The Stolen Ghosts

by Icy Sedgwick

  Icy Sedgwick

  The Stolen Ghosts

  The Ghost Master General Series

  First published by Skolion in 2018

  Copyright © Icy Sedgwick, 2018

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, scanning, or otherwise without written permission from the publisher. It is illegal to copy this book, post it to a website, or distribute it by any other means without permission.

  This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author's imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.

  Icy Sedgwick asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work.

  First edition

  Editing by Nerine Dorman

  Editing by Claire Wingfield

  Cover art by Tom Brown

  This book was professionally typeset on Reedsy

  Find out more at reedsy.com

  Contents

  Prelude

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Well then!

  Meet the Author

  Prelude

  Fowlis Westerby took his new hat out of its box, running a hand along the white feather sweeping around the brim. He’d loved his old hat and mourned its demise during his last assignment. But this hat was indeed a thing of beauty. He put it on and gazed at himself in the mirror with a mixture of pride and satisfaction. He adjusted his new hat, pushing it to a more rakish angle. The white feather matched the collar resting against the lapels of his frock coat. His leather boots shone, and the silver buckles gleamed. His deep brown curls rested on his shoulders and he ran a finger along his pencil moustache. Most of his compatriots favoured wigs, but Fowlis’s natural hair was thick enough for him not to need one.

  “Mr Westerby?”

  His aide poked his head around the door. Fowlis smiled, turning from the mirror. Handle was the ideal assistant, always eager to please. Attentive, but not grovelling.

  “Yes, Handle?”

  “They’re ready for you, sir.”

  “Tell them I shall be with them momentarily.”

  Handle nodded once and withdrew from the room. Fowlis turned back to the mirror. He adjusted his gloves and smiled. It was his duty to look his best at all times; after all, as he always said, a slovenly ghost is a bad ghost.

  Fowlis threw open the door and strode down the corridor. Admiring glances followed him as he passed, although he tried to ignore the jealous whispers that followed in his wake. Fowlis held the championship title in the League of Hauntings for the forty-second year running, and everyone knew he was prime contender for a forty-third year. Eventually he might retire, if only to allow another the chance to win.

  The council rose as he entered the room. He nodded to them, before taking his place beside the hearth. He leaned his elbow on the oak mantelpiece and adjusted his belt, giving the thirteen statesmen time to shuffle their papers.

  “Fowlis Westerby, we welcome you this afternoon,” said the head councillor, Abercrochie. “We wish to hand you your new assignment.”

  The council smiled, showing thirteen variations of grimaces, grins and toothy expressions. Handle scurried across the room, carrying a sheaf of papers. Fowlis gave the papers a cursory glance. They wanted to send him to Cransland House. According to their literature, it was a sixteenth-century pile in Northumberland. Perfect. He hated these new-fangled buildings with their air-conditioning and heated floors.

  “Gentlemen of the council, I accept.”

  “We knew you would, Fowlis! Good luck and we shall speak to you soon.”

  Fowlis bowed to the council and winked at Handle. The shadow of a grandfather clock painted the wall in shades of charcoal, though no clock was to be seen in the room. Fowlis stepped into the shadow, which promptly vanished the moment he disappeared into the darkness. A moment later, he walked out of the shadow cast by the grandfather clock in the drawing room at Cransland House.

  The haunting began.

  Chapter 1

  Sarah McKenzie paced around the library of Cransland House. It was only 2pm but it felt as if she’d been awake for a whole week. Her old physics teacher had once told her that time slowed down if you approached the speed of light, but Mr Tadsworth had obviously never been stuck in a country house with no internet.

  Dust motes slipped down shafts of sunlight in the cool air, and the grandfather clock tick-tocked by the door. Sarah grimaced as she held the laptop aloft, hoping the dongle would find the sweet spot for her mobile broadband signal.

  Even dial-up would be quicker than this. I thought Dad would get the phone line sorted and broadband connected before we moved in. At least then I could use wi-fi.

  Sarah set the laptop down on the sturdy oak table near the window. She moved it around a few times, glaring at the icon in the corner of the screen until the dongle sprang into life. Moments later, an electronic chirrup told her she was connected to the outside world. Sarah sat on one of the chairs, fidgeting on the hard seat pad.

  Sarah had claimed the library as her bolthole less than an hour after she had first entered the house the week before. It was tucked away behind her father’s study, and filled with books of varying ages, sizes and subjects. The room lacked the moth-eaten tapestries and dreary portraits that hung elsewhere in the house, and threadbare rugs disguised the ruts and scratches of the uneven floorboards. Shelves held tattered copies of Shakespeare, Eliot and Blake. A staircase on wheels stood gathering dust in the corner. Sarah thought the wheels would screech in protest if she tried to move it. The entire room, in all its lofty magnificence, bore a peculiar air of neglect.

  Much like me, I suppose.

  She clicked on the bookmark in her browser and the familiar blue-and-white login screen popped up. Sarah signed in and checked her notifications feed. It was stuffed with messages from the various games she played, interspersed with one or two updates from the two groups she was in. Sarah scrolled down, hoping to see a comment or two on one of her status updates. Maybe someone had taken a look at the photos she’d posted of her new home.

  Nothing. Sarah checked her friends list to make sure no one had unfriended her, but everything looked in order. She clicked to her latest photo album and flicked through the fifteen shots of Cransland House. The morning room, the kitchen, the main staircase—the photos weren’t bad for an amateur, but not a single one had a comment. No one had even ‘liked’ them. For all Sarah knew, no one had even looked at them.

  Sarah stopped when she reached the last photo. It showed as much of the library as she could fit in the frame, and she’d titled it “My favourite room in the WHOLE house!! All those BOOKS!” The text didn’t interest her—not right now. She leaned closer to inspect the shot. Two shelves had been removed in the
bookcase, and the space now held a mirror. Yet the mirror in the photo didn’t seem to be empty.

  “What the hell is that?” Sarah asked the empty room.

  She clicked away from her browser and scanned her folders, looking for the photos of the house. She opened the library shot and zoomed in to focus on the mirror. Sarah rubbed the screen, in case a thumbprint or dust obscured the image. No matter what she did, the opaque reflection of a figure remained in the mirror. The face was too faint to make out any particular features but the heavy neck and bald head marked him out as a man.

  An electronic chime wrested Sarah’s attention away from the photo and back to her browser. A chat window popped up, and Sarah recognised the thumbnail photo of Jamie Graves, her best friend.

  My best friend I haven’t even met.

  “Why hello there, SM!” he typed.

  “Jamie! Back from your hols?” she replied.

  “Indeedy. Cyprus is TOO hot! Thought I’d check on you before I unpack. Just saw photos of the new house. Very jealous!”

  Sarah smiled, glad that someone had finally looked at her photos. She didn’t want to show off her skills with a camera, but she’d hoped some of her old friends might have shown an interest in her new life. Sarah clicked onto her profile. Two weeks ago, her wall had been filled with “Can’t believe you’re going!” and “We’ll miss you!” messages. Now…nothing.

  Funny how fast they forgot me. Still, it’ll be better when I start college and find new friends. I hope.

  “Hey, do me a favour J?” typed Sarah.

  “Sure.”

  “Can you look at my photos again? See if you see anything weird?”

  Sarah twisted around in her seat to look at the mirror while Jamie checked her photos. The mirror behind her showed nothing but the quiet library. Her laptop chimed.

  “Who’s the bald guy?” asked Jamie.

  “So you see him too! I have no idea.”

  “Freaky! It’s like something out of Ghost Hunters. You scared?”

  “Me? Scared? No.”

  Sarah paused. She looked back at the mirror then gazed around the room. She expected some kind of chill to run down her spine, or goose bumps to prickle across her bare arms. Maybe she would even run screaming from the room. After all, that’s what happened in the hundreds of novels she’d read. Even the presenters on her favourite TV shows got scared and ran away while the camera rolled.

  But I’m not scared. I’m…curious.

  The only time she remembered being scared was six years ago when an over-enthusiastic German Shepherd had cornered her in her aunt’s back garden. Having said that, she had only been ten at the time, and the dog had been large, even for its breed.

  “Trick of the light?” asked Jamie.

  “Could be.” Sarah looked again. She didn’t think it was something so simple.

  “Reflection off a spot of dust in the air?”

  Sarah sent back a confused emoji. The more she looked at the photo, the more she thought the mark looked more like a mist. A man-shaped mist. Is that even possible?

  “Argh, Mum is shouting at me to unpack. Gotta run. Catch ya later, SM!”

  Jamie’s status flicked to ‘offline’ before Sarah could reply. She slumped in her chair, staring at her forgotten profile. Her disappointment banished any thought of the figure in the mirror.

  “Sarah?”

  A voice floated in through the open door. Sarah groaned. Her parents usually left her to her own devices, and she’d spent most of her first week at the house alone in the library. They only disturbed her when they were driving into town, or when one of the stuffy neighbouring families arrived for a visit. They’d gone into town yesterday, so it could only mean that someone had arrived.

  Time for another parade.

  Her mother appeared at the door. A tall, slender woman, she reminded Sarah of a fragile doll. When they had moved to the house, she had swapped her stylish city suits for more practical attire in shades of brown and green. Today a dark green-and-beige silk headscarf covered her curly blonde hair. She looked like the bizarre offspring of a 1950s starlet and a country squire. She clasped her hands in front of her. Her blue eyes shone with excitement.

  “The Campbells are here, darling.”

  The name rang no bells for Sarah, who could only associate Campbell with soup.

  “You have to come and meet them. They’re waiting.” Mrs McKenzie stepped back into the corridor. She gestured for Sarah to follow her.

  “Why do they want to meet me?” Sarah didn’t budge.

  “They want to meet the family. Come along, darling – at least make some effort to get to know our neighbours. They have two children; they could be good friends for you.”

  “How old are they?”

  “They’re fourteen. Twins, darling.”

  Sarah sighed, shut down the laptop and pulled herself out of the chair then trudged across the room. Her mother was desperate to be accepted by the local ‘country set’ and believed in ‘making connections.’ Sarah supposed it gave her mother something to do while her father busied himself with his research and she investigated the different options for turning the house into a B&B. Or maybe she just missed London.

  Sarah followed down the wood-panelled corridor towards the drawing room. It was one of the few downstairs rooms not inhabited by dust sheets. Mrs McKenzie had staked her claim on the drawing room before they had even moved in, and Sarah preferred to stay out of it.

  The drawing room door loomed large. Sarah tried not to look at the empty suits of armour standing guard. She thought one day she’d peer into a helmet and see a pair of eyes peering back at her.

  Her mother slipped around the drawing room door, beckoning Sarah to follow. Sighing, she straightened her T-shirt and followed. The familiar knot of resignation and boredom settled in her gut.

  A mountain of a woman perched on the antique couch near the fireplace. Tight ginger curls surrounded a mottled face, broken by a bulbous nose and large, fleshy lips. Tiny eyes peered out from beneath folds of skin, giving her the appearance of a half-baked currant bun. A ghastly green paisley tea dress stretched across her frame.

  “Sarah, this is Mrs Campbell,” said her mother. “Elspeth, this is my daughter, Sarah.”

  Mrs Campbell barely looked at her. Sarah couldn’t bring herself to feel affronted. Being slighted by such a grotesque woman was almost comical, not to mention a relief. She wouldn’t be expected to make pointless small talk now.

  Her gaze roved over the rest of the group. A slight, weak-looking man was jammed into the sliver of couch not occupied by Mrs Campbell. His thin lips and pointed nose reminded Sarah of a rat, an impression strengthened by his quivering hands and black eyes that darted around the room. A boy and a girl perched on another couch near the window. Both looked thin and sickly like their father, with the beady eyes and fleshy facial features of their mother. A pang of worry flared in her stomach. Did these kids get enough vitamin D?

  “Sarah, these are Mr Campbell, Christopher and Agnes.”

  “Pleased to meet you all,” said Sarah.

  The newcomers failed to reply. Sarah knew this routine well. She suspected they took as little pleasure in these visits as she did. Clinging to the thought often made the whole debacle more bearable.

  “Sarah? Would you like to take a seat?” Her mother gestured to the empty over-stuffed armchair on the far side of the room. Sarah flopped into the chair, glad to be away from the unhappy group.

  From the opposite side of the room, Sarah could observe the family better. Her mother simpered and fawned over Mrs Campbell, agreeing with her pronouncements and slipping compliments into every sentence. Mr Campbell tried to interject the occasional weak joke when his wife paused for breath. These jokes were steam-rollered into oblivion by the overbearing Mrs Campbell, and disregarded by her mother. The twins ignored all around them, focusing on their Nintendo handhelds. Sarah wished she’d brought a book, before changing her mind and wishing that she were somew
here more interesting instead.

  Yeah, like choking to death on Mars.

  “Is Dad coming?” she asked, interrupting a dull conversation about kitchen gardens.

  “No dear, he’s too busy,” replied her mother.

  The glare she shot across the room warned Sarah that another lecture about society manners and etiquette would follow the visit. She made a mental note to make herself scarce when the Campbells left.

  “Oh, that’s a shame, isn’t it, Elspeth?” Mr Campbell seemed apologetic, looking at Sarah for the first time in half an hour. He dropped her gaze as if afraid he’d turn to stone if he maintained eye contact.

  “Not at all. A man’s place is not in society. A woman should run the home, and run the family affairs,” boomed Mrs Campbell. “A strong man should be the provider. He does not have time for family. Or rather, he should not have time. No, if he has the time, then he must be given more to do.”

  “Oh you’re right, dear, quite right,” simpered Mr Campbell.

  Sarah fought the urge to retch.

  “No man should ever be allowed to—”

  Mrs Campbell’s fresh tirade was cut off by a throaty cough erupting from the grandfather clock beside the fireplace.

  “What was that? Is there someone else here?” asked Mrs Campbell.

  “No, Elspeth, it’s just us.” Mrs McKenzie turned and peered at the grandfather clock.

  Sarah tried to look beyond them.

  Is it my imagination, or is the shadow darker than it should be?

  The edge of the shadow flickered, as though someone waggled a feather, and the vague hint of a shadow moved across to the fireplace. Moments later, a cloud of soot shot into the room. It drifted to cover everything with a sprinkling of black dust. Sarah leapt forward. Maybe a small bird had flown into the room. She pictured Mrs Campbell seizing it from the air with one meaty fist.

  “What the blazes?”

  “Oh, I’m so sorry Mrs Campbell, we haven’t managed to get all of the chimneys cleaned properly yet!”

  Sarah’s mother darted across the room. She fawned over Mrs Campbell to assess any soot damage. Mrs Campbell shooed Mrs McKenzie away and Mr Campbell jumped to his feet. He looked on with his mouth hanging open. Sarah couldn’t see or hear any birds.