Toby Ibbotson - Mountwood School for Ghosts

The guard’s eyes widened in horror, and fear gripped him like a vice as he gazed at the empty shell that was Kylie.

She dissolved slowly into the bushes.

Charlotte’s mother was in the kitchen. It was late but she thought she might as well set out the breakfast things, because any minute now little Mary would wake up and start crying. She had been having nightmares or something, and every single night, when Margaret Hamilton was desperate for bed, Mary would wake up and couldn’t go to sleep again for ages. She had to be stroked and soothed, and tucked in again, and given a drink of water.

When she had finished, Mrs Hamilton sat at the kitchen table and waited. She wasn’t going to be fooled this time. If she went to bed, she would only have to get up again. She waited a long time. Then suddenly, as mothers do, she started worrying. Something must be wrong. Why hadn’t Mary started her wailing?

As quietly as she could, she crept up the stairs. Mary’s door was ajar, as always. From inside the room a strange faint light shone gently, and she heard a soft voice singing a strange melody without words.

Mrs Hamilton opened the door. A pale, thin lady was stooping over Mary’s cot. She should have screamed and called the police, but she knew at once. ‘You’re one of Charlotte’s friends, aren’t you?’ she whispered.

‘Yes, I am,’ said Vera. ‘Please don’t be afraid. I know I shouldn’t be here. Such a sweet child, but she was a little worried.’

Mary was sleeping like a lamb.

‘How on earth did you manage it? I simply cannot get her to settle down.’

‘We had a little chat, and then she felt better.’

‘But she hasn’t learned to talk.’

Vera only smiled. ‘I should be getting back to Percy. Iphigenia will be worried. But perhaps I could visit again?’

‘Of course, any time.’

Vera the Banshee faded slowly, and was gone.

Ed Bales had volunteered for the night shift. Extra money always came in handy, and Big Robby was paying in cash.

Under the arc lights that had been set up around the site he steered his big front-loader over to the huge pile of rubble and quarry waste that had been dumped on the site the day before. He scooped a load into his bucket, reversed and headed for the place where his mate had almost tipped his excavator into the old mine workings. They had to be filled in and properly compacted before the end of the shift. There was a lot of pressure on this job; everything had to be done in double-quick time.

‘What’s this then?’ said Ed when he got to the place. ‘Is someone working down there?’

A faint flickering light was visible, as though someone was using a headlamp down in the hole. He stopped and got out of the cab. Now he heard a weird chanting, which wavered up and down but never paused.

Ed looked over the edge. At the bottom of the hole, in a shimmer of pale light, stood an ancient man with long white hair and a long robe. His arms were outstretched, and his eyes under the bushy eyebrows were dark wells of red fire. Ed Bales started, and backed hastily away. Before his shocked gaze the ancient figure rose slowly to float above the hole, boring into him with its chilling eyes.

Ed was rooted to the spot. Now he could hear the chanting more clearly.

Ed tore himself away, ran to his cab and jumped in. In desperation, fumbling with his levers, he started up, and lifted the bucket of his front-loader as high as it would go. He careered towards the edge of the hole and tipped the contents, several tons of rubble, right on top of the chanting apparition. With a thundering roar the whole load disappeared into the hole, and dust rose.

Nervously Ed climbed out of his cab and crept forward to the edge. There was nothing to be seen.

‘Whatever it was, that fixed it,’ he said.

But then, to his horror, a pale gleam gathered and, out of the heap that he had dumped in the hole, the Druid emerged unscathed. He was still chanting. But this time, instead of simply hovering, he glided up and advanced towards Ed, pointing a long bony finger and gnashing his tooth.

Ed Bales heard no more. For at that moment his nostrils were assailed by a ghastly cloud of smell. The Druid had combined rotting corpses, boiling cabbage, some hellish sulphurous eggy fumes and a lot more besides.

Ed didn’t even have the time to throw up. He simply collapsed unconscious.

‘Now industrial accidents! What on earth is going on here?’

Big Robby was just about ready to tear his hair out. The security guard was in a psychiatric ward; any mention of Markham Park and he started on some babbling lunacy about hollow women. And now one of his best workers had collapsed unconscious. Big Robby was on the phone to his foreman.

‘Isolation? Why is he in isolation? What do you mean, because of the smell? Has he come round? He has? Well, what happened? A ghost! Did you say ghost? Has everybody lost their marbles?’

He rang off. He would have to visit them himself and then talk to Bluffit. There was no way they were going to bring this project in on time.

When he arrived at City Hall, Bluffit was looking at some pencil sketches that were spread out on his desk.

‘Snyder!’ he roared, hastily gathering the sketches in a pile and stuffing them into a drawer. ‘I told you… Oh, it’s you, Robby. Good news, I hope.’

‘Can’t say it is, Jack. One problem after another. Two of my employees say the place is haunted and they’re not going back to work.’

‘Haunted? What kind of stupid joke is that? They just want more money.’

‘I offered it. They still refused.’

‘Get it fixed, Robby.’

The tone of voice reminded Big Robby of what happened to people who stood in Jack Bluffit’s way.

The morning meeting in Markham Street was very satisfying. Kylie and the Druid came in for a great deal of praise and admiration. So far it was going well. One more night of softening-up, as Iphigenia called it, and then, finally, the big push, a full-scale horror show that would empty the place and make sure that no one ever worked there again.

‘We’ll have to be on our toes if we are to compete with you two,’ said Ron.

Kylie and the Druid positively glowed with satisfaction. Then as a watery sun rose over the city, and morning rush hour began to limber up, the ghosts dissolved to their well-earned rest.

Rumours of strange goings-on in the Markham Park development scheme began to seep through the city. Workmen talk to each other when they have their tea breaks, and talk to their wives when they get home.

In Markham Street itself, of course, quite a few people knew exactly what was going on, and Mr Bosse-Lynch’s odd episode caused a lot of talk even among those who didn’t. Great-Aunt Joyce met Mrs Bosse-Lynch in the street when she was out taking the air. Mrs Bosse-Lynch was the only one among the neighbours whom Great-Aunt Joyce ever talked to. If she met Margaret Hamilton with a pushchair and a load of shopping bags she just sniffed and pretended not to see her. Karin Hughes and Mr Jaros were foreigners, and Great-Aunt Joyce had even been known to cross to the other side of the street when she saw them coming.

Now she said, ‘Good morning, Mrs Bosse-Lynch, how is your husband?’

‘Not very well, I’m afraid. He insists that he has had a visitation.’