The Ghosts of Wonky Inn: Wonky Inn Book 2

by Jeannie Wycherley

  “How are you Alf?” he stood and kissed my cheek. “You look a little pale.”

  “I’m fine,” I lied, and he looked over the top of his little round glasses and cocked an eyebrow. “Okay, not so fine. But I think I’m doing better.”

  “You’ll get there,” Mr Kephisto said, with great confidence.

  “At first, after everything that happened in the wood, with Jed and The Mori, and everything, I thought I’d proved to myself how strong I was. I told myself I would be perfectly alright. But it took a while to hit me. I can’t seem to shake off this feeling of gloom.”

  And loneliness, I wanted to add, but didn’t.

  “Sometimes, the excitement and spontaneity of a situation will give us a little rush of emotion and carry us along on a tide of exhilaration, I suppose. You helped to solve a problem. You found the culprits. You protected the inn. Once you had the time to reflect on all of that, I’m sure the shock must have kicked in. The reality of what you had done and what it all meant. Once you start thinking about things like that, it can play havoc with your emotions.”

  I smiled. “Yes, it certainly has.”

  “Wizard Shadowmender has great faith in you, Alf. He believes you are a good witch with the potential to be a great one. You will be a credit to your parents, and his coven.”

  Will be. An acknowledgement that I still had a great deal to learn.

  “I’m pleased to hear that. I’ll try harder.”

  Mr Kephisto shrugged. “All in good time.” He perched on the edge of his seat and poured the tea into pretty china cups. When he handed me mine, I looked at it slightly suspiciously, remembering the last time I’d arrived at The Storykeeper, and he’d slipped something into my drink to help me sleep.

  Mr Kephisto roared with laughter at my look. “I’ll spend the rest of my days ruing that, won’t I? Don’t worry, Alf, there’s nothing untoward in your tea today.”

  I sipped the golden liquid. It tasted sublime.

  “So tell me, what brings you here today?”

  I settled back in my chair. “I have a ghost problem.”

  “Oh, interesting.” Mr Kephisto’s eyes shone with glee.

  “You think? Yes. Maybe you’re right.”

  “You did seem to be collecting them the last time I saw you.”

  I laughed. “That’s true. And recently I seem to have adopted a few more waifs and strays. Although to be fair, they were co-opted to the inn by my great grandmother and my father.” I shook my head thoughtfully thinking of Florence and Zephaniah. “They are all very welcome at the inn. I’m happy to accommodate them. But there’s one,” I watched as Mr Kephisto steepled his fingers, listening to me carefully, “who is causing me concern and I would like to help him if I can.”

  Mr Kephisto nodded. I picked up a shortbread biscuit, pondering whether it would be okay to dunk it or not. I gave it a go, relieved when Mr Kephisto didn’t appear scandalised.

  “Tell me more.”

  “His name is Luppitt Smeatharpe, and my father was tipped off about him being stuck at a crossroads.”

  “That’s where he died?”

  “The last time, yes.”

  Mr Kephisto looked puzzled.

  “Luppitt claims he has been killed repeatedly, by the same person or persons. But he doesn’t appear to have many memories of any of his deaths, or how he died originally.”

  “You can’t kill a ghost, Alf.”

  “I know! That’s what I said, but he’s adamant it’s the truth.”

  “Strange.”

  “Now the thing is, I want to help him find some measure of peace, if I can. And I know we can help spirits cross over if they wish, rather than have them trapped here. But with Luppitt, I would hate that to happen when he doesn’t understand what is going on or what happened to him.”

  Mr Kephisto nodded. “Be very careful there, Alf. You don’t want to be using an exorcist or some such. That process can be violent and do more harm than good for all involved.”

  “I know. I understand that. But there must be something we can do.” I sighed. “The thing is, Mr Kephisto, Luppitt is living a life of fear. He thinks that now he’s away from the crossroads, and free again, that he will be a target for whomever wishes him harm. My father jokingly called me a ghost whisperer the other day, but he’s right to a degree. I have some of the skills for that, but there must be others out there with more experience who may be able to help me.”

  Mr Kephisto thought for a moment. “Well…I’ve heard of one such woman…I would have to check this out with Wizard Shadowmender. I believed she lived in the north somewhere. Wait.” He motioned me to stand. “Bring your tea and follow me.”

  He opened a door at the side of the mezzanine and motioned me through. The stairs up to his personal quarters felt a little more stable than the ones leading downstairs, but they were narrower. At the top, another door opened into the building’s roof space. Bookshelves ran wall to wall, with thousands upon thousands of old books, pamphlets, booklets and diaries of all shapes and sizes.

  “I gather and collect records, and archive them here. Everything I can get my hands on from witches and wizards, mages and sages, warlocks and anybody associated with the craft of magick. I’ve read most of this, and even transcribed notes from some of the old brigade who never learned to read and write. There is information here going back in excess of a thousand years.”

  Jaw dropping, I stared agog at the sheer number of records he housed in the loft space. Meanwhile, he walked directly to a shelf and allowed his finger to hover lightly over several volumes, before the spine of a slim volume glowed briefly, and he hooked it out. I watched as the pages turned over by themselves, and then fell open at one spot.

  “Ah, here she is. This is a directory of twenty-first century contacts who may be of use to magickal practitioners. There’s a woman by the name of Perdita Pugh. She lives in Birmingham, and you can see here,” he pointed at the handwritten entry, “it describes her as an experienced ghost whisperer.”

  “That sounds perfect. I wonder if she would be willing to speak to me.”

  “Let me talk to Wizard Shadowmender and have him check her out. If he thinks she’s the real deal, then perhaps he can smooth some introductions for you.”

  “That would be wonderful, thank you.”

  “In the meantime, I’m going to start looking through my research and see if I can find out anything about our Luppitt. I may not be able to, because I don’t automatically record ghost manifestations, and if he hasn’t had anything to do with us witches previously, he may not be included in any of our historical records.”

  I nodded.

  “No harm in looking though,” Mr Kephisto smiled. “We could get lucky.”

  “Indeed,” I answered. “I hope so.”

  Three days later Perdita Pugh arrived at the inn. Not a woman for packing light, she arrived in a large taxi mini-van, with three enormous chests of belongings, two hat boxes, and a long-haired Chihuahua named Chi, whom she led about on a diamante encrusted lead, with a pink ribbon tied around a little clump of hair on the dog’s forehead. The dog was groomed to perfection. Perdita Pugh however was an entirely different kettle of fish.

  In many ways she reminded me of a younger Millicent Ballicott. Her mis-matched clothes were long, and flowed over her slight frame in an altogether strange combination for the mild weather we were having. She wore thick red tights or stockings, under an apple green crushed velvet skirt, with a bright red blouse over a white t-shirt. The whole ensemble was finished off with the thickest peach knitted jacket I had ever seen, while a wide brimmed hat in navy blue, sat on long frizzy hair that had never been formally introduced to conditioner.

  “You don’t have to dress badly to make my acquaintance, but it helps,” I muttered under my breath as I opened the front door of the inn to greet her. I sensed Florence, Zephaniah, Ned and Gwyn in the shadows, watching us, waiting to see what Perdita Pugh was made of.

  And she didn’t disappo
int.

  As I walked out onto the drive to greet her, she strode towards me with one hand outstretched, the other arm wrapped around her dog. “You must be, Alfhild,” she boomed in a surprisingly deep voice. “Wizard Shadowmender has told me all about you and your wonderful inn. I expect you’re very excited about opening it up again.”

  “Yes,” I started but she carried on talking, her words tumbling over themselves in an effort to make themselves heard.

  “Oh, Alfhild, you have the most amazing hair. Carrying a little extra weight, I see, but I’m sure once the inn is properly open you’ll be burning calories as you run up and downstairs after your ghosts all day. Besides you’re positively gorgeous, my love, radiating a lovely warm energy.”

  “Er, thanks.” I pouted.

  “I’m Perdita and this is Chi, my chi-chi-gorgeous-bundle-of-cute-loveliness. I hope you don’t mind me bringing her with me, but I swear I would be lost without her.”

  “No. I—”

  “She’s an amazing dog. And she doesn’t mind ghosts and ghoulies, or anything untoward. I even introduced her to a werewolf once.”

  “Really—”

  “Yes. I must be honest, she wasn’t quite so keen on him, but we worked through her issues and it was only temporary. I think she may have been a little traumatised by the sheer size of the guy when he grew into his werewolf form. He was quite a sight for sore eyes.”

  “I see,” I said, although I didn’t. What did she mean? A sight for sore eyes? In man form or wolf form or somewhere in between? I decided not to probe.

  I indicated the front door of the inn and we walked towards it together.

  “Oh this is a marvellous building, Alfhild. How incredibly fortunate you are to have inherited such an astounding place.” We stood in the empty bar, partially restored, but still awaiting lots more work.

  “Yes, it has some potential,” I said, surprised when I could get a word in edge ways. Perhaps she had finally run out of steam. She set Chi down on the floor and unclipped her lead, watching the little dog fondly as it glanced around, scenting the air.

  The taxi driver poked his head around the door. “Where would you like me to deposit these trunks ladies?” he asked, his face flushed red with exertion.

  “If you could manage to get them in here, that would be fine,” I replied, and watched guiltily as he brought in one after the other, with great difficulty.

  “Are these all full of clothes,” I asked Perdita, while silently wondering how long she intended to stay.

  “Oh no. I have a little bit of equipment with me. And some of Chi’s belongings too. A few books to read in the evening. I don’t like watching TV.”

  “Well that’s lucky because we don’t have one here,” I replied and Perdita beamed happily.

  “Energy sapping, imagination zapping, mind warping drivel,” she boomed. “We are two great minds who think alike. That pleases me immensely.”

  I nodded, deciding not to tell her the only reason I didn’t have one was because I hadn’t got around to having one installed as of yet. I assumed that most of the guests who came to stay at Whittle Inn would expect to have TV, Wi-Fi and all the mod cons they were used to, set up in their bedrooms.

  Perdita walked into the centre of the bar and stood directly across from the large stone fireplace. I hadn’t had a fire laid in this room today, given how mild the weather had been of late. I wasn’t intending to work in here, so it seemed pointless heating the room for no reason.

  She lifted her arms, palms turned to the ceiling, and closed her eyes, breathing deeply.

  I watched her, then cast an uneasy eye at her dog. Chi meandered around the room sniffing everything. I hoped she didn’t intend to pee on any of my sanded woodwork.

  Finally, Perdita dropped her hands and opened her eyes. “I wanted to get some sense of the place. It’s an interesting building, it meanders all over the place.”

  “It’s a wonky inn.” I smiled. “It lists to one side, and then back again. It’s had wings and rooms built on over the years.”

  “Yes, it’s intriguing. It has multi-layered energy. Lots of history, and of course many memories here.”

  I waited. I didn’t want to prompt her. I knew Wizard Shadowmender would have been thorough. He wouldn’t have organised for Perdita to visit if he considered her to be a fake, but I didn’t intend to give her any leads.

  “And a surprising number of spirits.”

  There we had it. “Surprising?” I asked. “How many.”

  Perdita thought hard, her eyes darting around, possibly mapping the inn and its ghosts in her head. “More than have exposed themselves to you.” She smiled conspiratorially. No doubt she gathered I was feeling a little sceptical.

  “There’s a few there,” she nodded at the frosted glass door next to the bar, that opened on the rear of the inn. I walked over and pushed against the door. My father and Zephaniah were hiding in the passage, indisputably listening in. I spotted Ned floating rapidly away towards the kitchen.

  I shook my head at my father in exasperation. “Perdita, this is my dad, Erik Daemonne, and this is Zephaniah.”

  “Zephaniah Cooper? I am very pleased to meet you. I’m glad you found your way back from Ypres.” She nodded at my father, and he smirked at me. “And the young lady in the kitchen?” Perdita asked.

  “That will be Florence.”

  “And a much older woman in the room upstairs, just over there,” Perdita pointed into the corner of the ceiling, indicating where the owner’s quarters were.

  “Probably my great grandmother. She’s also called Alfhild Daemonne.”

  “But you have different middle names. Yours is Yasmin after your mother, and hers is Gwynfyre. You call her Gwyn.”

  “That’s right,” I agreed. Perdita certainly knew enough. I guessed some it might have come from Shadowmender, but I didn’t recall telling him—or anyone—about Zephaniah at all.

  “There are many who congregate in the attic. They like it up there. A few more in the bedrooms, and one or two in the grounds. There are some in the woods out the back.”

  I shuddered at the mention of ghosts in Speckled Wood. I hoped they were harmless. It was still my favourite place to walk, although I avoided the centre clearing where at all possible.

  Perdita frowned and swivelled her head, craning her neck at the ceiling. I watched her as she paced a few steps towards the front of the inn and pointed to the corner furthest away from the bar. “There’s a sorrowful spirit up there.” She cocked her head. “Why,” she said in surprise, “he is hiding.”

  “That’s why I asked you to come here,” I said. “I’d like you to help me help him.”

  I tried to entice Luppitt out of his wardrobe, but he refused point blank. I couldn’t force him. I explained that I had invited a ghost whisperer to the inn and that she would very much like to talk to him, but he huddled in the wardrobe, his chin on his knees and his eyes tightly closed and declined to engage with me.

  “Oh Luppitt,” I entreated. “You’re breaking my heart? I feel so sad for you.”

  I have to say that empathy is high on the list of attributes many witches have, and I found it problematic at times. It’s difficult feeling emotionally exhausted because of someone else’s pain. I sloped down the stairs alone, feeling thoroughly miserable, and joined Perdita and Chi in The Nook. I’d set the room up as a potential office space for them. Benches were arranged around the large rough table in here, and Chi had a cosy basket with a sheepskin rug underneath it, which Perdita had populated with numerous pink dog toys.

  On top of the table, Perdita had spread out some well-thumbed academic-looking text books, and several tattered notebooks along with some pens and a strange contraption that looked rather like a wooden box with an upside-down fish bowl in it, arranged on some sort of metallic base. It was hooked up to a bog-standard laptop, with a number of coloured wires sticking out it. Scrutinizing it more closely I spotted a charger that had been plugged into the wall, and att
ached to the wires in the gold fish bowl. When I reached out to touch it, Perdita slapped my hand, and I recoiled—in surprise more than pain.

  “That’s my electro-endoquaero. Fully patented. All my own design. It’s attached to my laptop, which I’ve programmed with my own coded software. At regular intervals, the electro-endoquaero will talk to the probes that I place in each room, as well as in the grounds and gardens outside. It helps me undertake a number of detailed research sweeps to see what is happening in the general vicinity, providing me with data that I compile, and this helps me analyse any given situation. I’m very proud of it, but naturally I can’t let all and sundry poke and prod it. It’s jolly precious. I’m sure you understand, Alfhild.”

  “What does—”

  “What does it do? Well it can give me a more accurate idea of how many ghosts you have in the inn, and their usual locations. If I leave it on overnight, tomorrow I’ll be able to give you a print-out of the trails and paths the ghosts take. Obviously, the longer you leave it running, and the more probes you have, the more accurate the data. We could set it up for a week or a month and that would give you a much clearer idea of what is happening here.”

  “I see,” I said. “For some reason I assumed a ghost whisperer would…well… whisper… or at least talk to ghosts.”

  “Oh I do all that too. I do everything. Where ghosts are concerned, I’m your woman.” She observed me critically for a moment. “Wizard Shadowmender told me that you’re a bit of a ghost whisperer yourself.”

  “To be honest I’d never really thought about it, but since coming to the inn it does appear as though I can commune with spirits.”

  “You see the lights and then you call them forward?” she asked, and I nodded. “You’re very attractive to our spirit friends. There’s certainly a large number following you around. Some I see you have acknowledged and some you haven’t.”