The Griffins of Castle Cary

by Heather Shumaker

  “Don’t worry, Aunt Effie,” offered Will. “With those buyers gone, you get to keep the Griffinage.”

  “Buyers! Will, those people weren’t trying to buy the Griffinage. They were my best chance of saving it! Mrs. Carmichael is president of the Somerset Heritage Society. The society gives out grants to homeowners to help repair historic buildings! Of course, with the number of historic buildings here in Somerset, there’s scads of competition. Foolish me, I thought I could tip the balance in my favor if they left full of hot, buttered scones, but I didn’t count on that dog of mine. Now what have we got? Complete calamity. Well, I hope garden slugs like jam.”

  With that, Aunt Effie turned and walked inside.

  “The Heritage Society!” said Will. “We’ve ruined it.”

  “The ghost ruined it.”

  “Who cares? There goes our chance of saving the Griffinage.”

  They sat glumly for a moment, watching the ants discover the spilled blackcurrant jam.

  “Why didn’t she tell us? said Will. “Now we’ve really got to move the chest. That ghost is stirred up. The Griffinage doesn’t stand a chance unless we clear it out.”

  “I don’t feel good.”

  Neither of them had noticed as Ariel came up and stood beside them. She held her stomach with one arm. The doll hung loosely by her side. She looked pale and swayed a little as she spoke.

  “Oh, Ariel!”

  Meg put her arm around her and helped her inside, while Will ran to fetch Aunt Effie. Aunt Effie took one look at Ariel and bundled her into an armchair.

  “There now, missy. You probably just overdid it after yesterday. I need a rest too, after all that,” said Aunt Effie. Ariel moaned. “Come, I’ll read to you, if you like.” Aunt Effie still had dark jam streaks across her forehead, but she plopped Ariel on her lap, pulled a tumble of blankets around them both, and opened Alice in Wonderland. She started in on the chapter where the baby sneezes and finally turns into a pig. Meg and Will slipped out of the room.

  “Time to get rid of that thing,” said Will.

  “Do you think the chest is making Ariel sick?”

  “Let’s get rid of it now and find out later,” said Will. He was trying to shake the feeling that he’d seen a flash of green when Uncle Ben crashed into the toolshed. When he’d looked again, there’d been nothing there.

  “Do you think she saw the ghost?” asked Meg, her voice sounding shaky.

  “Who, Ariel?” Will gulped. Ariel did look weird. Maybe Ariel could see green flashes too.

  “I asked her before and she said no,” said Meg. “But maybe today it was stronger. You know, more obvious or something. We better ask again.”

  “Well, we can’t now,” said Will. “Not with Aunt Effie sitting right there. And we need to get the chest, remember? Once that’s gone, it won’t matter. Ariel won’t see anything.”

  The chest was leaning exactly where they’d left it: at the base of the root cellar steps. The lid was slightly open. Meg saw Ariel’s finger marks still visible from swirling the dust on the chest’s outside panels. She stared at the bulky thing, then eyed the stairs. There were only eight steps, but they angled up sharply.

  “Maybe we should go get Shep,” she said. “Remember how heavy it was?”

  “That’s when it was full of books. It’s empty now.”

  “I know, but the chest itself must be heavy. Books can’t weigh that much.”

  Will didn’t answer. He’d already begun to shove. His sneakers sent up puffs of dirt as he scrambled for a toehold. The chest slid easily, a few inches up the steps. Meg came around and pushed too. It was much lighter. The chest slid more, and to their delight they were able to stumble up the steps heaving the chest in front. It teetered at the top. Meg feared it was going to come crashing down on top of her and Will, but the far end finally tipped and settled on the grass. The chest was up. Outside in the open air.

  It took them the rest of the afternoon to haul it as far as they could away from the Griffinage. Although the chest was lighter than before, it was still bulky and awkward. They made it to the edge of Bibsie’s Woods, which Will declared good for now.

  “What if Aunt Effie wants it again?” asked Meg.

  “Then she can have it,” said Will. “I don’t mind a ghost in Bibsie’s Woods for the night. We can always tell Aunt Effie where it is and she can drive it back to the manor tomorrow.”

  “Yes, but what if Aunt Effie doesn’t want to give it back to the manor? She might like it, that’s what I mean. She’ll be mad and we’ll get in trouble.”

  “She’ll just have to be mad! We’ll get Shep to drive it, and we won’t tell her. Come on, Meg. You know we have to. It might help Ariel. And save the Griffinage.” And save me, too, he almost added. Meg wouldn’t understand because she couldn’t sense things. But getting hiccups in the middle of the night was no joke. Hiccups used to be kind of fun. But not now. Not knowing a ghost was knocking around nearby.

  Will grew more skittish as the day drew close to evening. Already the daylight was weakening, and the sun had dipped below McBurney’s hill. Will stuffed his hands in his pockets and bit his lip. They watched as dusk enveloped the Griffinage. Will’s bedroom window was bathed in a honey-colored glow as the thatch caught the day’s last light. Then the glow disappeared, the thatch flattened to grey, and the shadows crept forward.

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  The Storm

  It was a dismal evening at the Griffinage. No one much felt like talking except Ariel. She had emerged from her story time looking flushed but improved, and jabbered on about Kay Kay during dinner, until Will snapped at her and said he was sick of hearing about nonexistent people’s birthdays. Ariel pouted, then dissolved into a fit of tears when she realized she couldn’t find Gillian the doll.

  “I can’t sleep without her, Aun’ Effie! I neeeeeeed her!”

  Aunt Effie shot Will a look as she carried the protesting Ariel upstairs.

  “Make yourself useful, Will, and clean up those blankets in the living room. One goes in my room, one in yours.”

  Will grabbed the pile of blankets from the armchair where Ariel had been snuggling, and tromped up the stairs, the blankets dragging behind him like a ragged king’s train. Upstairs, he could hear Ariel’s gulps and sobs still going full force. There’d still been no chance to ask Ariel about the manor ghost. Aunt Effie was always hovering around. He heard the sound of nose blowing, then more sobs. It wasn’t his fault Ariel was crying. As if he knew where the stupid doll was.

  Half an hour later, Aunt Effie emerged from Ariel’s room and announced she was going to bed herself. “Headache,” she said. “You’ll manage without me for one evening, I hope.”

  “What’s ‘Sow-in’?” asked Will as she turned to go.

  “Samhain? An old Celtic holiday, observed for thousands of years, sort of a ghost or spirit day. You’d know it as Halloween. Whatever made you ask that, Will?” Then she stooped and nuzzled her face with Uncle Ben’s. “Oh, Ben! You haven’t touched your supper. What am I going to do about you?”

  Without Aunt Effie bustling around and laughing, playing cards, and generally keeping them company, the Griffinage seemed extra dark and full of creaking noises that evening. “Let’s go to bed early too; then we won’t notice,” suggested Meg. She yawned. Will immediately agreed. They were both tired, and if you’re waiting for something, he knew, sleeping is the fastest way to make time pass. As he yanked on his pajama bottoms, he willed the night to speed along.

  That night, it took Will a long time to fall asleep, even though he was tired. He kept thinking about the black chest abandoned in the dark in Bibsie’s Woods. Every time his eyelids drooped, he pictured something lifting the lid and coming out of the chest. Something creeping toward the Griffinage, cracking branches in the wood. Then he realized the cracking noises he was hearing were real and close by. The wind had picked up. It sounded like tree branches thrashing around. Maybe it was another storm. Will buried his head under th
e covers and forced himself to calm down by tracing the pattern of one of Beethoven’s bagatelles. Somehow the notes mixed with the bell song after a while, and when he tried to unravel them, he couldn’t. He’d fallen asleep.

  Two hours later, Will woke with a start. Thunder rumbled. Something banged against the window, and outside the wind reached a fierce peak. Another April rainstorm. That’s what had woken him.

  In the dark, he began to hiccup. It can’t be, he thought. We’ve moved the chest. These are just regular hiccups. But his words were not convincing. A wave of cold air washed over him, and Will heard a familiar whooshing sound.

  She’s awake.

  Will trembled. He opened his eyes into slits and peered out into the darkness. Downstairs, the hall clock whirred as its mechanism stirred to life and began to strike midnight. Will listened to each reverberation echo through the Griffinage and die away. It chimed in G, a bit flat. Outside, the wind mounted and branches rapped against his bedroom window. Inside, Will’s hiccups punctuated the night.

  Will drew the covers up to his chin. Maybe he should bunk with the girls again tonight. Meg had a big bed. And Uncle Ben would be there; he always slept by Ariel’s bed in the alcove. All he’d have to do was run down the hallway to join them. Better than being in this room full of shadows. Outside, the storm suddenly opened up and rain poured down in sheets. He heard it pound the roof and clatter against the flagstones on the front walk.

  Will slipped out of bed. He pulled one of Aunt Effie’s blankets around him like a cloak and padded across the room. The cold floorboards made his feet prickle. He was halfway across when he realized his bare feet were more than cold. His toes and heel were tingling like pins and needles, and the whooshing sound was growing louder. He stiffened as he heard a bang on the banister. Then a squeak on the stair. Was it the seventh step, and was it just Aunt Effie headed for the loo in the middle of the night? Oh, why wasn’t he already down the hall, curled up in Meg’s warm bed?

  Will ran. He reached the bedroom door. His hand fumbled for the knob. He stopped. The sound was coming from the doorway.

  Will froze. He held his breath. Tiny sparks raced up from his feet and scaled his spine. He could feel his scalp covered in a wash of hot pinpricks. He took a step backward.

  Something pushed the door open a crack. Will shrank back, then stumbled to the far side of the room, where his bed stood, his feet tangled in a blanket. Oh, let it be Uncle Ben! Please just let it be Uncle Ben.

  But the next instant, he knew it wasn’t. Something was poking around the door’s edge. Clothing. The door gap widened. He saw more as the door slowly creaked open. A shoe. The folds of a gown. Will pressed into the shadows by his bed. Even in the room’s dim light, he could see what was entering: green velvet.

  The whole creature stood before him. A figure, not a person. People didn’t glow, and this grown-up-sized figure shimmered ever so slightly. Long black hair draped her face; strands partially covered her eyes and swayed across her mouth. Her hair was matted and disheveled, part of it still in a single braid slung over her shoulder, the rest unraveled. A dark green dress swept down to her ankles, and a copper-colored brooch glinted at her collar. There was no doubt who she was. He was finally seeing the manor ghost. And she was absolutely terrifying.

  The ghost swayed to the center of the room, paused, then moved away from Will. She’s looking for something, thought Will. Maybe she can’t see me. Maybe she doesn’t even want me, she’s just in here, kind of visiting, just regular haunting. He tried to hold his breath to prevent the next hiccup from coming, then realized the hiccups had stopped on their own the moment he saw her.

  There were still ten feet between him and the door, and the ghost was in the middle. He couldn’t possibly reach the door, but maybe he could disappear like a field mouse outwitting a hunting owl. He slid down the wall and bedpost, trying to stay as still as possible, and pulled more blankets over his head. He held his breath again. It felt safer down here. He shifted the blanket slightly to peer out with one eye.

  The ghost turned. Will saw her eyes for the first time. The spirit had two piercing specks of light in each eye, the pupils shining silver. The silver eyes roamed the room, traveling over the dresser, the stool, the bookshelf. The green dress swished as she swayed from side to side. Then the ghost grew rigid. Her silver eyes swiveled and landed on him.

  The instant their eyes locked, Will’s forehead exploded in pain. He tried to scream but could only gasp. The Griffinage bedroom disappeared and he saw . . . Trees. A lightning flash. A bleeding horse. Slick rocks, something silver, a blue hair ribbon pressed in the mud. And noises: Shouts, squeals, and bells, bells. Will forgot about screaming. He clutched his head and moaned.

  The pale shimmer of the ghost’s body flared to a blaze, and the silver eyes bore straight into him. With a happy cry, the manor ghost lunged toward Will, arms outstretched.

  “My child!”

  The voice sounded crackly, like static on an ancient record player. Will scrambled to his feet, trying to dodge her, and knocked into the nightstand and the bedroom wall.

  “There you are! Where have you been? You naughty child! Worrying your poor mother!”

  With each staccato sentence, the ghost lurched toward Will. He dodged again, but couldn’t get closer to the door. His legs were trembling, his eyes riveted to her bright light. It was growing brighter, wilder, like a fireworks sparkler gone mad. Sparks flew off her copper brooch and velvet dress as the ghost shot across the floor in bursts of electric energy. Will choked on another scream. He was nearly cornered. He dropped on his stomach and tried to wriggle under the bed.

  “Gilly, it’s Mama! Mama’s here. You’ve had a fall. Come, don’t hide. I’ll take you home. Gilly . . . Gilly!”

  “Will! My name’s Will” was all Will could think to say. He’d only managed to get one and a half legs under the bed. The rest of his body was sticking out in full view.

  “Of course it is,” said the ghost mother soothingly. “Gilly, darling child, come to Mama.”

  She reached out both arms and her body pitched forward until it blazed a few inches from Will and his pile of blankets. Will felt his forehead raging with pain.

  “Will Griffin!” yelled Will, as a thunderclap shook the house. “I’m not Gilly! It’s a mistake! I’m Will Griffin, not your child!”

  The panes rattled in the windows, and Will’s teeth rattled too. He shrank against the floor, feeling the cold, solid surface as he pressed his side to it. This was the twenty-first century. Aunt Effie’s house. Somerset. His parents were both professors, attending a geology conference in Yorkshire. He’d eaten oatmeal for breakfast. Surely nothing could happen to a modern boy like him. It would just go away if he stopped believing in it. Ghosts weren’t supposed to exist. And if they did, ghosts couldn’t hurt people—or could they?

  Will shut his eyes. He forced his brain to think, to think hard and push the ghost away with logical thoughts, but his mind was slow and jumbled and didn’t obey him. His forehead prickled, then throbbed. A piercing pain shot through his skull as the ghost reached out her arms to embrace him.

  “My child, my child!” cried the manor ghost.

  Will slid instinctively to the left, and as he did, the ghost mirrored his movement. He was out from under the bed now. The bed no longer felt safe, more like a trap. He inched along the baseboard, trying to gain a clear path and bolt for the door. His instincts screamed: Run! He leapt to his feet, but her fingers touched his shoulder. Searing cold stopped him. He yelled, again and again, but his yells were swallowed up by thunder.

  This was real.

  The place where the ghost’s fingers touched him stung fiercely. He felt a chill surging through his body, electrifying each artery and tracing each living blood vessel’s path. Will dropped to the floor and screamed as the cold spread out: from his shoulder to his arm, his arm to his chest. Edging closer to his heart.

  Coarse, prickly velvet brushed his face. She loomed before him, so
close he could have felt her breath, except no breath came. He blinked. The manor ghost was kneeling, surrounded by a plume of green velvet, her silver eyes boring into him. His vision blurred from the intense green light. The last thing he saw was a look of rapture on her face.

  “Mama’s here,” the ghost said. And she leaned forward to kiss him.

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  April Fifth

  Green light blinded Will. He tried to focus, to keep his wits about him, but the glare was too intense. He could only squint and gasp as shock waves radiated through his legs, arms, neck, and spine.

  From a distant part of his mind, he heard a scream followed by a great crash. The next moment, a tremendous blow landed on his chest and his body skidded into the bedpost.

  Will lay in a heap on the floor. The bright glare in the room was gone. Tentatively, he raised his head. No sign of green velvet. Will heaved a breath in relief but choked instead. The blow had taken the air out of his lungs. He struggled to his knees gasping, desperate for air, and tried not to panic. He couldn’t breathe. He couldn’t breathe! He was saved from the ghost but about to suffocate. He tried to gasp again. No air. Like soccer when the ball knocked the wind out of him. Easy, now, he told himself, the way his coach always did. It seemed like eternity until the first ragged breath came, but it came, and he sobbed in gratitude.

  Then something licked him. A warm muzzle prodded his cheek, and he looked up into the shaggy brown face of Uncle Ben.

  “It was you,” whispered Will. “You saved me.”

  He sobbed again and clutched Uncle Ben’s fur in a tight grip. The room smelled strongly of burned sticks mixed with wet dog. At that moment, Will noticed how wet he was. His pajama sleeves flapped like wet washcloths. Why was he suddenly wet? And getting wetter, too. It felt as if he were inside a waterfall. Will looked up. A cold cascade of water splashed his face and sluiced down his neck.