Too Ghoul For School

by Barry Hutchison

  Denzel tensed. He screwed his eyes tightly shut, bracing himself as he waited for the pain.

  And waited.

  And waited.

  It was taking quite a long time, he realised.

  Denzel opened one eye. It was so surprised by what it saw, it made the other one open, too, so it could double-check.

  Knightley and Rasmus were on the floor, unconscious. A figure was sticking half-out of the wall behind them, its upper body visible, its lower half somewhere on the other side of the masonry. It was, quite unmistakably, a ghost.

  It was also, quite unmistakably, something else.

  Denzel’s jaw dropped. “Smithy?” he whispered.

  Halfway through the wall, Smithy smiled. “Hey, Denzel,” he said. “Surprise!”

  Smithy leaned over and caught Denzel by the wrist. “I should warn you, this might be a bit unpleasant,” he announced, then he yanked Denzel hard, and pulled him straight through the wall.

  Passing through the wall wasn’t that unpleasant for Denzel. Losing his balance and smashing his face against the floor in the storeroom next door, on the other hand, was. Once he’d recovered, Denzel rolled on to his back and kicked across the bare floorboards, putting as much distance between himself and Smithy as possible.

  “Sorry,” Smithy said. “Probably shouldn’t have let you go so quickly.”

  Denzel shook from head to toe. His jaw flapped as he struggled to make sense of the jumble of thoughts racing around inside his head.

  “Smithy. You’re a… You’re a…”

  “A ghost,” said Smithy. “Yeah.”

  “But, I mean… I mean… You’re a ghost.”

  “Yep.”

  “You’re a ghost, Smithy!”

  “Think we’ve officially established that now,” Smithy said.

  “But… But… But…”

  Smithy leaned down and slapped Denzel across the face. Denzel stopped shaking. He swallowed. “Thanks.”

  “No worries,” said Smithy.

  Denzel stood up, still keeping his distance. Now that he wasn’t poking through a wall, Smithy didn’t look any different to how he usually looked. There was no ghostly blue glow, he wasn’t transparent, and his feet were firmly on the floor. He was just Smithy.

  Smithy the ghost.

  “So … what?” Denzel said. “You’re dead?”

  “Mostly, yep,” Smithy said.

  A horrible thought occurred to Denzel. “Did they kill you? The Spectre Collectors?”

  Smithy shook his head. “No. I was dead before we met them.”

  “Well… Since when, then?”

  Smithy scratched his head. “What day is it today?”

  “Saturday,” said Denzel.

  “Saturday the…?”

  “Sixteenth,” said Denzel.

  “Of…?”

  “June,” said Denzel.

  “Right.” Smithy counted on his fingers and mumbled below his breath. “Since 1681,” he announced.

  “You’ve been dead since 1681?” Denzel spluttered. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

  Smithy frowned. “You hadn’t been born.”

  “No, I mean now. Recently. At school. Why didn’t you tell me then?”

  “Dunno.” Smithy shrugged. “Didn’t think you’d be that interested.”

  Denzel gaped. “You didn’t think I’d be that interested that you’re a ghost?”

  “Yeah,” said Smithy. “I mean, it’s not like it would change anything, is it?”

  “Are you nuts?” Denzel yelped. “It’d change everything!”

  Smithy looked down at his feet. “Yeah,” he said, his voice uncharacteristically quiet. “Well, maybe that’s why I didn’t tell you.”

  “You lied to me, Smithy,” Denzel said. “I thought you were, I don’t know, normal! Well, I mean, not normal, exactly, but not … not … dead!”

  Smithy said nothing, just kept staring down at his feet.

  “I’m sorry,” he eventually whispered.

  “You’re a ghost, Smithy!”

  “Yep,” Smithy said. “I’m a ghost.”

  “You’re a four-dimensional Corporeal! Or whatever they’re called.”

  “Am I?” said Smithy. He puffed out his cheeks. “That’s a new one on me.”

  Denzel looked him up and down. A ghost. His best friend – arguably his only friend – was a ghost. He’d hidden it from him, lied to him for all these months.

  “I guess this means you probably don’t want to hang out any more,” said Smithy. “It’s OK. I understand. I’m a ghost and you’re the ghost police, or whatever.”

  Denzel shook his head, still barely able to believe it. “Look. I’m going to ask you one question, Smithy, and I want you to give me an honest answer,” he said.

  Smithy nodded, still not looking up. “OK,” he whispered, his voice cracking.

  “The truth, remember?” Denzel said. “No more lies. No more pretending.”

  Smithy nodded again.

  “OK, here goes,” Denzel began. He cleared his throat. He took a deep breath. “What would you rather have, right?”

  Smithy raised his eyes.

  “A tongue made of never-ending toffee…”

  A smile tugged at the corner of Smithy’s mouth.

  “…or Godzilla for a pet?”

  “Easy,” said Smithy, snorting through his mucus plugs. “Tongue made of toffee.”

  “What?! Are you nuts?” Denzel asked. “No way. Godzilla for a pet!”

  “But where would you keep him?” Smithy said. “Your garden’s tiny.”

  “I’d build him a kennel,” Denzel said. “And a really massive cat flap in the kitchen door.”

  Smithy rolled his eyes. “Well, while you’re doing that, I’ll be enjoying the smooth, sweet taste of toffee twentyfour hours a day, seven days a week.”

  Denzel laughed. Properly laughed. It was the first time since before the trash-monster. It felt good.

  “You’re a ghost, Smithy,” he said, once he’d stopped laughing. “An actual ghost!”

  “Yep,” Smithy said. He smiled. “Still me, though.”

  “But … how?”

  Smithy shrugged. “Same as most of them, really. I died, but couldn’t find my way into the Spectral Realm. I kept looking for a couple of hundred years, then gave up.”

  “And so you decided to go to school?”

  “I don’t go to school,” Smithy said. “I just spotted you on the wall one day and thought I’d say hello. You seemed all right, so I kept coming back.”

  Denzel thought back. He’d never actually seen Smithy inside the school, much less in any classes.

  “Wait, if you’re a ghost, then how come you’re always eating my lunch?”

  “You keep offering,” Smithy said. “Felt a bit rude to say no. Anyway, some of your sandwiches were quite nice, once I picked off the green stuff.”

  “No, but … you’re a ghost. Ghosts don’t eat!”

  “Some of us do,” Smithy said. “I mean, we don’t have to, but some of us quite enjoy it.”

  “But why doesn’t it just pass through you?”

  Smithy grinned. “It does. Eventually.” He shrugged. “I haven’t met many other ghosts, so I don’t know how everything works. Me, I can be completely solid, and pretty much pass myself off as still being alive. On the other hand, I can walk through walls, but only if I decide to. That took practice.”

  “How much practice?” Denzel asked.

  “About three hundred years.”

  “Wow.”

  “Give or take a decade.”

  “Right,” said Denzel. “So… Aren’t you all, like … evil? That’s what the Spectre Collectors think.”

  “Don’t think so,” said Smithy. “Although I do sometimes sneak into the cinema without paying. Does that count?”

  There was a commotion from beyond the storeroom door. Smithy grabbed Denzel by the wrist again. “Come on, we’d better go,” he urged. Denzel held his breath as Smithy pulled him
through the back wall, and this time managed to stay on his feet when he stumbled out through the other side.

  “That is pretty handy,” Denzel admitted. They had emerged into a small graveyard at the side of the church. Denzel could hear voices around the corner at the front, and got the impression there were lots of people gathering there, none of whom sounded particularly friendly.

  “Come on, we can get through the graveyard wall and on to the street that way,” said Smithy.

  “Then what?” asked Denzel.

  “I thought we could move to Las Vegas and become professional gamblers,” Smithy said. “They’ll call me Snake-Hands Smithy, and you’ll be Jimmy the Shoes.”

  “Why would they call me Jimmy the Shoes?” asked Denzel.

  “Why wouldn’t they?”

  “Because my name’s not Jimmy,” Denzel pointed out.

  “You do wear shoes, though,” said Smithy.

  Denzel frowned. “Yeah, but…” He shook his head. Now wasn’t the time to argue with Smithy Logic. “We can’t do that, anyway. We can’t run away.”

  “We definitely can,” said Smithy. “It’s easy, look.” He mimed running in slow motion. “It’s like that, only faster.”

  “No, I mean we have to go back,” Denzel said. “Quinn has Samara and Boyle.”

  “Is that the same Samara and Boyle who kidnapped us and threw us in their van?” Smithy asked.

  “Yes!”

  “And threatened to shoot us. Several times,” Smithy said. “The Samara and Boyle who have dedicated their lives to hunting ghosts. That’s the Samara and Boyle you want to go back and rescue?”

  Denzel nodded. “They’re not the bad guys,” he insisted. “They helped me. They’re trying to stop Quinn.”

  “Stop her doing what?”

  “She’s got a machine,” Denzel said. “She’s planning to punch a hole into the Spectral Realm and suck up all the ghosts, but it’s going to destroy the world. At least, that’s what the poltergeist told me.”

  He shuddered. “And when I say it ‘told me’ I mean it put its tentacles inside my head and fed the images directly into my brain.”

  “That’s poltergeists for you,” said Smithy. “Probably. I’ve never actually seen one. As far as I know, not even other poltergeists can see them.”

  Denzel frowned. “So how come I can?”

  Smithy shrugged. “Beats me.” He blew out his cheeks and looked back at the church. “You really want to go back down there?”

  “I have to try to stop her,” Denzel said. “But you don’t. It’ll be too dangerous. They’ll detect you.”

  “Haven’t detected me so far,” said Smithy. He puffed up his chest. “Anyway, I’m all about danger,” he said. “I eat danger for breakfast. Danger’s my middle name.”

  “OK…”

  “Absolutely none of that’s true, by the way,” Smith said. “I just said it all to try to make myself seem much more impressive.” He grinned broadly. “Still, I’m dead. What’s the worst that can happen?”

  Denzel held his breath as he was whooshed through another wall. This time, he emerged at the top of a curved stone staircase that twisted down into a gloomy half-darkness far below.

  “These stairs take you down to their headquarters,” Smithy announced. His voice echoed loudly and he quickly clamped a hand over his mouth.

  “How do you know?” Denzel whispered.

  “I’ve been hanging about since I left,” Smithy said. “Thought I’d snoop around a bit in case you got into trouble.” He pointed down the steps. “I’ll go ahead and check the coast’s clear.”

  “What if they see you?” Denzel asked.

  Smithy winked. “How will they see me when I do this?” he asked, then he pursed his lips, clenched his fists and furrowed his brow in concentration.

  “Do what?” Denzel asked.

  “I’m turning invisible,” Smithy said, starting to shake from the effort.

  “You’re turning purple,” Denzel corrected.

  “Never have got the hang of that,” Smithy sighed. “If anyone’s coming, I’ll duck through the wall.” He began to tiptoe ahead. “I’ll shout if it’s clear.”

  “Don’t shout,” Denzel said. “That’ll attract attention. Do, I don’t know, a bird sound or something.”

  Smithy nodded. “Bird sound. Gotcha.”

  He set off down the steps. Denzel hung back, listening. There was a door right beside him that he guessed led back into the church. He jammed a foot against the bottom of it, in case someone tried to open it from the other side.

  “Har-ooook! Har-ooook!”

  Denzel jumped with fright at the high-pitched cry from below. He scurried down the spiral steps and caught up with Smithy after several turns. “What was that?” he whispered. “I said make a bird noise.”

  “That was a bird noise,” said Smithy. “It was a heron.”

  “Well, don’t do a heron!” Denzel told him. “Do a normal bird!”

  Smithy nodded. “Right. Will do.”

  He scampered down the stairs again. Denzel waited. There was silence for a moment, broken eventually by a solitary “Quack”.

  Denzel rolled his eyes. “It’s an improvement, I suppose.”

  They continued down for several minutes, with Smithy quacking, tweeting and occasionally honking all the way to the bottom.

  The door at the bottom of the steps looked old, with black metal bands running across it. There was no handle, just a retina scanner fixed at eye-height on to the wood.

  “Where does it lead?” Denzel whispered.

  “Dunno,” Smithy said. “I never came all the way down this way. Want me to nip through and check?”

  “We’ll go together,” Denzel said. “It’s more dangerous for you in there than it is for me.”

  “Oh, I don’t know,” said Smithy. “They could do all sorts to you.”

  “Well, yeah,” Denzel admitted.

  “Chop your hands off. Smash your toes with a hammer…”

  “Why would they do that?” Denzel said. “They wouldn’t do that!”

  “Pop out your eyes…”

  “They’re not going to do any of that,” Denzel hissed. At least, he hoped not. He held a hand out. “Now, come on, let’s sneak through, find Samara and Boyle, then we’ll take Quinn by surprise.”

  Smithy nodded. “Foolproof plan,” he said, taking Denzel by the wrist. They floated through the door and into an all-too-familiar office on the other side.

  “Come in, Denzel,” said Quinn. “We’ve been waiting for you.”

  Smithy looked sideways at Denzel. “OK, maybe not one hundred per cent foolproof, but it was still a solid plan.” He shrugged. “You know. Ish.”

  Quinn sat facing the door in her high-backed leather chair, legs neatly crossed, a cup of tea balanced on a saucer in her hand. Knightley and Rasmus stood either side of her, guns and hands pointed at the new arrivals.

  “Cor, them two move quick, don’t they?” said Smithy.

  Quinn’s eyes went to Smithy, then opened a fraction in surprise. “What is he doing here? How can he be here? He can’t remember you.”

  “He does,” said Denzel.

  “I do,” confirmed Smithy. “You know what they say. Elephants never—”

  “Not now, Smithy,” said Denzel.

  Quinn looked Smithy up and down. “Oh my. You’re a Corporeal Four-Dimensional Non-Mortal Entity.”

  “If you say so, love,” said Smithy.

  “Of course,” she whispered. “How could I not have seen it?”

  “What have you done with Samara and Boyle?” Denzel demanded.

  “They went AWOL. I had them arrested,” Quinn said, tearing her eyes away from Smithy. She stood up, waved a hand above the cup and saucer, and made them disappear. “You’re wrong, you know, Denzel. About my machine,” she said. “It’s not dangerous. It’s a force for good. It’s going to make the world a better place.”

  “It isn’t,” Denzel insisted. “I’ve seen what h
appens. The poltergeist showed me.”

  Quinn let out the least amused-sounding “Ha!” in the history of the world. “Oh, so a malevolent supernatural entity showed you, did it?” she asked. “An unfeeling creature that would, given half a chance, destroy each and every one of us, warned you it was dangerous?”

  She looked Denzel up and down. “And here I thought you were supposed to see things more clearly than the rest of us. How disappointing.”

  Quinn turned. Her chair rolled out of her path seemingly of its own accord. “Bring them,” she commanded, striding towards the door leading out into the main complex. “It’s time for the demonstration.”

  Denzel and Smithy stood in the centre of a vast, warehouse-like room, flanked on both sides by Spectre Collectors. On the right, a regiment of around eighty Vulterons stood snapped to attention. Looking far more relaxed on Denzel’s left were about the same number of Oberons, all wearing matching robes.

  Samara and Boyle knelt on the floor between Denzel and Quinn, their hands cuffed behind their backs, gags pulled tightly across the mouths. From behind, Denzel could see that all of Samara’s rings were missing. Instinctively, he felt for the Feurety Ring on his own finger, and wondered if he could somehow pass it to her without anyone noticing.

  All eyes were on Quinn, who stood like a queen holding court. Knightley and Rasmus were beside her, keeping a close watch over the prisoners.

  Behind them all, towering above the crowd, stood the Spook Suit. There was a scratch on its paintwork that matched pretty much perfectly with a scrape on the ceiling high overhead. Denzel pretended not to notice, and hoped no one else did, either.

  “Cor, what does that thing do?” Smithy whispered.

  “What doesn’t it do?” replied Denzel.

  “The ironing?” Smithy guessed.

  “No, I doubt it does that,” Denzel admitted.

  “Soldiers of the Seventh Army of the Enlightened,” Quinn began. Her voice seemed to expand to fill the vast room. She gazed across the faces of the teenagers watching her and smiled her textbook smile. “Friends.”

  There was an appreciative murmur from the Oberons. Quinn waited for it to die down, before continuing. “For centuries, the Cult of Sh’grath has worked tirelessly to protect the planet from spooks, spectres and things that go bump in the night.