Copyright © 2013 by Joseph Delaney
Cover and internal design © 2013 by Sourcebooks, Inc.
Cover design by Daniel Pelavin
Cover illustration © Douglas Smith
Internal illustrations © Scott M. Fischer
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Originally published in the United Kingdom by Andersen Press Limited.
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For Marie
CONTENTS
1
A New Job
2
From Bad to Worst
3
On the Stroke of Midnight
4
The Prisoner in the Witch Well
5
Long-Necked Netty
6
Freedom
A New Job
“For pity’s sake, get up, lad. Do you want to lose the job before you’ve even started?”
I looked around disoriented, wiping drool from my chin. What time was it? I felt like I’d been in bed no time at all.
“Come on, Billy,” Mrs. Hendle said, more kindly this time. “They told you to be there an hour after sunset and it’s that time already.” She passed me my jacket hanging over the chair and I pulled myself wearily out of bed.
A few of the other lads ran into the room, laughing and jeering, but she soon shooed them away. I could still hear them though, sniggering through the door.
“You gonna be scared up there, Billy?”
“Don’t you want to go?”
“Get away with you!” I shouted as I barged through the door, sending them scattering in every direction. Bloomin’ brats.
But they were right. I was bloody scared. This wasn’t the sort of job I’d been hoping for. “Beggars can’t be choosers,” my old ma used to say, God rest her soul. And she was right. There aren’t many jobs that lads from the orphanage can get. I was lucky to have this one. A few more weeks’ training and I’d have enough put by to get lodgings elsewhere, move away from this stupid Home for Unfortunate Boys. It would all be worth it in the end.
I jogged down the steps and out into the moonlit streets. As I left the village and ran along the country lanes, I could see the castle up ahead of me and I walked toward it, trying to be brave.
After all, I wasn’t going to be imprisoned there. I was just going to work there guarding the prisoners. Those other lads were being silly. Just jealous. It was a job and I was going to do it.
But I knew why they thought I should be scared—why I was scared. It was who I’d be guarding that was the problem: murderers, common criminals, and convicted witches. That was my job. Or at least it would be once I’d finished my training.
There was a new moon, slender and horned, soon to be overwhelmed by the dark clouds blustering in from the west. I shivered but not just with cold. I’d heard stories about the castle after dark, about things long dead that walked its damp corridors. And there wasn’t a person alive in the village who hadn’t heard the screams coming from there: low, agonizing moaning; wild, hysterical cackles; wretched, mournful sobbing—we’d heard them all.
The building was large and forbidding, set on a high hill about three miles from the nearest town and surrounded by a dense wood of sycamore and ash trees. It was constructed from dark, dank stone with turrets, battlements, and a foul-smelling moat that was rumored to contain the skeletons of those who had attempted to escape.
I’d never wanted to be on the night shift. But my feelings counted for nothing. Orders were orders, and after just two weeks preliminary training, I’d been told to report one hour after sunset. But being unused to going to bed in the afternoon and finding it hard to nod off in the first place with the other lads around, I’d overslept. I was already more than half an hour late and castle guards were supposed to be punctual.
As I reached the castle and looked up at its menacing walls, there was a clanking, grinding sound and then the portcullis began to rise. They knew I was there. Nobody approached the castle without being noticed. There were always eyes watching, always people noting your approach.
Behind the portcullis was a huge wooden door studded with iron. It was another five minutes before that opened, and I tried to wait patiently as a light drizzle began to drift into my Come on, come on, I thought, starting to pace. I’m late enough already.
At last, the door started to grind back on its hinges to reveal a burly guard, scratching at the stubbly beard on his face. He scowled at me. “Name?” he demanded.
“Billy Calder,” I answered.
He knew my name and I knew his—George Ellerton; he’d been letting me in each day for my training. But he was following the rules. Anyone entering had to identify himself.
“You’ll be working under Adam Colne,” he said, and my heart sank. I’d heard about Adam Colne during my training. He was a mountain of a man with a reputation for being tough and ruthless. He’d once thrown a trainee guard from the battlements into the moat. The boy had been lucky to survive.
“Mr. Colne’s waited over half an hour for you, and he’s not best pleased to say the least. I wouldn’t like to be in your shoes, boy.”
“I’m sorry,” I said, “I lost track of time and…”
“Save your excuses for Mr. Colne, lad. Here he comes now.” I turned around and saw a huge man, with more hair on his face than his head, marching toward me, a large bunch of keys rattling at his belt.
Colne stared at me hard without blinking, making me feel very nervous. It was the first time we’d met, and I knew I hadn’t made a good impression.
“You’re late!” he growled. “There are only six guards on the night shift and it’s important that we are all present. Do you understand me?”
I nodded. My voice had escaped me.
“So it won’t happen again, will it, boy?”
This time I shook my head vigorously.
“Those who work for me never make the same mistake twice—not if they want to carry on breathing. You have to know your place in the scheme of things. Do I make myself clear?”
“Yes, sir,” I forced myself to answer.
“Good, as long as we’ve got that straight, I’ll forget your lateness and we’ll make a fresh start from now. You’ll be happy here, boy. We’re just like a close-knit family on the night shift.”
I didn’t know much about families because my parents had died when I was young and I’d spent the last nine years in the orphanage. This was my first job, since I’d turned fifteen and soon I’d be thrown out to make my own way in the world. Yes, I’d been in the village for nine years now, but I still felt like a stranger. I’d never made any friends.
“So first things first,” Colne continued. “Do you know why you’ve been transferred to the night shift?”
“No, sir.”
“Someone asked for you. Someone politely requested your presence. Someone we have to keep sweet. ‘Let the young Calder boy guard at night,’ she begg
ed. Wouldn’t you like to know who she is?”
She? I nodded. I hadn’t got a clue.
“Then why don’t you take a guess?”
Who could it be? There were some female as well as male prisoners in the castle—mostly convicted witches—but certainly no female jailers. The place was run by men. But as far as I was aware, I knew no one imprisoned in this castle—or any castle for that matter.
Then I had a thought. “Is it one of the prisoners, sir? Lizzie Guntripp?”
Lizzie was locked up in the west wing of the castle. She’d been accused of being a witch by her neighbor because all his potatoes got the blight after he ran over her cat with his cart. But I didn’t believe she was and neither did half the village. I’d smiled at her during training once and served her a larger portion of gruel. Maybe it was her.
Colne looked at me and laughed. “Lizzie Guntripp? No, we drowned her three days ago. She didn’t float, so it seems she was innocent after all—but by the time we realized, she was dead already. You win some, you lose some.” He laughed again coldly.
I looked at my shoes, not wanting to join in with his laughter.
“No, the young lady asking after you is Netty and she was one of the prisoners, boy. But she’s a prisoner no longer.”
That didn’t make any sense. If she’d been released, why had she requested my presence on the night shift?
“Where is she now?” I asked.
“Mostly she’s to be found in Execution Square. One of her favorite places it is because that’s where they hanged her.” My face must have shown my shock. “Netty is a ghost, and we need to keep her sweet or it’s bad news for everybody.
“A ghost, sir?” I spluttered. “A ghost and she asked for me?”
He threw back his head and laughed. “Aye, little orphan boy. Seems someone loves you after all.”
“Who is she? I mean, who was she?” I asked.
“Some call her ‘Long-Neck Netty’ on account of how stretched it was by the rope. But don’t let her overhear you using that name. She doesn’t like it. Even when she’s in a good mood, she raps and bangs and wakes up the prisoners. Sometimes she turns the milk sour or gives us nightmares. No, it don’t do to cross Netty. So follow me, boy! If it’s you she wants on the night shift, it’s you she’ll get.”
And he lifted a lantern and marched off swinging his bunch of keys.
From Bad to Worse
I had to jog to keep up with Mr. Colne as I followed him through a tunnel and into the castle yard. A thousand questions were swirling around my head.
“But how does this Netty know who I am, sir?”
“Must have seen you during your training and taken a shine to you.”
“Are we going to see her now?” I asked, my knees beginning to tremble. The thought of facing a ghost had suddenly turned me right off the job. Why on earth had I applied to be a prison guard in the first place?
“Nobody goes to see Netty, boy. She comes to see you. No doubt she’ll turn up when she’s good and ready. Of course, she’s not the only ghost who haunts this prison.” He pointed up at two cell windows high on the wall. It wasn’t time for lights out yet, and they were the only two cells in darkness.
“We never put prisoners in those two cells, boy. Not now anyway. Know why?”
“Are they haunted, sir?”
“They’re haunted all right, but by exactly what we’re not sure. About ten years ago the castle was filled to bursting with prisoners, so we had to use those two cells. We knew they were supposed to be haunted by something unpleasant, but there were no precise records, so we took a chance and locked two drunken farm hands up for the night. Got into a fight they had and then battered the parish constable who’d tried to separate them.
“The morning after they were trembling like leaves in an autumn storm. And both told the same tale. In the middle of the night, something invisible but very strong had grabbed them by their throats and tried to drag them into the wall. But that weren’t all…”
Colne stood there for a while staring into the darkness, shaking his head and muttering to himself as if he were reliving the experience. He seemed to have forgotten all about me.
“What happened?” I pressed him.
“Well, as I said, the castle cells were all occupied, so we had to put them back in the same quarters again the following night. Come dawn we regretted it. In hindsight, we should have sent them off elsewhere to be locked up, but we hadn’t the manpower to transport ’em. In the morning one of them was dead. He’d been strangled and there were finger marks embedded in his throat. His eyes were bulging too—it wasn’t a pretty sight. But the other had disappeared, or at least most of him had. There was a large pool of blood on the cell floor and in it were his teeth.”
“His teeth? Was that all that was left of him?”
“His dentures, boy, to be precise, which were made out of wood. It seemed that whatever had taken him couldn’t get them through the stone wall as well. Flesh and bone, yes, but not Rowan wood. It’s a wood that has certain properties. Witches aren’t supposed to be able to touch it, and some say it wards off dark apparitions. Anyway, let’s get inside, out of this drizzle. I need something to warm my belly.”
We passed along two corridors and at the end of each was a sturdy door to be unlocked. I swiveled my head from left to right as we walked, looking for ghosts and creatures of the night. Moving even a short distance across the prison took some time because of all those locks; no wonder each jailer carried a big heavy bunch of keys.
At last we emerged into a large room with a small fire in the grate, three big wooden tables, and lots of chairs.
“This is the quarters for the night shift,” Colne said. “Make yourself at home if you want.”
I’d never visited the room before because it was always locked during the day. But there was little evidence now to suggest that it was ever occupied. There were no cups, cutlery, or plates on the tabletops. The room was tidy—too tidy. Something about that made me feel rather uneasy. It definitely wasn’t somewhere I could feel at home.
“Of course,” Colne said, catching the quizzical look on my face, “we don’t use it much. Not a nice room this.”
“Is this haunted as well?” I asked. Things seemed to be going from bad to worse. Was nowhere safe in this place?
“By night the whole castle is haunted, boy, but a lot depends on what’s doing the haunting. There are some really nasty things that rap and bang in here, so most guards prefer to take their rest in other places.”
“Have you heard anything, sir? D’you think it’s true?”
He nodded and leaned in closer to me. “About twenty years ago, when I first started on the job, I was braver, much braver, and I sat in here one night eating bread and ham that my wife, Martha, had packed for me. She’s dead now, poor soul. It’s funny, isn’t it? All these castle ghosts but never once did the spirit I most wished to see come back to say farewell.” He shook his head sadly and for a moment he didn’t seem quite so scary. “Anyway, there I was sitting in that chair over there chewing my food…”
He pointed to a wooden chair nearest the door.
“At last my stomach was full and I started to doze. Then something woke me, lad. A strange noise came from behind me, and I swear to God it raised the hairs on the back of my neck and sent chills running down my spine.”
“What was it?” I asked.
“Well, it sounded like something was gnashing its teeth together hard at the same time as growling deep in its throat. But whatever it was, it was small and dark, and it shot past my chair and scuttled across the flags there quicker than I could blink.”
I glanced down at the floor expecting to see this evil creature for myself.
“It scared me, boy, I don’t mind telling you. I tried to convince myself that it was just a rat, but it had passed straight through a closed door, so I knew that it was something more than that. And there was a smell too—a stench of fire and brimstone. So it was defini
tely something evil. Something it’s better not to think about. Something straight from hell. I rarely eat in here now—at least not when I’m by myself. One funny thing about ghosts is that they’re most likely to put in an appearance when you’re alone.”
He sighed then shook his head. “But there are worse places in this castle and the worst place of all is the one that I have to visit every night. And I have to visit it alone. It’s a place we call The Witch Well. There’s a prisoner down there that it’s best to keep away from. He’s tethered to a ring in the dungeon floor by a long chain and sleeps all day, but he is wide-awake after dark. He has to be fed at midnight or things could get really awkward for everybody who works here. Someone has to do that dangerous job and, as the most experienced guard on the night shift, it falls to me. As well as the special prisoner, the well has something else to make it a fearsome place. It’s haunted by foul things—the ghosts of those confined there long ago. I only wish I didn’t have to go there, but duty is duty.”
I couldn’t believe what I was hearing. We’d often scared each other in the orphanage with stories of how the castle might be haunted. But it seemed the reality was a good deal worse than our imaginings.
“Cheer up, lad. I’ll show you where the well is later—but don’t worry, you won’t have to go down there. In fact, I’ll tell you this now and I don’t want you to ever forget it—never go down there if you know what’s good for you. I’ve lost a few good guards down there over the years.
“Lost them?”
“Aye,” he said, and slapped me on the back. “Lost them.” But he didn’t seem to want to tell me anymore. “Anyway, I’ll make us both a hot drink to ward off the chills of the night. By the looks of it you could do with one.”
Twenty minutes later, warm milk and honey in our bellies, we set off again and Adam Colne led me through another series of corridors with occupied cells on either side. I found myself running to keep up with his long stride. By now it was after lights out and you could hear the prisoners moaning in their sleep or sometimes crying out as if in the grip of a terrifying nightmare. I’d heard noises similar to this in the orphanage. Nighttime is hard for some of the lads, especially when they first arrive and their mothers still haunt their dreams. But after the awful stories Colne had just been telling me, the moaning of these prisoners chilled me to the bone. How terrible to be trapped here every night—locked in a cell which ghosts were free to enter!
The Ghost Prison Page 1