Ghosthunters and the Incredibly Revolting Ghost

by Cornelia Funke

  “And what about the graveyard dirt?” asked Tom. This was what was getting to him most at the moment.

  “Oh, that’s no problem. We can get it tonight.”

  “Tonight?” Tom frowned. “Why during the night?”

  “Oh, did I forget to mention that? Only dirt gathered at night works against IRGs. What do you think? Shall we meet tonight outside the gate to the graveyard at around eleven?”

  “I … um … I don’t know!” stammered Tom.

  “You could get your Cellar Ghost to fly you there.” Hetty Hyssop looked down the end of her long nose, examining Tom.

  “I’m not a Cellar Ghost!” came an offended voice from inside the backpack. “But I’d be deeeelighted to help!”

  “What do you mean, ‘fly'?” asked Tom faintly. His head was starting to spin.

  “Ghosts normally fly, don’t they!” came the muffled voice from the backpack. “Or do you think I float on fooooot?”

  “So what do you think, young man?” Hetty Hyssop stretched her long, thin hand out to Tom. “Shall we teach this IRG some manners together so that your ghostly friend can go back home?”

  What was Tom supposed to say? “OK,” he mumbled, grasping Hetty Hyssop’s hand.

  A sigh of relief escaped from the backpack.

  7

  Since when do you cart around your backpack with you for the whole afternoon?” asked Lola when Tom got home.

  “Mind your own business,” he growled. “Oh, but it is my business!” said Lola. Snatch! Before he could stop her, she’d torn the backpack out of his hand and was peering curiously inside. “Nothing, nothing at all,” she said, disappointed.

  “Of course there’s nothing. I used to keep my ghost in there,” said Tom, “and it’s been back in the cellar for ages now.”

  “Hilarious. Totally hilarious!” retorted Lola, annoyed, and plonked herself down in front of the TV.

  Relieved, Tom went to his room and shut the door. Then he pulled Hetty Hyssop’s book out from under his sweater, flung himself down on the bed, and started, as advised, to read Chapter Two. This is what he found:

  That was all. Tom snapped the book shut with a frown. He rolled over onto his back and stared at the ceiling.

  Had he gone nuts? Why on earth was he letting himself get involved in such a hair-raising adventure? Just because of a ghost that had scared the life out of him and almost strangled him with its icy fingers? Thanks to which his entire family now believed him to be a lunatic? The ghost whose disgusting slime he had spent half a night scrubbing off the stairwell?

  No.

  Tom sat up decisively.

  Out of the question. No way. Let that old disgusting spook stay down in the cellar. He wasn’t afraid of him anymore. Only someone with a death wish would take on an IRG, that was for sure, no matter what Hetty Hyssop said. He’d better tell Hugo right away. Then the whole ghastly episode would be behind him once and for all.

  “Where are you off to now?” asked Lola as Tom sneaked out of the apartment once more.

  “To play with my ghost,” he replied, and slammed the door behind him.

  8

  “Hey!” whispered Tom, feeling his way into the dark cellar. “Hey, Hugo, where are you?” “What do yoooou want?” came a sleepy voice from the darkest corner.

  “I, um …” Tom cleared his throat, embarrassed. “I have to talk to you.”

  “Can’t it wait?” grumbled the ghost. Flickering, he rose from behind the potato sack. When he yawned, Tom saw nothing but the cellar wall through his open mouth.

  “Oh, you can go back to sleep in a minute,” said Tom. “I just wanted to tell you —” he bit his lip “— that I’m not coming tonight!”

  Hugo looked at him, gobsmacked. “Do yoooou mean yoooou’re not going to help me anymore?”

  “I’m sorry,” said Tom. “But you can stay here for now. Good night!”

  Quickly he made for the door. He wished he could have just sunk into the cellar floor with shame.

  “Aaaaaaaaaoooooooooooeeeee!” howled Hugo behind him. “Aaaaooo, betrayed and abandoned! It’s disgraceful! Booooo hooooo!”

  “Shh! Keep it down!” hissed Tom.

  “Oooooooooh!” yowled the ghost, wobbling around and wringing his hands. “Ooooooh, yoou’re afraid, yoou’re just afraid!”

  The whole cellar was filled with his flickering blue ghostly light.

  “Yeah, that’s right,” said Tom. “Dead right. So? You’re afraid, too. I’m not even ten yet, and there’s no way I’m going to get frozen solid or blown up. No thanks!”

  “Oooooooohhhhhh!” moaned Hugo. Such floods of silvery dust streamed from his eyes that Tom had to sneeze. “Yoou’re so mean, yoou’re so incredibly mean.”

  “No I’m not!” Tom said defensively. “What’s more, I don’t know what you’re making such a fuss about. You’ve still got Hetty Hyssop. She’ll be better at helping you than I will, anyway.”

  “She won’t help me now, either,” wailed Hugo. “Huuumans always stick together, don’t think I don’t know that! I’ll have to spend the rest of my life in this stinking cellar, booo hoooo!”

  “It didn’t stink until you lived here,” growled Tom, setting his glasses straight. How annoying — he really felt sorry for Hugo.

  “Oh! Oooooooh! Oooooow!” sniffed the ghost, tearing at its shaggy hair. The noise really was almost unbearable.

  “Come on, give it a rest,” said Tom uneasily. “It’s not that bad down here.”

  “Oh no?” A voice suddenly came from behind him. Shocked, Tom whirled around — and saw Lola’s grinning face.

  “Well, I wouldn’t much enjoy sitting around in the dark.” Curiously she looked past Tom, but the cellar was empty. Hugo had vanished without a trace. And this time Tom was glad.

  “I’m seriously worried about you, little brother,” said Lola mockingly. “What do you think Mom’ll say when she hears you’re sitting in the cellar talking to yourself, huh?”

  “I’m not talking to myself,” Tom replied casually. “I’m talking to the ghost. It’s pretty lonely down here, after all.”

  “Oh!” Irritated, Lola folded her arms across her chest. “So what do you two talk about?”

  “Oh, we’d actually just finished our conversation, hadn’t we, Hugo?” he said to the potato sack. “Take care, buddy. And forget what I said. That IRG will soon meet its masters and you will go home.”

  The cellar was deadly silent.

  “Come on!” Tom shoved Lola back out into the corridor. “I want some sleep now.”

  “Oh jeepers,” moaned Lola, shaking her head. “It’s a thousand times worse than I thought!”

  9

  Yet another night with no sleep, thought Tom as he put on his jacket. I don’t think I’ll ever be able to close my mouth again for yawning.

  Once again, nobody noticed him slipping out of the apartment. But this time, Hugo came floating up to him right outside Miss Smarmy-Smith’s door.

  “Why didn’t you wait in the cellar?” hissed Tom. “Why should I? Do yoooou want to fly underground?” asked the ghost, puffing his musty breath into Tom’s face. “The best place to take off will be over there!” And, quietly humming to himself, he floated over to one of the hall windows.

  “Out of there?” asked Tom — and stepped in the wretched ghost slime again. “Curses!” he muttered, tugging at his shoe. “Why do you always have to leave this mess behind?”

  Hugo looked at him, offended. “Don’t be such a smart aleck! Yooou’d better open that window for us.”

  “Yeah, yeah.” Tom obeyed, and looked down onto the dark street. “That’s quite a drop!”

  “Oooh, quite a drop. Oooooooh!” said Hugo teasingly, and floated out into the night.

  “I don’t get how this is supposed to work,” whispered Tom. “Do I sit on your back or what?”

  “Of cooourse not!” Hugo purred. “Yooou climb onto the windowsill, I put my arm around yooou, and — wheeeeee! We’re off! Easy as pie
!”

  “For you, maybe!” growled Tom, climbing onto the windowsill. Don’t look down, he told himself. Just don’t look down. But Hugo had already slung his icy arm around him and floated out into the cool September night, pressing Tom like a sack of potatoes against his pale chest. Beneath them trees and houses shrank to the size of toys. Quite a disturbing sight.

  “Hey, why are you flying so high?” cried Tom. But Hugo just laughed a hideous laugh and floated on. Thank goodness their spooky flight didn’t take too long.

  The graveyard lay at the northern edge of town. With a howl Hugo flew over the iron gate and set Tom down in the small square behind it. One solitary lamp spread its dim light into the night, illuminating some of the gravestones. Tom had only one wish: to be back in his bed, to know nothing about ghosts and ghosthunting. Strangely even Hugo seemed a little nervous, probably because of what Tom had read about ASGs in The Book of Ghosts: “turns to dust on contact with dirt from graveyards.”

  Not a pleasant prospect, even for a ghost.

  Tom shivered, trying to make himself believe it was just the cool night air. He had often been here with his grandma, visiting his grandpa’s grave, but that was always during the daytime, of course. At night this was quite a different place.

  “Good evening, young man,” said a voice, and Hetty Hyssop emerged from the darkness carrying an old-fashioned lantern and a bucket.

  Baffled, Tom glanced at the enormous chain around the graveyard gate. “How did you get in?”

  “Oh, I have my secret ways.” The old lady smiled meaningfully. “After all, I come here quite often. But don’t let’s stand around talking. It’s very cold tonight!”

  “I’ll wait here!” said Hugo. “I don’t like graveyards. Not in the slightest.”

  “Well, that’s because you are not a Graveyard Ghost,” Hetty Hyssop observed. “Just don’t put your moldy feet onto one of the graves or we may have to carry you home in a bucket, too! Come on, Tom!” She thrust the bucket into Tom’s hands while Hugo seated himself on the gate with a horrified expression, then made for one of the narrow paths that wound through the maze of graves.

  “Hey — the bucket’s full!” said Tom, astonished, while he tried to keep up with the old woman’s long, spindly legs.

  “Of course it is!” she answered, glancing around. “I always bring replacement dirt with me. Oh, here we go. I do believe this is a good spot!” With a confident smile she sped over to a grave that lay slightly off the path and looked extremely overgrown. “I only take dirt from forgotten graves like this one,” she explained while she poured out the dirt she had brought and plucked the grass up from the old grave. Then she filled the bucket with new graveyard dirt and pulled a small flowerpot out of her big handbag. “We’ll leave this here as a little thank-you! Ghosthunters should always be respectful of the dead. Remember that, Tom, even if from time to time you have to hunt them down.”

  Whilst Hetty Hyssop quietly planted her flower, Tom looked around nervously. There was a huge gravestone on the next grave and in front of it stood a colored grave light with a small door to push a candle inside. The little door suddenly opened — and something floated out. Something sulfurous yellow with red eyes. Barely bigger than Tom’s hand.

  “Hetty Hyssop!” he whispered, his eyes fixed on the creature.

  “What’s the matter, young man?” the old lady asked while she grabbed for a tissue to rub the dirt off her fingers.

  “Some … some … thing came out of that grave light!” Tom stuttered. “Something yellow with — with eyes. It’s floating right at us!”

  “Oh that!” Hetty Hyssop seemed utterly unimpressed. “Don’t take any notice of it. That’s just a Graveyard Ghost. Totally harmless, but very curious. The poor things spend most of their ghostly existence horrendously bored. Come on! Let’s go back to your friend.”

  And off they set with their full bucket. Tom kept stumbling over his own feet because he couldn’t stop looking at the Graveyard Ghosts. There were more and more of them. As soon as Tom passed one of the grave lights, its inhabitant came out and fluttered after them. Some were blue, others purple, or as yellow as the first one, obviously depending on the color of their homes. There was a whole flock of them and they giggled — at least that’s how Tom interpreted the shrieky little noises they made from time to time.

  The tiny specters accompanied the two ghosthunters until they reached the little square behind the entrance again, but there they suddenly disappeared, as if they had turned into thin air.

  “Please, those pathetic Graveyard Ghosts!” Hugo mocked, floating down from the gate. “Who’re they trying to scare?”

  “Well, I know this thought is not easy to grasp for an ASG,” Hetty Hyssop said, “but not all ghosts’ lives revolve around scaring people.”

  “Oh yes?” Hugo answered — and backed away, horrified, when she set down the full bucket of dirt. “Aaaaaaaaaaargh!” he howled. “What are you trying to do? Turn a poor ghost to dust?”

  “Oh, don’t make such a fuss,” Hetty replied. “I’ll take the dirt home with me. All you’ve got to do is make sure our friend here gets safely back to his bed.” Then she turned to Tom. “Young man, we’ve taken the first step on our hunt. Tomorrow evening we’ll take the next one, which will be far more dangerous. We’ll meet at seven at your ghostly friend’s former home to confront the IRG and, if possible, eliminate it before it haunts another place. Wear something warm, and practice squinting! I’ll take care of the rest. Agreed?”

  Tom nodded. But Hugo was off again, grumbling and groaning. “Not until tomorrow?” he howled. “Why not now? Am I supposed to spend another night in that stinking cellar? With nothing but a couple of mice to scare?”

  “My dear ghostly friend,” said Hetty Hyssop tartly, “if you keep moaning like that, I feel quite tempted not to help you at all. Good night, Tom!” And with that she turned and tramped off into the darkness without another word.

  10

  Next morning, Tom fell asleep in his English class. He was sitting in the back row, so he might have gotten away with it. But unfortunately he also snored very loudly. Quite embarrassing. His English teacher just shook him awake, but in Math another noisy nap landed Tom extra homework.

  So that was what you got for rendering heroic services to a homeless ghost! Never mind that it also proved ghosthunting and going to school were hardly compatible.

  At dinner Tom was yawning so much that he could barely eat his macaroni, which earned him a very suspicious look from his mother. “You’ve been reading under the covers again, Tom!”

  Tom shook his head vigorously — and yawned.

  “Well, something must have made you this tired,” said Dad.

  “He’s probably been playing with his ghost,” Lola said with a smirk.

  “Oh Tom, you don’t still believe there’s a ghost in the cellar?” asked Mom, concerned. “Is that why you can’t sleep at night?”

  “Of course not!” said Tom, frowning at his sister. “I’m just —” he had to yawn again “— dead tired. You are tired all the time, too, aren’t you?” And with that he headed off to his room.

  Slimy situation, thought Tom. I need an alibi for this evening. Who knows how long it’ll take to drive out an IRG. And as things stand, Mom’ll definitely come to check whether I’m asleep. Curses! He took the tiny makeup mirror that he had nicked from Lola out of his pocket and practiced squinting. But that didn’t make thinking of an alibi any easier. Just when he was feeling quite queasy from staring at his nose, his darling sister came crashing into his room. Without knocking, naturally.

  “Hey, stop squinting at me,” she snapped. “Grandma’s on the phone — she wants to talk to her little lunatic of a grandson!”

  Tom pushed past her, still squinting. Grandma. That could be the solution to his alibi problem! Luckily Mom collared Lola to clean up in the kitchen, so he could talk to Grandma in peace and quiet.

  Of course she had called to hear all about his gho
st. Tom gave her a full report before bringing up his new problem. But Grandma, sadly, wasn’t eager to give him an alibi for the night.

  “No,” she said. “That sounds dangerous, my boy. I don’t want to be a part of it.”

  “Please, Grandma. You don’t have to lie. I will sleep at your house, honest. I’ll just get there a bit later.”

  “No!”

  “Please?”

  “No. Unless —” Grandma cleared her throat “— unless Hetty tells me that it’s not too dangerous. I’ll ask her, then I’ll call you back!”

  A couple of minutes later, Grandma rang again. “Hetty says it’s OK!” she said. “In fact she seems quite impressed by your ghosthunting skills. Hand me over to your mother!”

  Tom had secured his alibi.

  Homework took forever, thanks to the wretched extra Math assignment. It was already half past six when Tom slipped into the sitting room to snatch the street map from the chest of drawers. Luckily Hugo had remembered the address of his beloved villa, 23 Nightshade Walk. It was even farther away than Tom had thought. Beyond the city’s central park. Curses! He’d be late. Tom quickly shoved the street map under his sweater, jumped up — and ran straight into Lola’s folded arms.

  “Well, squirt,” she said, “what’s the street map for?”

  “Mind your own business!” Tom angrily shoved her aside and ran back into his room. How did she always manage to sneak up on him so quietly? He grabbed his backpack and the bag he’d stuffed his winter clothes into. His fingers trembled with anger as he put on his shoes. Big sisters should be banned! As Tom was about to go, Lola appeared again, leaning against the living room door, grinning. “So, you’re taking your backpack with you again? And what’s in that other bag?”