“Do we have to do it the hard way? Do I have to drag you down the steps?”
“You’re just a ghost!” I shouted, my knees trembling. “You have no substance. You can’t drag me anywhere!”
“Oh! Can’t I, boy? You don’t know very much about ghosts, do you? Who do you think turned the key and locked you in here?”
Netty moved closer and stretched out her left hand toward me until her ghostly fingers were touching my neck. I could actually feel her cold fingertips! Then there was a sudden tug at the collar of my shirt, and for a moment I lost my balance. I tottered at the top of the steps and almost pitched forward into the waiting talons of the abhuman. He was straining against the chain again, slavering in anticipation of eating my flesh and drinking my blood.
But somehow I managed to remain upright and, once more, pressed myself back against the door.
“You’re stronger than you look, boy!” Netty said. “Not to worry. It’s easy enough to summon up a little help. There are plenty here that owe me big favors. Either that or they’re scared of displeasing me. Even a ghost can be hurt by one like me—the ghost of a witch is very rare but also very powerful!”
Long-Neck
Netty began to mutter under her breath, and the air instantly became very cold. Suddenly there were other presences moving up out of the darkness of the Witch Well, each surrounded by a nimbus of baleful yellow light.
Some crawled up the steps toward me with heavy, ponderous intent; others soared into the air above the abhuman and circled at great speed, making me dizzy just to look at them. They were hideous and misshapen, with teeth like needles and long, matted hair trailing behind as they flew. Around and around they whirled, shrieking loud enough to burst my eardrums. Then they began to tug at my clothes and pinch my skin with their sharp fingernails.
“Get away from me!” I screamed, hitting out in all directions. Netty cackled and chortled, loving every second of my desperate struggle. I fought to keep my balance, but the castle ghosts were relentless and their attempts to tug me down the stone steps went on and on, while Netty grinned at me and her son drooled in anticipation of the feast to come.
But I was determined to survive. I just had to hang on for a few hours. Help would eventually arrive. I could do it!
Never give up! I told myself. Never give up!
Freedom
All that happened a long time ago and my memories of that terrible experience have now faded somewhat. I’ve walked the corridors of the castle for many years now, and I’ve gotten used to the ghosts, so most of them don’t scare me that much anymore. In fact, Adam Colne was right—they’ve almost become a family to me, replaced the family I lost a long time ago. But I always stay away from the Witch Well; it still doesn’t do to get too close to Long-Neck Netty and her abhuman son.
Guards come and go. Samuel and George are long gone and Adam Colne has retired—his son has taken his place. It seems to be a family tradition. Four generations of Colnes have guarded the Witch Well. No doubt I’ll still be around when Adam’s grandson takes over. I’ll be here as long as the walls of the castle still stand. I know my place in the scheme of things.
Because now I’m one of the castle ghosts.
About the Author
Do I believe in ghosts?
I do believe in ghosts. I certainly think that I once heard one.
In Combe Martin, Devon, I stayed at a hotel called the Pack o’ Cards which is supposed to be haunted by a white lady.
In the middle of the night there were strange disturbing noises. It began with a pattering under the floorboards which I tried to convince myself was just mice. If so those mice had big feet! Then suddenly there was a very loud noise which was difficult to explain. It sounded as if a heavy coin had been chucked into a large metal bucket and that sound reverberated right down through the bedroom floor. Things that go clang in the night are really scary! There was little sleep to be had after that…
Joseph Delaney
About the Illustrator
Do I believe in ghosts?
This is a true story. I was ten years old and alone in my long deceased great-grandparents’ house in upstate New York. There are many family stories about the strange happenings in that house and they made me avoid being there by myself, normally.
But I was upstairs on my own, sitting in the bathroom, reading a comic book. When nature calls, one must answer! So I’d left the game of tag with my cousins in the yard to answer that call. First, I heard the floorboards creaking in the hall. Then the sound of footsteps, each one very distinct, approached and stopped just outside the closed bathroom door. “Someone’s in here!” I called out. No one answered. The door had a small brass knob. Sitting here at age forty, I can still remember that knob vividly—tarnished with a raised ridge around its circumference. I can especially remember watching the knob turn, the click of the latch, and the groaning hinges as the door swung open, exposing me to the house in a most vulnerable way.
But there was no one there. I could see all of my cousins through the bathroom window still playing in the yard. My trousers were barely done up as I burst out the front door, screaming…
Scott M. Fischer
The Ghost Prison Page 3
