by Lou Kuenzler
Two: It couldn’t be Dad’s mobile she could hear ringing – they’d been trying to get reception ever since they’d first driven into Darkmoor, but there wasn’t so much as a flicker.
Three: Even if Grave Grange had suddenly got mobile reception, this didn’t sound like Dad’s Elvis ringtone. This high-pitched ring sounded like a screaming banshee.
G!
N
I
R
G!
N
I
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The sound seemed to be getting louder and higher by the second, as if the phone was actually screeching at her to pick it up.
The Grave Grange spooks weren’t any help at all. They were all floating about with their mouths wide open. (Those of them who had mouths. Which didn’t include Headless Harold or the Glove, of course).
“THE TELEPHONE NEVER RIIIIIIINGS!” warbled the Contessa.
“Never, ever!” agreed Mirabelle the poltergeist, excitedly throwing sheets of yellow notepaper in the air.
“But where is it?” said Ivy, panic fluttering inside her. “I need to answer it. It might be guests.” If no one new had stayed here for twenty-five years, they couldn’t afford to let a single booking escape.
“Guests?” The ghosts laughed, as if this was the funniest thing anybody had ever said. But, in the end, the Gory Glove came to her rescue.
It pointed a finger towards a deep drawer in the bottom of the desk. Sure enough, when Ivy opened it she saw an old-fashioned telephone, vibrating with impatience as it rang and rang.
“Hello?” Ivy picked up the receiver – in fact, she picked up the whole phone. It really was an old fashioned one.
“ISN’T IT MARVELLOUS?” trilled the Contessa. “STAAAATE OF THE AAART TECHNOLOGY.”
“Shhh!” said Ivy. “I can’t hear if you keep singing like that.”
“CHEEEEEEK! TELLING MEEEE, THE WORLD FAMOUS SONGBIRD, TOOOO BEEEE QUIET!” The Contessa was so furious her faint silvery shape actually turned purple with rage (like a giant floating blueberry). But she did (eventually) stop singing.
“Hello?” said Ivy again. “Yes. This is Grave Grange Hotel. Ivy, your receptionist speaking. How may I help you?”
“Who is it?” hissed Ash.
Ivy held up her hand for absolute silence. (It turned out that was a mistake because it meant she was holding the earpiece in the air too.)
“Of course,” she said, bringing the telephone back down to her ear. “That’s no trouble at all. We’ll expect you tomorrow, Mr Smith. Goodbye.”
She hung the earpiece back in its cradle and grinned at Ash and the Grave Grange spooks.
“That was Mr and Mrs Smith,” she said. “They want to come and stay at the hotel.”
“Guests?” said Ash. Or at least that’s what Ivy imagined he probably said. His voice was drowned out by the Contessa opening her mouth as wide as a cave and launching into full-blown opera mode.
“GUESTS. WEEEE’VE GOT GUESTS. TRA LAA LAAAAAAAA!”
And with that, she vanished.
“Hurrah! I love guests,” cried Mirabelle. She picked up the candlestick she had so carefully put down a few moments before and threw it at the wall. Then she too disappeared, giggling with delight.
As Ivy looked around the reception hall, she saw that all the spooks had gone – the Headless Huntsman and the Gory Glove too. Even the Staring Salmon had closed its eyes.
“I wonder why they all vanished like that?” she said.
“What do you expect? They’re ghosts. And ghosts can’t be trusted,” said Ash. “Didn’t you hear what the Contessa said about Grandpa Digby making us come here? Perhaps he can’t be trusted either.”
Ivy thought about this for a moment, and then shrugged.
“If Grandpa Digby did make us come, it was only because he knew being the chef at the hotel would be Dad’s perfect job,” she said. “I’m sure he’ll come back soon and explain everything. But until he does, I’m going to do everything I can to welcome our new guests to Grave Grange.”
With that, she turned on her heel and went upstairs to choose the best possible room for Mr and Mrs Smith.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN: POO! WAS THAT YOU?
“Poo! Was that you?” Ash held his nose.
“No it was not!” Ivy looked indignant. They were busy getting a huge dark-red bedroom ready for Mr and Mrs Smith. “I thought it was you!” She giggled, wafting her hand in front of her face. “I thought you’d been eating Dad’s Brussels sprout cookies.”
Ash laughed. It felt great to be joking around with his twin like this again – just like they used to sometimes back in their old flat.
“Listen, Ives,” he said taking a large gulp of (smelly) air. “I know the success of the hotel means so much to you … and to Dad too. I’m going to try and be a bit braver from now on. I promise.”
He really meant it too.
“Thank you!” Ivy’s eyes sparkled and she squeezed his arm. “That’s brilliant, Ash!”
Then, before things could get too soppy, she threw a big white sheet over her head and made a spooky noise like a ghost.
“WHOOOOOOOOOOO!”
“Give that here!” Ash grabbed the clean sheet from her and started to put it on the enormous four-poster double bed.
“Ivy?” he whispered, glancing up at the dark-red curtains above him and the dark-red paint on the walls. “Doesn’t the colour in this room remind you of—”
“Jam!” said Ivy brightly.
Ash had been thinking of something far more terrible, but he’d only just made his solemn promise to be braver. “Yes. That’s it,” he agreed in his best “I am VERY brave” voice. “Strawberry jam.”
“Wow!” cried Ivy. “You’ve just given me an amazing idea. Let’s call this room the Strawberry Jam Suite. Posh hotels always have fancy names for their rooms.”
“Right!” said Ash. “Strawberry Jam Suite it is, then.” (Secretly, he couldn’t help feeling it sounded more like a sticky pudding than a room. But Ivy seemed so excited, he didn’t like to spoil it for her.) It sounded a lot better than BLOOD RED ROOM OF DOOM, which is what he’d been thinking of!
The Strawberry Jam Suite was certainly the fanciest bedroom Grave Grange had to offer. As the Smiths were the first new guests to arrive at the hotel for twenty-five years, it seemed only fair that they should have the finest treatment possible. (Even if the room was still rather smelly).
“We’d better let some air in,” said Ash, stumbling towards the window, clutching his nose again. “Where can that dreadful pong be coming from?”
But, as he came round to the other side of the enormous bed, Ash froze.
A huge grey dog was lying on the floor.
Ash did not like dogs.
There were three reasons why:
One: Ash was allergic to dogs. (Dogs made him sneeze.)
Two: Ash was frightened of dogs (especially big dogs, with big sharp teeth).
Three: (Actually…) Ash did not like little dogs either. Ash had once been chased all the way home from school by a pug.
But this dog was absolutely enormous – the size of small pony, with the teeth and claws of a bear.
The massive dog lifted its humongous head and stared up at him with huge red eyes.
Ash didn’t dare to move.
“Ivy…” he whispered. “There’s a grey hound, lying on the rug.”
“A greyhound?” Ivy peered over the edge of the bed.
“No.” Ash had researched dogs in the town library at home. (It’s always good to know your enemy.) He had seen pictures of greyhounds. Greyhounds are skinny, elegant dogs built for racing, like whippets. This dog wasn’t skinny and it definitely wasn’t elegant. This dog was built for eating things (probably children).
“Not a greyhound,” he said. “A grey hound. An absolutely gigantic one.” The dog was the colour of bonfire smoke, as grey as the fog on the moors. “Of course!” Ash whispered. “It’s a ghost hound. I should have known.”
&nb
sp; That only made the giant dog even more terrifying.
“Ooh! Isn’t she magnificent?” said Ivy, leaning over the bed.
“She?” Ash was still staring into the dog’s huge blood-red eyes. He couldn’t tear his gaze away. “How do you know it’s a she?” he whispered.
“She’s got a name tag. It says her name’s MISTY – that’s usually a girl’s name,” said Ivy, pointing a finger. “Look.”
“Careful!” gasped Ash, leaping backwards. “She’ll rip your hand off.”
But the dog didn’t move.
“I don’t think ghosts can bite!” Ivy laughed.
Ash wasn’t prepared to put that to the test. All his promises to be brave were forgotten as he slunk back against the window. Ivy was right, though. The dog did have a name tag. It was hanging from a thick leather collar with a ring of sharp steel spikes all around it.
“Good, Misty. Nice, Misty,” he said nervously.
The huge hound leapt to her feet.
“She likes you!” cried Ivy. “She’s wagging her tail.”
“Likes me?” Ash cowered behind the curtain.
But the ghost hound bounded forward and threw her huge foggy paws around his neck.
“Agh!” cried Ash. “Down, girl. Get off! Sit!” He tried every dog command he’d ever heard. Ivy was no help at all – she was lying on the bed laughing so hard that she had to clutch her tummy.
“It looks like Misty wants to dance with you,” she squealed.
Ash was surprised by the strange, snuggly touch of Misty’s paws around his neck. This wasn’t the chilly feeling he’d got from Grandpa Digby or the ice-cold air of the Contessa. This was like steam – warm steam. He couldn’t feel the weight of Misty’s paws exactly, but he could sense their shape, pressing down on him with a gentle cosiness. In spite of everything, it made him smile … just for a moment. And then…
“Yikes! What’s that?” he cried, ducking out from under the dog’s paws.
Something wet, green and oozy was dripping down his shoulder.
Ivy was laughing so hard now she could barely even speak.
“It’s drool!” she spluttered. “Ghost-dog slobber.”
“Yuk!” cried Ash. “It’s like slime – green, ghostly slime!” But he instantly felt terrible. Poor Misty had slunk away back to her rug, and was lying with her head buried between her paws looking up at him with huge embarrassed eyes.
“Oh dear!” Ash suddenly realized the enormous demon dog wasn’t fierce at all. She was just anxious. “She’s not a warrior. She’s a worrier,” he whispered.
Ivy giggled. “Takes one to know one, eh, Ash?”
Ash ignored his sister. But she had a point. He would recognize that look of worry anywhere. He had seen it often enough in his own eyes in the mirror.
“Good girl, Misty. It’s all right,” he said, tiptoeing closer and wiping the green goo off his shoulder with a spare pillowcase.
But as Ash crouched down beside the giant dog, she suddenly looked guiltier than ever, and Ash clutched his nose, reeling backwards.
“Poo!” cried Ivy. “She farted.”
Ash chuckled – then quickly covered his mouth with his hand so the poor dog wouldn’t notice they were laughing at her.
“At least we know where that terrible smell was coming from,” he whispered, throwing open the window.
“She can’t stay here,” said Ivy firmly. “Everything has to be perfect for Mr and Mrs Smith. We can’t have a smelly old ghost dog lying at the foot of their bed.”
“But Misty likes it here,” said Ash, surprised to find himself defending a dog. “Maybe this was her owner’s room and she’s been loyally waiting for their return for hundreds of years.”
“Let’s see who she belonged to, then,” said Ivy. “It usually says on the other side of the dog tag. You look. She likes you.”
“Me?” Ash stepped back.
“Yes? What happened to your big promise to be brave?” asked Ivy.
“Fine!” Ash had to admit, he hadn’t done very well so far… And Misty really did seem to like him. She was still wagging her huge foggy tail. “Right,” he said (bravely). Then he crouched down (cautiously) beside her. “Let’s find out a bit about you, old girl.”
Again, it was a strange sensation. Ash couldn’t actually feel the cold metal of the tag between his fingers, but he sensed the motion of turning it and the disc flipped over.
“This hound belongs to Sir Harold Graves of Grave Grange, Darkmoor,” he read.
“Headless Harold?” said Ivy.
“Could be,” Ash agreed. “I suppose if he’s a huntsman, he would have had hounds. Hold on, though… if his real name’s Sir Harold Graves, that might mean we’re related. He might be our distant ancestor.”
“Cool!” Ivy whistled through her teeth. “You see! I bet that’s why Grandpa Digby was so keen for us to move. Because we belong here. Grave Grange is our … what-do-you-call-it?”
“Ancestral home?” said Ash, as Misty laid her foggy head on his knee.
“Yeah, that’s it. Ancestral home,” said Ivy grandly, sticking her nose in the air. “I might be Lady Ivy Graves of Grave Grange…”
“Oh no!” Ash buried his head in his hands. The last thing he needed was Ivy deciding she was a grand lady of the manor. But when he looked up again, he saw that she was biting her lip.
Ash hardly ever saw Ivy look worried.
“I just wish we knew where Grandpa Digby was,” she said. “Then he could explain everything.”
But Ash had spotted something outside the window.
“Wait! Maybe we’re in luck!” He leapt to his feet. A pale shimmer had caught his eye. Could that be Grandpa Digby’s spirit floating home across the moors at last?
But, for once, it wasn’t a ghost Ash saw.
He blinked.
It was a car. A huge, white, shiny car.
“The Smiths,” he gasped. “They’re here early!”
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN: WELCOME TO GRAVE GRANGE
“Welcome to Grave Grange!” said Ivy, grinning so hard her cheeks hurt, as Mr and Mrs Smith made their way across the reception hall towards her. “We do hope you’ll have a pleasant stay.”
Ivy was determined to make a good impression. Even Ash was trying his best. (He’d taken Misty to his own room and astonishingly let her lie down on his own bed, after they’d hurried her out of the Strawberry Jam Suite at the sight of the Smiths’ approaching car.) Meanwhile, Dad was whipping up a special appetizer for the new arrivals. He really was in his element here at the hotel, clattering around in the kitchen, trying out new recipes from dawn to dusk – all of which seemed to delight the ancient grey ladies. But Ivy knew, if her family were going to remain at Grave Grange, they’d need more than the near-death McEver sisters to keep the business alive. They needed proper guests with money to pay their bills.
Mr and Mrs Smith looked like they had money – quite a lot of money if the big, white, shiny car was anything to go by. And they seemed to have a lot of expensive-looking luggage too. Ash was now staggering under the weight of six matching white suitcases, as he attempted to bring them in over the drawbridge. All Ivy could see of him were his feet poking out from under the enormous mound of bags.
“Apologies. Our porter is very slow,” she said, waving her hand dismissively towards Ash. “He’s a bit weedy actually, as I’m sure you noticed. We’ll be getting a new one soon. A really strong one.”
“Right,” growled Mr Smith (who looked like a very round, very cross grizzly bear – in a very fancy white suit). “As long he doesn’t expect a tip.”
“Oh no,” said Ivy, grinning more widely than ever. “It’s all part of the service here at Grave Grange, Mr Smith.”
“I’ve got all my best frocks in those bags,” snapped Mrs Smith (who looked like a very tall, very cross flamingo – with very high-heeled shoes and a very big blonde wig). “That boy better be careful!”
“Careful is Ash’s middle name,” said Ivy reassuringly. (Actu
ally, Ash’s middle name was Kevin, but she’d have said anything to try and please the new guests.) At least the Grave Grange ghosts were keeping out of the way. The last thing she wanted was any strange paranormal activity right now… It was bad enough that the salmon kept glaring at the new arrivals from inside his glass case. (Until that moment, Ivy had never really known the alarming range of menacing expressions a dead fish could manage.)
Luckily, the Smiths didn’t seem to be paying any attention to the salmon – or to have even noticed him at all. (Perhaps that’s why the poor fish was so cross.)
Ivy smiled extra hard, just in case. But, the harder she smiled, the more it seemed to her that Mr and Mrs Smith were determined not to smile back.
They glanced around the draughty hall in dismay.
“We were expecting something a bit more modern,” said Mr Smith with a grunt. “Have you got a pool?”
“Oh yes,” said Ivy. “A lovely outdoor pool. Perhaps if the weather clears up later you could try it.” She crossed her fingers behind her back, hoping that the low grey clouds and endless drizzle would deter Mr and Mrs Smith from ever going to investigate the murky black pond behind the kitchen bins. It was the closest thing Grave Grange had to a “pool”.
“And, as for Dartmoor, well! We didn’t think much of that, did we dear?” said Mrs Smith dismally.
“Actually,” said Ash, staggering into the hall and dropping the suitcases at last. “It’s not Dartmoor, Mrs Smith. It’s Darkmo—”
“Did you see any ponies?” asked Ivy, cutting Ash off as quickly as she could and shooting him a dagger-sharp stare. “I’ve heard there are some very cute ones on Dar— on the moor.”
“Ponies?” Mr Smith snorted. “We could barely see the road in front of us, there was so much fog.”
“Oh dear. That is a shame,” said Ivy. “Still, I’m sure you’ll enjoy the view from your bedroom window. The Strawberry Jam Suite is our deluxe premier room.” (She remembered reading the phrase “deluxe premier room” on one of the fancy hotel websites she used to look at on the internet back home – the sort of place with swirly doors and spa treatments. The sort of place – she couldn’t help thinking – that the Smiths would much rather be staying in.)