Ghosthunters and the Gruesome Invincible Lightning Ghost

by Cornelia Funke

  Ghosthunters

  and the

  Gruesome

  Invincible

  Lightning

  Ghost!

  by CORNELIA FUNKE

  For

  Marion

  and

  her

  men

  CONTENTS

  Cover

  Title Page

  1. Just a Little Trip

  2. Damaged by a Ghost

  3. The First Fiery Encounter

  4. Attack in the Elevator

  5. The Fourth Floor

  6. Bad, Bad, Bad

  7. What Now?

  8. Great Excitement

  9. Ghosts in the Afternoon

  10. A Shock in the Evening

  11. Fireworks

  12. The idea that Saved the Day

  13. Ghosts from the Coffeepot

  In Case of an Encounter

  Indispensable Alphabetical APPENDIX OF ASSORTED GHOSTS

  Miscellaneous Listing of NECESSITOUS EQUIPMENT AND: NOTEWORTHY ORGANIZATIONS

  Preview

  About the Author

  ALSO BY CORNELIA FUNKE

  Copyright

  Let me introduce three of the most successful

  ghosthunters of our time.

  Hetty Hyssop has been a world-famous expert in the field of professional ghosthunting for many, many years — and Tom and Hugo the ASG (Averagely Spooky Ghost) have been working as her assistants since they joined forces for their first and extremely dangerous case — namely: the successful capture of an IRG (Incredibly Revolting Ghost), one of the most dangerous ghost species on this planet.

  Since then, the name Hetty Hyssop & Co. has been famous for just what it says on the business cards: ALL TYPES OF GHOSTHUNTING UNDERTAKEN.

  In fact, there’s scarcely any ghost that could frighten our three experts nowadays. But the job we’re going to hear about in this book was really hot stuff — quite literally — even for such experienced ghosthunters as Hyssop & Co.

  So, I hope you’re sitting comfortably, in a brightly lit room — knowing that ghosts hate the light. And that you are wearing red clothes — knowing red is the most disturbing color for ghosts — because here we go…

  1

  It’s always the same with dangerous adventures: They start off quite harmlessly.

  One fine autumn day, the famous ghosthunter Hetty Hyssop received a letter. It was from a certain Alvin Bigshot, manager of a posh seaside hotel that appeared to be suffering from a couple of small but unpleasant problems; problems that could only be explained as ghostly. Mr. Bigshot was therefore asking the experts at Hyssop & Co. for immediate — and above all discreet — help.

  “Oh, yet another boring old routine job!” Hetty Hyssop sighed. “But a seaside hotel doesn’t sound too bad. It’s always nice to have a weekend by the sea.”

  Unfortunately in this case she was hugely mistaken.

  Hetty Hyssop passed on the news to her assistants, Tom and Hugo the ASG, packed her basic ghosthunting gear, and met the pair of them on Saturday on the train to Bumblebeach.

  As I said before, it all started off quite harmlessly.

  Hetty Hyssop had reserved an entire compartment on account of Hugo. After all, not everyone can cope with a train journey spent face-to-face with an ASG, even though these ghosts are among the most harmless of their species. Once in the compartment, Tom immediately shut all the curtains: ASGs, like most ghosts, can’t stand bright daylight.

  “You can come out, Hugo,” he said, dumping his backpack on the seat.

  “Oooooww! Be a bit more careful, please!” came a muffled grumble as Hugo wobbled out of the backpack. “Oooooh my,” he moaned. “I hate traveling. Dreadful business!”

  “My dear Hugo,” said Hetty Hyssop as she lifted her suitcase onto the luggage rack and put her thermos of tea onto the foldaway table to the side of her. “You certainly didn’t have to come. I told you that already. Your help is definitely not necessary in this case. And I’m quite sure you don’t want to spend your time sunbathing on the beach, do you?”

  “Very fuuuunny!” Hugo turned his bluish sulky color and disappeared up onto the luggage rack.

  “I told him we didn’t need him, too,” said Tom, plonking himself down on the seat. “But he was dead set on coming.”

  “Typical,” said Hetty Hyssop. “All ASGs are unbearably nosy!”

  She took two red plastic mugs out of her handbag, and handed Tom four packets of sugar and a crumpled letter. “There you go, young friend,” she said, pouring the tea.

  Curious, Hugo leaned down from the luggage rack.

  “Take your stinky feet off my head,” growled Tom, trying to make out in the dim light what the letter said. The ASG tickled Tom’s neck with icy fingers.

  “Hugo, for heaven’s sake, stop it!” cried Tom. Irritated, he took off his glasses and cleaned them. “Get lost! Your stupid moldy breath’s steaming up my glasses!”

  “Mooooldy breath? Mooooldy breath?” Hugo wobbled up to the ceiling, looking deeply offended. “Your rotten tea’s to blame!”

  Tom just shook his head, put his glasses back on, and read aloud: “‘Dear Mr. Hyssop!’” He raised his head. “Why ‘Mr.’?”

  “Well, that’s typical, too!” Hetty Hyssop replied. “People think of a professional ghosthunter, and they imagine a man. Stupid, but very common — unfortunately!”

  “ ‘Dear Mr. Hyssop,’ “ Tom read again. “ ‘For some days now, peculiar things have been going on in our hotel, things that I’m sorry to say can’t be explained by common sense. Hot water has come out of the taps quite abruptly and our air-conditioning system is behaving more and more erratically. Moreover, the most annoying and unpleasant noises can be heard at night, and some of my staff have observed some rather strange things. Since you have an excellent reputation, and are obviously the most renowned expert in the field of ghosthunting, I should like to ask you to free us from these tiresome disturbances. However, I do have to consider the good name of our hotel, so I must ask you for the utmost discretion. With best wishes, Alvin Bigshot.’

  “Sounds like a small Fire Ghost!” Tom poured the four packets of sugar into his mug. ‘“Just a couple of hours’ work, I’d say.”

  “Exactly my opinion,” said Hetty Hyssop. “Which means we’ll be able to spend a couple of pleasant hours on the beach. How do you like that idea? Meanwhile, our dear friend Hugo can stay safely in the hotel cellar!”

  “Very nice!” groused Hugo from the ceiling. “Those Fire Ghosts are ridiculous idiots. I’d…”

  “Quiet!” hissed Hetty Hyssop. Steps could be heard coming along the corridor. The compartment door opened and the ticket collector stuck his head through the curtains.

  “Tickets, please!”

  Hetty Hyssop passed him the tickets with a friendly smile. Tom cast a worried look at the ceiling, but Hugo had disappeared behind the suitcase.

  The ticket collector stamped and returned the tickets to Hetty Hyssop with a nod. But just when he was about to leave the compartment something grabbed his cap. Something wobbly, cold, and moldy green. Horrified, he looked up — where his cap floated ten inches above his head and, above the cap, a ghost with flapping hair and garish green eyes grinned down at him maliciously.

  “Hellooooooo!” Hugo purred. Then he dropped the cap back onto the ticket collector’s head, blew his cold and stinky breath into the poor man’s face, and disappeared back inside the backpack.

  “Hugo!” Tom cried angrily.

  The ticket collector stood there trembling, his teeth chattering so loudly that the people in the next compart
ment could hear them.

  “Is there something wrong with the tickets, sir?” asked Hetty Hyssop in her deep, reassuring voice.

  The poor ticket collector couldn’t stop trembling.

  He cast a fearful look around the whole compartment, but there wasn’t the teensy-weensiest bit of moldy green anywhere to be seen.

  “Are you looking for something?” Tom tried to sound as innocent as possible.

  The ticket collector wiped his brow and murmured, “Next stop: Bumblebeach!” Then he stumbled out of the compartment as fast as his short legs could carry him, and slammed the door behind him.

  “Oh, that silly ASG!” groaned Hetty Hyssop. “Hugo, have you lost what’s left of your ghostly mind? This isn’t a pleasure trip!”

  “Don’t you go showing yourself so quickly again!” Tom called up to the luggage rack. “You’re nothing but trouble!”

  “Yooooou don’t let a poor ghost doooooo anything!” came an offended voice from the backpack. “Yooooou don’t know how tooooo have fun! No fun at all!”

  Hetty Hyssop just shook her head. “That’s what comes of traveling with a ghost. I dare say our own ASG will give us more trouble than Mr. Bigshot’s Fire Ghost!”

  Unfortunately, she was badly mistaken once again. But how was Hetty Hyssop to know that Mr. Bigshot had concealed various important things from her, and that she and Tom would soon need Hugo’s help rather urgently?

  2

  Hyssop & Co. took a taxi to the hotel. Hugo hid himself in Tom’s backpack again and, thankfully, stayed there. Only once did his long white arm come floating out to pinch the taxi driver’s ear. Naturally, though, Tom was the prime suspect.

  The Seafront Hotel was indeed right on the seafront. A large and beautiful park separated it from the coastal road, and if you went down a couple of wooden steps from the rear veranda, you came out on a private beach full of signs saying: SEAFRONT HOTEL GUESTS ONLY.

  Tom had never been in a hotel before, never mind a hotel like this. The only thing that marred the idyllic impression of the place was a big black mark on the roof. Hetty Hyssop didn’t like the look of that at all.

  “Strange!” she murmured. “Very strange indeed!”

  The taxi deposited them by the Seafront’s main entrance, and a bellboy immediately came running down the immense flight of stairs to carry their bags — an offer Hetty Hyssop refused with a smile.

  “Wow, this is some swank hotel!” said Tom as they climbed the steps.

  “I want to see it, toooooo,” grumbled Hugo from within the backpack.

  “You stay in there for now,” hissed Hetty Hyssop. “Your little joke on the train was quite enough. In any case, it’s much too light!”

  Hetty and Tom passed through the elegant entrance hall and made for the reception desk. A couple of guests were sitting in front of a huge fireplace, but nobody seemed to take much notice of the two ghosthunters.

  “Not doing bad business, considering it’s not peak vacation time,” observed Tom. He looked around curiously. A short fat man was standing behind the reception desk, sorting the mail into the guests’ pigeonholes.

  “Good morning,” said Hetty Hyssop with a friendly smile, putting her business card down on the counter. “Would you mind telling Mr. Bigshot that we’re here?”

  The little man glanced at the business card, gave a start, and dropped all his letters.

  Evidently damaged by a ghost, thought Tom. He had come to recognize the signs immediately: pasty skin, trembling earlobes, chewed bottom lip, and — quite typical for a person haunted by Fire Ghosts — a faint, barely noticeable smell of burning on his hair and clothes.

  “Ju — just a moment, please!” The head receptionist shot off, whereupon the ghosthunters took the opportunity to have an innocent look around the hall.

  “Except for the staff’s symptoms, there’s no trace of anything,” whispered Hetty.

  “Not even any ashes,” Tom whispered back. “And none of the electric sockets are black, either!”

  “Dead right!” Hetty Hyssop nodded. “Everything’s pointing to a harmless attack!”

  Before they could make any further observations, the head receptionist returned with the manager in tow. Alvin Bigshot was a large bald man with a small, perfectly groomed mustache, a white suit, and shoes so highly polished you could see your reflection in them. The sight of Hetty Hyssop and Tom seemed to come as quite a surprise to him.

  “Hyssop and Co.?” he asked. “The…” He looked around hastily and lowered his voice. “…the ghosthunters?”

  “Mr. Bigshot, I presume?” Hetty shook his hand firmly. “I suggest we don’t stand around here, but go talk in your office. What do you think?”

  The manager nodded uncertainly and showed them into a tastefully furnished office with a massive desk harboring four telephones and a small aquarium crowded with tiny fish.

  “Please, do take a seat, Hetty, um…”

  “Hyssop,” said Hetty, relieving herself of her suitcase and sitting down. “I presume you look so confused because I’m a woman, not to mention quite an old woman? That’s stupid, you know, so forget it!”

  The manager opened and shut his mouth like one of his fish.

  “Here on my right,” continued Hetty Hyssop, “is my assistant, Tom. Don’t be deceived by his age: He’s a highly experienced ghosthunter. I’ll introduce my other helper to you once the curtains are shut. Would you mind…?”

  “Um, yes, of course!” The manager sprang up and drew the curtains.

  “Green,” Tom observed with a frown. “Are all the hotel curtains green?”

  The manager nodded.

  Tom shrugged his shoulders. “Not the most favorable color when it comes to ghosts,” he said. “You should consider yourself lucky that we’re dealing with Fire Ghosts here!”

  “Really? Um, why’s that?” asked Mr. Bigshot, tugging nervously at his mustache.

  “Fire Ghosts like all colors,” explained Tom. “Most other ghosts, though, are particularly keen on green. They hate red, but they’re attracted to green, especially moldy green!”

  The manager looked anxiously at his curtains.

  “You’ll see for yourself any moment,” said Hetty Hyssop. “Hugo, you can come out now. But be careful not to slime on everything, OK?”

  “Oh, at last!” groaned the ASG, wobbling out of Tom’s backpack pale as a mushroom and large as life. “Oh, woooonderful!” he sighed, looking around. “Everything’s green!”

  Mr. Bigshot gave a sharp cry of horror and disappeared under his desk.

  Tom grinned, and Hugo doubled in size with pride.

  “Honestly, Mr. Bigshot! What’s all the fuss about?” Hetty Hyssop rapped on his desk. “Come on out, there’s nothing to worry about. This is my other assistant, Hugo the ASG!”

  “But… but…” Mr. Bigshot’s voice trembled.

  “But it’s a ghost!”

  “Absolutely right,” replied Hetty Hyssop. “Could we please get on with discussing our assignment now?”

  Hesitantly, the manager crept out from under his desk. Beads of sweat glistened on his bald patch, and his mustache looked positively disheveled. “I’m sorry, I’m just n—n—not used to seeing such things!” he stammered, sitting down in his chair again.

  “No worries,” breathed Hugo, offering Mr. Bigshot his white hand.

  As ASG fingers are icy cold, the manager gave a start when he shook it. And as they are always pretty slimy, Alvin Bigshot hastily wiped his hand on a tissue before he addressed Hetty Hyssop again.

  “Mr., um, Hugo,” he said clearing his throat, “doesn’t look like our ghost so far as I know. I’ve never actually seen it myself, but the porter and a bellboy said they saw something transparent that was small and reddish and stank of sulfur. I personally…” He nervously tugged at his mustache again. “… I personally didn’t believe a word of it, to be honest, because…” He gave Hugo a sheepish look. “… I — don’t take it the wrong way — I don’t actually believe in g
hosts. But then there was all the business with the hot water and, um, the steam from the air-conditioning, and this faint burning smell everywhere without there being a fire. Highly unpleasant!” The manager cleared his throat again. “This is a luxury hotel, if you get my drift, and the whole thing has to be handled very discreetly. After all, we’ve got a reputation to protect. A nice relaxing place to unwind and that sort of thing, if you see what I mean!”

  Hetty Hyssop nodded. “Are these apparitions especially bad in any particular part of the hotel?”

  The manager cleared his throat yet again. “On the fourth floor. Things on the fourth floor are… somewhat problematic!”

  “What’s that supposed to mean?” Tom asked suspiciously. He had a sneaking feeling that Mr. Bigshot wasn’t telling them everything he knew.

  “Well, um…” The manager tapped a golden fountain pen nervously against his desk. “I’m not quite up to speed with the current state of play, but…”

  “And what exactly is that supposed to mean?” asked Hetty Hyssop, rubbing her pointy nose. She, too, was gradually losing patience.

  The second telephone on the left rang. “No calls!” Alvin Bigshot snapped into it, and slammed the receiver down.

  Hetty Hyssop repeated her question: “Once again — what do you mean, you’re ‘not quite up to speed with the current state of play'?”

  “Since yesterday, the staff have been refusing to go up to the fourth floor,” muttered Alvin Bigshot. “But, I mean, bellboys and chambermaids are always scaredy-cats, aren’t they?”

  “What about the guests?” asked Tom.

  The manager shrugged his shoulders. “They… well.” He wiped his hand across his sweaty bald patch. “They didn’t come down for breakfast. But come on, that doesn’t necessarily mean anything. All these silly rumors about ghosts will just have made them, you know, feel a bit intimidated. It’s all a tempest in a teacup, if you ask me!”

  Tom and Hetty Hyssop exchanged alarmed looks, and Hugo collapsed down to half his size.