by Eva Ibbotson
But Sunita had shown the ghosts something bigger than themselves. A world where animals mattered, where living things were worshipped. A world where there was work to be done and one’s own troubles set aside.
‘We have been selfish,’ said Ranulf. ‘We have not been brave. We will help you and we will stay.’
And the other ghosts nodded, and said, ‘Yes, we will stay.’
CHAPTER ELEVEN
The first Open-Day-with-Ghosts began quietly – but it did not go on quietly. It did not go on quietly at all.
It had been decided that visitors should be shown round in a group rather than wander about all over the place, and Mrs Grove was appointed as the guide. She had worked in the castle so long that she knew it like the back of her hand.
As for the children, they were going to keep out of the way but watch from a hiding place in the upstairs gallery in case anything went wrong.
Because of the posters and the notice in the paper, rather more people than usual were waiting to buy tickets. There was a couple with three little girls: Lettice and Lucy and Lavinia, who chewed toffee bars and giggled as though the idea of ghosts was the funniest thing they had ever heard of.
There were two hikers: a tall thin one called Joe and a small fat one called Pete. They were on their way to a climbing trip in Scotland and had seen the notice about the ghosts and called in.
There was a sulky youth called Ham, who was on holiday with his parents and hated the country, where there was nothing to do except sit on windy beaches or walk up dripping hills, and a lady professor of architecture with her assistant, a pale girl called Angela. The professor had not come to see ghosts but to look at groynes and buttresses and mouldings.
Then there was someone who worried the children badly as they looked down from their hiding place: a delicate elderly lady called Mrs Field, who walked with two sticks and was in the charge of a muscular and bossy nurse.
‘Suppose she has a heart attack?’ whispered Madlyn.
‘Well, we did warn people,’ said Ned. ‘It wouldn’t be our fault.’
But the most important person in that first batch of visitors was Major Henry Hardbottock, who was a famous explorer and gave lectures and talked on the telly. Major Hardbottock had walked to the North Pole and lost two fingers from frostbite and bitten off a third when it went gangrenous; and he had walked across the Sahara without a single camel and with a raging fever. He was on his way to Edinburgh to give a lecture on ‘Survival and Hardship’ when he saw the notice and turned in at Clawstone just for a joke.
There was not a single person in that first group of visitors who believed in ghosts.
Mrs Grove led the party across the Inner Courtyard and into the building.
‘We are now in the oldest part of the castle,’ she began. ‘It dates from 1423 and’ . . .
She went off into her patter while Ham yawned, the little girls chewed their toffee bars and Henry Hardbottock sat on his shooting stick and looked superior.
Then: ‘Eeh, look!’ said Lavinia, and her mouth fell open, letting out a stream of treacly goo which ran down her chin. ‘Look there at that chest!’
The lid of an old oak chest had opened slowly . . . very slowly. A hand came out. An unusual hand . . .
It was the hand of a skeleton – but it was not completely bony. Small pieces of muscle still clung to it. A blob here, a strip of tissue there . . .
Not only Lavinia but Lucy and Lettice began to shriek.
‘It’s a skeleton!’
‘It’s a trick,’ said Ham, sneering.
‘This isn’t good for you,’ said the bossy nurse to little Mrs Field. ‘I’ll take you home.’
‘No, no, it’s interesting,’ said the old lady, clutching her sticks. ‘I don’t want to go home.’
‘What you are seeing is the famous Clawstone Skeleton,’ said Mrs Grove. ‘It is one of the oldest skeletons in England and may appear anywhere in the castle.’
Hearing himself talked about like that made Mr Smith feel brave. He was not some clapped out, overweight taxi driver; he was the Clawstone Skeleton. He pushed the lid up altogether. He sat up. He rolled his single eye. He leered.
The shrieks of the little girls grew louder.
‘It’s done by wires,’ said Ham.
But now there stole into the noses of the visitors . . . a smell. It was a familiar smell and yet it was unexpected in this place. It was the smell of something unwashed and sweaty. At the same time the sound of music burst through the hall, and then there appeared in the doorway . . . a pair of feet.
The Feet waited for a moment as performers do before they go on stage. Then they took two steps forward and began to dance; and as they danced, the smell of sweat grew stronger as the muscles strained, and the tendons pulled, and the uncut nails clacked on the flagstones – but with the most amazing rhythm, with a feeling for the music that was quite extraordinary.
‘They’re puppets,’ sneered Ham.
The Feet danced on. As they came up to the group of people watching spellbound, they neither slowed down nor stopped. It was as though the music had bewitched them.
The lady professor gave a gulp. ‘I have been danced through by feet,’ she said in a surprised voice.
In the cloakroom, Ned changed the tape and now it was the famous reel of the 51st Highlanders which sounded out. And The Feet danced this incredibly difficult reel up the stairs without a single mistake – and vanished through the brocade hangings on the landing.
‘We will now make our way to the dungeons,’ said Mrs Grove.
The party of visitors followed her. Major Henry Hardbottock walked ahead, making it clear that he was different and important.
‘It was here that prisoners were thrown,’ said Mrs Grove. ‘Often they fell on the bodies of men who were already dead.’
Upstairs the children, leaning over the wooden rails, looked anxiously at Mrs Field tottering gallantly after the others with her two sticks.
‘I’m going to take you home,’ said the bossy nurse. ‘This is no place for you.’
‘No, please. I want to see what comes next,’ said the old lady.
What came next, as they left the dungeon, was a great cloud of steam, followed by a high-pitched and eerie wailing. Then through the steam they saw the figure of a laundry maid bending over a cauldron of water. She seemed to be wearing a white cap and a white trailing apron and through the writhing vapour they heard her curses and her moans.
‘It won’t come OUT,’ she screamed. ‘I can’t get it out.’
She bent over the tub and lifted out a white cloth covered in red splashes. As soon as she scrubbed out one stain, another one appeared.
‘It’s blood,’ whispered Lucy, clutching her sisters. ‘You can see it, all gooey and red.’
But now the washing girl straightened herself and they saw that she was not wearing a cap but a bridal wreath. And her glittering eyes searched the party of visitors.
‘Men!’ she spat. ‘It’s men I want. Men have betrayed me and now I shall get my revenge.’
Dripping water, dripping blood, she swooped on to the small fat hiker and fastened her fingers round his throat.
‘Stop! Ugh! Guggle!’ gulped the small fat hiker.
‘I know who you are,’ she screeched. ‘You’re Henry.’
‘No, I’m not,’ he spluttered. ‘I’m not Henry. I’m Pete.’
Ham had stopped sneering, and backed away.
The demented bride passed straight through the hiker called Pete and swooped down on the other one. ‘Then you’re Henry,’ she screamed.
‘No, I’m not, I’m not,’ stammered the tall thin hiker, trying to beat her off. ‘I’m Joe.’
Major Hardbottock now stepped forward. You could say a lot about him but not that he was a coward.
‘Henry is my name,’ he said.
The effect on the mad bride was electric. She flew at Major Hardbottock, she kicked out at him, her fingernails reached for his eyes.
‘It was Henry who shot me,’ she yelled. ‘And you’ll pay for it!’
Major Hardbottock was a strong man but he had no chance against the demented spectre.
‘I didn’t, it wasn’t me! I’m a different Henry,’ he gasped, thrashing about wildly with his shooting stick.
‘You have just seen another of Clawstone’s famous ghosts,’ said Mrs Grove, as the party stumbled away from the steam and the mingled smell of washing powder and blood. ‘The Bloodstained Bride who was shot by her lover on her wedding day’ . . . She told them Brenda’s tragic story. ‘It is most unfortunate,’ she went on, ‘that Major Hardbottock has the same name as the man who killed her.’
Actually, the name of the man who had shot Brenda had not been Henry, it had been Roderick, but as the visitors waited to buy tickets, Ned had recognized Henry Hardbottock from the telly. He had told the ghosts about him and Brenda had seen at once how she could make her haunt more interesting.
‘I want to get out,’ said Ham. ‘Where’s the exit?’
But Mrs Grove did not seem to have heard him. She had opened a door labelled ‘Museum’, and the cowed visitors shuffled in after her.
Inside the room, everything was quiet. The stuffed duck that had choked on a stickleback, the rocking horse with a missing leg, the cardboard gas-mask case were all in place.
‘I will leave you to look at the exhibits on your own,’ said Mrs Grove. ‘If you want any help, just ask the curator.’
She pointed to a man sitting in a chair by the window with his back to them.
The visitors did their best to be interested in the exhibits. They were pale and shaken – the hikers kept feeling their throats – but it looked as though the worst might be over. The professor made a note of the medieval moulding over the fireplace. Then she bent over the Clawstone Hoggart.
‘I’ve never seen anything like this,’ she said to her assistant. ‘Go and ask the curator what it is.’
Angela went over to the window and cleared her throat.
‘Excuse me,’ she said. ‘I wonder if you could help me . . .’
The man swivelled round in his chair.
‘No,’ he said in a throbbing voice, ‘I cannot help you. But you must help me.’
And he stood up and slowly, button by button, he opened his shirt.
For a moment everyone in the room was silent as they took in the ghastly sight which met them. Then the screaming began – and the stampede to try to reach the door.
But the apparition with the unspeakable creature gnawing at his chest was quicker than they were.
‘You must take my burden,’ he cried, barring the door. ‘You must take my rat. Take it, take it!’ He lunged out at Major Hardbottock. ‘You! You are strong. Pluck it from me. Take it by the tail and pull.’
‘Get away from me,’ shouted the Major. ‘You’re unclean!’
‘Yes, I’m unclean but you must save me. Or you.’ He turned to the professor. ‘Snatch it from me. Free me from the rat!’
Ham retched and bent over a fire bucket. Everyone was backing away now but there was no escaping the phantom with the rat. He swooped through the cage of Interesting Stones and past the sewing machine which had belonged to Sir George’s grandmother. He beseeched and implored and pleaded – he went down on his knees and threw his arms round the visitors’ legs – and all the time the loathsome animal on his chest gnawed and crunched and chewed and clung.
Even when they found another door and stumbled down a flight of steps the visitors could still hear the maniacal voice. The little girls were clutching their parents, the hikers were deathly pale, the professor’s assistant was crying. All they thought of was getting out of the castle: out . . . out . . .out . . .
In the hall, The Feet were still dancing. The visitors stumbled through them. The nurse had run off, leaving the old lady to manage on her own.
‘Look, there’s an attendant!’ cried the professor. ‘Perhaps she’ll show us the way out.’
The visitors looked uncertainly at each other, but after a moment Major Hardbottock resolutely made his way towards the girl sitting quietly on a chair at the far side of the room.
‘How do we get out?’ he asked.
‘Yes, out, out quickly. Show us the way out,’ begged the rest of the party.
The girl on the chair smiled. It was a sweet smile and the terrified visitors were calmed for a moment.
‘This way,’ she said.
She lifted an arm and pointed. Then she gave a little sigh, her lovely midriff separated into two bloodied and jagged halves, and the top part of her floated softly, gently, up and up towards the ceiling, while her lower half, in beautiful embroidered trousers, still sat peacefully on the chair.
Upstairs in their hiding place, the children waited eagerly. As soon as Sunita had joined herself up again they were going to signal to Mrs Grove to lead the visitors out.
But something had gone wrong. Sunita’s top half still floated high up among the chandeliers, her long hair seemed to blow in some unseen breeze, but she did not come down again. She circled the huge room; she looked down, bewildered. She was lost. She could not find her lower half.
‘Oh!’ Madlyn clutched her brother. This was awful. What if Sunita could never find the rest of herself ?
They stared up at the ceiling – and then, as she gazed down at them, they saw her give an unmistakable wink.
She hadn’t really lost the rest of her; she was just pretending so as to make her trick more scary.
But this last haunting had been too much for one of the visitors. There was a clatter as a stick fell to the floor; then a dreadful thump as a body hit the ground.
But it wasn’t delicate Mrs Field who had fainted. It was the man who had walked to the North Pole and
bitten off his own finger; the man who had crossed the Sahara without a single camel.
It was Major Henry Hardbottock who lay unconscious on the floor.
CHAPTER TWELVE
It was a terrible moment.
‘Oh, the poor man; how dreadful,’ said Aunt Emily, running out of her room. ‘What if he gets concussion?’
‘What if he sues us?’ said Sir George. ‘We’d be ruined.’
While they waited for the ambulance, and Mrs Grove let out the other visitors, every kind of dreadful thought ran through the heads of the people in the castle. If the Major was seriously hurt they would never dare to let in visitors again. It looked as though, after all their hard work, the first Open-Day-with-Ghosts had ended in disaster.
The ghosts, of course, started to blame themselves.
‘Perhaps I shouldn’t have strangled him so hard,’ said Brenda, and Mr Smith was worried that he had stuck the wrong hand out of the oak chest.
‘It sometimes bothers people, seeing those slivers of muscle on the bone. Slivers can be very unsettling.’
By the time the ambulance men came with a stretcher, Major Hardbottock had come round, but they insisted on taking him to hospital for scans and a check-up.
‘You never know with head injuries,’ said the first man, looking solemn.
‘I don’t like the look of his eyes,’ said the second.
So the Major was driven away, and in the castle they settled down anxiously to wait for news.
Sir George rang the hospital in the early afternoon, and again an hour later, and then once more, but no one could tell him anything. The Major was still having tests.
‘If they’ve found something serious I shall never forgive myself,’ said Aunt Emily.
Supper was a silent and a gloomy meal. But just as they were clearing it away, Ned came running in from the village to tell them what he had seen on the seven o’clock news.
‘He was sitting up in bed – the Major – surrounded by journalists and telling them about this amazing castle he had seen absolutely chock-full of ghosts.’
And sure enough, the following morning what the Major had said was in all the newspapers, with a big picture of him and a smaller, smudgy one of Cl
awstone.
The day after that, the Major gave a lecture. But it was not the one he usually gave called ‘My Journey to the North Pole,’ and it was not the one called ‘My Travels in the Sahara’. It was called ‘My Adventures in the Most Haunted House in Britain.’
So, within a very few days, the number of visitors to Clawstone doubled and then trebled and then quadrupled. People came with troublesome children, hoping they would be frightened into good behaviour; groups of youths abandoned their computer games to come to Clawstone; and parties arrived from bowling clubs and cricket associations and unions of transport workers and cheesemakers and dentists.
What’s more, the first visitors, who had left screaming, came back, bringing their friends. The hikers who had been nearly throttled by Brenda brought their companions from the Ramblers’ Club; the professor came with a batch of students; the little girls persuaded their teacher to bring the whole class – and old Mrs Field brought her physiotherapist.
‘I can’t understand it,’ said poor Aunt Emily. ‘Do you think people like being frightened?’
They increased the number of Open Days to two a week, and then three; they could have filled the castle every day, but they didn’t because they didn’t want to exhaust the ghosts.
‘They work so hard,’ said Madlyn, ‘it wouldn’t be fair.’
The Feet had danced so energetically that they had developed ectoplasmic blisters on their big toes, and in between haunting they just crept into the Wendy house and slept and slept and slept.
‘I wish there was something we could do for them,’ said Rollo.
‘Maybe we could wash them – they’re always washing people’s feet in the Bible,’ said Madlyn.
But no one knew quite how to do this and anyway it seemed rather rude, so they left it. They had become very fond of The Feet. Having them was rather like having a dog who understood much more than people realized.
Knowing how useful they had been made the phantoms really happy. After years of wandering they felt they had come home.