Shadowghast

by Thomas Taylor

  I WILL CLAIM . . . booms the echoing silence, THE OTHER . . .

  And I feel the wind whip away—sense it spinning and twisting as it flies off down one of the passageways.

  After Violet.

  “Violet!” I call out, getting back on my feet. “Violet, look out!”

  But she doesn’t answer.

  Nothing does, roaring a complete and terrifying absence of sound into my ears as the terrible shadow being that has rejected me rushes furiously after my friend.

  And now I know I really am lost, in the darkness, deep in the Netherways beneath Eerie-on-Sea.

  All alone.

  How long I just stand there, my fists in my eyes, trying to stay calm, I don’t know. The seconds pass like hours, and time just melts into one long moment of fear and helplessness. But eventually, somehow, I master my breathing and take my hands away from my face.

  And open my eyes.

  I force myself not to panic as I confront the eternal darkness once again.

  I remember the words the Shadowghast said to me:

  YOU ARE DIFFERENT.

  What do they mean? What’s so different about me that a ghost who snatches shadows doesn’t want to snatch mine?

  My hands are numb with cold now, so I shove them into my pockets.

  I need to concentrate on finding a way out of here.

  I say, at the top of my voice, “Herbert Lemon needs a plan!”

  “. . . AN . . . an . . . an . . .” comes the echo.

  If I hoped that the reflected sound would help me locate one of the archways (and I did), then I’m disappointed. All sounds down here seem to come from everywhere at once.

  I feel panic begin to rise up within me again.

  But then, amazingly, I see something.

  Actually see it.

  Far ahead, somehow, there is a patch of whiteness in the gloom.

  It’s not light, as such, the patch. It’s more like something that is reflecting a tiny amount of light, though what there is down here to reflect, I don’t know. All I can do is watch in amazement—hope competing with dread—as the faint patch of whiteness approaches me with a sinewy motion.

  “Sometimes the guiding light you need,” comes a familiar feline voice, “is the only one you can see.”

  “ERWIN!” I cry out in joy and relief.

  I jump forward and stoop as the bookshop cat saunters up to me. He stands to rub his head on my chin, but I grab him up into my arms.

  “Erwin, thank you! Thank you for finding me!”

  “Meow,” Erwin replies, in a way that suggests locating misplaced Lost-and-Founders is all in a day’s work for an Eerie cat. And perhaps it is.

  “But how can I see you?” I ask as I put him back down. “You’re not . . . you’re not glowing, are you?”

  “Prrp,” says Erwin, with a hint of pride. The bookshop cat heads off in a sure-footed manner, padding down one of the passageways as though he knows where he’s going. I scurry along behind him.

  When we come to a corner, Erwin pauses so I can catch up. Then he sets off again, his bottom and tail waving from side to side as he proceeds to the next corner, where he pauses once more. And then, suddenly, we turn a corner and I see light—real, warm golden light!—far ahead, shining down a flight of steps.

  “At last!” I cry, running toward the steps. “Thank you! Thank you, you crazy, weird, bonkers cat, you!”

  Erwin twitches his whiskers at me. Then he scampers up the stairs—which are made of ancient stone blocks—and disappears through a square opening above. From that trapdoor, I can hear distant voices, one of them raised in alarm.

  “Violet?” I call as I start up the steps myself. “Violet, is that you?”

  When I reach the top, I find that I’m in a series of vaulted chambers, a little like the cellar beneath the house of Sebastian Eels, but with lower ceilings. A wooden trapdoor that would normally cover this opening is propped open on a metal brace. And all around is a terrible, bewildering mess, as if someone has ransacked the contents of this space and flung it all everywhere, higgledy-piggledy. At the corner of the room is another flight of stairs upward, and beyond that is warm electric light—and the sound of Violet talking urgently to someone.

  I clamber over the clutter and run up the stairs.

  “Herbie!” Violet jumps at me, overjoyed. “Herbie, you’re OK!”

  “I am.” I gasp as Violet squeezes the breath out of me. “But I was worried about you. I thought the Shadowghast would get you for sure!”

  There’s a chuckle at these words, and I look over to see who it was that Violet was talking to.

  “The Shadowghast would indeed be a terrifying thing to meet down in the tunnels beneath Eerie-on-Sea,” says Dr. Thalassi, waggling his considerable eyebrows at me in amusement. “If, that is, it were real, and not a ghost from an old story used to scare children away from dark corners. And speaking of which—”

  “But, Doc . . . !” I blurt out.

  “Speaking of which,” Dr. Thalassi insists, “I’m very disappointed to find that you two have taken it into your heads to explore the old smugglers’ caves and abandoned mines beneath the town. They are a veritable labyrinth—and extremely hazardous. Many have disappeared down there over the years.”

  “But—” Violet blurts out, too.

  “No buts, Violet!” the doc interrupts. “This is not a child’s game. It’s bad enough that I have to worry about Jenny Hanniver’s disappearance, without mounting subterranean rescue missions for you two.”

  “But we saw Jenny!” Violet cries. “Tell him, Herbie! Didn’t we see her? Down in the Netherways.”

  “Yes,” I say. “I think. I mean, it was dark, and we didn’t see much, but we definitely saw someone down there, Doc.”

  Dr. Thalassi looks at us both, furrowing his brow.

  “Netherways?” he says. “Where did you hear that word?”

  “Herbie told me about it,” Violet replies, giving me a look. Dr. Thalassi still has no idea that Violet can read Eerie Script.

  “Well, I wish he hadn’t!” Doc glares at me. “Once you give something a mysterious name, you make it intriguing and give it a glamour that is bound to end up attracting the bright and the curious.” And with these words, the doc turns his glare onto Violet. “It would be better if the word Netherways was forgotten for good. If I had my way, every secret door into that infernal maze would be found and bricked up for good.”

  “But what about Jenny?” Violet demands.

  The doc shakes his head.

  “I don’t know,” he replies, rubbing his temples. “Right now, I’m already engaged in another worrying matter. Someone has, it would appear, raided Mrs. Fossil’s shop.”

  “What?” we both cry.

  And it’s then, finally, that I realize where we are.

  All around us, the baskets and crates, the lobster pots and nets, the minerals and nodules of Mrs. Fossil’s weird and wonderful Flotsamporium are scattered across the floor. Barrels and baskets are upended, driftwood is flung, and the ammonites, flip-flops, and recovered plastic knickknacks are jumbled together. Even the sea glass—which fills the windows of Mrs. F’s beachcombing shop in hundreds upon hundreds of bottles and jars—has been tipped all over the floor in rainbow drifts that crunch underfoot.

  To one side, upside down, and with a broken string, lies Mrs. Fossil’s hurdy-gurdy.

  Dr. Thalassi, who is wearing striped pajamas and a silk robe beneath his coat and hat, is standing in the middle of it all, looking as if he’s auditioning for the part of Sherlock Holmes but has forgotten the lines.

  “Who did this?” I say, surveying the mess. If there’s one thing that a Lost-and-Founder doesn’t like to see, it’s a jumble. In a jumble, it’s hard to know what is or isn’t lost. “Is Mrs. Fossil OK?”

  “I have no idea,” the doc replies. “But the alarm was raised, and I came as quickly as I could. I found the trapdoor open in Mrs. Fossil’s basement, so I suspect the intruders came in that way
. It was as I was about to close it that I saw Violet appear. Well, I saw the cat Erwin appear, to be precise, with Violet just behind. I’ve never been more surprised in my life!”

  “That’s how I got out, Herbie,” Violet explains. “Erwin found me and led me out. Then he went back to look for you.”

  “I think you are putting a little too much faith in the intelligence of this feline.” Dr. Thalassi chuckles again and rubs Erwin’s head slightly too roughly. Erwin, who is in Violet’s arms, gives him an icy stare of annoyance, which the doctor fails to notice. “But, well done, both of you, for surviving the Netherways. Now, promise me you won’t ever go down there again.”

  “But Jenny!” Violet protests. “We can’t just leave her down there!”

  “I suspect you didn’t see Jenny at all,” the doc replies. “It was dark, and perhaps you saw what you wanted to see. Besides, Jenny Hanniver knows all too well the dangers of the Netherways. She wouldn’t do anything so foolish as to go down there herself.”

  Violet starts to protest again, but the doc waves away her concerns. I wonder if she has told Dr. Thalassi about our adventure in Sebastian Eels’s house. Or about being chased by Mr. Mummery and nearly mimed to smithereens by Rictus and Tristo. Somehow, I don’t think she has.

  “Besides,” Doc continues, picking up the hurdy-gurdy and gently wiping some dust off it, “now we have a second missing-person mystery to solve: Mrs. Fossil has disappeared.”

  Violet and I stare at each other. We remember how wobbly Mrs. F was after her moment onstage this afternoon.

  “You know the legend of Ghastly Night, Doc?” Violet says carefully. “And the Shadowghast . . . ?”

  “Yes.” Dr. Thalassi arches a wary eyebrow. “You know I do, Violet.”

  “Well,” she continues, “what is actually supposed to happen to you if the Shadowghast snatches your shadow?”

  The doc waggles his eyebrows and lets his specs fall onto his nose as he lowers himself into a chair. The curator of the Eerie Museum seems to have recovered his poise, now that he’s back on the familiar ground of the strange and colorful legends of Eerie-on-Sea.

  “You saw the story of Ghastly Night that Mrs. Fossil and I performed,” he says, tapping his fingertips together. “Once your shadow has been snatched by the Shadowghast and taken into the Shadowghast lantern, you yourself fall under the influence of the Puppet Master and become, in a sense, a living puppet. Just as old Mayor Bigley did when the Puppet Master made him dance. It’s a fascinating piece of folklore, because—”

  “I see,” Violet interrupts, before the doc can get too far into lecture mode. “So does that mean the Puppet Master can use the Shadowghast to take control of people? Anyone they want?”

  “According to the legend, yes,” replies the doc. “Whoever commands the Shadowghast lantern is the Puppet Master in more ways than one. He controls it all.”

  “Or she does,” says Vi, glaring at me out of her hair.

  “Excuse me?” says the doc.

  “I think Violet’s trying to say,” I explain, glaring back at her, “that she thinks my . . . that Caliastra, the magician, is up to no good.”

  “Whether or not she is up to no good can have little to do with the legend of Ghastly Night.” Dr. Thalassi chuckles. “After all, it’s just a story, and she’s only a stage magician. The only question I’d ask is whether or not her shadow show is any good.”

  “Your show is great, Doc.” Violet smiles kindly. “Really nice and fun, and I’m sure Eerie people love it. But Caliastra’s show is . . . well, it’s . . .”

  “It’s amazing!” I declare. “Truly magical, Doc. The best shadow puppet show I’ve ever seen!”

  Then I go a bit sheepish when I see the slightly offended expression on the doc’s face.

  “She is a professional, though,” I add, hoping to save some of the doc’s feelings.

  “It’s all right, Herbie,” Dr. Thalassi replies. “I would expect her show to be better than mine, for that very reason. Maybe I should go along tomorrow to see for myself.”

  “You should,” says Violet. “It’s quite a spectacle. She even has the original magic lantern, a big bronze thing with a dragon’s head and wings. Really ancient looking—”

  “What?” The doc jumps right out of his chair. “She has the Shadowghast lantern? Are you sure?”

  “That’s what she says,” I reply. “It gives off this strange perfumed smoke. And the shadows she conjures are amazing! She can do anything with them, change their shape, make them dance and fly—”

  “You need to go home.” Dr. Thalassi suddenly looks agitated. “I will lock up here. And tomorrow—first thing tomorrow—I will visit the theater myself and take a look at the lantern. It’s high time I met this Caliastra.”

  “But what about Jenny?” Vi asks. “And Mrs. F?”

  “Leave that to me,” says the doc. “Oh, and, Violet, you shouldn’t go back to the book dispensary tonight, not if you’re going to be there on your own. Do you have somewhere you can go?”

  “I can stay with Herbie,” Vi replies.

  “What about the trapdoor?” I ask, pointing down into the Flotsamporium basement.

  “I’ll leave it open,” says the doc. “Just in case. But I will certainly lock the front door of the shop. Now, come along. Shoo! And take your cat with you. Good night!”

  And with this we are ushered out into the blustery nighttime street.

  “Herbie, what are we going to do?” Violet says. “Two people are missing now! And you saw what I saw down in the tunnels, didn’t you? If there’s even a chance that was Jenny, we’ve got to do something!”

  “I know,” I agree. “But what about the other thing we saw?”

  “What other thing?”

  “The Shadowghast!” I say, in a harsh whisper.

  And I tell about my strange encounter with the specter—and the even stranger things it said to me.

  “Deepest secret?” Violet says, after a stunned silence. “What did it mean by that?”

  “The only other time I’ve heard those words before was when Sebastian Eels once told us that all the eeriest things in Eerie-on-Sea were connected by a ‘deepest secret,’” I reply. “Just before he died. Remember?”

  He also said I was connected to it myself somehow, but I don’t like that part, so I don’t add it.

  Violet shakes her head in amazement as we hurry along.

  “If I hadn’t seen the weird things I’ve seen since I came to Eerie-on-Sea, Herbie,” she replies, “I’d never have believed in legends or deepest secrets or in a shadow-snatching specter that haunts a magic lantern. But now I’m just terrified that the Shadowghast has snatched Jenny’s shadow somehow. And Mrs. Fossil’s!”

  “Do you really suspect Caliastra?” I reply. “I mean, maybe if you spent more time with her, and heard the things she has to say, maybe . . .”

  “Maybe nothing, Herbie!” Violet snaps. “Of course it’s her. The only thing we don’t know is why she’s doing it. Why snatch Jenny’s shadow and then send her down into the Netherways?”

  “If it really was Jenny we saw down there,” I say quietly.

  But Violet doesn’t reply.

  When we reach the small window to my cellar, Violet slips inside. But I don’t follow. I’m annoyed that she is so completely against Caliastra. I just wish I could think of a reason why she’s wrong.

  I decide to head around to the front of the hotel and enter by the great revolving doors. I need to be seen using the proper entrance from time to time, or Mr. Mollusc will make good on his promise to block my cellar window.

  But this time, as I stroll into the hotel lobby and prepare to look busy, I find myself face-to-face with disaster.

  There he is!” booms Mr. Mummery, who is standing beside the large potted fern near my cubbyhole. “I demand to know what you are going to do about him, Mr. Mollusc. He’s a menace. And a trespasser!”

  “Herbert Lemon!” The hotel manager, who is standing beside the theatri
cal agent, screws up his fists like an enraged toddler and narrows his mean little eyes. “Come here this instant! What have you got to say for yourself, boy?”

  “Me, sir?” I say, trying to hide my shock at seeing Mummery again behind my annoyance at being asked pointless questions by Mollusc. “I’ve got loads to say for myself, sir. What would you like me to say first, sir?”

  “I’d like you to explain”—Mr. Mollusc grinds out the words, angrier than I’ve seen him for a long time—“what you were doing sneaking around private property. You’re a Lost-and-Founder, not a Break-in-and-Burglar!”

  “I wasn’t burglaring!” I cry. Then I look at Mr. Mummery. “If anyone was burglaring, it was him.”

  But I dry up at the sight of further outrage dawning across Mr. Mummery’s red face.

  “You dare to accuse me?” he demands. “You dare to suggest that I was in that house illegally! It was I who had the key. Did you have a key, boy?”

  Well, there’s nothing I can say to this, is there? I mean, I’d like to say “But you were the one sneaking around in the dark, opening secret chambers, and chasing us into underground passages!” but I don’t dare. And since Violet’s not here right now, none of that gets said by anyone.

  “You set fire to a valuable antique rug!” Mr. Mummery continues, as if sensing victory and going in for the kill. “And you even threw this . . . this . . . thing at my face!”

  And he produces the lemon I discovered—shriveled and rubbery after years in the secret chamber in the house of Sebastian Eels—and flings it at my feet.

  I pick it up.

  As evidence goes, it’s pretty damning.

  “You’ve gone too far this time, Herbert Lemon,” says Mr. Mollusc. “Lady Kraken will hear of this.”

  I droop.

  “I was just looking for my friends,” I mumble. “Jenny Hanniver from the book dispensary, and Mrs. Fossil, too. They have gone missing . . .”

  “But why did you think they would be in that boarded-up house, Herbie?” comes a voice, and I turn to see Caliastra step out of a shadow, swinging her candy-glass cane. Behind her, leaning like statues on either side of the great ornate fireplace in the hotel lobby, Rictus and Tristo peer at me through their ghastly face paint. And between them sits the unmistakable shape of the Shadowghast lantern, covered in its silver drape.