Too Ghoul For School

by Barry Hutchison

  “Uh… It’s heavier than it looks,” said Denzel.

  “What about the temperature? Does it feel cold, hot…?”

  Denzel squeezed the ring in his hand for a moment. “Not really.”

  “Not warm, even…?”

  Denzel shook his head. “Nope.”

  Samara tried to hide her disappointment, but didn’t make a very good job of it. “No, that’s fine. That’s totally fine. Put it on. Middle finger, right hand.”

  Denzel slipped the ring on and spent a few seconds adjusting to the feeling of it. He’d never worn jewellery before, and even if he had, this ugly hunk of scratched metal wouldn’t have been his first choice.

  “That’s a Feurety Ring,” Samara said. “Do you know who Feurety is?”

  Denzel snorted. “Do I know who Feurety is? Do I know who Feurety is?” He laughed. “I can’t believe you’re asking me that.”

  “You don’t, do you?”

  Denzel shook his head. “No,” he admitted. “Not a clue.”

  “He’s an ancient demon who some people worship as the god of fire,” Samara explained.

  “You mean worshipped, right?” said Denzel.

  Samara shook her head. “I mean worship. Present tense.” She pointed at Denzel’s hand. “Feurety Rings help Oberons create and control fire.”

  Denzel shot the ring a wary glance. “That sounds … risky.”

  “It is,” Samara agreed. “But it’s still just a parlour trick compared to the bigger stuff, and I thought it better you burn your eyebrows off than accidentally punch a hole into the Spectral Realm.”

  “Why, what would that do?” Denzel asked.

  Samara stepped up beside him. “Nothing good.” She held a hand out in front of her, fist clenched. “Copy me.”

  Denzel did as he was told. “Good,” said Samara, and Denzel felt a little flutter of pride at his ability to correctly put his arm out in front of him. “Now, when I say to, I want you to both say and think a word at the same time.”

  “Any word?” asked Denzel.

  “No, of course not any word! One specific word, which I’ll tell you in a minute,” Samara said. “But you can’t just say it, you have to fill your head with it. Push out every other thought until that word is the only thing in the world. Can you do that?”

  “Probably not,” Denzel admitted. “But I’ll give it a go.”

  “OK. The word is Flereous,” said Samara. “Got it?”

  Denzel nodded. “I think so.”

  Samara stepped back. “Go for it.”

  Denzel took a deep breath. He held out a hand. He smiled awkwardly. “Sorry, what was it again?”

  “Flereous,” said Samara.

  Denzel nodded. “Right, got it,” he said. “Totally got it. Here goes.” He took another deep breath. “Flereous.”

  Nothing happened.

  “It’s OK,” said Samara. “You won’t get it first time.”

  “Flereous,” said Denzel again. “Flereous, Flereous, Flereous!”

  “Or the first five times, necessarily,” said Samara. “Are you thinking it?”

  “Yes,” said Denzel.

  “Well, clearly you’re not.”

  “I am!” Denzel insisted. He felt himself start to blush, so he gritted his teeth and thrust his fist towards the empty space ahead of him. “Flereous. Flereous! Fle-reous! Argh! It’s pointless. He gave his hand a shake. “Is this thing even on? You’ve given me a dud ring. It isn’t working.”

  “Flereous,” said Samara. Denzel yelped in shock as a billowing jet of flame erupted from the symbol on the ring and almost scorched his face. He turned, panicked, sweeping the crackling flame around in a half-circle.

  The flames licked up the outside of Samara’s robe, and the material ignited around her feet. Hissing in fright, she raised a hand and muttered something in a language Denzel didn’t understand. The flames spluttered and died away. As the crackling of the fire faded, the only sound in the room was a faint whimpering from Denzel, who stared at the ring in disbelief.

  “OK, introduction to magic over,” Samara said, gazing sadly at the charcoaled hem of her robe. “I think it’s time to hand you over to Boyle.”

  Denzel stood in a warehouse-like room, staring up at a construction of metal and glass that loomed over him. He was bending backwards to the point he was sure he was going to cause himself damage, but even from that angle it wasn’t easy to see the top of the object before him.

  “What did you say it was, again?” Denzel asked.

  “It’s the K-11 Alpha 9 spectral combat armour,” Boyle said. “More commonly referred to as the Spook Suit.”

  “Right,” said Denzel, stepping back so he could more comfortably see the thing. It was vaguely person-shaped. At least, it would have been, if people were roughly the height of a double-decker bus. It had two massive arms, four enormous legs, and a body so huge none of the rest of it looked even slightly out of proportion.

  The Spook Suit’s head was a sleek curve of glass and chrome, and while the whole thing looked like a serious piece of kit, Denzel couldn’t help but think it would’ve made the perfect villain in an episode of Power Rangers.

  “So … what does it do?” Denzel asked.

  Boyle let out a single “Ha!” without any hint of amusement whatsoever. “What doesn’t it do?”

  He clapped his gloved hands together twice, then parted them carefully. A floating 3D image of the Spook Suit appeared in the air between his palms. Denzel stepped closer and stared at it in wonder.

  “Cool!”

  “I know, right?” said Boyle, doing something with his face that came within spitting distance of being a smile. “Holographic projection locked on to sensors in the gloves. Watch this.”

  He reached out and carefully took hold of the hologram’s right arm, then raised it out to the side. The Spook Suit let out a loud hydraulic hiss, making Denzel jump back in fright. A moment later, the suit’s arm rose to match the position of the hologram’s.

  “Pretty cool, huh?” said Boyle.

  Denzel nodded. “Amazing. Can I try?”

  Boyle held up his gloved hands. “Not without these. Now, pay attention,” he said, moving his hands in a series of elaborate gestures. “I’m going to demonstrate its offensive capabilities.”

  There was a whirr from within the suit, and two guns swivelled into position, one on each shoulder. No, not guns. Guns didn’t do them justice. These things were cannons. Each one had a slightly different design, but neither looked like something you’d want to be at the wrong end of.

  “Guided weapon systems with interchangeable ammunition, offering six and eight types of rounds respectively,” Boyle said. He pointed at the gun on the left. “This one here’s got all your traditional types. Incendiary, high explosive, stun, rapid-fire, that sort of thing. You know, the classics.”

  “Classics. Definitely,” said Denzel. He nodded, despite already having forgotten most of what Boyle had just said. “What about the other one?”

  “Those are more specialised. The other stuff, that’s available anywhere. That’s basic warfare ammunition, but the gun on the right there? That one’s just for us.”

  “So … what?” said Denzel. “It lets you shoot ghosts?”

  Boyle snorted. “No. We use guns to shoot ghosts. With the Spook Suit, we shoot gods.”

  Denzel blinked. He jammed his little finger in his ear and wriggled it back and forth, then pulled it out with a pop. “Sorry, I must have misheard,” he said. “For a minute there I thought you said you used it to shoot gods.”

  “You heard right,” said Boyle. “Well, technically they’re demons, but same thing, mostly.”

  “Same thing?” said Denzel.

  “Mostly,” said Boyle. “We don’t only deal with ghosts, we deal with any supernatural threats, however large. Sometimes that requires some pretty major firepower.”

  Denzel looked around. There were several metal shelves all containing locked cases. “What else do you hav
e? Are these other weapons?”

  He picked up one of the boxes, then jumped as Boyle yelled, “Don’t touch that!”

  Denzel dropped the box back on the shelf and backed away. “Why, what is it?”

  “It’s a Spectral Disruptor. It breaks down supernatural energy. It’s dangerous.”

  “What, more dangerous than the giant killer robot?” Denzel asked.

  “Potentially, yes,” said Boyle. “And it’s not a robot. Like I said, it’s combat armour.”

  “Whoa,” said Denzel, looking the suit up and down again. “Someone wears that thing?”

  Boyle sighed. “Were you listening to anything I said?”

  “Bits of it,” Denzel admitted.

  “The suit can be worn, or it can be operated remotely with the gloves,” Boyle explained. He pointed to a set of heavy iron doors at the back of the room. “But the Spook Suit’s just a toy compared to what’s in there.”

  Denzel followed his gaze. “Ooh. What’s in there?”

  “That’s the Advanced Weapons Vault. It’s where we keep the time bomb,” said Boyle in a slightly breathless whisper.

  Denzel frowned. “What, one of those ones with the alarm clock and the dynamite, like they use in cartoons?”

  “No,” said Boyle. “A time bomb. It’s called the Quantum Nullifier. It’s a bomb designed to break time itself.”

  “I have no idea what that even means,” Denzel admitted.

  “No one does,” said Boyle. “Not in any detail, anyway. No one really knows where it came from, or who built it. By the markings on it, it predates the Spectre Collectors by a couple of hundred years. It’s a bit of a mystery, but our best guess is that if that bomb triggers, it’ll literally unravel the fabric of time.”

  Denzel scratched his head. “Yeah, but … what does that actually involve? Everything starts happening at the same time? Nothing happens ever? What happens if you blow up time?”

  Boyle shrugged. “I don’t know. Like I say, no one does. But let’s hope we never find out.”

  He turned to find Denzel staring at the gloves. “So … the robot suit,” Denzel began.

  “Spook Suit,” corrected Boyle. “What about it?”

  “Can I have a go?”

  Boyle shook his head.

  “Come on,” Denzel urged. “I’m supposed to be learning things, right?”

  “Yes, but you don’t start with the dangerous stuff,” Boyle said.

  “I started with magic,” said Denzel. “That’s pretty dangerous.”

  Boyle snorted. “Yeah, right. Not as dangerous as this.”

  “I dunno…” said Denzel. “Samara seemed to think it was way more dangerous than your stuff. And cooler. She gave me a ring that shoots fire.”

  “She did, did she? Fine,” said Boyle, yanking off the gloves. “If you think magic’s impressive, try these.”

  Denzel’s eyes lit up. He fumbled his way into the gloves. “Great!” he cheered. He flexed his fingers and clapped his hands together. The gloves let out a series of soft bleeps. “So, now what do—”

  Behind him, two rocket boosters ignited on the Spook Suit’s feet, firing it upwards at tremendous speed. It smashed against the roof, zipped left and right like a deflating balloon, then fell to the ground with a crash that seemed to shake the whole complex.

  Denzel looked over at the fallen armour. He looked at Boyle’s narrow-eyed expression. Clearing his throat, he carefully pulled off the gloves.

  “You’re right,” said Denzel. “That’s really quite dangerous.” He smiled. “Anything else you want to show me?”

  “Yeah,” said Boyle, through gritted teeth. “I can think of something.” He handed Denzel a piece of plastic the size of a credit card.

  “What’s this?” asked Denzel. “A secret laser? A ghost-exploding-thing?”

  “It’s a key,” said Boyle “To your room. Number’s on the back.”

  Denzel blinked. “What?”

  “Go. Relax. Check out your quarters,” said Boyle, ushering Denzel towards the door. “The longer you spend in there, the safer we’ll all be out here.”

  “But…”

  “Psht!” hissed Boyle, holding a finger to his lips. “Talk later. Go to quarters now. Oh, and Denzel?”

  “Yeah?”

  “Try not to damage any multi-billion pound pieces of equipment along the way.”

  Denzel wandered through the corridors, headed in what he hoped was the direction of the living quarters. He passed a handful of people in uniforms and robes, but they all looked far too busy for him to go bothering them with questions.

  The corridor turned off into a stairwell, with a set of metal steps leading up and down. Denzel searched the walls, hoping for something that would indicate in which direction he should be going, but there were no signs or notices, and he quickly drew a blank.

  He was halfway through deciding which way to choose using his tried-and-tested “eenie, meenie, miney, mo” decision-making method, when he heard a voice he recognised. The echo of the stairwell meant he couldn’t tell whether it was coming from above or below, but there was no mistaking the voice’s owner.

  “Yes, he’s quite fascinating,” said Quinn. “I don’t yet know how he does what he does, but we’ll find out. One way or another.”

  “You really think he’ll make a collector?” asked another voice. It was a girl, but not Samara. This voice was much gruffer. The girl who’d pointed the gun at him in the lift, Denzel guessed. Knightley, wasn’t it?

  “I don’t see why not,” said Quinn. She was growing louder now as she drew closer. Denzel looked up and down, but still couldn’t figure out where the sound was coming from. “I’m hoping he’ll fit in nicely.”

  “And if he doesn’t?” the girl asked. “What then?”

  The footsteps stopped and silence fell. Denzel held his breath, waiting for Quinn’s answer.

  “Hello, Denzel,” she said, her voice echoing around him. “Are you lost?”

  “Uh, yeah,” said Denzel. “I’m trying to find my room.”

  Quinn and Knightley appeared at the top of the staircase and made their way down. “Yes, it can be quite confusing at first,” Quinn said. “How is it all going?”

  “Uh, good,” said Denzel. “I’m learning, you know, things.”

  “Excellent. Keep it up,” said Quinn. “Third door on the left, straight on, then a right.”

  Denzel frowned. “What?”

  “Your room,” said Quinn. “Out the door, third door on the left, straight on, then a right. You can’t miss it. I can have Knightley escort you, if you wish?”

  Denzel glanced across at the girl. She glared back at him with barely concealed distaste. “Uh, no, I’ll find it,” he said, backing towards the door. “Thanks.”

  “Don’t mention it,” said Quinn. “Oh, and Denzel?”

  “Yeah?”

  “I spoke to your parents,” Quinn said. “Lovely couple, very proud of you. We had a chat and everything has been taken care of.”

  “Oh. Right, cool,” said Denzel. “What did you tell them?”

  “No need to dwell on the details. Everything has been taken care of.” Quinn smiled her not-quite smile. “Trust me.”

  “Uh, OK,” said Denzel, then he backed through the door and scurried off to find his room.

  Despite Quinn’s directions, it took Denzel another twenty minutes of searching before he finally found the living quarters, and five more before he found his room.

  Although “room” was stretching it a bit. “Cell” would have been a more fitting description. It had grey walls, a grey carpet, a grey ceiling and a bed made of metal. Also grey. The only splash of colour was the single pillow, which was a sort of greyish-white. Compared to the rest of the room, it looked positively festive.

  Denzel threw himself on to the bed – which turned out to be painfully firm – and lay on his back staring blankly upwards. He imagined the millions of tonnes of soil that lay between him and the world above, and tried, wit
hout much success, not to feel claustrophobic.

  For a long time, he didn’t move. His mind raced back over everything that had happened in the past few hours. He’d evaded a trash-monster, come face-to-face with a poltergeist, used magic, and quite possibly destroyed a state-of-the-art robotic battle suit. All in all, it had been a pretty eventful day.

  It was amazing. All of it. Absolutely incredible.

  And yet…

  He couldn’t help thinking about his old ceiling back home. It was mostly white, with some little yellow blotches from the time he’d tried to open a bottle of banana milkshake and accidentally exploded it everywhere. Denzel smiled at the memory, then felt a pang of something in his chest.

  He wondered what his dads were doing. Had Quinn explained his absence in a way that hadn’t left them worried? He wished he’d pressed her for an explanation, and hoped they weren’t pacing the floor in panic. Would he be in trouble when he got home?

  Because he was going home. Despite the ghosts, magic and giant robots, despite how cool the idea of being part of a secret society of spook hunters was, Denzel knew he wasn’t going to stay. Exciting as this new life might be, he couldn’t just turn his back on his old one.

  There was a knock at the door. Denzel swung his legs out of bed and opened the door to find Samara standing outside.

  “Hi!” she said brightly. “You hungry?”

  “Uh, yeah,” said Denzel. It had been a long time since his half-sandwich, and his stomach was quietly grumbling its impatience.

  “Great!” Samara smiled that smile of hers, and bowed. “Then perhaps you would do me the honour of joining me for dinner?”

  “Dinner?” said Denzel, his voice wobbling. “What, like, you and me?”

  “Yep, you and me,” said Samara. “And Boyle, of course.”

  “Oh. Yeah. Can’t forget Boyle,” said Denzel, trying to hide his disappointment.

  “Come on, I’ll show you the dinner hall,” said Samara. “But I should probably warn you, it can be a little overwhelming.”

  “It can’t be any worse than my school canteen.”

  “Oh,” said Samara. “I think it probably can.”