Toby Ibbotson - Mountwood School for Ghosts

And out of the pit they came. First, jabbering and screeching, came a horde of black-winged furies, fell creatures of the night, flapping and circling, their cruel faces and murderous eyes searching for victims, their talons spread, ready to rip and tear.

After them, creeping, crawling, leaping, came every kind of beast that ever fed man’s deepest fears, and death was in their eyes. The dread Dullahan, on his black stallion, rode the air. The Fenris wolf that one day will swallow Odin Allfather at the twilight of the gods leaped from the fiery depths, threw back its fearsome head and howled.

There was a hissing of serpents, and Medusa the Gorgon, with writhing snakes for hair, rose from flames. She stared with her baleful eyes — the look that no man may meet, for it turns him instantly to stone.

Jack Bluffit was still in the rhododendron bush. He had been thrown on his back when the thunder roared and the ground shook. He lay there, terrified, as unearthly screechings and the roar of flames filled the air. He had to get away. He rolled over on to his stomach and started crawling. He stood up, prepared to step out of the bush and make a dash for safety. He peered through the foliage. He saw total desolation, illuminated by the red glare of the fiery pit. The entire site was a shattered, smouldering wasteland.

Jack was filled with a mad, unstoppable rage. He clenched his fist and shook it in fury at the destruction of all his plans and schemes. He heard a hissing sound, and looked straight into a pair of unfeeling, staring eyes.

The bus was on time. On the stroke of midnight it turned into Markham Street and drew to a halt outside number twelve. The ghosts, fully restored, were gliding about saying their farewells. There was not much excitement and laughter, only the quiet partings that mark the aftermath of battle.

The loss of Angus Crawe had been hard, even though they knew he had chosen the hero’s way.

Everybody was there, even the Bosse-Lynches. The Phantom Welder floated over to them. Mr Bosse-Lynch flinched slightly, but he stood his ground.

‘Shall we let bygones be bygones?’ said the Phantom Welder.

‘Yes,’ said Mr Bosse-Lynch. ‘I understand you had a rough deal. And you have saved our homes.’

‘Credit goes to young Percy, I’d say.’

All the ghosts had been stunned when they found out that in their midst was a hell stamper. They had only heard rumours that such spectres existed. As far as any of them knew, the last one known to walk the earth had been over two thousand years ago, when a whole Greek island had disappeared beneath the Aegean Sea. Ron Peabody was so swollen with pride that they thought he might explode, and Iphigenia was not much better. And neither of them, really, could put Percy’s success down to poetry or physical exercise. He was what he was.

The hell-stamper himself was saying tearful goodbyes to Daniel and Charlotte. ‘You will come to see us? Please say you will. Samson wants to see you too. The Great Hagges won’t mind, I’m sure.’

Daniel and Charlotte weren’t as sure as Percy, although when the Hagges had left earlier, Fredegonda had said, ‘For children, you are not too bad. I’ve seen worse.’

Then Daniel had got the courage up to ask, ‘Er… Great-Aunt Joyce…?’

Fredegonda had just looked at him.

Then she climbed into the Rolls and said, ‘Goneril, that reminds me. Stop at the post office on the way home, will you? We have a little parcel to send to Ireland.’

As the Rolls, that noble triumph of British engineering, accelerated smoothly away, Goneril declared, ‘My goodness, I’m starving after all that exercise. I could eat a horse.’

Drusilla leaned forward and poked her nose over Goneril’s shoulder.

‘It’s funny you should say that…’

Now it really was time to go. As Kylie got on to the bus she gave Karin Hughes a shy little wave and whispered, ‘Thank you. Thank you for the tree.’

Margaret Hamilton hurried up breathlessly, with Mary on her arm. ‘Oh, thank goodness you haven’t left. She just won’t settle down. I think she wants to say goodbye to Vera.’

At that moment they all realized that Vera was not with them. She had been the slowest to recover, and was still nothing like her former self. The loss of Angus had almost broken her fragile spirit. And now she had disappeared.

Then, from high above the rooftops of Markham Street, an unearthly sound was heard. It started as a sort of sighing moan, and then got louder and louder, becoming an eerie, heart-stopping cry that rose and fell and rose again; it bore all the sorrows of the world and cast them to the sky. Then it fell silent.

After a moment Vera materialized, wiping her nose.

‘I have wailed,’ she said. ‘For Angus.’

Then she turned to where Margaret Hamilton was standing with her baby on her arm. ‘Goodbye, little Mary,’ she said, and leaning over she whispered something into her ear. Mary gurgled happily.

The bus finally departed. Peter Richards and Jim Dawson watched it go.

‘What on earth am I going to do now?’ said Jim. ‘I don’t believe in ghosts.’

‘Freak Storm Puts an End to Markham Park Development’, read the headline.

In smaller letters underneath it said, ‘Council to finance affordable homes on country estate.’

Daniel and Charlotte were sitting on Mrs Wilder’s sofa, taking it in turns to read aloud to her while she poured out the tea.

Inside the newspaper they read, ‘Star journalist Sam Norton exposes corruption in City Hall.’

There was a very long article all about how huge expensive projects had led to wanton destruction of the city — and all to line the pockets of entrepreneurs and civil servants. The article ended, ‘But where is the spider in this web of deceit and lies? Where is Jack Bluffit?’

‘Where indeed?’ said Mrs Wilder. ‘Probably in Rio de Janeiro enjoying his ill-gotten gains.’

Charlotte glanced at Daniel, and then she said, ‘Mrs Wilder, what about a walk up to the park? Just to see what’s happening.’

‘Well, if you think you can get me there, that would be very nice.’

So the three of them walked slowly to Markham Park, Charlotte on one side of Mrs Wilder and Daniel on the other, just in case.

Already the restoration had begun. There were lots of volunteers from the streets around the park, digging flower beds and putting in new plants. The leader of the council had decided that General Sir Markham’s wishes should be respected. ‘In perpetuity means just that,’ he had declared. There was an election coming up.

Daniel and Charlotte led Mrs Wilder to the edge of the park, where a rhododendron bush that had somehow weathered the disaster stood by itself. Partly hidden by the new foliage stood a statue. It was of a man shaking his fist in fury at General Markham, who had been rescued from his skip and now gazed proudly over the city from his plinth.

Mrs Wilder studied it in silence for a while.

‘Well, children,’ she said eventually, ‘they do say that you should be careful what you wish for. One day your wish might come true.’

They turned for home. They came to the iron posts and walked on down Markham Street. As they approached Mr Jaros’s house they heard voices raised in furious argument.

Mr Jaros and Peter Richards were sitting on the front step. At their feet, lying on Mr Jaros’s jacket lay Angus, the puppy who had arrived only a few days earlier. He lay fast asleep with his paws in the air and his tummy warming in the sunshine. He was oblivious to the battle raging above him.

‘He has the speed, and he has the technique, I tell you. He is really top class.’ Peter sounded very worked up.

‘Nonsense!’ cried Mr Jaros, dragging the fingers of one hand through his hair and waving the other one about. ‘I say pooh to that. He is flashy, he is young and pretty, but it takes more than that to make someone great.’