Ghosthunters and the Muddy Monster of Doom! Page 3

  “Curses!” shouted Tom. “Curses — I had it!”

  “No time for self-pity. I bet it’s fled to the church!” said Hetty Hyssop, thrusting Tom’s backpack into his hand.

  “Don’t get involved any more if you value your life!” she shouted to the little old lady before following Tom outside.

  “But my brother!” the lady cried shrilly after them. “My brother’s in the church!”

  “Oh, great, we really needed that on top of everything else!” groaned Tom. “Isn’t there anyplace around here where you can catch a ghost in peace and quiet?”

  5

  There was no sign of the NEPGA when Tom and Hetty Hyssop arrived at the church door. However, Tom’s GES was quivering unmistakably, so there was no doubting where the ghost had fled to.

  “I must admit, I got a real shock when that monster touched you,” whispered Hetty Hyssop as Tom pressed an ear to the church door to hear what was going on inside. “But we certainly can rely on you to keep your head, Tom.”

  “Oh well, all I had to do was press the buckle of my neutralizer belt,” murmured Tom, embarrassed. “But it does feel unpleasantly prickly when the protective shield goes up. As if about five thousand ants were scrabbling all over you!”

  “Well, it’s probably even more unpleasant spending fourteen days racked by muscle cramps,” Hetty Hyssop whispered back. “And that’s the least of the side effects caused by being in contact with one of those hideous things. Do you hear anything?”

  “No. Not a single sigh.” Tom removed his ear from the door and reached for the door handle, but Hetty Hyssop stopped him.

  “Just wait another minute,” she whispered. “I’ve had lots of dealings with NEPGAs, and there doesn’t seem to be anything unusual about this one at first sight, but …”

  Tom completed her sentence. “… Negative Projections of ghosts only appear in places with an unusually strong magico-spiritual energy field. And” — he looked thoughtfully up at the dark church walls — “this church somehow doesn’t look like that sort of place.”

  “No, it certainly doesn’t!” whispered Hetty, running the handle of her umbrella across the stone wall. Tom had often seen the handle start to glow like a lightbulb, but this time nothing happened at all. “No sign!” said Hetty quietly. “This building is as harmless as a bus stop. A home best suited to a gentle local ghost. So where’s the NEPGA getting its energy from?”

  Tom shrugged his shoulders, at a loss. “Let’s think about it later,” he said. “It’s not something I need to know for my diploma. But I’ve got to catch this sneaky clock-hand hurler if I want to get my certificate.”

  Hetty Hyssop sighed. “Yes, you’re right, let’s concentrate on your assigned task. Maybe the ghost will provide a couple of the answers itself. Have you got the trap handy?”

  Tom carefully pulled a sphere out of his jacket pocket. It was as clear as glass and slightly bigger than a tennis ball. “Yep, got it,” he said, and let it slip back into his pocket. Then he took a deep breath once again — and pushed open the heavy door.

  The air that met them was cold and damp, and Tom inhaled the same musty smell that they had already noticed outside. The large door slammed shut behind them with a muffled bang, and darkness enveloped them. The only light came from a couple of candles that flickered at the feet of a marble saint. Carefully the two ghosthunters stepped between the empty rows of benches.

  “No sign of any vicar!” whispered Tom, straining to see in the dim space. “And no sign of the NEPGA, either. Blasted nuisance that it’s such a dark color.”

  But at that very moment, he saw the ghost.

  Flickering, it floated up between two pillars directly under the soot-blackened vault of the church. The only thing that gave it away was its glowing silhouette. As soon as Tom looked up, it sank down again with a sigh — as if it had felt Tom’s gaze (not unusual for ghosts). It hung in the air barely ten feet above Tom’s head, staring down at the ghosthunters with its white eyes and moaning so deeply that several of the candles flickered and went out.

  “Here we go!” whispered Hetty Hyssop, pointing her magnetizer at the NEPGA. Immediately it began to tremble like a piece of paper being sucked up by a vacuum cleaner, and sank even lower.

  Tom thrust his hand into his jacket pocket.

  “Ready,” he said. Hetty switched off the magnetizer and took a couple of paces backward. According to the rules of the field test, Tom had to do the rest on his own. No further help was permitted. He had to capture the ghost single-handedly. And Tom knew exactly how to lure a NEPGA into a trap. It was just a question of finding the right words. You caught these kinds of ghosts by insulting them.

  “Now listen to me, you white-eyed, gray, papery thing!” Tom cried up to the floating ghost. “I’ve never seen anything like you before. Are you a scrap of ancient carbon paper or a badly lit photograph?”

  The NEPGA emitted an angry growl and sank down even farther. The cold that radiated from it made Tom shiver, and the “ants” prickled his skin again.

  “No, hang on a sec!” he cried. “I’ve got it. Some Fire Ghost played a trick on you and turned you into a little piece of sooty paper! A pretty bad joke, if you ask me.”

  The ghost gave a shriek that made the candlesticks on the altar melt like hot wax.

  Now! thought Tom, rubbing his aching ears. I’ve nearly done it! Any minute now, he’ll come after me. The Contact-Compression Trap felt pleasantly warm when Tom pulled it out of his pocket. He’d passed his COCOT-throwing exam with a B-plus, just two misthrows out of fifteen. But now just one misthrow could have extremely painful consequences.

  The NEPGA floated above him, as gray as a thundercloud, and stared at him with its spooky eyes.

  “Oh, what am I talking about!” cried Tom. “Now I’ve got it. You’re just a piece of completely crazy roofing felt!”

  The ghost snarled so angrily that Tom’s hair stood on end like the quills on a porcupine. But it still didn’t come down. Curses. What was going on?

  “I’m the Tweeelfth Messsengeeeeer!” came from its white mouth.

  Flummoxed, Tom looked over at Hetty Hyssop. But she looked back, equally puzzled.

  “The Twelfth Messenger?” cried Tom. “Who from?”

  “Heee’ll destroooooooooy you!” cried the ghost.

  “Who, for goodness’ sake?” Tom cried back.

  But the NEPGA didn’t reply. It opened its mouth wide, so wide that Tom could see all its teeth, and let out such a hideous screech that Tom’s eardrums almost burst despite the Hyper-Sound Filter. Then the ghost stretched its dark fingers out to Tom — and plunged down upon him like a shadow.

  At the same moment, Tom threw the trap. And he didn’t miss.

  With a sharp hissing sound, the ball disappeared into the dark shape of the NEPGA — and the ghost vanished. The COCOT trap, however, reappeared, dropped onto the church floor, and rolled down the aisle between the benches until it stopped by the steps leading to the altar.

  Breathing a sigh of relief, Hetty Hyssop came to stand by Tom’s side and put her arm around his shoulders. “Fantastic throw, my dear boy,” she said. “I’ve never seen a better one.”

  “Oh, um, well,” murmured Tom, bending his head to hide his proud smile. Then he ran over to the ghost trap and picked it up. The NEPGA was stuck inside like a fly in amber. And it was looking pretty dazed, as far as anyone could tell with a Negative Projection!

  “Do you have to find out what century it’s from for your report?” asked Hetty Hyssop.

  “No, thank goodness,” said Tom, and yawned. All of a sudden he was terribly tired.

  “It obviously hasn’t done much damage,” said Hetty Hyssop, looking around. “That statue over there has lost its head, and it seems to have thrown the pulpit around a bit, but everything else looks in reasonable shape. I just wonder where the vicar’s got to.”

  “Maybe he made the great mistake of shaking his spooky visitor’s hand,” mused Tom, yawning again. “I
f the NEPGA really got ahold of him, the vicar will be lying around as stiff as a board somewhere, and he won’t stir again for a month, at the earliest.”

  “Entirely possible,” said Hetty Hyssop. “But sometimes the victims can at least tell us something. Hello?” she cried into the dark church. “Is anyone there?” Her voice echoed around the vault as if it were wandering from pillar to pillar.

  There was no reply, and Tom and Hetty Hyssop were just about to have a rather more thorough look for the missing vicar when they suddenly heard a faint voice coming from behind the altar.

  “Hello?” A small, white-haired man peeped cautiously over the altar.

  “You can come out!” cried Tom, holding up the trap. “We’ve caught the ghost. Your church is spook-free again!”

  “Oh, really?” cried the vicar, standing up hesitantly. He was barely visible in his black garb. Only his white hair and chalky face showed up in the darkness. “It threw candlesticks around!” he cried, his legs wobbling as he came hurrying down the altar steps. “It pulled off Saint Anthony’s head. And all it left of Saint Brigitta was a load of wood shavings.”

  “Well, consider yourself lucky that it didn’t amuse itself with you,” Tom remarked, putting the trap with his ghostly catch into his jacket pocket.

  “Wh—wh—why, young man? What would have happened?” stammered the vicar.

  “Well, first of all, it’s incredibly painful if a ghost of that species touches you,” Tom explained. “And then you go as stiff as a board — or as stiff as one of your marble saints — for at least a month.”

  The vicar looked at him, horrified. “Really?” he breathed.

  “One hundred percent true,” said Tom, yawning once again as he turned away. He really just wanted to go to bed.

  “Have a nice evening,” Hetty Hyssop called back to the vicar, who looked completely shattered. “Say hello to your sister from us, and do tell her that the ghost won’t be bothering her anymore.”

  “Um, yes, er, of course!” the vicar called after them. “But how do you know my sister?”

  “Oh, she’ll tell you all about that,” replied Tom, and shut the heavy church door behind them.

  6

  “The Twelfth Messenger,” mused Tom as he and Hetty were making their way back to the inn. “What on Earth did the NEPGA mean by that?”

  “That’s what I’d like to know, too,” replied Hetty Hyssop. “I think we should ask your computer a few questions tomorrow morning. My goodness, this fog’s getting thicker and thicker!”

  Tom had noticed that, too. The musty smell had also become stronger. It was almost enough to make you sick. And the really strange thing was, the houses in the village seemed to moan quietly to themselves, as if the old walls had come to life and were groaning under the weight of a too heavy burden.

  “Now what does that mean?” said Tom, stopping. “Have you ever heard anything like it?”

  Hetty raised her head and listened closely. “Yes, that does sound very strange,” she said. “But whatever else is going on in this village, you’ve done the job we came here for. Gracious, are you as tired as I am?”

  Tom yawned. “Too right I am,” he said, strolling along. “I once read it’s a side effect of coming into contact with Negative Projections.”

  “Yes, that’s what they say,” said Hetty Hyssop, also yawning. “But I’ve never experienced it to this extent before. If it were only me, I’d think it was because I’m getting old, but since it’s just the same for you …”

  She turned onto the narrow street that housed Erwin Hornheaver’s inn — and stopped as if rooted to the spot. “By the moldy breath of an ASG, what’s happened here?” she burst out.

  “Good grief!” muttered Tom, staring at the street in bewilderment. The cobbles had developed peculiar lumps and bumps, and there were stones missing everywhere, as if the ground had swallowed them up.

  Hetty Hyssop stuck her umbrella into one of the holes and poked around in it. “Mud,” she said. “Nothing but mud. Like outside the vicarage. We need to ask Hornheaver if it’s rained more than usual recently. If not …” She didn’t finish her sentence.

  “If not, then what?” asked Tom, disconcerted.

  But Hetty Hyssop just shook her head. “If only I knew …”

  Once they were inside the inn, they couldn’t find their host anywhere. Erwin Hornheaver evidently went to bed early. But a note was stuck to their door.

  “Hugo!” Tom sighed.

  Hetty Hyssop unlocked the door and flicked on the light. There was no sign of the ASG. “Of course. First he made a commotion here, and then he slipped off,” she said, irritated. “He’s probably up to all kinds of stupid tricks again. But we really have got better things to worry about than looking after a silly ASG.”

  “I’d feel happier if we knew more precisely what it is that we’re worrying about,” said Tom, putting the COCOT with its ghastly prisoner into an empty ashtray. Then, yawning, he crouched in front of the glassy ball and watched the ghost carefully. “So, we’ve identified, photographed, and caught it,” he said. “And the report shouldn’t be a problem if we get a bit more information out of the vicar and his sister tomorrow about the haunting in the vicarage. After that, we can, theoretically, go home.”

  Hetty Hyssop just nodded. She was looking out the window, kneading the tip of her pointy nose — as she always did when she was deep in thought. Then with a sigh she went to her bag and pulled out a little bottle. “Here,” she said, throwing it to Tom. “Have a swig of that. The juice will get rid of your tiredness. It neutralizes the energy lull that ghosts give you. As you’ve rightly said, your job is done. So we can use Hetty Hyssop’s special recipes again, can’t we?”

  “Too right,” said Tom, and took a swig. After taking just a couple of breaths, he felt the leaden tiredness melting away from him.

  Hetty also drank some of the poppy-red liquid, then looked at him. “Do we really want to go home tomorrow, Tom?” she asked in a low voice.

  Tom nudged the trap with his finger. “No,” he finally said. “I suppose we should find out why a NEPGA appeared in this village and why the houses here are all moaning and groaning. I’d also like to know more about the mud and the musty stench — and what all the talk about the Twelfth Messenger means.”

  “Rather a lot of questions, isn’t it?” Hetty Hyssop remarked. “And I fear they all have rather less than delightful answers.”

  “Maybe the NEPGA can give us some of them,” said Tom — but Hetty Hyssop shook her head.

  “Not in its energy-weakened state. We’d have to let it out, and that’s not a particularly appealing idea. No.” She looked out the window again. “We have to find out more about this village,” she mused. “What on Earth’s going on with all this mud? As you said, the musty smell doesn’t indicate Swamp Ghosts. And anyway, the mud would be dripping from the taps or running down the walls of the houses, but here the whole ground beneath the village seems to be turning to goo. A very strange and disturbing phenomenon.”

  “The vicarage is so crooked, it looks as if it’s already half sunk,” said Tom.

  Worried, Hetty Hyssop turned to him. “What did you say?”

  “Well, it was crooked!” Tom repeated. “Didn’t you notice?”

  Hetty Hyssop shook her head. “Oh dear,” she murmured. “This reminds me of something. A case in Cornwall, England. It was more than ten years ago, so I don’t remember it properly, but …” She quickly slipped her coat back on. “I’m just going to have another look outside, Tom,” she said. “I’ve got an awful suspicion, but I hope I’m wrong.” Hastily she slung her bag over her shoulder and went to the door.

  “Wait! I’m coming with you, of course!” cried Tom. “But what are we going to do with the NEPGA?”

  “The trap is secure for at least another twenty-four hours,” replied Hetty Hyssop, opening the door. “Curses, I just wish that silly ASG were here. We really could do with a bit of ghostly help right now.”

 
; 7

  “Good gracious, I’m right!” moaned Hetty Hyssop once they were standing in the dark street. Only a couple of yards from the inn door, a big muddy hole gaped through the road surface. Tom didn’t remember its having been there when they returned to the inn. Frowning, Hetty Hyssop crouched next to it and sniffed. “No two ways about it,” she said. “The same musty smell that’s in the air, only much, much worse.”

  At that very moment, a gigantic dirty brown bubble formed at Tom’s feet. The bubble arched higher and higher until it burst with an unsavory belch. The stinking mud splattered Tom right up to his forehead, and once he’d wiped the muddy spray off his glasses, cursing as he did so, he couldn’t believe his eyes: A stone slab had pushed its way up through the mud. It loomed up out of the road like a jagged gray tooth.

  “What does that mean?” whispered Tom — and whirled around in horror. Behind him was a squelching and slurping sound, and a piece of the pavement sank.

  “It means” — said Hetty Hyssop, pulling Tom a couple of steps backward as the ground beneath his feet began to gurgle like boiling chocolate pudding — “it means nothing good. If this is what I think it is, then we’re dealing with something very, very old and very, very powerful. This has got nothing to do with Category Three dangers now, Tom. Do you remember what the vicar’s sister said?”

  Tom swallowed. “She said the village was cursed,” he replied.

  “Precisely.” Hetty Hyssop nodded. “Now, you know what I think of such talk. But whatever it is that’s stirring here has probably been making its presence felt for ages already. What did Hornheaver say?”