“Thank God,” I said. “I thought I’d never get him off that plane.”
“What’s gotten into him?” Heath asked me.
I rolled my eyes and made a face at Gopher, who’d also just appeared at the top of the Jetway. “Gopher just had to tell Gilley all about the ghost that haunts Kidwellah Castle.”
“I told you not to let them sit next to each other,” Heath reminded me.
I shook my head and sighed. “It’s not like I could’ve done anything to stop Gil from sitting next to Gopher once our oh-so-helpful producer announced he had a two-pound bag of M&M’s for the flight.”
Heath smirked. “How many of those two pounds do you think went into Gil?”
“At least one and a half, which of course gave Gil a really good sugar high and he soaked up everything Gopher had to tell him about Kidwellah and the haunted moors.”
The castle and the surrounding moors I was referring to were located in northern Wales, in a lovely-sounding place called Penbigh, and by the looks of our research, it appeared to be one of the most interesting haunted places in all of Britain. I’d seen a picture of the castle complete with drawbridge and its huge adjoining moat. I’d gotten excited about the prospect of exploring it the minute I’d seen the photo.
Truth be told, Kidwellah was exactly the type of location we needed after shooting our last episode in Dunkirk, which had been a complete bust (no pun intended). We’d investigated a crumbling ruin that lacked a lot in the way of panache, and the most we’d managed to record were some faint disembodied footsteps and the sound of a horse whinnying in an abandoned stable. Otherwise, it’d been a whole lotta footage of Heath and me searching for spooks and finding nothing interesting.
But the moors in northern Wales held such promise, which was why we’d all agreed to it. . . well, except Gilley. We hadn’t told him. And the reason we hadn’t told him was that for the past few weeks, he’d been acting crazy. I’m talking more crazy than normal, which for Gil meant—CRAZY!
He’s always been afraid of spooks, but as long as we give him a nice safe place to work from, like a van parked somewhere outside the haunted zone, he’s usually more than willing to provide his considerable technical expertise to our shoots.
But in Dunkirk something had happened, and I still didn’t quite know what. Gil stopped showing up for our daily pre-shoot meetings, and every time he thought he saw something creepy on one of his monitors, he flipped out. I’d been called off the location a couple of times to try and talk some sense into him, and my calm, rational reasoning had worked well enough to finish the shoot and load him onto the plane, but I hadn’t counted on Gopher going on about how creepy Kidwellah was. Supposedly, its moat was haunted by the ghost of a woman who could pull in any careless soul who ventured too close to the water. Gopher had even suggested that there’d been one or two drownings credited to her, but I doubted those stories were true. Still, the surrounding moors had at least a long list of ghostly sightings, so if we couldn’t find enough spooks within the haunted halls of Kidwellah for a good show, at least we had a fighting chance to capture something spooky out on the moors.
But now that Gopher had stupidly triggered Gilley’s breaking point, I hoped I’d be able to get him straightened out before it came time to investigate the castle. The last thing I needed right now was to deal with Gilley’s meltdown. Before bolting to the men’s room, Gilley had tried to tell me that he knew the ghost in the moat was going to come for him, because they always came looking for him.
The sad thing is. . . he’s mostly right. Gil makes a nice target for a spook. It must be something about the electromagnetic frequency he puts out, because ghosties just love him. Or, more to the point, they love to terrorize him. I’ve never actually told him this, but I’ve been in enough haunted locales to understand that Gilley is a magnet for spectral activity. It’s like he’s wearing Hai Karate for spooks.
After ten minutes of waiting near the men’s room door with no sign of Gil, I sent Heath to check on him. He was back in a minute to tell me that our little buddy had locked himself in one of the stalls and wasn’t coming out until morning.
In turn, I rounded angrily on Gopher. “Why?”
“I didn’t know he didn’t know!” our producer exclaimed. “You guys gotta tell me what’s safe to tell Gil and what isn’t!”
“Nothing,” I growled. “Nothing is safe to tell him, Goph! You got that?”
Gopher shifted the strap of his duffel to his other shoulder. “I do now. . . .”
I turned away angrily and looked about for the rest of our production crew, spotting John, our sound guy; Meg, our production assistant; and Kim, our assistant producer. I waved them over, noting how worn out they looked. Our crew is a decent-looking bunch: John’s tall and broad shouldered with dishwater blond hair and a long face that suits him. Meg is a pretty little thing, with curly strawberry blond hair and a heart-shaped mouth, and Kim is thin and carries herself with a grace that you’d see on a ballet dancer. She has long black spiral curls that bounce when she walks and an olive skin tone. “I’m sure you can tell we have a situation,” I began when they’d joined us.
“Gilley again?” John asked with all the irritation that my BFF having yet another meltdown could inspire.
I sighed heavily. I was exhausted, and I knew they were too. Gil’s timing couldn’t have been worse. “Yes, John, unfortunately it’s Gilley again. He’s locked himself in the men’s room, and he’s refusing to come out until morning.”
“What do you need?” he asked. I liked John. He was a good guy and he was always ready to do what I asked.
“I need for you three,” I said, pointing to him, Heath, and Gopher, “to go in there and get him out of that stall. Then we’ve somehow got to get him through customs without causing an international incident, and take him to the hotel. He just needs a nice long rest. If we let him sleep, feed him, and don’t talk about the shoot, he’ll be back to his old self by morning.” I sounded far more confident uttering these words than I actually felt about the situation.
Heath, John, and Gopher all exchanged uncomfortable looks. They knew how big a challenge it was going to be to get Gilley to go anywhere he didn’t want to.
Still, without a word they marched into the men’s room, and Kim, Meg, and I all stood outside, where we heard a pretty good commotion erupt.
At last the four of them appeared, Gilley’s torso slung between Heath and John while Gopher carried his legs, and all the while Gil was putting up a really good fight, kicking and struggling for all he was worth. I looked around at the alarmed passengers, and sure enough, two security guards began to trot over. “I guess avoiding an international incident was a little much to hope for,” I grumbled, moving to intercept the guards.
Two hours later we were still being detained by those same guards at Manchester Airport. By this time, Gilley was asleep next to me, his head on my shoulder. Having thrown his temper tantrum, he’d exhausted himself, but managed to get us into deep doo-doo in the process. He was lucky I loved him and had known him most of my life—otherwise, I would’ve killed him and hidden the body without a pang of guilt.
I looked down at my best friend and softened just a little. He’d had the same big head with black unruly hair and a nose that was a bit too big for his face since he was eleven. He’d been the smallest person in our class—next to me, of course. Neither Gilley nor I had ever had much of a growth spurt, and although I was still slightly taller than average at five-feet-four, he remained on the short side at just a hair over five-feet-seven. His big head was starting to hurt against my shoulder, though, so I shifted in my seat and his chin lolled forward. He snorted himself awake, looked about blearily, and asked, “What’s happening?”
“Nothing,” I told him icily. “We’re still being detained.”
Gil yawned and took in
all the angry faces of the crew glaring back at him. “You guys shoulda just let me get back on a plane and go home,” he groused.
“Trust me,” I told him, “we’re all currently in favor of voting you off the island.”
Gil looked down at his hands and sighed. “I can’t help it,” he said. “I’m really scared this time, M. J.”
“What’s so different about this time?” I asked. “Seriously, Gil. We’ve faced some supercrazy stuff before and you’ve come out of it okay. What’s so bad about this time?”
Gil leaned his head back against the wall, and I could see that his eyes had gotten moist and he was trying to hold back the tears. That took me by surprise. I had no idea he was so upset about coming here. “It’s just. . . ,” he began, without adding anything more.
“Just what, honey? Come on, Gil. Tell me. What’s got you so freaked-out?”
Gil wiped his eyes and cleared his throat. He wouldn’t look at me, which troubled me greatly. “At some point,” he finally said, “I think my luck’s gonna run out. Someday, on one of these busts, either you or me or Heath or one of our crew is gonna end up dead, M. J.”
“Oh, Gil,” I whispered, laying a hand on his arm.
I wanted to throw my arms around him and hug him until he wasn’t afraid anymore, but then Gilley looked up at me with big liquid eyes and said, “And this time, I really, really feel that something really bad is gonna happen. And when really bad stuff happens, it usually happens to me first.”
Gilley then dissolved into tears and I hardly knew what to do. I’d never seen him so undone before, so I threw my arms around him and hugged him as tight as I could. When Heath met my eyes across the room, I shook my head. I found I couldn’t talk. And deep in my heart I noticed for the first time my own sense of foreboding. It was like a small dark hole had suddenly opened up in the center of my chest, and try as I might, I couldn’t ignore the feeling that maybe, this time, Gilley might be right.
It took another twenty minutes for airport security to confirm we weren’t a bunch of terrorists or hoodlums, and by the time they shook all of us awake, we were so groggy and punch-drunk that it made for some comical stumbling out of the airport.
Because we were so bushed, we took a vote and instead of renting a couple of vans, we sprang for a couple of taxis to take us to our destination. For once, Gopher agreed with me that we could always rent a van later if we needed it.
The taxis took us to Kidwellah Castle, an incredibly majestic structure moated on three sides and the fourth backing up to Lake Byrn y Bach.
The castle itself was truly glorious, complete with turrets, parapets, towers, and a huge drawbridge. It was like something right out of Camelot. Even Gilley, who’d been slumped and pouty in the seat next to me, perked up when we rolled down a hill and the view of the castle opened up. As we drove closer to the structure, I could see the beautiful moat, gleaming dark blue as the setting sun’s rays danced across it. It didn’t look scary at all and I could almost see the gears in Gilley’s brain turning with that very thought, because the stiff set of his shoulders relaxed a little as he took in the lovely setting.
As we got closer, however, I happened to take in the row of signs lining the road on both sides of the drawbridge, warning pedestrians to walk in the center of the drawbridge, and to keep off the surrounding rocks leading to the moat. SWIFT CURRENT! read one sign. NO SWIMMING! read another, and all of them warned of DANGER!
But as we crossed onto the drawbridge—a massively wide affair without railings and set low to the water—I didn’t see anything stirring in the calm waters to either side. Gil turned to me as if to silently ask me if I thought the moat was as dangerous as the signs posted about warned. I merely shrugged, because I truly didn’t know.
Across the main bridge we rolled into the castle’s bailey—or the large enclosed courtyard leading to the main building and the keep—which were actually separate structures, but connected by a parapet about two stories up.
It’s hard to give a scale to what we were looking at, but suffice it to say that the castle was huge and—according to the goose bumps forming on my arms—chock-full of ghosties.
The two taxis parked in front of a massive iron door, propped open by a block of wood. As we exited and stretched our limbs, a slight-looking man in his late twenties or early thirties, dressed in an army green wool sweater and matching trousers, approached with his hands clasped together in front of him and his frame slightly bent. “Good evening,” he said formally. “I’m Merrick Brown, the hotel clerk. Welcome to Kidwellah Castle.”
I shook his hand and received a ready smile from the man. He was an extremely interesting-looking character, with bright carrot-red hair, a round face, bushy brows, a wonderfully hooked nose, and twinkling blue eyes. I warmed to him immediately. “Thank you, Merrick,” I said. “I’m M. J. Holliday.”
“Oh, yes, Miss Holliday, I’ve looked you up on the Internet and I have to say, I’m rather impressed! By what I’ve read, you and Mr. Whitefeather seem to be quite the pair of amateur investigators! I’m dead chuffed you and your crew will be visitin’ our little patch of Wales for a wee bit of ghost hunting! I should think that you’ll find Kidwellah up to standard for that sort of thing. The countess herself is very excited that her castle will be on the telly. She’s hoping your show will bring in the tourists and such.”
“Wonderful,” I said, attempting to muster up some enthusiasm, but I was too tired to give the word any oomph. “Sorry we’re so late, but we were unexpectedly detained at the airport.”
“Bloomin’ security, I imagine,” Merrick said with a knowing wink. “It’s why I never goes anywhere.”
“I’m tired,” Gil whined, dragging his backpack on the ground as he shuffled forward like a five-year-old.
I frowned at him before turning back to the charming clerk. “I’m afraid we’re all exhausted. I know it’s still early for you, but I think we’re ready to drop where we stand unless we get to bed very soon.”
“Of course, of course,” Merrick said, waving our group forward toward the main door. “We’ll just get you lot your assigned rooms, and then you can be off to catch your rest.”
“Thank you, baby Jesus,” Gil mumbled, quickening his step to be first in line at check-in.
Gopher sidled up next to me. “This is gonna put us behind schedule.”
“Do you know that you say that at the start of every single bust we do, Goph?” I was sick of everybody complaining. Actually, I was sick of everybody, and I just wanted a real bed to crash into for a good night’s sleep—which, by my estimation, I hadn’t had in over forty-two hours.
“Well, it’s true,” Gopher replied irritably. Then he quickened his step too.
I inhaled a deep breath and let it out slowly, trying to put a damper on my short fuse. “How you holding up?” Heath asked me as we walked through the door behind everyone else and into a gigantic main hall.
I didn’t even answer him, because I was too busy gawking at the gorgeous digs.
The interior of the castle was sparsely decorated, but truthfully, it didn’t need much because the architecture was so stunning. A huge stone staircase led up to a catwalk that completely encircled the large square room. Off the catwalk were four hallways positioned in the center of each section of the square, and I guessed that our rooms were down at least one of those hallways.
On the main floor there were several full suits of armor positioned at random sections around the square, a seating area, and a grand piano. A narrow window let in very little light, but the main hall was well illuminated by a massive iron chandelier that had to weigh several hundred pounds.
The air inside the castle was damp and chilly, probably a result of the cold stone bricks, which held in very little warmth and allowed moisture to collect where it would.
It wa
s the perfect ambience for a haunting and I only hoped that the ghosties would hold off visiting Heath and me until morning.
Just as I had that thought, however, I saw a shadow dart down one of the hallways upstairs. I elbowed Heath and pointed up. “You saw it too?” he asked.
I nodded. “This should be interesting.”
Heath and I were the last to check in and receive our rooms. Merrick looked to his logbook as he searched for our names and corresponding keys. “I’ve selected a suite of two rooms in the VIP section of the castle,” he said merrily, his expression slightly starstruck.
Heath bounced his eyebrows at me and mouthed, “VIP?”
I had a feeling that Merrick might believe we were far more well-known than we actually were. “It’s a lovely set of rooms, removed from the regular guests, and as we have a large and rather boisterous party in residence at present, I believe you’ll appreciate the peace and quiet of the VIP wing. And you’ll even have your own key to access that section of the castle.”
“Our own key to that section of the castle?” Heath repeated, and I could sense that he was a little uncomfortable being mislabeled a VIP.
Merrick slid the rather large antique-looking key at us. “Yes, Mr. Whitefeather,” he said. “We reserve that wing for our most important guests and locking it ensures that none of the riffraff get in.”
If I’d had the energy, I would have set Merrick straight about the fact that Heath and I were just as riffraff as the next person and we didn’t need our own private section of the castle, but the truth was, I was secretly pleased about being treated like a celebrity. So when Heath eyed me to see what I thought, I nodded. Plus, I was pretty sure that once Gopher found out we’d been located in the VIP section, he’d blow a gasket at the added expense something like that was bound to come with, so why not enjoy it for one night before he forced us to move?
After handing us our room keys and drawing Heath a map to the VIP wing, Merrick turned from congenial to downright sheepish when he added, “I’m so sorry we’ve no one to take your bags for you, but I’m afraid I’m needed in the kitchen to help Mrs. Farnsworth prepare for supper.”
What a Ghoul Wants Page 2