Ghostly Holler-Day

by Daren King

  ‘What the devil are you doing?’ Wither asked.

  ‘Cheating,’ Humphrey said, and he gave one of the machines an almighty bump with that big greedy belly. Several hundred coins clattered to the floor.

  Wither pulled a face like he was chewing a wasp. ‘This is dishonest.’

  ‘We won’t keep a penny of it,’ Tabitha said. ‘We just wanted to feel rich for a moment, that’s all. Come on, Humphrey. We must find the others.’

  ‘Money isn’t everything,’ Humphrey said with a glum shrug. He gave the coins a wave goodbye and followed Wither, Tabitha and myself out into the night.

  Outside, we flitted about until I spotted Pamela and dear Aggie, screaming their haunted heads off at the top of the Ferris Wheel.

  ‘Such high spirits,’ Wither said as we looked up.

  ‘Yes,’ Tabitha said. ‘They’re enjoying themselves immensely.’

  ‘We’ll never find Leslie at this rate,’ Wither said with a blub.

  I was about to doff my trilby when I thought I saw something black circle against the night sky.

  Tabitha fixed me with a serious gaze. ‘Charlie, whatever is the matter? You’ve been on edge all afternoon.’

  ‘Nothing,’ I told her, and I straightened my tie.

  ‘But there is something wrong, isn’t there? You’ve seen something. I know because I’ve seen it too. A caped figure dressed in black.’

  ‘You’ve seen it too?’

  ‘What’s all this about a caped figure?’ Wither said.

  I shrugged. ‘Um, would you like to buy a wristwatch?’

  11

  The Old Victorian Music Hall

  When we were all together, myself, Tabitha Tumbly, Wither, Humphrey Bump, Agatha Draft and a somewhat shaken Pamela Fraidy, we set off in search of Headless Leslie.

  To Tabitha and myself, the matter had become urgent. We were the only two ghosties who knew about the caped figure in the top hat.

  ‘We should split up, Charlie,’ Wither said.

  ‘Rubbish. It took us an hour to find each other.’

  ‘Charlie is right,’ Tabitha said. ‘And I don’t think any of us should be alone on a pier on a dark winter’s evening.’

  ‘There’s a lot of funny people about,’ I added, thinking back to when Alfie Spectre had used these exact words.

  ‘Who knows what horrors may lurk,’ Wither groaned.

  ‘Shh,’ Agatha said. ‘You’ll frighten Pamela.’

  ‘What’s all this talk of horrors?’ Pamela asked Wither.

  ‘It’s nothing,’ Tabitha told her, touching her quivering arm. ‘Wither was reciting a poem. Weren’t you, Wither?’

  ‘If it’s nothing,’ Pamela said, ‘why are you and Charlie so afraid? Tabitha, you and Charlie Vapour are the bravest ghosties I know. If this – this horror – is enough to unnerve the two of you, then it must be truly frightful.’

  ‘Honest,’ Tabitha said, ‘it’s nothing. Charlie and I have overactive imaginations.’

  ‘Yes,’ I said, straightening my trilby. ‘The mind plays tricks. Let’s get on with our search.’

  We flitted between the rides for a bit, but found no sign of Headless Leslie, not so much as a head.

  ‘There is only one place left to look,’ Wither said in his poetry voice. ‘At the end of the pier, where the wind howls, the wood creaks and the seagulls fear to flap.’

  Pamela wisped behind Tabitha and plugged her ears with her fingers.

  ‘But where at the end of the pier?’ Tabitha said.

  Wither extended a bony finger, and pointed towards a rickety building with no windows and an angular wooden staircase leading up to a grand doorway. The sight of the wonky roof prompted me to straighten my trilby.

  ‘Off you go then,’ I told the cowardly old fool. ‘We’ll wait out here.’

  ‘You won’t catch me in there,’ Wither said.

  ‘What is that building anyway?’

  ‘That,’ Agatha said, ‘is the Old Victorian Music Hall. It’s a sort of musical theatre. There’ll be rows of seats and a stage with a red velvet curtain.’

  ‘Why didn’t you say so?’ said Wither. ‘I love musical theatre.’ And he floated off towards the building.

  A moment later, he floated back.

  ‘Wither,’ Tabitha said, ‘whatever is the matter?’

  ‘I saw – a shadow.’

  ‘There are a lot of shadows,’ Agatha told Wither breezily. ‘It’s a dark winter’s evening, and we’re on a pier lit by fairground lights.’

  No sooner had these words blown from Agatha’s lips when the lights went out. Every bulb on that pier fizzed and crackled and popped, leaving us poor ghosties with only the moon to light our way.

  ‘Perhaps someone flipped the lever,’ Tabitha said.

  ‘Either that or it flipped itself,’ said Humphrey, and Pamela hid behind the curve of his belly.

  ‘I felt a spot of rain,’ Agatha said, arching an elegant hand. ‘Let’s float inside.’

  ‘What’s that sound?’ Wither cried, clamping a bony hand to his mouth. ‘I heard a sound like – like souls escaping from a morgue.’

  ‘It’s just the wind,’ Tabitha said.

  ‘All perfectly innocent then,’ said Wither. ‘Just one point, however. A moment ago there were six of us. And now, quite suddenly, there are seven.’

  ‘Rubbish,’ I said. ‘You miscounted.’

  ‘Then who is that chap in the purple cape, with eyes like burning coals and a tombstone top hat?’

  ‘Ghosties,’ I said, as the caped figure towered overhead, ‘I think we had better wisp off.’

  12

  Trapped!

  As we floated up the rickety old stairs of the Old Victorian Music Hall, the door swung open, which somehow felt both welcoming and terrifying at the same time, and we found ourselves in this vast candlelit space.

  The door slammed behind us with a THUD.

  ‘Bump it,’ I told Humphrey, and he bumped and bumped and bumped, but the door would not open.

  ‘The wood is too heavy,’ Humphrey said, his hair standing on end, ‘and the bolt is orange with rust.’

  ‘That door is the only thing around here that isn’t falling apart,’ said Pamela Fraidy.

  ‘You speak for yourself,’ said Wither.

  We wisped this way and that, ‘henceforth and sideways,’ as Wither put it, the daft old goat, until Agatha Draft rattled her pearls and declared that we were trapped.

  ‘Trapped?’ Wither said, gripping his jaw with his quill-like fingers.

  ‘Trapped,’ Agatha said.

  The six of us floated about for a bit, then Wither said, ‘So we’re trapped then?’

  ‘Trapped,’ Agatha said, and she clutched her pearls to her chest.

  ‘Trapped, trapped, trapped!’ Wither cried, his poetry voice echoing around the hall. I told him to stop blubbing, and he turned to me and said, ‘It’s all right for you, Charlie Vapour. You can pass through. The rest of us are trapped, trapped, trapped!’

  ‘Wither is right,’ Tabitha said. ‘Charlie, you can float off home whenever you like.’

  ‘And leave my ghostly friends in Frighten with that caped figure?’

  ‘But what a place to be trapped,’ said Agatha. ‘Tabitha, light the rest of those candles.’

  ‘Turn away then,’ Tabitha said, and we turned away. When we turned back, the Old Victorian Music Hall was lit by the warm glow of the hundreds of candles that lined the walls.

  ‘I say,’ Pamela said. ‘What a charming interior.’

  ‘It’s like an old-fashioned cinema,’ Humphrey said, ‘but without the screen.’

  Wither shook his head. ‘It’s more like a church, but with comfy seats instead of pews.’

  To me it looked like exactly what it was. A shabby old musical theatre, the sort that makes you want to take your hat off.

  ‘Spook-tacular it may be,’ Pamela said, ‘but we still need to find the way out.’

  ‘Perhaps Leslie knows the way out,’ T
abitha said. ‘We must find him. And I know how.’

  Wither arched an eyebrow. Then, he arched the other eyebrow. ‘Oh yes?’

  ‘This musical theatre is the reason Headless Leslie floated to Frighten in the first place. There is nothing Leslie likes more than musical theatre.’

  ‘You think Leslie might be trapped in here with us?’ Pamela said.

  ‘If he’s not inside, he’ll be somewhere close by.’

  ‘But how do we find him?’ Agatha said.

  ‘Look around you,’ said Tabitha. ‘We have curtains, a stage, and row upon row of seats.’

  ‘Explain,’ I said, politely doffing my hat.

  ‘We put on a show,’ Tabitha said, ‘and wait for Leslie to come to us.’

  ‘What a splendid idea,’ Wither said.

  ‘Every ghosty loves a show,’ said Agatha.

  13

  Headless Leslie

  I went on first.

  I grabbed this elegant cane from backstage, tipped my trilby and performed a dapper tap dance. Tabitha did her best to follow me with the spotlight. My shoes passed through the wood, so I made the tapping sound with a click of the tongue.

  By the time I’d finished my second number, every seat in the Old Victorian Music Hall was occupied. Ghosties had wafted in from all over Frighten. How the ghosties got into the building I don’t know, but judging by how see-through they were, I reckon they were the sort who ain’t got much presence, if you know what I mean.

  Next up was Agatha Draft, who blew a terrifying tune on the Old Victorian Pipe Organ. The audience found Agatha’s tune terribly moving, so moving in fact that the front two rows blew away.

  Then came Pamela’s turn. She’d promised us a tune, but no sooner had she sung the first note than she got stage fright. Tabitha had to lower the curtain while Agatha led her from the stage.

  I was hoping that would be the end of the show, but Wither insisted on reciting one of his poems. Funnily enough, it all worked out for the best.

  Most theatres have a trapdoor in the centre of the stage, and this theatre was no different. The moment Wither cleared his throat, Humphrey Bump did the decent thing and bumped the lever that operates the trapdoor, and the trapdoor dropped open.

  Now, ghosties can’t stand on floorboards, as you know, but the trapdoor created a draft, and the draft sucked old Shakespeare through the square hole, and he vanished into the darkness.

  ‘Humphrey, there was no call for that,’ Agatha said.

  ‘Oh, I don’t know,’ I said. ‘Wither’s poems are frightful.’

  ‘I have to admit, you have a point,’ Agatha said. ‘But even so.’

  ‘We’d better find him,’ said Tabitha, wisping out from behind the curtain.

  ‘Wait,’ Pamela said. ‘Look who’s turned up.’

  ‘Headless Leslie,’ Tabitha said, and we all floated down to the front row, where Leslie was sat with his head in his lap, his fingers plugging the ears.

  ‘Wither’s poems are drivel,’ Leslie said.

  ‘I don’t think we’ll be hearing any more from Wither for a while,’ I said.

  The trapdoor had swung shut, and I was the only ghosty who had noticed. I should have mentioned this to Tabitha, but, well, I had to say hello to my old mate Leslie, and what with one thing and another—

  Let’s just say I forgot.

  14

  The Magician

  ‘It looks like there’s another act,’ Leslie said, lifting his head onto his shoulders. Leslie wears this Elizabethan ruffle collar, so the head stays on a treat. It only falls off when he nods it, which explains why Leslie never agrees to anything.

  We were all sat in the front row, the girls to Leslie’s left, Humphrey and me to his right. Tabitha had closed the red velvet curtain, but now it began to twitch and sway, and as the curtain lifted, the spotlight settled on the bare wooden boards of the stage.

  ‘There’s no need for that,’ I told Tabitha. ‘We’ve all performed our party pieces, and Leslie’s turned up.’

  ‘Most of the audience have faded away,’ Humphrey said, glancing behind at the rows and rows of empty seats. ‘Let’s find the way out and float off home.’

  ‘It wasn’t me,’ Tabitha said.

  I gulped. ‘If it wasn’t you, then who—’

  Pamela hid under her seat.

  Then the organ started up, sort of whirly and swirly, and who should waft garlic-like onto the stage but the caped figure.

  If I’d still had skin, I’d have leapt out of it.

  ‘It’s all right, Charlie,’ Agatha said, clutching her pearls. ‘He’s a magician, and he’s here to perform his breathtaking illusions. I read about him in a leaflet back at the hotel.’

  ‘That explains the mantelpiece moustache and candlestick sideburns,’ said Pamela, floating out from beneath her seat.

  ‘But that’s the ghosty who nabbed my mate Alfie Spectre.’

  ‘Agatha is right,’ Tabitha said. ‘That ghosty is an authentic Victorian conjuror. His name is The Great Conjuro.’

  ‘What a splendid name,’ I said, still shaken, I have to admit.

  ‘If there is anything sinister going on,’ Agatha said, ‘we’ll find out soon enough. Until then, I intend to sit back and enjoy the performance.’

  So that was that. Nabbed mate or no nabbed mate, there was nothing for it but to settle in our velvet seats and watch the show.

  And what a show it was!

  First, he pulled this silk hanky from his pocket and stuffed it into his left hand, and when he opened his hand the hanky had vanished. He then pulled the hanky out of his sock and blew his nose.

  Then, he produced an umbrella from behind his elbow, and the umbrella turned into a bouquet of flowers and the flowers turned into a sword and the sword turned into a deck of playing cards and the cards turned into a bowl of smiling goldfish.

  You should have heard our applause when The Great Conjuro vanished the bowl up his sleeve!

  ‘For my grand finale,’ the magician said in his booming cannonball voice, ‘I will perform the greatest illusion in all magic.’

  Agatha gasped.

  ‘For this trick I require a volunteer from the audience,’ The Great Conjuro said. Then he coughed into the back of his hand and added, ‘One who doesn’t mind having his head sawn off.’

  ‘I volunteer,’ Agatha said, raising a swan-like hand.

  ‘I have to say,’ Pamela said, ‘you’re terribly brave. I would volunteer myself, but the truth is, I’m afraid.’

  ‘Pick me, pick me!’ Agatha shrieked, but the magician grabbed Headless Leslie by the arm and wisped him onto the stage.

  ‘That’s not fair,’ Agatha wept. ‘Leslie didn’t even volunteer.’

  ‘I wonder why he chose Headless Leslie,’ I said, and the other ghosties shrugged.

  ‘Perhaps Leslie’s tunic looks good under the stage lights,’ Pamela said.

  The magician floated behind the curtain stage-left, then floated back, wheeling an ornate wooden box.

  ‘Why does the box have eight wheels,’ I said. ‘Four would be enough, surely.’

  ‘The box has eight wheels,’ Agatha said, ‘so that the magician can separate the box into two sections at the end of the trick. My father took me to magic shows all the time, when I was a little girl.’

  ‘I don’t know why he has to saw Leslie’s head off,’ Pamela said. ‘Why not just shake him by the hand and bid him good day?’

  ‘Shh,’ said Agatha. ‘The greatest illusion in all magic is about to begin.’

  15

  The Magician’s Illusion

  The moment Leslie lay back in the ornate wooden box, The Great Conjuro closed the lid.

  With a flourish of his cape, the magician produced a saw from thin air, and the organ music stopped and this ghostly orchestra materialised in the orchestra pit. The magician sawed a notch in the wooden box, about a head’s length from the end, and began to saw through the wood.

  ‘I genuinely do not know how this tri
ck is done,’ said Agatha Draft.

  ‘It’s simple,’ said Tabitha. ‘You see—’

  Agatha covered her ears with her hands. ‘Don’t tell me.’

  ‘Leslie’s head is detachable, as you know, and—’

  ‘I don’t want to hear this,’ Agatha said.

  The magician sawed and sawed and sawed, until the wooden box broke into two sections. We all gasped, then clapped our haunted hands.

  ‘Incredible,’ I said.

  ‘Breathtaking,’ said Tabitha Tumbly.

  ‘Horrific,’ cried Pamela Fraidy.

  ‘Awesome,’ grinned Humphrey Bump.

  ‘I wish he’d saw Wither’s head off,’ Agatha said. ‘I say, where is Wither?’

  ‘He’s still down that trapdoor,’ I said. ‘I suppose we’d better rescue him. If he has to find his own way out, we’ll never hear the end of it.’

  ‘I’m not going down there,’ Pamela said. ‘It’s dark, and there’ll be plankton.’

  ‘I don’t think any of us want to go down there,’ Agatha said. ‘That’s why it was so terribly mean of Humphrey to bump that lever.’

  ‘Wither will be all right,’ said Tabitha. ‘He’ll find a knot in the wood and wisp out into the night.’

  ‘Shh,’ Agatha said. ‘We’re missing the show.’

  The Great Conjuro took a bow, then wheeled the head-sized end of the ornate wooden box away from the main section, and lifted it from the metal frame so that we could see Leslie’s smiling head inside.

  As the five of us floated up from our seats to applaud, the magician bowed so low that the head-end of the box tipped up and Leslie’s head rolled out. The ghostly head did not stop rolling until it dropped through a gap in the boards at the back of the stage.

  ‘The magician did that on purpose,’ I said. ‘I knew something was up, and this proves it.’

  ‘Nonsense,’ Agatha said.

  The Great Conjuro bowed once more, and vanished in a puff of purple smoke.

  Agatha frowned. ‘Oh dear.’

  ‘He’s probably gone to fetch the head,’ said Tabitha.

  I removed my hat and scratched my bald patch. ‘He’s a magician, Tabitha. If he wanted the head back he’d conjure it up with his magic.’