“No one thinks you’re funny,” I holler.
“Oh, I bring the party,” he calls back over his shoulder. “And it’s a doozy.”
“Laugh it up now!” I call down after him. “But you won’t be laughing when our bodies are ravished by soulless entities looking for a host!”
The music stops and the boy with the guitar stretches his neck to look up at me through the heavenly spiral.
“Oh, uh…” I laugh, waving. “Sorry,” I say.
He sits there considering me for another minute and then says, “You got a brother?”
“Who? Me?” I point to myself. “Ah…no, it’s just us. Me and my mom and dad.”
“Mmm” is all he says, considering me for a few more seconds.
Then he stands up and puts his worn leather guitar strap over his head and swings the guitar onto his back, before disappearing down the second-floor hall without saying anything else.
I stand at the rail a few minutes more, thinking hard about all the feeling words that would best describe the guitar boy for my journal, and I make one very important decision.
That kid is getting a page all to himself.
That night the Muggles are in bed by nine-thirty.
Since I slept on the plane and also in the backseat of the backward rental car, I stay up to ward off the evil spirits and keep our souls safe from extraction. Not to mention there has yet to be confirmation of whether this Loch Ness Monster of theirs is solely aquatic or makes an appearance on land now and again. As far as I’m concerned, best not to take any chances.
I take first watch in my yellow flowered nightgown and Hello Kitty slippers after they say good night. Dad with a salute to wish me luck on my mission and Mom with a warning to be in bed by ten-thirty and no later.
“But, Mom,” I say. “Everyone who’s anyone knows the evil spirits don’t show their faces or start their undead shenanigans until the stroke of midnight.”
“Ten-thirty,” she says again, this time with bigger eyes and a voice that really means it.
I guard our haunted flat to the tune of the ticking grandfather clock in the hall and the stomps of my Hello Kittys on the wooden floor planks. Up and down the hall with dedicated fervor. Since Mom didn’t pack any garlic for the trip and I can’t find anything even closely resembling a stake that could go through a heart, I’m left with a single defense.
The feather pillow from the bed in my room.
Okay, so a pillow wallop to the face may not sound like a very lethal option when it comes to the undead, but I didn’t finish. The pillow on my new bed has one very stinging zipper on the end of it. And while it may not pierce a heart like a stake or cause a melting sensation like a clove of garlic, it can cause a good red mark that smarts like nobody’s business. I found this out myself during the Pillow Fight Incident of 2018 at Emmanuelle Penney’s birthday slumber party.
Whether or not it was an accidental pillow wallop to the face is still a matter of raging Tennyson Street debate.
Tick. Tick. Tick.
March. March. March.
Like a carefully created musical ensemble, my Hello Kittys stomp to the beat.
Up the hall. Turn. Down the hall. Turn.
At every fifteen-minute interval the grandfather clock chimes like cymbals, adding to the melody. For every hour, the clock chimes in a cymbals solo.
Ten cymbals for ten o’clock.
Eleven cymbals for eleven o’clock.
And then…the stroke of midnight.
Twelve cymbals.
Let the ghostly mayhem begin. And it does too. The evil spirits are awakened on the very last chime to begin their evil taunts. The first sound comes from the attic above the ceiling.
Pound. Pound. Pound.
The next from the hallway outside the front door.
Stomp. Stomp. Stomp.
And then in an orchestrated concert of spookiness, Mother Nature kicks in with her thunder cracks, tapping rain and wicked wind that rattles the windowpanes.
I get my feather pillow in the ready position.
Attic pounding.
Hallway stomping.
Thunder cracking.
Rain tapping.
Clock ticking.
Hello Kitty marching.
And my own heart beating.
“I’m ready for you, undead,” I whisper. “You’re not taking us.”
And then it happens…a moan.
It stops my Hello Kittys in their tracks.
I know it’s the moan of the undead.
And I know exactly what that means too. Taken Souls says it’s exactly what happens right before they strike. It’s when I hear the second moan that I have no choice but to do the unthinkable.
Wake the Muggles.
I throw the pillow and run. I run as fast as my Hello Kittys will take me, flinging open their bedroom door and lunging like an Olympic long jumper with all my might on top of their bed. A very loud ugh is what comes out of Dad because it’s him that I land on.
He sits bolt upright. “Rumorbug?” he whispers. “Is that you? What…what time is it? What are you doing?”
My heart is thumping so fast, I can feel it in my ears and I can’t keep the breath in my lungs long enough to get the words out.
“Ah, only guarding our souls from extraction,” I huff out at him.
“Uh-huh…right, yeah, how’s all that going?” He rubs his left eye and grabs his glasses to see the blue numbers on the digital clock next to the bed. “Wait. You were supposed to clock out from your shift by ten-thirty.”
“Yeah, well, lucky for you I didn’t!” I exclaim. “Because I heard them.”
“Who?”
“Them,” I say. “The undead. They’re here to steal our very souls. We need to evacuate the premises immediately.”
He blows a burst of air out of his mouth and then flops back down on the pillow.
“Dad.” I shake his leg. “I heard them myself. All I can say is I told you so. At this point we’ll be lucky if we escape with our very lives.”
“Libby.” Dad pats the lump that is Mom and then pulls the thick comforter over his head. “Your daughter has some feelings to discuss.”
Mom sits up still half asleep. “Huh?” she asks. “What is it? Adelaide Ru? What are you doing up? Do you need something?”
“You bet I do,” I tell her. “Holy water and a priest.”
She shakes her head at me. “I’m getting rid of the cable,” she tells me. “The minute we get home. Gone.”
“But, Mom, you don’t understand. I heard the moans,” I go on. “The Taken Souls paranormal investigators say it’s the first indication the evil spirits are about to strike.”
She takes in a long, deep breath and then blows air just like Dad did.
“What?” I throw my palms to the ceiling. “Google it if you don’t believe me.”
She flips her side of the comforter over Dad. “Come on, let’s go back to bed. I’ll go with you.” She puts her feet on the plush forest-green rug and holds out her hand.
In my room, Mom tucks the heavy feather comforter all around me, turns the light off and slips into the other side of the canopy bed.
I snuggle up next to her, tucked tight under her protective arm.
“Try to get some sleep,” she whispers, kissing me in the middle of my forehead.
The smooth sound of her breathing and her predictable smell make me feel a lot safer.
She smells like home.
And while predictable doesn’t tell a story that pops, tonight it makes me feel a whole lot better.
I sigh. “Mom?”
“Hmmm?”
“I’m pretty sure I won’t be able to make the best of Scotland. I don’t know how. And you want to know what else? Britney B hasn’t returne
d even one of my texts. Not a single one. And I’ve sent her like five. I bet that sneaky Emmanuelle Penney is going to steal her away from me and I will be best-friendless when I get home. They’re probably eating our veggieless pizzas and watching our Beyoncé YouTube videos together as we speak. They’ll oust me from the Beyhive.”
“Honey, it’s only been one day.” Mom kisses my forehead again. “I’m sure Britney B will get back with you by tomorrow or the next day. And I still have faith that you can make the best of things here for the summer.”
“I’m trying,” I tell her. “But monsters plus evil spirits is a little more challenging than I’m capable of.”
Mom pushes my bangs off my forehead. “Euna Begbie said this abbey was over a hundred years old. Just think of all those happy families. The family picnics and the holiday celebrations spent in front of the fireplace. The monks who worshiped here and did wonderful things for all kinds of people in this world. There’s goodness in this place. I can feel it.”
“And what if you’re wrong and the undead take me when you’re asleep?”
“Well, then I’ll miss you,” she says.
I sit up. “That’s all you have to say?”
She laughs and pulls me back down so we’re nose to nose. “You know what I think?” she says. “I think…maybe you’ve got a story starting here.”
A story?
“Weren’t you looking for an adventure to write about?” She gives the air a big sniff. “I smell something interesting happening in this place.”
“You do?”
She sniffs again. “Yes, and I think it smells…” She sniffs one more time. “Very interesting.”
And then I sniff. “All I smell is haunted abbey.”
“Hmmm” is all she says.
“But wait,” I say. “I could write about the haunted abbey and how the people disappear one by one. Or a story about that creepy Euna Begbie and how she possesses the souls of the people who come through the wooden doors of St. Benedict’s. Wait,” I say, sitting up with my finger in the air. “I’ve got it…the lake monster. I can write a story about a lake monster.”
She smiles. “I think you’re onto something.”
I snuggle back in, wrap my arms around her and give her a tight hug. “Thanks, Mom.”
“Now, please, will you go to sleep?” she says.
“Yes,” I say. “Good night.”
“Good night, my little author,” she says, and turns over on her pillow.
I lie there looking up at the ceiling, thinking about my new story. A lake monster…it’s perfect. I’ve never read one single book about a real live lake monster. I mean, Harry Potter may have battled a lot of magical villains, but he never, ever went toe to toe with a wild beast that swims the deep, dark waters of Loch Ness. All I need now is to find some interesting characters to share in the adventure.
Harry Potter wouldn’t be who he is without Hermione and Ron.
My eyes are wide open.
My heart is racing.
My insides are fluttering.
This time for a whole different reason. I stare at the ceiling, my fingers itching for the clicking of the keyboard. Tomorrow is the day I begin the search for my story.
I can’t wait.
My lids refuse to close.
Something inside me feels like it’s going to burst.
“Mom,” I whisper.
Sigh.
“What now?” she asks.
“My eyeballs are too excited to sleep.”
The next morning my mission begins.
Not warding off evil spirits this time, because we actually survived the night with our souls intact. So there’s a very slim possibility that I may be wrong about the whole haunted thing. But I’m not letting go of the idea completely just yet. The undead can be sneaky, so it’s best to keep your guard up.
My mission today has nothing to do with apparitions or zombies. Today I’m on my way to town to find some supporting characters for my story.
And somehow the morning sun makes the town feel a whole lot less scary than it did with clouds that refused to stay in the sky where they’re supposed to be, fogging and glooming the whole place up. Today the sky is a bright blue, the clouds are white and fluffy and the sun is rising bright above the tiny town.
First things first: characters.
At least my Ron and Hermione.
After breakfast, I bound down the heavenly spiral to the lobby with one of Dad’s old cameras around my neck, secretly hoping to see the guitar boy again. I even snuck some of Mom’s Sun Kissed Mauve just in case. But the halls of St. Benedict’s are quiet except for laughter, fun-time screams and splashing coming from behind the door marked POOL AND SPA.
It’s still early and the small town is just waking up. Shops haven’t opened yet and the rising sun is making it rain orange and pink and purple instead of drab gray. The waves of Loch Ness shine like diamonds, making it hard to believe that the deep, inky-black water is hiding a beastly lake monster somewhere underneath.
And there’s all the green too. It’s the very first thing I noticed when we landed in Glasgow yesterday. The green.
Velvety rolling hills.
Ivy-covered stone fences.
Leafy trees.
Cushy moss between the cracks in the sidewalks.
In Jelly Belly terms, it’d be like: Green Apple, Kiwi, Lime, Watermelon, and Juicy Pear all at the same time.
I make my way through the grounds of St. Benedict’s, past the life-sized chess set, through the trees and on to the pier. A canal runs through the center of town and into the loch, with sidewalks on either side of it and walking bridges that go across.
I examine all that is Fort Augustus through the tiny, square window of Dad’s camera. I love when he lets me use it. It’s way better than my iPhone to take pictures. And not to brag or anything, but Dad’s not the only photographer in the family.
The camera has a long lens and a button on top that you push when you find just the right shot. And then the shutter inside the lens makes this glorious clicking sound that tells you that you’ve captured something…something very special. A moment in time that will never, ever be reproduced.
That click is the best part of it. It’s like an exclamation point at the end of an exciting sentence that makes you feel something real important. And there is nothing better than that.
Dad says his photos are so good because he captures the soul of every shot. I haven’t learned how to catch any souls yet, but I keep trying.
“Good mornin’!” a voice calls out from behind me in a thick Scottish accent. I squint through my lens to see a very old and very tiny man with a mop of white hair coming out from under a tan flat cap. If I could come up with one word to describe him, I would call him dapper. Mostly because of his slick, shiny leather shoes, crisp blue-and-white polka-dot bow tie and red sweater vest over a navy button-down shirt.
I aim my lens at him.
Click.
“Good morning,” I say back.
“I’ve not seen the likes of ye in this town before.” He smiles at me from under his cap.
“We’re just visiting for the summer,” I tell him.
He holds out a hand and I take it in mine for a proper handshake.
“Nice to meet ye.” He smiles again. “Yer name, lass?”
“I’m Ada Ru,” I say.
This time I see how green his eyes are and they remind me of the green of the velvety Scotland grasses lining the hills and the curly mosses covering the stone fences.
“Quigley is the name,” he says. “I do cashier work here a few days a week.” He points up at the store sign above us.
“Ness for Less Market,” I read aloud, shielding my eyes to see the specials of the week carefully written with bright yellow paint in the w
indow.
5p off haggis
£1 off salmon
“We haven’t made it to the market yet,” I tell him. “We just moved into St. Benedict’s Abbey yesterday.”
“Working here gets me oot o’ the house now that I’m retired so I can meet all sorts o’ interestin’ people from all over the world.” He tips his cap at me this time. “Like ye, lassie.”
“I’m sorry to have to tell you this, but I’m not very interesting,” I say. “Not yet, anyway, but I’m working on it. Today, in fact.”
“And how’s that, lass?”
“Because,” I say, “I’m a writer and I’m writing a story about your lake monster and today I’m looking for my supporting characters.”
“Och, a writer!” he exclaims. “Braw! That’s lovely.”
“I’ll be my own protagonist, of course, but I need to find more characters. Besides the monster, that is. Maybe you’d like to be one of them? You have a very interesting name for a character.”
He clasps his hands together in front of him. “How wonderful! To be included in someone’s story? Now, that is somethin’ I didn’t expect when I started my day. Maybe ye could make me, ah…taller in yer book?” He stands on his tiptoes.
I laugh.
“I could do that,” I assure him.
Then he pulls off his cap to show me his shiny bald head.
“Wi’ a full heid o’ hair, if ye please.”
I laugh again. “Sure,” I tell him.
“Well, it’s been most wonderful meetin’ ye, lassie,” he says, peeking at a shiny silver watch on his wrist. “Now I’d best be on my way.”
“Oh, okay,” I say. “Goodbye, Mr. Quigley.”
“It’s just Quigley, love.” He waves a hand over his shoulder on his way down the sidewalk. “Quigley Dunbar the Third. Tatty bye.”
I squint and aim, watching him whistle a happy tune on his way.
Click.
“Excuse me, Mr. Quig…I mean, Mr. Dunbar…the Third,” I call after him. “But you passed the store.”
He stops whistling and turns back to face me. “I canna properly start my day without a sack o’ biscuits from a Wee Spot o’ Tea an’ Biscuits to have with my tea this mornin’.”
Nessie Quest Page 4