Ghost Club 1

by Deborah Abela

  ‘So, let’s get started. I’ve been delving into the history of Castle Koszmar. It was built in the thirteenth century and has been owned by generations of the Griswold family. The current owner, Mr Reginald Griswold, converted the castle into a bed and breakfast ten years ago, promising his guests a luxury holiday, a fascinating tour through history, and ghosts.’

  An advertisement appeared on the screen. Angeline read it out loud.

  ‘People book holidays to see ghosts?’ Dylan was thrown against the car door as Grandma Rose took another corner at top speed.

  ‘It’s all the rage in some circles.’ Grandma looked over her shoulder at Dylan. ‘In fact, when I was a girl –’

  ‘Watch out!’ Dylan screamed.

  Grandma turned back just in time to swerve and avoid a rabbit tearing across her path.

  Edgar, untroubled by the now zigzagging car, frowned. ‘Why would a man who makes his living from a haunted castle call the Ghost Club?’

  ‘I dare say that is what you’re about to find out,’ Endora said. ‘I’ve downloaded a map of the castle to your Trackers, including a 3-D version so you can find your way around. I’ll get back to you with other relevant details when I have them. Good luck.’

  Angeline closed the screen as Grandma Rose jerked the steering wheel hard, wrenching the car down a narrow country lane. The headlights lit up the towering tree trunks that stood on either side like guards of honour. The gravel crunched beneath them as the car jolted along, until the line of trees ended and the road became surrounded by manicured gardens and led to a large, stone fortress.

  ‘Castle Koszmar,’ Angeline breathed.

  It sat like a statuesque queen, bejewelled and regal, shimmering with the twinkling of hundreds of lights.

  ‘She is a beauty.’ Grandma Rose turned the wheel sharply as the lane curved into a large turning circle at the front of the castle, sending the car onto its two left wheels.

  ‘Aaah!’ Dylan mustered just enough breath to scream. Eyes shut tight, he thought of all the things he’d never do after the car rolled and sent them to an instant death, when they finally bounced back onto all four wheels.

  Grandma Rose slammed on the brakes and stopped in a whorl of dust, just in time to avoid crashing into a set of stone steps but not a bed of now-squashed gardenias. She threw open her door, stood with her hands on her hips and took a deep breath. ‘There’s nothing like a drive in the country to get the heart pumping. Nice place.’

  She strode towards the entrance and Edgar and Angeline followed.

  Dylan, elated by the fact that he was still alive, prised his fingers from the armrest and stepped outside to join the others.

  The castle stood above them, with its hundreds of brightly lit windows, crenellated rooftops and large arched entranceway, above which was a sign carved in stone that read, ‘Castle Koszmar.’

  ‘Koszmar,’ Edgar pondered. ‘It means “nightmare” in Polish.’

  ‘Of course it does,’ Dylan mumbled, rubbing his sore, bloodless hands.

  Angeline stepped over the squashed gardenias and up the stairs to the castle doors. Two fiery torches flickered on either side, creating wavering shadows all around them. She needed two hands to lift the heavy iron doorknocker.

  Three loud, echoing clangs rang out. A murder of crows in a nearby tree screeched and flew away like a black, ominous cloud.

  They waited.

  And waited.

  ‘Maybe he’s gone out,’ Dylan said hopefully.

  A muffled click pricked the air. Followed by another. Then a sliding of several metal bolts and the drawl of a large lock being trawled aside.

  The giant door inched slowly inwards, opening just a crack before jolting to a stop by a thick chain. A beady, searching eye peeked out.

  ‘We’re closed. Go away.’

  ‘Mr Griswold?’

  ‘I said we’re closed.’

  ‘Are you Mr Reginald Griswold?’

  ‘Yes! But the ghost tours are over.’

  ‘We don’t want a ghost tour.’

  ‘Then who are you and what do you want?’

  ‘I’m Angeline and these are my two associates, Edgar and Dylan. We’re from the Ghost Club.’

  The man paused. His eye scuttled about like a panicked mouse. ‘They sent kids?’

  ‘We’re not just kids.’ Angeline tried to hide that she was offended. This wasn’t the first time they’d had this reaction. ‘We’re official Ghost Club members with four years’ experience and over one hundred and thirty-two catchings.’

  The man grunted. ‘I’m not too happy about them sending kids.’

  Grandma Rose grabbed her skirt and strode up the stairs. She poked her head in front of the small crack of the open door and did nothing to hide her annoyance. ‘Listen, mister, these are some of the best ghost catchers in the business, so do you want them to stay and catch your ghost or not? Because there are plenty of other haunted houses and castles we could be at right now.’

  The man’s brow furrowed and his eye shifted and blinked. ‘Okay, okay,’ he relented. ‘Come in.’

  The door shut in their faces and the chain jangled before it opened again, just wide enough to let them inside. ‘Quick, quick. Come in.’

  ‘Not me. I’m off.’ Grandma Rose nudged Dylan in the side. ‘Knock ’em dead, Master Dylan . . . except for those who already are.’ She laughed and walked to the car. ‘Grandmaster will be so proud you’re on your first catch already.’

  ‘Where’s she going?’ Dylan asked.

  ‘Theatre rehearsals,’ Edgar answered.

  ‘Shouldn’t she stay here and take care of us?’

  Grandma Rose’s wheels spun on the gravelly courtyard before the car took off, fishtailing as it sped out of the grounds.

  ‘We can take care of ourselves,’ Angeline said.

  ‘But what if something happens? What if we –’

  ‘Don’t worry.’ Angeline’s voice was calm. ‘You’re in very good hands.’

  ‘Please.’ The man looked about frantically. ‘Come in, quickly.’

  He waved them through the door before bolting, turning and latching a series of locks behind them.

  The young ghost catchers stood in the vaulted stone foyer staring at him.

  ‘You do know ghosts can move through doors?’ Angeline asked. ‘That’s one of the things that qualifies them as ghosts.’

  ‘I know.’ The man wrung his hands. ‘It makes me feel better. Sorry about the “kid” thing. I didn’t mean to be rude. I haven’t been myself recently, what with everything that’s been going on. Please come in.’

  It was only then, in the full glare of the foyer light, that they could see the true state he was in. His clothes hung from his thin body in baggy folds. His face was hollow-cheeked and drawn and his skin was pale with ashen streaks under his eyes.

  He led them into a drawing room and invited them to sit down. His bony hands shook and fidgeted. ‘It was good of you to come so quickly. I really didn’t know what else to do.’

  ‘We’re very experienced in sorting out paranormal difficulties,’ Angeline said, ‘and we’ll do everything we can to help sort out yours.’

  She said it with such a broad smile that Mr Griswold’s earlier objections seemed unfounded and he did nothing more than say, ‘Thank you.’

  ‘You’re welcome.’

  ‘I apologise if this seems rude, Mr Griswold,’ Edgar said, ‘but Castle Koszmar is well-known for being haunted. That’s why people stay here and take your tours.’

  ‘I know.’ Mr Griswold’s puny body slumped and his head sank forward.

  Angeline moved closer. He flinched. ‘It’s okay, Mr Griswold. We’re here to help. Tell us what’s wrong.’

  His hollowed eyes met hers. ‘It’ll be eas
ier if I show you.’

  He walked to the end of the room and drew aside a large tapestry, revealing a hidden door. He unlocked it and motioned for them to follow.

  ‘I can stay out here,’ Dylan suggested. ‘To stand guard.’

  ‘You don’t want to miss any of the fun!’ Angeline said.

  ‘No,’ Dylan muttered, ‘that would be terrible.’

  The room they entered was dark, and in the centre was a control desk with dials, buttons, two computers and a wall of video monitors.

  ‘Something tells me this isn’t just for security,’ Edgar said.

  ‘No, it isn’t,’ Griswold answered. ‘Watch that monitor there.’

  He pointed to a video feed from a grand ballroom. Round, elaborately decorated tables sat on the edges of a polished dance floor and above was an ornate, sparkling chandelier.

  ‘I don’t see anything unusual. Just a –’ Dylan stopped abruptly at what he saw next.

  A faint, glowing figure wearing a long ball gown shimmered into view. Her eyes were closed and her dress swirled as she danced to a silent tune.

  ‘A . . . ghost!’

  ‘Oh, I see,’ Edgar said.

  The figure danced and twirled a few more times before she dwindled and faded into nothingness.

  ‘Who is she? What does she want?’ Dylan asked.

  ‘Nothing now,’ Edgar said, ‘but in the 1930s I presume she wanted to be a famous movie star.’

  Dylan frowned.

  ‘It’s a projection,’ Angeline explained.

  ‘Operated from this small room.’ Mr Griswold pressed a button and the ghostly vision replayed.

  ‘It’s a fake?’ Dylan peered more closely at the screen.

  ‘Yes, I’m afraid it is.’ Griswold sank back heavily into his chair. ‘I have projectors hidden all over the castle. A maid in the kitchen, a convict in the dungeon, even Wilfred Griswold, son and heir of the castle, in the dining room. Every guest who stayed would leave happy, knowing that they’d seen a ghost. It’s worked well for years. But what has been happening lately is no fake. The castle really is haunted.’

  ‘In what way?’ Edgar took out his Tracker to take notes.

  ‘At night I’ve been woken by footsteps in the corridor outside my door, the cracking of whips or dragging chains.’

  ‘Footsteps?’ Dylan shook with an icy shiver.

  ‘Yes. They approach my bedroom and stop just outside, sometimes for whole minutes, before they drag themselves away. One time, there was even knocking on my door.’

  ‘And you were the only one in the castle?’ Angeline asked.

  ‘On every occasion.’

  Griswold shivered and rubbed his arms. ‘The last few nights, there’s been the sound of horses thundering around the yards, maniacal laughter and the ringing of church bells – and the nearest church is over five kilometres away.’

  ‘Have you seen anyone or anything that may hint at their identity?’ Edgar asked.

  ‘No,’ Griswold’s voice trembled. ‘Just noises.’

  ‘Ghosts can be shy if there are people around,’ Angeline explained.

  ‘That’s good.’ Dylan nodded.

  ‘Not if we want to find out why Koszmar is suddenly being haunted.’ Edgar looked to Mr Griswold. ‘To get an idea of who your new visitor is, we’ll need to stay here tonight.’

  ‘All night?’ Dylan’s eyebrows shot up.

  ‘It’s the best way,’ Edgar said, ‘and since the latest activity has been outside and involves horses, I think the yard and stables will be a good place to start.’

  ‘But Grandpa will worry if I don’t come home.’

  ‘Not anymore.’ Angeline looked up from her Tracker. ‘I’ve sent a message telling him what we’re doing.’

  ‘Yes, but I think he might be upset if I don’t –’

  ‘He’s just replied.’ Angeline looked up from her screen. ‘He couldn’t be more excited for you and can’t wait to hear all about it.’

  ‘If I survive,’ Dylan muttered.

  Angeline tugged on the strap of her satchel. ‘Let’s go and catch your first ghost. Or if we’re lucky, it could be more than one.’

  She headed towards the foyer with her brother by her side and Dylan behind them, dragging heavy footsteps.

  ‘Can I do anything?’ Mr Griswold undid the locks and pulled open the door.

  ‘Not for now,’ Edgar replied. ‘We’ll try to get an ID on your ghost and let you know what we come up with.’

  They stepped into the night, the sound of locks and bolts shutting against them. Three torch beams blazed through the developing mist, marking out the path that led to the stables at the rear of the castle.

  ‘Do we have to stay all night?’ Dylan shivered in the cold air.

  ‘We may get lucky and have a sighting earlier.’ Edgar’s breath frosted in front of him. ‘But these things usually take time.’

  A high-pitched screech tore through the night. ‘What was that?’ Dylan flung his hands above his head and crouched behind Angeline.

  ‘A barn owl.’ Edgar pointed his torch at the branches above. A plump bird with a white, heart-shaped face stared back at them. ‘Did you know their eyes are twice as sensitive to light as ours, and that their ear openings are shaped differently and positioned at different heights so that when they are hunting they can pinpoint the exact location of their prey?’

  The owl screeched again, his beady eyes aimed directly at them.

  ‘Do you think his call is a warning for us to leave?’ Dylan asked.

  ‘No,’ Edgar answered. ‘I think it’s the regular call of a barn owl.’

  He and Angeline led the way to the stables. Edgar pushed open the doors into a cavernous stone building with a wooden ceiling.

  Angeline used her Tracker to scan the interior. ‘The temperature is consistent throughout and there’s no sign of unusual activity.’

  ‘So we can go home?’ Dylan asked.

  ‘You’re funny.’ Angeline pocketed her Tracker. ‘We’re only just getting started.’

  Edgar took a video camera from his satchel and set it up on a tripod in the corner, making sure to cover as much area as possible.

  ‘Why do we need that?’

  ‘The first thing we need to do is get an idea of who or what the paranormal activity is,’ Angeline said. ‘That way we can decide how we’re going to deal with it.’

  Edgar pressed ‘Record’. ‘This is a 3-D night-vision camera with an infrared motion sensor. Even in the darkest of places, it can record the tiniest supernatural movement.’

  Edgar and Angeline sat on hay bales and adjusted the lights on their torches to a dim glow. They searched their satchels and pulled out rubber-rimmed goggles.

  ‘You’ll need to put these on,’ Angeline said. ‘They’re Ghost Goggles – they help you see deeper spectral activity that the naked eye can’t.’

  Dylan did as he was told.

  ‘The lenses have a special coating that is sensitive to even the weakest source of spectral energy,’ Edgar whispered.

  ‘They’re also good protection if things start to get a bit . . .’ Angeline tried to find the best word. ‘Unpleasant.’

  ‘Unpleasant?’ Dylan breathed.

  ‘Don’t worry, it won’t be anything we can’t handle.’

  Dylan scanned every corner of the building with his goggles.

  ‘If there’s a ghost in here, we’ll get it,’ Angeline said. They sat for a few minutes in silence.

  ‘What do we do now?’ Dylan asked quietly.

  ‘We sit,’ Angeline answered.

  ‘That’s it?’

  ‘Just think of it as fishing.’

  ‘I’m allergic to fish.’ Dylan flinched at a small movement in the corner
of the barn. ‘What was that?’

  ‘Oh,’ Angeline sounded disappointed. ‘It’s a cat.’

  It sidled up to Edgar and curled herself into a ball. ‘Animals are petrified of ghosts.’ He ruffled the cat under the chin.

  ‘But love my brother,’ Angeline added.

  ‘So there are no ghosts in here,’ Dylan said eagerly. ‘That means we can go.’

  ‘They may make an appearance later.’ Angeline pushed her goggles onto the top of her head and delved further into her satchel, ‘which makes this a good time to show you some more of our ghost-catching equipment.’

  She unzipped a small compartment and pulled out a Ghost Club badge. ‘This is a miniature ghost camera.’ She pinned it to her coat. ‘One of the aims of the club is to document paranormal activity. The night-vision camera records at a higher quality, but if you face a ghost and it’s not convenient to reach for your camera, these will keep recording while you get on with the catching.’

  Dylan found his badge and attached it to his coat.

  ‘Sometimes during a catch, you’ll hear ghostly noises that are hard to decipher, or see a talking ghost but can’t hear it. When that happens, you need this.’ Angeline rummaged through her satchel for a headset attached to a small metallic pod.

  ‘Ghosts can often be on an audio frequency that is difficult for humans to hear.’ Edgar stroked the cat, which purred and closed her eyes. ‘So, based on the scientific principles behind Edison’s Ghost Machine, the Spectral Audio Recorder helps you locate the frequency of the spectral noise and adjust it so that it’s intelligible to humans.’

  Dylan made his own attempt at an Edgar translation. ‘It records the voices of ghosts?’

  ‘Now you’re getting it,’ Angeline cried. ‘It was Edison’s dream to communicate with the departed.’

  Angeline pulled out a cloth pouch drawn closed by string. ‘This can come in very handy. It’s Ghost Powder. You use it when you know a ghost is there but it refuses to appear.’

  ‘The powder is given a specifically measured charge that causes the particles to release a silvery, gaseous substance when they collide with spectral energies,’ Edgar said.

  ‘Which means when you throw the powder where you think a ghost may be,’ Angeline continued, ‘it sticks to them, producing a sparkling sheen and letting you see who it really is. But you have to be fast – they can be very quick movers.’