  As I get closer to Arkon House, I’m really starting to panic. I can’t see any sign of Daisy up ahead, and there isn’t a sound from the woods where Vivaldi should be. And needless to say, WayWoof hasn’t appeared out of the darkness. Not yet, anyway. All I can think of is how horrible it must be for Daisy, out there in the dark, looking for her beloved lost dog, all on her own. Then the thought occurs to me that I’ll never be able to go home again if I don’t find Daisy. I think it would be easier to live out here in the dark and cold, all on my own, for the rest of my life than go back to Mum and Dad and Jack with the news that Lily the Bad Big Sister managed to lose the baby. Help. I can’t bear to think about it. Like WayWoof, Daisy simply has to turn up. She must be up ahead somewhere.

  I’m peering into the blackness beyond the gates to Arkon House when I hear footsteps behind me.

  ‘DAISY?’

  I spin round, but it’s Vivaldi, and she’s not holding my little sister’s hand. She is alone, and breathing hard as if she’s been running.

  ‘No luck?’
/>
  ‘Nope,’ Vivaldi says. ‘Which means she must be up ahead of us somewhere because she’s far too small to have gone any further.’

  Vivaldi has a point, but the problem with having a sister who’s a Witch Baby is that there’s no way I can predict what she’s going to do next. For all I know she could be flapping overhead on pterodactyl wings, or burrowing underground like a mole or—

  ‘What’s that?’ Vivaldi hisses in my ear.

  Two glowing eyes loom out of the darkness ahead. The split second before I scream my head off and run for my life, Vivaldi’s question is answered.

  ‘Hoo – hoooOOOOOO.’ And with a beat of its wings, a huge barn owl launches itself off a tree branch and heads for Arkon House. Its graceful flight is slightly hampered by something it is clutching in its claws. Something that wriggles and flails, its legs thrashing in all directions as it tries and fails to escape. I feel slightly sick watching this mid-air struggle. Beautiful as owls are, I can’t help feeling sorry for their prey. This victim in particular is putting up one heck of a fight.

  Now even the owl appears to be having difficulty hanging onto such a quarrelsome dinner. Lower and lower it flies, its wings dipping first to the right, then to the left, until, finally coming in low over Arkon House’s swimming pool, it gives up the battle.

  There’s a splash, and the bird soars back up into the night, its white wings making it look like a ghost. Ripples widen across the leaf-strewn surface of the pool, and on the far side a large frog hoists itself out of the water. The poor creature keeps looking nervously up at the sky, as if it’s expecting the owl to return any second now. Shaking itself dry, it leaps into the shadows and disappears. I strain to see where it went, but it is far too dark to make out much beyond the path that winds up to the front door of Arkon House.