by Gene Kemp
Contents
Introduction
The Giant’s Necklace MICHAEL MORPURGO
The Horn SUSAN PRICE
Hi! It’s Me MARJORIE DARKE
A Ghost of One’s Own URSULA MORAY WILLIAMS
The Veldt RAY BRADBURY
Goosey Goosey Gander ANN PILLING
The Shadow-Cage PHILIPPA PEARCE
Spring-heeled Jack GWEN GRANT
The Spring PETER DICKINSON
Almost a Ghost Story ROBERT WESTALL
The Passing of Puddy GENE KEMP
Humblepuppy JOAN AIKEN
Bang, Bang – Who’s Dead? JANE GARDAM
Uninvited Ghosts PENELOPE LIVELY
Acknowledgements
About the Book
In this eerie and unnerving collection, you will find some eerily chilling tales of the supernatural. Distinguished authors Joan Aiken, Robert Westall, Susan Price and Michael Morpurgo are just a few of the highly acclaimed writers who have contributed stories to this spooky collection. We meet a baby ghost in Ursula Moray Williams’ ‘A Ghost of One’s Own’, a cheeky modern boy ghost in Marjorie Darke’s ‘Hi, It’s Me’, a Victorian girl ghost with disturbing powers in Jane Gardam’s ‘Bang, Bang - Who’s Dead?’ and even a cat ghost in Gene Kemp’s ‘The Passing of Puddy’. Each one makes the unexplainable and unbelievable so real it will send tingles down your spine and scare you witless!
About the Author
GENE KEMP was born in 1926 and grew up in Staffordshire. She studied at Exeter University and became a teacher. Her first children’s novel, The Pride of Tamworth Pig, was published in 1972. She became best known for her Cricklepit stories including The Turbulent Term of Tyke Tyler which won her the 1977 Library Association’s highly prestigious Carnegie Medal, and the Children’s Rights Workshop’s Other Award. Her ghost stories include The Clock Tower Ghost (1981), Jason Bodger and the Priory Ghost (1985) and The Hairy Hands (1991). In 1984 she was awarded an honorary Master of Arts degree by Exeter University in recognition of her literary achievements. She died in 2015, aged eighty-eight.
There was two fellows out working in a field, hoeing turnips they was, and the one he stop and he lean on his hoe, and he mop his vace and he say, ‘Yur – I don’t believe in these yur ghosteses!’
And t’other man he say, ‘Don’t ’ee?’
And he VANISHED!
The Men in the Turnip Field
(Traditional)
Introduction
‘Scary Monsters, super creeps …’
Draw the curtains, turn on the fire, for it’s dark outside and the wind stirs uneasily in the trees. Push off your shoes, curl up and open your book … sh! What was that? No need to look round over your shoulder, it was only a creaking floorboard; there’s no one, nothing creeping up behind you. Besides, you’re very brave. You wouldn’t be afraid of any old … ghost or monster … evil person or wicked child, would you? Or would you?
Read this selection and see.
It begins with a strange, compelling story, The Giant’s Necklace by Michael Morpurgo, that takes you by the hand into another world. Susan Price tells of revenge in The Horn, a tale most appropriate for today. Penelope Lively’s Uninvited Ghosts is both funny and comforting after Jane Gardam’s Bang, Bang – Who’s Dead? and Philippa Pearce’s The Shadow-Cage have scared you witless as they did me. That last one especially gives me the ‘screaming abdabs’ because it’s just the sort of thing I’d do, searching for something you shouldn’t have in the middle of the night in a place where you shouldn’t be till you realize you’re in a situation there might be no getting out of. In The Passing of Puddy Jess has to get everybody (including the cat) out of their situation. Can she do it? Peter Dickinson’s The Spring carries a cold chill and The Veldt by Ray Bradbury is very gruesome. A Ghost of One’s Own by Ursula Moray Williams and Humblepuppy by Joan Aiken are kinder but just as weird.
My love of strange situations landed me living in an ancient dilapidated house on Dartmoor, brrr. Now, the moor’s a place for hauntings; it’s full of ghoulies, ghosties, and long-leggity beasties. One of the most frightening could be called a ghost of the road. If you ever drive along the B3212 between Postbridge and Two Bridges, take care. Several accidents have taken place there. Two cyclists felt their handlebars wrenched out of their hands causing them to crash in a ditch. In olden days they say horses ran wild and crashed their coaches. A motorcycle was taken over, its side-car overturned killing the passenger. Hairy Hands appear out of nowhere and attack the traveller or the vehicle. One woman in a caravan parked in a lay-by saw a huge Hairy Hand clawing its way up the window, argh. She made the sign of the cross and it vanished. So – if you’re travelling there, especially at night, look out for … Hairy Hands.
There’s a haunted school at Cullompton in Devon. I visited it to read stories and the headmaster told me that, if you stay late at night, the corridor that goes past the cloakroom and leads to the front door suddenly turns cold and the sound of marching feet can be heard. Roman legionaries are marching, marching. The noise will grow louder and louder, then turn, halt and march away. A Roman camp lies under the school.
Who fancies staying late at that school?
In the meantime here are some strange offerings for you. Stories that are frightening, fun, sad, haunting, strange, weird, eerie, mysterious, doom-laden. I hope you find plenty to your taste … whoooo!
Spooky reading,
The Giant’s Necklace
MICHAEL MORPURGO
The necklace stretched from one end of the kitchen table to the other, around the sugar bowl at the far end and back again, stopping only a few inches short of the toaster. The discovery on the beach of a length of abandoned fishing line draped with seaweed had first suggested the idea to Cherry; and every day of the holiday since then had been spent in one single-minded pursuit, the creation of a necklace of glistening pink cowrie shells. She had sworn to herself and to everyone else that the necklace would not be complete until it reached the toaster; and when Cherry vowed she would do something, she invariably did it.
Cherry was the youngest in a family of older brothers, four of them, who had teased her relentlessly since the day she was born, eleven years before. She referred to them as ‘the four mistakes’, for it was a family joke that each son had been an attempt to produce a daughter. To their huge delight Cherry reacted passionately to any slight or insult whether intended or not. Their particular targets were her size, which was diminutive compared with theirs, her dark flashing eyes that could wither with one scornful look, but above all her ever increasing femininity. Although the teasing was interminable it was rarely hurtful, nor was it intended to be, for her brothers adored her; and she knew it.
Cherry was poring over her necklace, still in her dressing gown. Breakfast had just been cleared away and she was alone with her mother. She fingered the shells lightly, turning them gently until the entire necklace lay flat with the rounded pink of the shells all uppermost. Then she bent down and breathed on each of them in turn, polishing them carefully with a napkin.
‘There’s still the sea in them,’ she said to no one in particular. ‘You can still smell it, and I washed them and washed them, you know.’
‘You’ve only got today, Cherry,’ said her mother coming over to the table and putting an arm around her. ‘Just today, that’s all. We’re off back home tomorrow morning first thing. Why don’t you call it a day, dear? You’ve been at it every day – you must be tired of it by now. There’s no need to go on, you know. We all think it’s a fine necklace and quite long enough. It’s long enough surely?’
Cherry shook her head slowly. ‘Nope,’ she said. ‘Only that little bit left to do
and then it’s finished.’
‘But they’ll take hours to collect, dear,’ her mother said weakly, recognizing and at the same time respecting her daughter’s persistence.
‘Only a few hours,’ said Cherry, bending over, her brows furrowing critically as she inspected a flaw in one of her shells, ‘that’s all it’ll take. D’you know, there are five thousand, three hundred and twenty-five shells in my necklace already? I counted them, so I know.’
‘Isn’t that enough, dear?’ her mother said desperately.
‘Nope,’ said Cherry. ‘I said I’d reach the toaster, and I’m going to reach the toaster.’
Her mother turned away to continue the drying up.
‘Well, I can’t spend all day on the beach today, Cherry,’ she said. ‘If you haven’t finished by the time we come away I’ll have to leave you there. We’ve got to pack up and tidy the house – there’ll be no time in the morning.’
‘I’ll be all right,’ said Cherry, cocking her head on one side to view the necklace from a different angle. ‘There’s never been a necklace like this before, not in all the world. I’m sure there hasn’t.’ And then, ‘You can leave me there, Mum, and I’ll walk back. It’s only a mile or so along the cliff path and half a mile back across the fields. I’ve done it before on my own. It’s not far.’
There was a thundering on the stairs and a sudden rude invasion of the kitchen. Cherry was surrounded by her four brothers who leant over the table in mock appreciation of her necklace.
‘Ooh, pretty.’
‘Do they come in other colours? I mean, pink’s not my colour.’
‘Bit big though, isn’t it?’ said one of them – she didn’t know which and it didn’t matter. He went on: ‘I mean it’s a bit big for a necklace?’ War had been declared again, and Cherry responded predictably.
‘That depends,’ she said calmly, shrugging her shoulders because she knew that would irritate them.
‘On what does it depend?’ said her oldest brother, pompously.
‘On who’s going to wear it of course, ninny,’ she said swiftly.
‘Well, who is going to wear it?’ he replied.
‘It’s for a giant,’ she said, her voice full of serious innocence. ‘It’s a giant’s necklace, and it’s still not big enough.’
It was the perfect answer, an answer she knew would send her brothers into fits of hysterical hilarity. She loved to make them laugh at her and could do it at the drop of a hat. Of course she no more believed in giants than they did, but if it tickled them pink to believe she did, then why not pretend?
She turned on them, fists flailing, and chased them back up the stairs, her eyes burning with simulated fury. ‘Just ’cos you don’t believe in anything ’cept motorbikes and football and all that rubbish, just ’cos you’re great big, fat, ignorant pigs …’ She hurled insults up the stairs after them and the worse they became the more they loved it.
Boat Cove just below Zennor Head was the beach they had found and occupied. Every year for as long as Cherry could remember they had rented the same granite cottage, set back in the fields below the Eagle’s Nest, and every year they came to the same beach because no one else did. In two weeks not another soul had ventured down the winding track through the bracken from the coastal path. It was a long climb down and a very much longer one up. The beach itself was almost hidden from the path that ran along the cliff top a hundred feet above. It was private and perfect and theirs. The boys swam in amongst the rocks, diving and snorkelling for hours on end. Her mother and father would sit side by side on stripy deckchairs. She would read endlessly and he would close his eyes against the sun and dream for hours on end.
Cherry moved away from them and clambered over the rocks to a narrow strip of sand in the cove beyond the rock, and here it was that she mined for the cowrie shells. In the gritty sand under the cliff face she had found a particularly rich deposit so that they were not hard to find; but she was looking for pink cowrie shells of a uniform length, colour and shape – and that was what took the time. Occasionally the boys would swim around the rocks and in to her little beach, emerging from the sea all goggled and flippered to mock her. But as she paid them little attention they soon tired and went away again. She knew time was running short. This was her very last chance to find enough shells to complete the giant’s necklace, and it had to be done.
The sea was calmer that day than she had ever seen it. The heat beat down from a windless, cloudless sky; even the gulls and kittiwakes seemed to be silenced by the sun. Cherry searched on, stopping only for a picnic lunch of pasties and tomatoes with the family before returning at once to her shells.
In the end the heat proved too much for her mother and father who left the beach earlier than usual in mid-afternoon to begin to tidy up the cottage. The boys soon followed because they had tired of finding miniature crabs and seaweed instead of the sunken wrecks and treasure they had been seeking, so that by teatime Cherry was left on her own on the beach with strict instructions to keep her hat on, not to bathe alone and to be back well before dark. She had calculated she needed one hundred and fifty more cowrie shells and so far she had found only eighty. She would be back, she insisted, when she had finished collecting enough shells and not before.
Had she not been so immersed in her search, sifting the shells through her fingers, she would have noticed the dark grey bank of cloud rolling in from the Atlantic. She would have noticed the white horses gathering out at sea and the tide moving remorselessly in to cover the rocks between her and Boat Cove. When the clouds cut off the warmth from the sun as evening came on and the sea turned grey, she shivered with cold and slipped on her jersey and jeans. She did look up then and saw that the sea was angry, but she saw no threat in that and did not look back over her shoulder towards Boat Cove. She was aware that time was running short so she went down on her knees again and dug feverishly in the sand. There were still thirty shells to collect and she was not going home without them.
It was the baleful sound of a foghorn somewhere out at sea beyond Gunnards Head that at last forced Cherry to consider her own predicament. Only then did she take some account of the incoming tide. She looked for the rocks she would have to clamber over to reach Boat Cove again and the winding track that would take her up to the cliff path and safety, but they were gone. Where they should have been, the sea was already driving in against the cliff face. She was cut off. For many moments Cherry stared in disbelief and wondered if her memory was deceiving her, until the sea, sucked back into the Atlantic for a brief moment, revealed the rocks that marked her route back to Boat Cove. Then she realized at last that the sea had undergone a grim metamorphosis. In a confusion of wonder and fear she looked out to sea at the heaving ocean that moved in towards her, seeing it now as a writhing grey monster breathing its fury on the rocks with every pounding wave.
Still Cherry did not forget her shells, but wrapping them inside her towel she tucked them into her jersey and waded out through the surf towards the rocks. If she timed it right, she reasoned, she could scramble back over them and into the Cove as the surf retreated. And she reached the first of the rocks without too much difficulty; the sea here seemed to be protected from the force of the ocean by the rocks further out. Holding fast to the first rock she came to, and with the sea up around her waist, she waited for the next incoming wave to break and retreat. The wave was unexpectedly impotent and fell limply on the rocks around her. She knew her moment had come and took it. She was not to know that piling up far out at sea was the first of the giant storm waves that had gathered several hundred miles out in the Atlantic bringing with it all the momentum and violence of the deep ocean.
The rocks were slippery underfoot and more than once Cherry slipped down into seething white rock pools where she had played so often when the tide was out. But she struggled on until finally she had climbed high enough to be able to see the thin strip of sand that was all that was left of Boat Cove. It was only a few yards away, so close. Until
now she had been crying involuntarily, but now as she recognized the little path up through the bracken her heart was lifted with hope and anticipation. She knew that the worst was over, that if the sea would only hold back she would reach the sanctuary of the Cove. She turned and looked behind her to see how far away the next wave was, just to reassure herself that she had enough time. But the great surge of green water was on her before she could register either disappointment or fear. She was hurled back against the rock below her and covered at once by the sea. She was conscious as she went down that she was drowning, but she still clutched her shells against her chest and was glad she had enough of them at last to finish the giant’s necklace. Those were her last thinking thoughts before the sea took her away.
Cherry lay on her side where the tide had lifted her and coughed until her lungs were clear. She woke as the sea came in once again and frothed around her legs. She rolled over on her back, feeling the salt spray on her face, and saw that it was night. The sky above her was dashed with stars and the moon rode through the clouds. She scrambled to her feet, one hand still holding her precious shells close to her. Instinctively she backed away from the sea and looked around her. With growing dismay she saw that she had been thrown back on the wrong side of the rocks, that she was not in Boat Cove. The tide had left only a few feet of sand and rock between her and the cliff face. There was no way back through the sea to safety. She turned round to face the cliff that she realized would be her last hope, for she remembered that this little beach vanished completely at high tide. If she stayed where she was she would surely be swept away again and this time she might not be so fortunate. But the cold seemed to have calmed her and she reasoned more deliberately now, wondering why she had not tried climbing the cliff before. She had hurried into her first attempt at escape and it had very nearly cost her her life. She would wait this time until the sea forced her up the cliff. Perhaps the tide would not come in that far. Perhaps they would be looking for her by now. It was dark. Surely they would be searching. Surely they must find her soon. After all, they knew where she was. Yes, she thought, best just to wait and hope.
