Boyle stepped through the door, snapped to attention, and fired off a sharp salute. “At ease, lance corporal,” the woman said. Her voice had the same false lightness as her expression, and Denzel had to fight the urge to back away. “Come in. Close the door,” she instructed. “Let me get a closer look at you.”
Samara half-shoved Denzel and Smithy into the room, then pulled the doors closed behind her. “Sorry to interrupt, Director Quinn,” she began. “We thought you should meet this…”
Quinn made a dismissive gesture with a hand, then crooked one of her fingers at Denzel, beckoning him closer. He shot Samara a glance and she gave him an encouraging nod.
Slowly, and completely against his better judgement, Denzel approached the desk. Sitting there in the middle of it, Quinn reminded Denzel of a spider at the centre of a web. He tried not to think too much about that as she beckoned him closer still.
“So, you’re the boy who was attacked twice in two days,” she said, once he was close enough to touch the desk.
“Uh, yeah,” said Denzel. “I mean, apparently.”
“And I hear you can see poltergeists,” said the director. “Do you know why that’s interesting?”
Denzel shook his head. “Because no one can see poltergeists, Denzel,” Quinn continued. She leaned forwards, placing her elbows on the mahogany desktop and steepling her fingers in front of her. That almost-smile was still fixed in place. “Which means either you’re someone very special indeed, the likes of whom we’ve never met before … or you’re a liar.”
She slammed both hands down on the desk. Denzel jumped and let out an involuntary yelp of fright, and, for just a fleeting moment, Quinn’s smile was real.
“And I fully intend to find out which.”
Denzel stood in a room roughly the size of his school gym hall. Three Transit van-sized metal containers were lined up in front of him, each one perched on the prongs of a different forklift truck. There was a window in the end of each box, through which Denzel could see that two of them were empty. The third, however, was not.
“That one,” he said, pointing to the middle container.
Director Quinn stood beside him, her arms folded. She was turned side-on to the containers, so she could watch Denzel’s face up close. “Are you sure?” she asked.
Denzel nodded. Inside the container, tucked into the shadows near the back, he could see a shape made of what looked to be black smoke. It had long, trembling tentacles that it had wrapped around itself like a cocoon.
On Denzel’s “Most Mind-Blowingly Terrifying Things Ever” scale – which he had only very recently had any reason to invent – it was just a notch below the trash-monster. And yet, as he watched the thing, he couldn’t help but feel a pang of sympathy for it.
“It’s that one. It’s the middle one,” he said, pointing again.
Boyle stepped past him and aimed his rifle at the middle container. Almost immediately, a red light near the base of the barrel began to blink. Boyle turned to Quinn and gave one quick nod.
“Interesting,” said the director. “What does it look like?”
“Sort of black and smoky,” Denzel said. He took another step closer to the glass. “And … frightened. I think it’s scared.”
“Oh heavens, no. I don’t think so, Denzel,” said Quinn. “It can’t be scared. Poltergeists don’t get scared. They’re animals.”
Denzel turned. “I’m pretty sure animals get scared.”
“I know ducks definitely do,” Smithy volunteered.
“Exactly,” Denzel began, then he frowned and glanced at his friend. “How do you know that?”
Smithy’s lips went thin. “It’s a long story,” he said. “You don’t want to know.”
“It’s a spectre. A ghost. Trust me, it’s no more capable of emotion than the box containing it is capable of dancing the fandango,” Quinn said. Denzel peered through the glass. The shape was vibrating now, and although he couldn’t hear anything, he would have sworn he could feel it whimpering somewhere inside his head.
Boyle put two fingers in his mouth and let out a shrill whistle. One by one, the forklifts started to reverse. “What’ll you do with it?” Denzel asked, watching the box retreat.
“It’ll go to Spectral Storage to be stored,” Samara said. “Don’t worry, nothing’s going to happen to it.”
“Apart from being ‘stored’, you mean?” Denzel said.
There was a loud shout from a driver as one of the other reversing forklifts clipped the back wheel of the middle one. Both vehicles rocked sideways in opposite directions, and the poltergeist saw its chance. It shot from one side of the container to the other, slamming itself hard against the wall. Already unbalanced, the box rolled off the forklift’s prongs and hit the ground with a deafening clang. The sound echoed around the room like the peal of an old church bell.
The glass pane in the window splintered. It wasn’t much – barely a hairline split – but black smoke quickly began to seep through the crack. “Um… Um…” Denzel stammered, pointing to where the smoke was already forming into long dark tentacles. “The thing. The thing’s getting out.”
Boyle raised his weapon. “Where?”
“The window!” yelped Denzel. There was a flash of blinding white and a crash of shattering glass as Boyle opened fire. Denzel blinked rapidly, trying to clear away the dazzling white spots that were now floating in front of his eyes.
“Did you get it?” Quinn demanded.
Boyle spun on the spot, sweeping with his rifle. “Negative.”
Denzel’s vision returned in time for him to see the smoky shape hurtling towards him, its six black tentacles snapping like whips in the air. He stumbled back, knocking Smithy aside, his mouth flapping open and closed in panic as he jabbed a finger towards the approaching apparition.
“There!”
Boyle’s finger tightened on the trigger. The weapon’s barrel glowed white. The poltergeist lunged. Just before it was swallowed by the blinding light, Denzel saw the thing’s tentacles twist into familiar shapes.
No, not shapes. More than shapes. Letters. Six shadowy letters silhouetted against the light, forming two words.
Help us.
The light faded and the shape was gone, but the words were still there, imprinted on Denzel’s retinas. He lay sprawled on the floor, breathing heavily and trying to figure out what had just happened.
“That’s quite the talent you have,” said Quinn, stepping over him. She held out a hand and, after a moment’s hesitation, Denzel took it. Her grip was surprisingly strong. She hoisted Denzel to his feet, then hit him with that not-quite-smile. “You would be a valuable addition to the Cult of Sh’grath.”
“What?” spluttered Boyle, but a single look from Quinn silenced him.
“To the who?” Denzel asked.
“Us,” said Samara. She took the red gemstone Boyle handed to her, and began wrapping it in willow branches. “She means you’d be a great addition to the Spectre Collectors.”
Smithy leaned in and grinned. “You mean we’d be a great addition to the Spectre Collectors,” he said.
Quinn looked Smithy up and down, as if noticing him for the first time and not particularly approving of what she saw. “Who is this … person?”
“He’s Smithy,” said Denzel. “He’s my friend.”
“We had to bring him in,” said Samara. “The wipe didn’t work.”
“I’ve got mucus plugs,” said Smithy, pointing to the bridge of his nose.
“Well,” breathed Quinn. “You must be very proud.”
She turned her attention back to Denzel. “As I was saying, you would be a very valuable asset to us here. You have a most unusual talent. We could use you in the field. You could make a real difference to the world, Denzel. A real difference.”
She fixed him with her not-smile, and Denzel was suddenly very aware that everyone else was watching him, too. He fiddled with his hands and cleared his throat. “No,” he said. “I mean, thanks. I m
ean, no thanks.”
Quinn’s expression didn’t change. “Oh. I see,” she said. Then she glanced at the others. “Leave us.”
Boyle and Samara both caught Smithy under an arm and carried him towards the door. “Hey, what are you doing? Get off!” Smithy protested, bicycling his legs in the air.
“Relax. She’s just going to talk to him. He’s going to be fine,” said Samara. They stepped through the door. “We’re the good guys, remember?” Samara assured him, and the door swung closed with a clang.
The moment the door closed, Quinn relaxed. She smiled at Denzel, and this time there was a flicker of actual warmth in there somewhere.
“I know all this must be hard to take in. Ghosts. Secret societies. Flying sheep.”
“Sheep?” said Denzel.
Quinn’s eyes widened. “Oh, no. That wasn’t you, was it? Forget I mentioned it. The point is, I couldn’t believe any of it when I was first brought in, either,” she said. She gazed past Denzel into the middle distance. “That was a long time ago. A long time.”
She gave herself a shake and turned back to him. “My father was part of the organisation at the time, of course. His mother before him, her father before her, as is tradition. That’s how it works. Membership, and all it entails, is passed down through the generations.”
“So … Samara and Boyle?”
“Their parents were Spectre Collectors, yes. Father, in Samara’s case, mother in Boyle’s. Just like they were, I was introduced to it all from a young age, but even though I’d been prepared…” She put her hands beside her head and mimed her head exploding. “It was mind-blowing stuff.”
The forklift that the box had fallen off was parked just a few metres away. Quinn strolled over to it and hopped up so she was sitting on one of the prongs. She nodded towards the one next to her, and Denzel clambered up to take a seat.
“I was four years old when they first told me everything,” Quinn continued. “They … we recruit young because children and teenagers are better equipped to see beyond the normal and into the paranormal. Although, you take it to something of a new extreme, I must say.”
Quinn gazed down at her polished brogue shoes and swung her legs back and forth. She looked strange there, this middle-aged woman in a business suit, perched on a forklift, idly swinging her legs. For a moment, Denzel could almost imagine her as that four-year-old, but then she spoke again and the moment passed.
“I told my dad no at first. Ran away, actually. Couldn’t face the truth of what was out there, or the responsibility of having to help do something about it.”
“Why did you come back?” Denzel asked.
Quinn laughed. “Because I was four. I barely made it to the end of the street.” She gazed past him, into the distance. “And, I suppose, because I knew I could do something about it,” Quinn said, fixing Denzel with a look so sincere he felt tears spring to the corners of his eyes. “Even then, I knew I could stop people being scared, or hurt, or even killed by those … abominations. Look at you, for example.”
“Me?”
Quinn nodded. “Twice in forty-eight hours, you’ve been attacked by malevolent spirits. If it weren’t for our operatives – my operatives – there’s no saying what might have happened to you. They saved you, and now you have an opportunity to save others.”
Denzel smiled weakly, but said nothing.
“It may not even be for long. Between you and me, I’m working on something that – I hope – will render us obsolete,” Quinn said. “Something that will rid the world of the supernatural threats it faces, once and for all. But until then, we are still needed. And we could use your help.”
She hopped down from the prong and took Denzel’s hands in hers. “Join us, Denzel,” she said, staring deep into his eyes. “Make a difference. To the world. To yourself.”
Denzel hesitated. “I don’t know, I mean… It’s all a bit, you know? Mad.”
Quinn laughed again. “It is. You’re right. That’s exactly what I said when I first found out about it all. Or after I’d stopped sobbing uncontrollably, at least. It’s unbelievable. All of it. But it’s real. Give us a try, Denzel. One day. Give us twenty-four hours,” she said. “Then, if it’s not for you, you can go home.”
“What about my dads? What will I tell them?” Denzel asked.
“I’ll take care of it. I’ve been covering up the truth for four decades – I’m sure I can come up with an explanation that will satisfy your parents for one night.”
Denzel nodded. “Twenty-four hours?” he said. “Then I can go?”
“You can go now, if you like; you’re not a prisoner here,” Quinn said. “But I’d love you to try us out. Just for a day.”
“What about Smithy?”
Quinn seemed confused by the question. “What about him?”
“Does he get to stay, too?”
“I’m afraid not,” Quinn said, sounding genuinely sorry. “I’m already breaking several rules inviting you in. Bringing your friend in, too, is out of the question.”
She placed a hand on his shoulder. Her fingers gripped him firmly, and he got the impression he couldn’t pull away, even if he tried. “So, Denzel,” she asked, her eyes boring deep into his. “What’s it to be?”
Smithy shifted his weight from foot to foot as they waited for the lift. He glanced over Denzel’s shoulder, to where Boyle and Samara stood waiting.
“I don’t think you should stay here, Denzel,” Smithy whispered. “You sure about this?”
“Not really,” Denzel admitted. He shrugged. “But, I dunno. It might be important. And it’s only one day.”
“And one night,” Smithy pointed out. “In an underground bunker filled with ghosts and crazy gun-people.”
“I’m sure it’ll be fine,” Denzel said. “I mean, what’s the worst that could happen?”
“You could be torn apart by ghost wolves,” said Smithy. “That would be pretty bad.”
“Right, but—”
“Or attacked by a creepy little girl ghost with a clown doll that just laughs and goes ‘mama, mama, mama’ over and over again, and, like, you can hear her coming, but you can’t see her until she’s right there in front of your face, and by then it’s too late to—”
“Right, yes, I get it!” said Denzel. “That probably is the worst thing that could happen, but I don’t think it will.”
“Oh,” said Smithy, looking a little disappointed. “Be cool if it did though, wouldn’t it?”
The lift door swung open behind Smithy. Denzel smiled. “Yeah, it’d be pretty cool. I’ll see you tomorrow, OK?”
With a final glance at Boyle and Samara, Smithy stepped into the lift. “Yeah. See you tomorrow,” he said, then the door closed and Denzel listened to the rumbling of the machinery as Smithy was carried back up towards the surface.
He turned, suddenly feeling more alone than he’d ever felt, and tried his best to smile. “Right, then,” he said. “Where do we start?”
Denzel stood facing Samara near the centre of a chalk circle. He had no idea how big the room they were in was, as the light from the five candles positioned around the circle’s edge only extended a couple of metres into the gloom. Beyond that was darkness, and somewhere in the dark was the door they’d entered through.
“Before we begin, let me quickly explain about how it all works,” Samara said.
“How magic works?”
“How the organisation works. I can’t ‘quickly explain’ how magic works. That takes years.”
“Gotcha,” said Denzel. “Should I write anything down?”
Samara shrugged. “If you want.”
“I don’t have a pen or anything,” Denzel said.
Samara tutted. “Well don’t write it down, then.” She cleared her throat. “Basically, there are two divisions. Oberon – which I’m in. We focus on the magical arts. And Vulteron. They’re more interested in science, technology and guns. And blowing stuff up.”
“Like Boyle,” said Denzel.
“Exactly. Like Boyle. An Oberon and a Vulteron are always partnered together, the idea being we complement each other. Things we can do, they can’t, and vice versa. That’s the theory, at least.”
“Got it,” said Denzel. “So what one am I going to be?”
“That’s what we’re here to find out,” said Samara. “Together, Oberons and Vulterons investigate paranormal disturbances. Ghosts, demons, dark magic – that sort of stuff.”
“Gotcha,” said Denzel. “Why?”
“Why what?” asked Samara.
“Why do you investigate all that stuff?”
Samara frowned, like the question had never occurred to her. “Well, I mean, because if we didn’t they’d kill everyone and end the world.”
“Oh. Right. Fair enough,” said Denzel. “Good job you’re on the case, then.”
“Exactly,” said Samara. She glanced around into the shadows. “So … what did you think of Director Quinn?”
“She seems… I don’t know,” said Denzel. “I thought she was going to be horrible, but she was pretty nice, in the end. She’s really been doing this since she was four, though?”
“Yeah,” said Samara. “We all get recruited young, but never that young.”
“Must’ve been hard on her,” said Denzel.
Samara opened her mouth as if about to say something, then thought better of it. “Yeah. Must have been,” she said. “Now, let’s get to work.” She held a hand out to him, fist clenched. “Here.”
Denzel fist-bumped her and smiled. “Right back at you.”
“No. I meant take this,” she said, turning her hand over and opening it. A chunky grey metal ring sat in the centre of her palm. It was roughly the size and shape of a sovereign ring, with a cryptic red symbol painted on the top.
Denzel took the ring and rolled it around in his hand. Samara watched him with interest. “Feel anything?”
Too Ghoul For School Page 5