by Icy Sedgwick
Sarah put all thoughts of Jamie and paranormal investigations out of her head and searched the shelves. The gap it once occupied remained but the book itself was nowhere to be found. Neither of her parents ventured into the library. Sarah wondered if Fowlis had taken it. He was the only one who knew of the book’s existence. She just couldn’t work out how he could have picked it up and carried it out.
Movement beside the window caught Sarah’s eye. She turned to look outside and a figure ducked out of view. Sarah yelped and dashed across to the window. A man ran along the edge of the lawn, clutching a digital camera in one hand. The long grey lens screamed ‘professional photographer.’ Across the lawn, a knot of people stood in front of camping chairs—Sarah couldn’t make them out clearly but the equipment at their feet looked like it might below to a film crew. One of the strangers pointed a camera in her direction. Another figure sprinted into view, away from the house. Based on the incoherent yelling, Sarah guessed her mother had chased someone from the windows too.
Sarah drew the curtains and flicked on the lights. She didn’t want to sit in darkness, but she also didn’t want total strangers waving cameras at her. Visions of the television story about the house danced in front of her eyes and she groaned. Mrs Campbell’s histrionics had certainly put them on the map.
“Sarah?” Her mother poked her head around the door.
“You can come in,” said Sarah. With that, her mother and father entered the library. She was shocked to see them together, particularly here. Her father chose a seat opposite her, while her mother paced the floor by the window.
“It’s about the Campbells’s TV appearance. Sadly it would appear that my assumption that it would all blow over has gone somewhat astray,” said her father.
“It’s all anyone will talk about in the village. At first, the journalists just rang my mobile, wanting to come and see the house. Now there is a swarm of them clustered outside—they’re taking photos through the window and one of them was even shouting through the front letterbox,” added her mother.
“I just chased one away from the window,” said Sarah.
“It’s got to stop, and I have no idea how to make them go away. So we need to ask you something, since you seem to know something about what’s going on. I can’t believe I’m actually going to say this, but do we really have a ghost?” asked her father.
“Yes.”
“Hm. I was afraid you’d say that. I know Tim seemed unable to do so, but have you made contact?”
“I have, but it was an accident. See, I remembered that everything started with the fireplace, so I went looking and I found something, and if I hold it, I can see the ghost. He has to come to me when I’m touching it.” Sarah’s words spilled over themselves as she hurried to get her story out. Relief flooded her as she finally got to tell someone her secret.
“You do realise how utterly wrong that sounds?” asked her mother.
“It’s not like that. He’s a cavalier, and I found him listed in a book that I found in here, but it’s gone now, I think he took it. He was nice at first, but I spoke to him earlier and he was upset about something. He wants me to put the anchor back so he can finish his haunting and go back,” said Sarah.
“Go back where?” asked her mother.
“His anchor?” added her father.
Someone knocked on the window before Sarah could speak. She glared at the curtains, willing the interloper to get the hint and leave.
“Mr McKenzie? Can we talk to you about the reports? Don’t you want to clear your name?” shouted an unfamiliar voice.
“It’s Dr McKenzie, you fool,” growled Sarah’s father.
“We need to make this stop, Sarah. What were you saying?” asked her mother.
“He needs to get back to HQ and he’s called Fowlis Westerby. I’d show you a picture, but the book’s gone. It says he was only thirty-eight when he died,” replied Sarah. “And his anchor is the pendant I found in the fireplace. That’s what lets him haunt places. His boss can recall him, but he can’t do it right now because I’ve got the pendant. He’s free to roam the house because that’s where I am, but if I left, he’d go with me.”
Her mother’s mouth dropped open. “What is he doing here? Why does he need to haunt us? What did we ever do to deserve that?”
“Ghosts don’t haunt where they died; they get sent to places to haunt them.”
“But why?” asked her mother.
“I don’t know. I asked him but he didn’t seem to want to tell me.”
“That can’t be right. Ghosts are commonly believed to be the psychic impression upon an environment of a mind in trouble. That’s why ghosts are frequently believed to be the spirits of those who died in a violent or troubling fashion.” Sarah’s father stood up and paced in front of the curtains. The knocking on the glass grew less frequent but it still irritated Sarah to hear it.
“I said the same thing, but Fowlis was really insistent, and then I found that book and it backed up what he said. He said something about HQ, and he wants me to put his anchor back or he’ll get in trouble with them,” she replied.
“Can we see this pendant?” asked her mother.
Sarah rolled her sleeve down over her hand, and fished the pendant out of her pocket, careful not to touch it. She placed it on the table so that her parents could see it in the light.
“It’s beautiful!” exclaimed her mother. “It must be worth a fortune.”
“It’s also really cold, but if I touch it, Fowlis will appear,” replied Sarah.
“Could we see him too?” asked her father.
“I don’t think so, but I guess if you picked it up, you’d see him,” said Sarah. “Though I don’t think you should. He was really mad at me. I already asked him once before if he could meet you and he told me he couldn’t, so I think he’d get really angry.”
“Why is he mad at you?” asked her mother.
“Because of my idea.” Sarah looked at the table and heat rushed to her cheeks. She thought her idea hadn’t been all that bad, but now she felt ashamed of herself for such a childish scheme.
“What idea?”
“I heard what you said about people wanting to stay here, and how they thought we were faking the ghost. I asked him if he would want to do a big haunting and scare all the journalists away. You know, or people could stay here and he could do some big thing for them, and then everyone would know that the house was haunted and no one would say bad things about you anymore.” She focused her attention on the table, determined not to look up to see the incredulity on their faces.
“That is certainly an interesting plan, Sarah. It would prove our innocence in the ‘faking it’ plot to the Campbells and everyone else, and it would be fascinating from my point of view as a scientist. The only real problem is that if word got out that this place really was haunted, then we’d never be left alone,” replied her father.
“That’s what Fowlis said.” Sarah mentally kicked herself for not seeing the flaw in her plan.
“Hm. Well, we need to decide what we’re going to do about this,” said her father.
“I had hoped the journalists might just get bored and leave, but I’m sure they’re multiplying. And I can’t have them right up next to the house like this. I called the police but they said they’ll drop by when they can. I don’t think they’re taking it seriously,” said her mother.
“Would it help if I got that book back?” asked Sarah.
“It might do, especially if it’s as informative as you say it is. I’d like to speak to this Fowlis at some point. He may have some idea how to get rid of these journalists without causing too much of an unnecessary fuss. After all, if he’s a cavalier, then he must have had around three centuries of observing mankind. He must have some fascinating psychological insights.”
“I told him that I wanted him to meet you, but he kept saying he can’t speak to you. He’s not even supposed to have been speaking to me. I think he’ll get into loads of trouble
.”
“Well, ask him anyway, and try not to worry.”
Her parents left the room. Sarah couldn’t help wondering how on earth she could make things right with the cavalier.
Chapter 18
Fowlis lay on the chaise longue. The bats slept in the rafters above him, and the mice scurried about on the floor. Brie ignored their scampering and perched on the back of the chaise longue. The Manifestoe lay on a tea chest nearby. It buzzed with a low hum that Fowlis recognised as being the frequency of the Veil.
“Sir?”
The voice came from inside a dustsheet behind the chaise longue. Fowlis pulled the sheet from a freestanding mirror sandwiched between a battered cabinet and an umbrella stand. Its frame extended into feet carved to look like paws. Handle stood reflected in the mirror and he didn’t look quite so dishevelled.
“Hello, Handle.”
“I didn’t get in trouble this morning, sir. I’m actually allowed to use the mirror now.”
“My! That surely is an honour, indeed. What happened?”
“Abercrochie caught me using the mirror and was all for banishing me, but then Templeton heard what was going on and got involved.” Handle leaned forward to whisper. “Between you and me, sir, they have no choice but to let me use the mirror.”
“Why?”
“You disappeared off their chart when the mortal girl took your anchor. I thought you might come back if she just put the anchor down, but it seems that you will only reappear on the chart if she puts the anchor back in the fireplace,” replied Handle. “The mirror is the only way they can contact you, and as I’m your assistant, they can only contact you through me.”
“So no one is watching me?”
“They can’t, sir. All they know is that your anchor has been moved. I haven’t told them why. You could do whatever you want down there and no one would be any the wiser.”
“That’s a pity.” Fowlis told Handle of his triumphs with the stereo and the filing cabinet. Handle chuckled and dipped his head in respect to his boss. He was particularly impressed when Fowlis said he’d managed to manifest enough strength to knock the pendant out of Sarah’s hand.
“Are you alone right now? Can anyone hear me?” asked Fowlis when his tale ended.
“I’m alone, sir. I asked Templeton if I could speak to you on my own. He didn’t like that, but I told him I had some assistant matters to ask you about, and he decided he didn’t want to hear talk of boot polish or loose buttons,” replied Handle.
“Has anything more been uncovered about the missing ghosts?”
“No, sir. In fact, it’s getting worse. The total is up to ninety-two now, and it’s less that they’re missing, and more that they’ve been stolen. The council has sent a banshee down to the Gates of the Beyond to see if anyone down there knows anything, but who knows how long a banshee will take?”
“Very true. They aren’t exactly known for their efficiency. Well, Handle, in the meantime, I have another mystery for you!” Fowlis held up the copy of The Ghostlie Manifestoe. The light glinted on the faded gold leaf lettering and Handle gasped.
“Where did you get that, sir?”
“The library downstairs. They have a most impressive collection of books relating to all manner of supernatural things, from demonology to witchcraft, ghosts to voodoo. If you have time, could you look into previous owners for me?”
“Yes, sir. How on earth did they get a copy of that?” Handle continued to stare at the book. Even through the mirror it held a magnetic attraction for those beyond the Veil.
“I don’t know. However, I shall keep this copy up here until I return to stop that girl reading it. She has already read my entry, and who knows what would happen if she worked out how the book works? With any luck, I shall be able to bring it back with me. I am quite sure old Seth in the archives will be happy to see it.”
“I’ll go down and ask him about the house after dinner. Since you disappeared off the chart, I haven’t had much to do. I’ve tidied your quarters, but now I’m just waiting for you to get back, sir,” said Handle.
“Well, I think I might go and follow the family around for a bit. I can’t really help with your HQ problem at the moment, and I do still need to haunt them, if only to keep the signal strong between the house and HQ,” said Fowlis.
“Okay, sir. I’ll get back in touch once I’ve spoken to Seth.” Handle faded from the mirror.
“Well now! There’s a fine to do! Ninety-two missing ghosts!” said Fowlis.
“Has that ever happened before?” squeaked Brie.
Fowlis replaced the dustsheet and sat on the chaise longue. “Not to my knowledge. This is most irregular. What are the chances that a volume of The Ghostlie Manifestoe would turn up in a house which appears to boast one blocked mirror, a second haunter, and a mortal girl who managed to locate an anchor?”
Fowlis melted through the floor and down into the upper floor of the house. He materialised in the upstairs corridor outside Sarah’s room. He bristled at her suggestion that he play the pet ghost for her. Fowlis Westerby, Ghost Master General, reduced to performing monkey! His annoyance prompted him to drift through the door.
Sarah’s room was empty. He stroked his beard as he looked at the raw materials for his haunting exercise. He didn’t have much with which to work. Sarah was surprisingly tidy for a mortal teenager. Fowlis resorted to dressing a chair in some of her clothes, even slipping its feet into a pair of shoes he had found at the bottom of the wardrobe. He built a house out of her hardback books, marvelling at the variety of her collection. Fowlis knew that very little of this was particularly advanced in the school of haunting, but he also believed one should always practice one’s craft.
Fowlis left Sarah’s room and drifted along the corridor to her parents’ room. He re-arranged their furniture and drew a Spanish galleon on the scientist’s whiteboard beside the dressing table. Fowlis wandered around the room and sighed. Hauntings were no fun unless one had a witness.
Fowlis walked out to the top of the stairs where he expanded his mind to locate the mortals in the house. Sarah sat in the library. She stared at the laptop. Instead of showing HQ, it now displayed a screen that appeared to act as a directory of different people. Fowlis shook his head at the idea of an electronic version of the Manifestoe. Concentrating hard, he located the parents. Sarah’s father scribbled equations on his blackboard in his office. Fowlis noted with some annoyance that his drawing had been erased. The mother sat at the kitchen table, poring over charts covered with small squares of varying colours. Fowlis headed to the kitchen.
Propelling himself towards the ceiling, Fowlis grabbed two of the old herb hooks. He swung back and forward until both hooks rattled. He moved along to the next pair, continuing the pattern until all eight hooks clattered against each other. Sarah’s mother looked up and watched the hooks move under their own momentum. Fowlis couldn’t read her blank expression and scowled. He hated it when mortals didn’t react.
He drifted down to the radio. He stuck his hand inside and chuckled. The electricity tickled his palm and his laugh played out over a hiss of white noise. Mrs McKenzie dropped her pen, but remained motionless, her gaze travelling from the hooks to the radio.
“Madam!” Fowlis’s rich voice boomed into the room. The vaulted ceiling lent his voice a wonderful echo and he made a mental note to ask for a cathedral haunting when he got back to HQ. Maybe Chartres or Notre Dame needed new spectres.
“I know what you are,” replied Sarah’s mother through gritted teeth. Fowlis watched her throat form a scream, though she fought the impulse. He sniffed twice, scenting her fear in the air. Fear tinged with bravado.
“Of course you do. I have never questioned your intelligence. Merely your ability to defy that which you cannot see,” thundered Fowlis. He rather liked how epic the echo made his voice sound.
“You’re a cavalier,” said Sarah’s mother. A tremor in her voice undermined her confidence. Her voice did not echo. Fowlis got a curi
ous mental image of a quaking rabbit facing down a bombastic bear.
“That I am. You know what I am…but you do not know where I am.”
Fowlis removed his hand from the radio. He drew in a deep breath and concentrated on drawing all of the warmth out of the air. Frost sped across the polished benches and icicles erupted across the table. Violent shivers wracked Mrs McKenzie, but she sat firm. Fowlis frowned. He swept a hand across the table, sending the icicles flying. They exploded against the cabinets in a shower of ice. Mrs McKenzie’s scream broke loose and she bolted from the room. Fowlis made a mental note to remember that trick with the icicles—one never knew when a particular flourish would be required in future hauntings.
Fowlis followed as Mrs McKenzie rushed headlong down the corridor. With a flick of the wrist, he made the wall lamps flare and flicker as she passed. She shrieked an obscenity at him over her shoulder. Fowlis snorted in surprise when she didn’t stop at the scientist’s office. Instead, she continued down the corridor and disappeared around the corner. Fowlis guessed she headed for Sarah and decided that he’d have a better shot of success with the father if he got him alone.
Remembering the father’s fascination with the door trick, Fowlis manifested his hand long enough to grab the doorknob and turn it. The scientist turned around when the door sprang open and raised an eyebrow when no one came in. Fowlis groaned at his lack of a reaction. He rubbed his beard and looked around the room. Scientists were usually off the list of hauntees. Perhaps he could take the opportunity to learn something here.
Fowlis closed the door after himself and crossed the room. He concentrated all his might in his heels to make that perfect ‘ghostly footsteps’ sound. Dr McKenzie raised his eyebrows but still said nothing. Fowlis moved his concentration from his heels up to his hands, visualising the warm air he’d absorbed in the kitchen pumping out through his fingers into the room. The scientist tugged at the collar of his shirt and rolled up his sleeves. Beads of sweat broke out on his brow but he remained silent. Fowlis growled. Temperature transference wasn’t easy and a little appreciation would do wonders for his confidence.
