Ghost Club 1

by Deborah Abela

  ‘It was a corker of a goal.’ Arthur held his fork in the air. ‘You should have seen it, Flora. There was silence for a good two minutes while everyone took in the greatness of it.’

  Houdini barked in agreement.

  ‘Two minutes?’ Edgar raised an eyebrow at his dad.

  ‘Maybe not two minutes, but it was one of the best goals ever scored in the history of great goals!’

  ‘Well,’ Flora hurrumphed, ‘as admirable as that is, and it is, I don’t think ghost-catching is a proper thing for young children to do.’

  ‘Saving people from a life of fear is a very proper thing to do,’ Grandma Rose said.

  ‘For adults, maybe.’

  ‘We don’t believe in tucking our kids away in cotton wool, Flora,’ Arthur said. ‘They’ve been trained by the best, have access to all the latest technology and are some of the most successful catchers in the business.’

  ‘Yes, but what a business! And why do they go out on their own? Why don’t you go with them?’

  ‘We’d just be in the way,’ Lily said. ‘We’re all members of the club, but only those who can detect ghosts are ordained as catchers.’

  ‘But –’

  ‘But nothing, Flora,’ Grandma Rose said. ‘Not just anyone is chosen to be part of the Ghost Club. We’re talking about the oldest paranormal investigative organisation in the world. Oh sure, on one level it’s simply about going out at night, braving the cold and, at times, very haunted streets, but to be inducted into the Ghost Club marks you as truly special. It means you are brave, dedicated and selfless, and you have that sixth sense about you that allows you to know things your other five senses can’t even detect.’

  She looked adoringly at her grandchildren, eyes glistening. ‘I remember when they were young. I’d sneak into their room and find them standing in their cots, giggling and waving their hands, as if they were being entertained by a clowning uncle –’

  ‘Uncle Seamus, usually,’ Edgar and Angeline said together as if they’d heard the story many times.

  ‘They could see ghosts clearer than most people and there was no denying it.’ Grandma Rose took Flora’s hand. ‘I know you only want the best for your niece and nephew, but even at this young age they’re already serving their neighbours, their fellow citizens and their country.’ She gave a small sniff. ‘What greater honour is there?’

  There was a solemn silence until Grandma Rose took a hanky from her pocket and blew into it with a loud honk. ‘Besides,’ she continued, shoving the hanky back in her pocket and spearing another piece of lasagne, ‘they’re some of the best ghost catchers this club has ever had – or I’ll eat my own head.’

  ‘And I wouldn’t be any kind of father if I didn’t encourage my children in what they do well,’ Arthur added, winking at Angeline and Edgar.

  ‘But they . . . I . . .’ Aunt Flora’s argument seemed to have lost its fire.

  ‘You can’t deny children their talents,’ Lily warned. ‘No good can come of that.’

  ‘Still, you . . . you . . .’

  ‘Need to go.’ Arthur wiped his mouth on a serviette. ‘Sorry dinner’s been a bit rushed, Flora, but we need to get ready for our meeting.’ He kissed her on the cheek. ‘Great lasagne – can you give me the recipe?’

  Angeline and Edgar hugged their aunt. ‘Could you, please?’ they pleaded.

  After the kids showered and dressed, the Ushers slipped their arms through their official Ghost Club attire, a midnight-blue cloak with the club’s insignia on the front: a gold shield with the letters, GC, positioned in the centre in deep black. They waved Flora goodbye, packed the basket of Ghost Club washing into their battered old station wagon and piled inside.

  Arthur carefully nursed the tray of cupcakes and asked Lily to slowly reverse down the driveway. Angeline and Edgar began downloading footage from their Ghost Club camera badges to their Trackers. They went over every detail of the catch as they typed up their reports, while Grandma Rose eagerly listened in and delighted at her grandchildren’s brave efforts.

  Which meant that none of them, even the usually alert Angeline, noticed a pair of eyes watching them nearby. Eyes that followed the Usher family car all the way down the street and around the corner, until it disappeared from sight.

  ‘Usher family.’ Lily stuck her head out of the car and spoke into the intercom attached to an ivy-covered stone wall. ‘Lily Usher speaking.’

  A camera whirred and wobbled out from above the intercom like a robotic eye. It focused first on Lily, then her family inside the car, before withdrawing back into position. With a loud creak, two large wrought-iron gates came to life and opened with a groan. The top of the gates formed an arch above a flourish of iron swirls and loops, and in the centre of each, on gold plates, were the letters:

  ‘Thank you,’ Lily said into the intercom.

  The Usher family drove inside the vast, unruly Ghost Club grounds. The car shuddered along a gravelly road, beneath forbidding, gnarled trees that stretched above them like grasping claws. As they drove further, the already dark evening slowly became darker and the air filled with the smell of damp earth and the decay of fallen leaves. Fireflies lit up the bushes on either side like mischievous sprites up to no good. The wind threw itself among the branches, moving them in a jagged rhythm so that, in the distance, they could only see a few specks of light flickering in and out of sight.

  Suddenly, there it was. The Ghost Club.

  A lofty, ramshackle mansion perched at the end of a path. Lit by flaming torches, it was an odd collection of spires, peaked roofs, turrets and balustrades curling around balconies. A tower rose from the centre that seemed to have been added to over many years, giving it a crooked, mismatched appearance. Odd pieces of building jutted out in all directions, often ending in perched gargoyles, praying angels or demons with wings unfurled, as if ready to strike. Stairs clung to the outside but seemed to lead nowhere, and windows of various shapes peeked out like watchful eyes.

  The Ushers pulled into the front courtyard and found a place to park among cars and motorbikes – even a horse-drawn carriage.

  Arthur unfastened his seatbelt while carefully balancing his cakes. He stepped out of the car then, as always, he was caught by the sight of the imposing building. He sighed. ‘It never fails to impress.’

  The others followed him as he approached a statue of a woman in the centre of the yard. She was lit from below in a glowing circle of light, so that it looked as though she was rising from beneath the ground. Her dress trickled to her feet, ringlets of hair curled on her shoulders, and her hands were clutched against a face caught in quiet horror.

  ‘Emmeline Crump,’ Arthur breathed. ‘If it weren’t for her belief in what we stand for, we wouldn’t even be here.’

  The last of the guests scrambled from cars and hurried inside.

  ‘And if we keep standing here,’ Grandma Rose said, ‘we’re going to miss the meeting.’

  They scurried up the mottled marble stairs of the entrance and over a stone bridge that spanned a dark, sluggish moat. On either side of them were statues of lions and eagles with mouths open and fierce claws extended.

  The foyer was illuminated by flickering candles that sat in holders shaped like grasping hands. Rows of warm coats, fake furs and feathered hats hung from the walls.

  The Usher family entered a grand hall warmed by a large, crackling fire. People huddled in groups, wearing their official Ghost Club gowns, and talked in spirited bursts and whispers.

  ‘It was gruesome,’ said a large man with a beard and eye patch. ‘Teeth as big as my hand, or at least it was until he took it.’ A small gasp was heard as he raised his arm to reveal a hook.

  ‘And you never gave in?’ A woman in a tiara and long velvet gown rested her hand on her heart as if she was going to faint.

  ‘Never,�
� the hooked man replied. ‘That goes against the Ghost Club code.’

  He caught Arthur’s eye. ‘Usher family, how delightful to see you.’

  ‘And you as always, Cecil.’

  ‘And Edgar! Heard about that goal on the weekend. Your dad said it was pure genius.’

  Cecil turned back to his eager audience while Arthur stood on his toes and searched the room until he saw what he was looking for. ‘There it is!’

  They headed for a series of tables along one side of the hall, carefully lined with tablecloths and boasting generous stands of cupcakes. Above it was a banner that said, ‘Annual Ghost Club Cupcake Competition.’ This year’s theme, as with every year, was the paranormal. There were cupcakes shaped as headstones, draculas, cauldrons and witches. Arthur found a free space among them all and carefully laid down his podgy green ghosts.

  ‘I think these are in with a real chance. Wish them luck.’ He crossed his fingers and shut his eyes for a few moments before turning back into the crowd.

  ‘It’s the people who eat them who are going to need luck,’ Angeline whispered to her brother.

  ‘Is it too late to hide them?’ Edgar asked.

  Lily Usher leant between them, her hands on their shoulders. ‘Your father has worked very hard on those cakes, and our job is to work very hard on being supportive.’

  ‘Even if someone ends up in hospital?’ Angeline frowned.

  ‘It only happened once – and who’s to say it was your father’s cooking?’ Edgar, Angeline and Grandma Rose all put up their hands. ‘Very funny. Now let’s find a seat.’

  The Ushers slowly wended their way through the tightly packed gathering. Many heads looked up momentarily, offering a brief hello or wave before falling back into their circle of mutterings.

  ‘They say he never completely recovered.’ A cluster of members leant in and listened intently to a woman with silver hair swirling atop her head like fairy floss. ‘Whatever happened was too horrifying for him to ever regain his senses.’

  ‘Where is he now?’

  The woman looked to either side and spoke with a grave voice, ‘The Cryptorium.’

  The small group gasped and offered pitiful shakes of their heads.

  ‘What’s a Cryptorium?’ Angeline whispered to Edgar as they passed by the small group.

  ‘A retirement community for members who suffer from emotional and psychological exhaustion rendering them no longer able to ghost-catch.’

  ‘How awful,’ Angeline said. ‘I’d hate not to be able to catch.’

  ‘I guess some have no choice.’

  Arthur found seats and gestured for his family to join him. As they shuffled in, Angeline spied a boy sitting in the front row right beside the cakes. He fidgeted with his collar, tugged at a tie that seemed to be strangling him and ran a hand over his hair, even though it was perfectly gelled in place. ‘Who’s that?’

  ‘I’m not sure,’ Edgar whispered. ‘It’s my understanding that we’re the only junior members in the country.’

  Angeline craned her head further. ‘And why is he sitting with Fleischmann and Gloom?’

  On one side of the boy sat an older man with a long grey beard, and on the other side was a man a little younger with a slightly hunched back and an axe that he was sharpening along a whetstone. Schick, schick, schick . . .

  Each swipe of the stone against the steel made the boy flinch, as if he was being given a series of electric shocks.

  A small woman climbed the stairs to the stage. Her long cloak billowed out behind her as she approached a lectern in the centre. Unfurled on the front and on the wall behind were banners emblazoned with the Ghost Club insignia. She carefully adjusted her papers and delicately cleaned her glasses before sliding them onto her nose.

  She looked up and paused momentarily before reaching for a small gavel and slamming it against the lectern with more force than her petite frame seemed capable.

  ‘Or-DAH!’ Her voice was like a tank that had suddenly crashed into the room. Everyone instantly fell silent, and those who were still standing quickly found their way to their seats.

  ‘I call to order the 1776th meeting of the Ghost Club. It is my honour to welcome you to the Hall of Assembly.’ Her droning voice made it sound more like a chore than an honour.

  ‘A few reminders before we get proceedings underway: our Monster Bingo Bonanza Night is next Tuesday, so sign up and join in . . .’ she took a deep, laboured breath . . . ‘all the fun.’ She looked back at her notes. ‘Our soccer team, the Ghouls, made it to the semifinals last weekend after a lightning goal from Dora Lurken that smashed through the Demons’ defenders as if they were invisible.’

  A burst of applause and cheers erupted. When the celebrating died down, she continued solemnly. ‘So hooray for them.’

  She sighed the sigh of a woman who might have been one hundred and twenty years old. Her hand motioned to the tables at the side of the room. ‘We also have the event we wait anxiously for every year . . . the Annual Cupcake Competition.’ An excited murmur rippled through the crowd. ‘The voting forms are beside the ballot box to decide this year’s champion chef.’

  ‘And now . . .’ she seemed to perk up, just a little, ‘without further delay, would you please welcome our illustrious leader, Grandmaster Fleischmann.’

  The audience rose to their feet, whistling and applauding as the tall, stately man with the long grey beard stood up from his seat and acknowledged them with a wave. He placed a hand on the shoulder of the new boy, whose fidgeting seemed to settle a little. The man took to the stage, pushed back the sleeves of his cloak and shook the woman’s hand warmly. ‘Thank you, dear Myra.’

  Myra, it came as no surprise to anyone, replied with the warmth of a fridge floating in the Arctic Ocean. ‘The pleasure’s all mine, Grandmaster,’ she said, and shuffled off the stage with the face of someone who had just received terrible news.

  Grandmaster Fleischmann, by comparison, was like the sun coming out after a gloomy fog as he took in the audience with his warm smile.

  ‘Welcome, my dear friends, to this very special meeting of the Ghost Club, a club that has for over one hundred and fifty years been committed to the study and observation of the paranormal. We have prided ourselves on the removal of pesky, other-worldly annoyances and the protection of all humanity, particularly those who are unready to receive guests from the other side.’ Fleischmann paused. ‘Or who have spectral visitors who simply refuse to behave as proper guests should.’

  ‘I think we’ve met most of them,’ Edgar whispered to Angeline, but she wasn’t listening. Her eyes were focused firmly on the new boy. ‘Are you okay?’

  ‘I am,’ Angeline said, ‘but I don’t think he is.’

  The new boy continued to tug at his tie.

  ‘A special thanks, as always,’ the Grandmaster continued, ‘goes to Emmeline Crump, who bequeathed this magnificent building to the club over one hundred years ago.’ He looked upwards with his hand on his heart. ‘We are eternally grateful, Ms Crump.’

  The hall filled with mutterings of thanks and nodding heads.

  ‘But before we get to today’s very special announcement, we have a real treat in store. Among us we have a most talented poet who has very generously agreed to share with us his latest masterpiece. Ladies and gentlemen, I give you the Ghost Club’s very own Mr Roderick Gloom.’

  The hunched man who was sharpening his axe rose from his seat to the sound of jubilant clapping from everyone except the new boy, who was now sitting on his own and, Angeline noticed, seemed to have stopped breathing.

  Mr Gloom walked with a limp and favoured his right leg as he made his way to the stage. When he reached the lectern, Fleischmann smiled and stood aside. The room fell deathly silent in delicious anticipation of what was to come next.

  Gloom’s black, wav
y hair was streaked with silver and his moustache looked as though a furry caterpillar had curled up under his nose and gone to sleep.

  ‘Thank you,’ he said quietly into the microphone. He retrieved a small canister from his pocket and sprayed two quick squirts into his mouth. ‘La la la la,’ he sang, warming up his throat before replacing the canister in his pocket and retrieving a notebook. ‘I wrote this poem in honour of today’s momentous announcement. It’s called “A Moonlit Feast”, and it goes like this.’

  Gloom closed his eyes. He took a steadying breath, balanced the axe upright on the lectern and began.

  ‘A Moonlit Feast’

  T’was a moonlit night a’ dreary

  Where never was a chill so eerie

  Trapped within its icy cold

  A lurking terror about to unfold.

  Gloom looked up, ever so briefly, his eyes meeting the new boy’s.

  For there was a boy so innocent

  Into a forest alone he went,

  Whilst walking through its murky hold

  Lay unspeakable dread as yet untold.

  Beyond his sight, lying in wait,

  A hideous beast did anticipate

  How delicious this young boy would taste

  With a dash of salt and tomato paste.

  Monstrous eyes pierced the night

  As he judged the boy’s weight and height.

  In the oven he would perfectly fit

  And down to dinner the beast would sit.

  For all of you with stomachs queasy

  You’d best turn away, for this won’t be easy.

  Hours later the beast did recline,

  His stomach full, his smile sublime.

  Gloom stepped aside from the lectern and, holding the axe to his heart, swept into a low bow.

  The rafters echoed with hoots and cries for more as the crowd jumped to their feet.

  Except for the quietly terrified boy, who simply sat and gulped.

  ‘I don’t think he looks so good,’ Angeline said.

  ‘He’s definitely worse than before,’ Edgar observed. ‘Maybe he doesn’t like poetry.’