Paul Jenning's Weirdest Stories

by Paul Jennings

  I felt sick. My stomach was jumping up and down. My legs were wobbling. 1 pointed at Sad Samuel with a shaking hand. ‘You’re on him,’ I screamed. ‘You’re in him. You’re standing in him.’

  Mum stepped out of Samuel and came over to the bed. ‘There, there,’ she said, stroking my hair with her hand. ‘There’s nothing there. It was only a bad dream. Go back to sleep. I’ll leave the light on for you.’

  Mum closed the door and went back to her room. Sad Samuel just stood there. I now know that you can only see ghosts if they want you to see them. He wanted me to see him. But not Mum.

  4

  The little ghost beckoned me with his finger. He wanted me to come to him. He drifted over to the door wiggling his finger at me as he went.

  I shook my head. ‘No fear,’ I said in a shaking voice. ‘I’m staying here.’ There was no way I was going to follow a ghost. He could be heading anywhere.

  He seemed upset. He beckoned me again. This time by waving his arm at me furiously. He didn’t seem able to speak. Only to wave. ‘You’re in a dream,’ I yelled. ‘A nightmare. You aren’t really there. I’m going back to sleep.’

  I put my head on the pillow and pulled the blanket up over my head. Then I closed my eyes and told myself that there were no such things as ghosts.

  The ghost got into bed with me.

  No kidding. He snuck down under the covers and started tickling the bottom of my foot with a chilly little finger.

  It wasn’t like getting tickled by your mum or your dad where they dig their fingers in until it hurts. No. This was different. It was like being tickled by a puff of smoke or the breath of a feather. I tried to brush him off but my hand couldn’t find anything to grab. It just passed through him.

  I gave a nervous giggle. I was scared but I couldn’t help myself. It tickled something terrible. ‘Stop it,’ I gasped between giggles. ‘Please stop it.’

  He didn’t.

  I started to laugh. Louder and louder. I tossed and turned. The bedcovers went up and down. I laughed and lurched. I hooted and heaved. The bed shook as I shrieked with laughter. ‘Don’t,’ I cried. ‘Please don’t.’ But Samuel the Sad Spook had no mercy. He tickled on and on and on. The bedclothes were scattered all across the room. I bucked up and down. Laughing and giggling.

  Suddenly there was a terrible crash as I bumped into the bedside table. The maidenhair pot fell on the floor and broke into a thousand pieces.

  Everything stopped. My world froze.

  The ghost no longer concerned me. If all it could do was tickle I didn’t have much to worry about. But Snapper, he could do much worse than tickle. One look from him could give your warts the wanders. ‘It’s your fault,’ I screamed at Samuel. ‘Now look what you’ve done. You’ve broken it.’ Boy, was I mad. Samuel went back to the window. Now he really looked sad. He was the most miserable ghost in the world. And I was the most miserable boy.

  I couldn’t mend the pot so I went down to the kitchen to find something else. All I could find was an empty margarine container. I scooped up the dirt from the bedroom floor and pushed the maidenhair fern back into the container. I hoped like mad that it would live.

  Sad Samuel followed me around the house while I fixed up the plant. When I had finished he started beckoning to me again. He wanted me to follow him. ‘You must be joking,’ I yelled. I threw my pillow at him but it just passed straight through his head. His face grew even sadder. A little, broken bracelet of tears spilled down his cheeks.

  He wagged his finger at me and shook his head again. He wanted something and he wasn’t going to give up until he got it. I buried my head back under the blankets and tried to go to sleep. I hoped that I would wake up in the morning and find that it had all been a terrible dream.

  It wasn’t. In the morning the ghost was still there. And so was the broken pot. And the dead maidenhair fern. Yes it was dead. Brown and shrivelled. Just like I was going to be when Snapper finished with me.

  I took the margarine container and the dirt down the backyard and looked for another plant. I hoped that I could replace the dead maidenhair with something else. All I could find was a stalk of sweet corn. One lonely stick of maize. I pulled it out and shoved it into the margarine container. It looked like a lamp post growing out of a thimble.

  The ghost joined us for breakfast. Mum couldn’t see it of course. It sat sorrowfully at the end of the table and watched me eat my muesli. I didn’t feel sorry for it. Not after what it had done. All I could think about was school. And a slow, lingering death.

  Sad Samuel followed me to school. No one except me could see him. ‘Nick off,’ I yelled. ‘Go away, get lost.’

  Miss Stevens, the librarian, was right behind me. She thought I was talking to her. ‘What a rude boy,’ she said. ‘I will report this to Mr Snapper.’

  My miserable mate followed me into school and sat down in the empty desk next to me. No one could see him except me.

  ‘Dimsey,’ growled Snapper, ‘where’s my maidenhair fern?’

  5

  I held out the sweet corn in the margarine container. Snapper’s nose started to twitch. ‘What’s that?’ he croaked.

  ‘It’s your plant,’ I said weakly. My stomach was heaving around like a basketball. I felt sick.

  Snapper’s face resembled a wall that had just been dynamited. One second it was normal. The next it had a million cracks running across it. The wrinkles even ran up under his phoney-looking wig.

  ‘What?’ he shrieked. ‘Where’s my pot?’

  ‘Broken,’ I mumbled. ‘The ghost broke it. It tickled me in bed.’

  ‘Ghost,’ he cried. ‘Tickled.’ He was spitting and spluttering. He was about to erupt.

  I pointed at Sad Samuel. ‘Him. He did it.’

  Everyone looked at the empty seat. I was the only one who could see the sorrowful spectre. Sad Samuel looked at me gloomily. Then he got out of his seat and came towards me with outstretched hands. ‘No,’ I yelled. ‘No. Not that. Not now.’

  Snapper looked down at me with his boiling red face.

  Sad Samuel’s little fingers began to tickle under my armpits.

  I bit my tongue. I did everything I could not to laugh. A little snort burst out. Only a little one but to me it sounded like a thousand bulls bellowing. No one knew why I was laughing.

  Snapper grabbed me by my shirt front and sent me spinning across the room. ‘You think it’s funny do you? You, you …’ He didn’t finish the sentence. A large fish net hung beneath the classroom ceiling. It had shells and things inside it. A short length of fishing line with a hook on it hung down from one edge. I had never noticed the hook before.

  The enraged teacher jumped up and down. The hook grabbed his wig and sent it swinging in the air as if it was on a piece of elastic. Snapper’s bald head shone nakedly like a cracked duck’s egg.

  There was dead silence. Snapper glared. His icicle eyes swept the room. Anyone who so much as hinted at a smile was dead. Gone. History. Every eye looked down. Every knee trembled.

  The feathery fingers of Sad Sam went to work. I choked a chuckle. I smothered a smile. I grappled with a grin. ‘No,’ I screamed. Then I began to laugh. Great shuddering, gasping laughs. ‘Oh, ooh. Ha. Haaa. Har Har. HaaaaaaHaaaaaaa. Ahhhhhh.’

  Snapper snapped. He came towards me with outstretched hands. A madman. A monster.

  The laughter spread like measles. The whole grade broke up. They hooted and howled. Lucy Watkins was the only one who didn’t laugh. She jumped up and grabbed at the wig. The hook caught on her sleeve. She pulled and pulled. The whole net came crashing down and buried everyone. A squirming, cackling catch of kids.

  I crawled out from under the net and nicked off. I raced out of that school as fast as I could go. The laughter followed me all the way up the street.

  I couldn’t believe it. I was running off from school. I had never wagged it before. I was alone (if you don’t count the dejected ghost who tagged behind). I knew I was in big trouble. And all because of
that miserable little ghost.

  6

  We trudged across the park. I couldn’t go home yet. It was too early and Mum might catch me. I suddenly spied a hose pipe. I grabbed it and squirted Sam. ‘Buzz off,’ I yelled. ‘Go and make someone else unhappy.’ The water went straight through him. He just stood there with his little downturned mouth and beckoned me to follow him.

  I didn’t. Across the road was the cemetery. I had an idea. Maybe if I walked through there the little ghoul would disappear into a grave. It was worth a try.

  We wandered among the graves for a while. You would think a ghost would smile in a graveyard but no luck. He was worse than ever. A real sad sack.

  A little way off a burial was in progress. Mourners dressed in black were lowering a coffin into a grave. I walked up quietly. I didn’t want to disturb them. The priest was saying a few words. ‘Friends,’ he said, ‘this is a sad occasion for all of us.’

  Cold little fingers began working away under my armpits. ‘Oh no,’ I groaned. ‘Not again. Not here.’ I fell to the ground. It was agony. It was murder. The ghost was tickling me in the middle of a burial ceremony. I rolled about laughing and screaming. Tears ran down my face. I rolled right up to the edge of the grave laughing and chuckling. The legs of the mourners surrounded me like a forest.

  Suddenly it stopped. He stopped tickling. It was like a rainstorm passing as quickly as it had come. The people in black all looked down at me. They were mad. They were furious. You aren’t supposed to laugh at funerals.

  ‘The fiend,’ said the priest.

  ‘The little savage,’ said someone else.

  ‘Get him.’

  ‘Let him have it.’

  A large man grabbed me and pulled me up by my collar. I squirmed and wriggled and broke free. I ran for it. I went like the dickens. A few of the mourners came pelting after me but in the end they gave up. How embarrassing.

  I puffed down the street with Sad Samuel following. Then I stopped. He was beckoning at me with his wiggling finger. ‘I get it,’ I said. ‘You are going to keep tickling me until I come. That’s it isn’t it?’ He nodded.

  ‘Okay,’ I told him. ‘You win. Lead on. I’ll follow.’ I couldn’t take any more of it. This little ghost was wrecking my life.

  I followed him along the street. He went home and into the back shed. He pointed to a spade. ‘You want me to bring the spade?’ I asked. He nodded. I guessed that his feathery fingers were weak. They could tickle but they couldn’t lift anything heavy.

  I picked up the spade and followed the floating spirit. Through the back fence he went. Over the back fence I scrambled. Into the forest. Along a track and into a little clearing. Sad Samuel pointed to the ground in the middle of the clearing. I started to dig. After about an hour of digging my spade hit something. I pulled it out. A black leather case.

  Sam was nodding but not smiling. It seemed as if he couldn’t even manage a grin. He put his fingers in his mouth and blew. At least I think that’s what he did. It looked as if he was whistling. A silent spook whistle.

  We sat down and waited. After a bit two more ghosts arrived. Miserable little fellows. By now I was used to sad spectres. They didn’t bother me at all.

  Sam pointed to the case. I opened it. Inside the lid was written:

  THE

  GREAT MINTO

  MASTER MAGICIAN

  The case was filled with cotton wool. I felt around inside the cotton wool and pulled out four small blue bottles. Three of them had one word written on the label.

  GRIN

  on one.

  SMILE

  on the next. And

  CHUCKLE

  on the next.

  The last bottle had no label at all. Not a word.

  7

  I pulled the stopper off the first bottle. Nothing happened. Then: a whisper, a sigh, a puff of cloud. It twisted and hummed. And headed for the nearest ghost. It disappeared into his open mouth. His sorrowful face was transformed. He grinned a ghostly grin.

  I opened the second bottle. A whisper, a sigh, a puff of cloud. It twisted and hummed. And went straight to the next ghost. It went in his right ear and vanished. The look of misery left his face. The second ghost gave the biggest smile I have ever seen.

  The third bottle, the one with the chuckle, was the same. As soon as I opened it: a whisper, a sigh, a puff of cloud. It twisted and hummed. And sped straight into Sam’s left ear. He wasn’t Sad Sam any more. He chuckled silently to himself.

  I looked at them for a while. They were all so happy. So glad to be dead (if you know what I mean). ‘I get it,’ I said at last. ‘Minto The Magician somehow stole your happiness. Your smiles and grins. He put them in bottles and left you miserable. Now you’ve got them back.’

  The three grinning ghosts nodded. I held out the last bottle. The one with no label. ‘Here,’ I said, ‘take this as well.’ They shook their heads. ‘Whose is it?’ I asked.

  Sam put his hands together and rested his head on them like someone sleeping. ‘A dead person?’ I said.

  He shook his head.

  ‘A dead ghost?’

  He nodded.

  ‘Can ghosts die?’ I asked.

  They all nodded.

  ‘But then you would have the ghost of a ghost.’

  By this time they were not listening. They started to spin. Faster and faster. And then, like propeller blades, they became invisible. They spun themselves into nothingness. They were gone.

  I never saw them again.

  My feet dragged along the ground as I walked home. I had got rid of Sad Sam. But there was big trouble ahead. Tomorrow I would have to go back to school. I was really in for it.

  When I reached home Mum was waiting. She looked at me for a long time without saying anything. She always did that when she wanted me to feel guilty about something. In the end she said, ‘The school rang. They told me all about the things you have done. Terrible things. You needn’t think that I’m going to get you out of it. You will just have to front up to the school in the morning and take your punishment. And you can go up to your room now and have no tea.’

  I went up to my room. It was no good telling Mum about the ghosts. She would never believe me. I thought about running away. But in the end I decided to face the music. Face Snapper that is.

  8

  It was worse than I thought. The whole school was assembled. I was called to the front. Two hundred pairs of eyes stared at me. Snapper snarled. ‘This boy,’ he said in a loud voice, ‘has disgraced us all. He ran away from school. He laughed at a funeral. He broke my antique vase. He told Miss Stevens to nick off. He talks to himself. And worst of all … he tells terrible lies.’

  Everyone was staring at me. All the kids. All the teachers. My head swam. It wasn’t fair. I was innocent. Something came over me. I don’t know what. I started yelling. ‘It was the ghost. The tickling ghost.’ I pulled out the blue bottle and waved it around. ‘His smile was stolen. Put in a bottle. I gave it back to him.’

  The lines on Snapper’s face united in the biggest frown the world has ever seen. His wrinkles looked like a thousand upside down horseshoes. ‘Stop. Enough,’ he shrieked. He snatched the bottle from my hand and threw it to the ground. It smashed into a thousand pieces.

  There was a whisper, a sigh. A puff of cloud. It twisted and hummed. And headed straight up Snapper’s nostrils. It had gone to the nearest miserable person.

  ‘Your punishment …’ he said. And then he stopped, like a startled rabbit. Something was happening to his wrinkles. They were starting to twitch. To move. Like rheumatic sticks they began to bend upwards. You could almost hear them crack. For years and years they had drooped meanly down his chin. Now they were curving upwards. His wrinkles turned to crinkles.

  Snapper was smiling. The bottled smile had found a new home.

  He beamed at me. ‘There will be no punishment,’ he said generously. ‘Not for a nice boy like you.’

  I went and sat down.

  Mr Sna
pper was a terrific teacher. The best I ever had. The class even gave him a nickname.

  Smiley.

  Well, here I am again, sitting outside the Principal’s office. And I’ve only been at school for two days. Two lots of trouble in two days! Yesterday I got the strap for nothing. Nothing at all.

  I see this bloke walking along the street wearing a pink bow-tie. It looks like a great pink butterfly attacking his neck. It is the silliest bow-tie I have ever seen. ‘What are you staring at, lad?’ says the bloke. He is in a bad mood.

  ‘Your bow-tie,’ I tell him. ‘It is ridiculous. It looks like a pink vampire.’ It is so funny that I start to laugh my head off.

  Nobody tells me that this bloke is Old Splodge, the Principal of the school. He doesn’t see the joke and he gives me the strap. Life is very unfair.

  Now I am in trouble again. I am sitting here outside Old Splodge’s office waiting for him to call me in.

  Well, at least I’ve got something good to look at. Old Splodge’s secretary is sitting there typing some letters.

  She is called Miss Newham and she is a real knockout. Every boy in the school is in love with her. I wish she was my girlfriend, but as she is seventeen and I am only fourteen there is not much hope. Still, she doesn’t have a boyfriend so there is always a chance.

  She is looking at me and smiling. I can feel my face going red. ‘Why have you dyed your hair blond?’ she asks sweetly. ‘Didn’t you know it is against the school rules for boys to dye their hair?’

  I try to think of a very impressive answer but before I can say anything Old Splodge sticks his head around the office door. ‘Come in, boy,’ he says.

  I go in and sit down. Well, lad,’ says Old Splodge. ‘Why have you dyed your hair? Trying to be a surfie, eh?’ He is a grumpy old boy. He is due to retire next year and he does not want to go.

  I notice that he is still wearing the pink bow-tie. He always wears this bow-tie. He cannot seem to live without it. I try not to look at it as I answer him. ‘I did not dye my hair, sir,’ I say.