Ghosthunters and the Muddy Monster of Doom! Read online

  “That the village attracts ghosts like flies.” Tom looked around uneasily. A street sign was tipping slowly into the mud.

  Hetty Hyssop nodded again. “Exactly. It all fits. Come on, let’s go and have another look at the church square.” She quickly strode off across the muddy street. Tom stumbled along behind her.

  “What all fits? And how old is very, very old?” he cried.

  “Five, maybe ten thousand years old, for all I know,” replied Hetty Hyssop.

  Tom swallowed. The oldest ghost he’d dealt with so far had been a totally moldy Baroness, a HIGA of the most revolting type. And so far as Tom could recall, she had only been about four hundred years old. The older the ghost, according to Basics for Ghosthunters, the more powerful it is. A charming prospect, thought Tom, remembering with a good deal of unease how he had only just managed to get the better of the moldy Baroness.

  “Tom!” Hetty Hyssop stopped so abruptly that Tom almost stumbled into her. “We’ve got to get a move on.”

  Something had emerged from the ground in front of Bogpool Church. Looming up from a lake of gurgling mud was a massive stone altar. A roughly cut staircase led up to it. The gray steps shimmered strangely pale under the starless night sky, while the fog swirled around the altar as if it wanted to bid it welcome with its white hands.

  “When I get my hands on that Slimeblott …” spat Hetty Hyssop between clenched teeth. Tom had never seen her so angry. Suddenly she turned and marched back to the inn.

  Without a moment’s hesitation she went behind the reception desk and banged on the door marked private. “Hornheaver!” she cried. “Hornheaver, wake up!”

  Tom heard a faint swearing from behind the door, and then their host’s sleepy face appeared. “What on Earth —” he started bellowing, but Hetty Hyssop immediately interrupted him.

  “Get on the phone!” she said. “Wake the whole village! Every inhabitant! Tell them they need to pack just the essentials, then go straight to family or friends — the farther from here, the better!”

  Erwin Hornheaver opened his mouth, but Hetty Hyssop didn’t let him get a word in. “Tell them their lives are at risk. And anyone who doesn’t believe you should just look at the church square. Off you go, get on with it!”

  “What’s going on in the church square?” cried Hornheaver as Hetty Hyssop and Tom dashed up the stairs. “If it’s some silly ghost — we’re all used to them!”

  “It’s not a ghost!” Tom called down over the banister. “And put your galoshes on if you go out. Has it rained a lot here in the last few weeks?”

  “No!” growled Erwin Hornheaver. “What on Earth’s going on? It’s the middle of the night!”

  “Get on the phone!” Tom replied simply, disappearing up the stairs.

  “Can you get into the LOAG on your computer, Tom?” asked Hetty Hyssop, locking the door with trembling fingers.

  “The List Of All Known Ghosts?” Tom nodded. “’Course I can.”

  It was dark in their room, but Hugo flickered moldy green above the bed. In his left hand, he was balancing the ball containing the NEPGA.

  “Hello-elllooooo!” he breathed as Tom and Hetty Hyssop came in. “What’s this cuuuuute little thiiiing yoooou’ve caught here?” And — boing! — he caught the COCOT in his other hand.

  “Hugo, put that down at once!” cried Tom. “The trap releases itself if another ghost gets hold of it!”

  Hugo dropped the ball as if it had burned his fingers. The trap fell onto the bed and came to rest on Tom’s pillow.

  “Where were you?” Hetty Hyssop snapped at the ASG whilst Tom carefully put the COCOT back into the ashtray.

  “Why? I wasn’t supposed to be heeeeelping!” Hugo answered defiantly. “I’ve been looooooking for someone to friiiiighten. Yooooou can’t stop me from dooooing that. I tickled a niiice fat one. Oooooh, how she squeeeeealed….” Hugo shook with laughter to such an extent that he banged his head against the ceiling light.

  “Your haunting really doesn’t interest anyone at the moment,” Tom interrupted him irritably. “Haven’t you figured out what’s going on?”

  “Why? What is iiiiit?” Curious, Hugo floated to the window and stuck his head through the glass. Then he drew it back in, smacking his lips faintly. “It’s foooooggy, and there’s a deliiiiicious smell of musssst and moooold.”

  “Forget it!” murmured Tom, opening his laptop and calling up the LOAG archive. When he typed in Bogpool, the screen filled so quickly that Tom’s eyes could barely follow it all. “Well, look at that lot,” he murmured. “If Slimeblott didn’t know anything about this, I’m an ASG.”

  “Read it out,” said Hetty Hyssop, sitting down next to Tom on the edge of the bed. And Tom read:

  BOGPOOL: small village on the edge of a swamp, now largely drained. Settlement believed to have been founded in the 6th century AD. However, archaeological discoveries in the surrounding area suggest that a pagan center of worship existed in the same place in the pre-Christian era. For the last couple of years, Bogpool has become known for its increasing number of ghostly presences. Reported thus far: three Danger Category One BOSGs; two FOFIFOs (Type B, wily but not life-threatening); two HIGAs of unknown vintage (possibly dating back to the pre-Christian era); one ASG; two BLAGDOs; and one WHIWHI.

  One universal and unusual fact about all documented apparitions in Bogpool: Although the ghosts in question stubbornly resisted all attempts to drive them out, they then, for no obvious reason, inexplicably and unexpectedly disappeared, never to be seen again.

  Tom lifted his head.

  “Did you count them up?” asked Hetty Hyssop. Tom nodded. “Twelve. Including our NEPGA.” He typed something else on his computer keyboard. “I’ll just call up the RICOG files,” he said. “Perhaps they’ll have something for the keyword Twelfth Messenger. …”

  “Tweeeeelfth Messenger?” Hugo recoiled in such horror that half of him disappeared into the wall.

  Hetty Hyssop turned to him. “Aha, our ghostly friend is evidently not unfamiliar with this expression. Spit it out, Hugo. Where do these messengers come from? And who sends them?”

  Hugo, however, raised his pale hands defensively. “Oh no. Some thiiiiiings are best not talked abooooout. Toooooo old. Toooooo powerfuuuul!”

  “I’ve got it!” cried Tom, craning over his screen.”TWELFTH MESSENGER,” he read aloud.

  During the last hundred years, there have been four recorded cases of ghosthunters capturing ghosts that claimed to be the “Twelfth Messenger.” In every case, a dreadful kind of ghost, the so-called Prince of Demons, or Zargoroth, appeared just a few days after the event and in the same place where the messenger ghosts were captured. Little more is known of the appearance or capabilities of this creature, but it is apparently extremely powerful. For what little information exists, see also zargoroth.

  The Zargoroth, in fact, announces itself via thirteen ghostly messengers. The initial ghostly apparitions are primarily harmless local ghosts, but the menace of the messengers increases as the appearance of their barbaric master draws nearer. Typically, Black Ghost Dogs (BLAGDOs) appear at some point. And the Twelfth Messenger is always a Negative Projection (NEPGA). Only in the last five years or so have these penultimate apparitions become relatively easy to fight, thanks to the invention of the Negative Neutralizer Belt (NENEB). The thirteenth and final messenger is irrevocably and inevitably a Ghost of Death (GHODE). Warning: The Ghost of Death appears more quickly if one makes the mistake of catching the Twelfth Messenger.

  Tom nervously pushed up his glasses. “Oh, great,” he murmured. “We’ve already made that mistake. What now?”

  “We don’t take a single step outside that door without protective goggles,” replied Hetty Hyssop.

  “Hohohoooo, protectiiiive goggles!” Hugo folded his arms across his chest with a grim expression. “If a Ghooooost of Death sees yoou, yooooou’re dead within the hoooour.”

  “That’s not remotely true, you conceited ghost,” said Hetty Hy
ssop impatiently. “The goggles protect you for a good five minutes. And that’s plenty of time to turn your head away.”

  Hugo just wrinkled up his nose. Then he bent down to Tom. “Yoooou’re my friend,” he breathed. “Even iiiif yoooou are always sayiiiing meeeean things aboooout salt and eggs. Take yoooour NEPGA and fleeeee. His master is a bloodsuuuucker, a devourer of huuuumans….”

  Tom pretended not to be impressed at all. “Oh, come on, Hugo,” he said, even though what he’d read had already disconcerted him somewhat. “We’ve seen off IRGs and GILIGs. Why not this Zargoroth? Someone ought to put a stop to him.”

  “Put a stoooooop to him?” cried Hugo, irritated. “Dooooo yoooou know what he gets up toooo? He’ll gobble yoooou up, riiiip yooooou to shreds in the air, suuuuuck the —”

  “Tom,” Hetty Hyssop interrupted him. “Just type in Zargoroth, would you?”

  Tom did as she asked, although his fingers were trembling. While the computer was trawling through the RICOG files, Tom looked at his watch. It was two in the morning. The night was by no means over….

  ZARGOROTH also Prince of Demons; The One Who Arises From The Mud: minimal information available, as nobody has ever encountered this demon without losing his life or his sanity. All that’s known for sure is that the Zargoroth is attracted to old pagan centers of worship – which leads some experts to conclude that they are dealing with a Nature Ghost (NAG) of human origin. This theory, however, is disputed.

  During the last century the destruction of several villages has been attributed to a Zargoroth. Thus far, four colleagues, all very successful and highly experienced ghosthunters, have attempted to take on the apparition. Two were attacked by Black Ghost Dogs and never seen again. The other two looked the Thirteenth Messenger – always a Ghost of Death – in the face, and died within the hour. There is as yet, therefore, no empirical information regarding the appearance and powers of the Zargoroth. All that exists are pictures of the devastation the demon wreaks – and one tiny clue: namely, that all clocks start to move backward approximately half an hour before the beast appears. Click here for the pictures.

  “Good gracious!” moaned Hetty Hyssop. A rather fuzzy black-and-white photo appeared on the screen. There was not much more to be seen than a massive heap of mud. A solitary church steeple stuck out of it along with a couple of upended trees and a stone altar.

  “What did Hornheaver say when we arrived?” asked Hetty Hyssop, as Tom clicked for the next image. “That he’d sent twelve messages to ROGA, wasn’t it?”

  Tom nodded. The second picture was no better.

  “Twelve — I ask you!” Hetty Hyssop stamped her foot so angrily that Hugo wobbled off the bed in horror. “Lotan Slimeblott knew what was going to happen to us here, Tom. I’d bet my entire ghosthunting arsenal on it. Oh, that vengeful, sly, incompetent, brain-dead …” She gasped for breath. She’d run out of insults.

  “We’ll show that villain,” said Tom. “Just think how annoyed he’ll be if we take on this Zargoroth! But we’d better keep an eye on our watches from now on.”

  There was a knock at the door. Erwin Hornheaver stuck his fat head into the room.

  “I’ve called ‘em all,” he growled. “They didn’t want to go, but they’ve all gathered in the school so that you can tell them a bit about the altar and why their houses are being scrunched.”

  Hetty Hyssop stood up with a deep sigh. “Come on, Tom,” she said. “It’ll use up valuable time, but …”

  “Stop! I could dooooo it!” breathed Hugo, wobbling out from behind the door with an evil smile. “What do yoooooou think?” he asked, poking their landlord in the chest with an icy finger.

  “Stop it, Hugo!” cried Tom, irritated, but the sight of a moldy green ASG didn’t seem to faze Hornheaver in the least.

  “We had one like him here before,” he said, looking Hugo up and down so contemptuously that the ASG immediately shrank half a foot. “These moldy-noses don’t like salt, so I discovered.”

  “They don’t like raw eggs, either,” Tom added, pushing past Hugo. “You could make yourself useful for a change,” he said as he passed the ASG, who was still gazing at the fearless innkeeper, totally flabbergasted. “Find out if this Thirteenth Messenger is already on the loose.”

  “Oooooh, so yoooou’re asking meeeee for help all of a sudden?” Hugo cried indignantly after Tom, who was already running down the stairs. “What about a nice little ‘Pleeeeeaaase, Huuuuugo’?”

  “Please, Hugo!” cried Tom. Then he followed Hetty Hyssop and Erwin Hornheaver out into the foggy right.

  8

  It took Hetty Hyssop and Tom nearly a quarter of an hour to convince the inhabitants of Bogpool that their village had turned into one of the most dangerous places on Earth. Packed together like sardines, most of them still in bathrobes and pajamas, the villagers sat listening, their faces ashen with horror, to Tom’s description of the Zargoroth. Only the vicar’s sister interrupted Tom several times to call out that she’d said so all along. When Hetty Hyssop told them how deadly the Thirteenth Messenger was, switching the lights off as she ended her speech, there was no way the Bogpoolers were staying in their seats any longer.

  Ten minutes later, Tom, Hetty Hyssop, and Erwin Hornheaver were standing alone in the dark hall, surrounded by nothing but overturned chairs and lost bedroom slippers.

  “Well, Hornheaver,” said Hetty Hyssop. “Pack whatever you want to save from the mud and get yourself to safety.”

  But Erwin Hornheaver didn’t stir. He stared blackly at the gurgling mud that was flowing through the open front door from the playground. “And what are you two going to do now, may I ask?”

  “Well, we’ll try to prepare a nice welcome for the Zargoroth,” replied Tom.

  Erwin Hornheaver nodded and surveyed the upturned chairs. “Reckon you two could use a bit of help, couldn’t you?”

  Tom and Hetty Hyssop exchanged surprised looks.

  “Y’know,” Hornheaver continued, “I’ve never been very afraid of these ghosts. I was a boxer once upon a time, before I inherited my aunt’s inn, and I only give up if I’m knocked out. If you get my drift.”

  “That really is a very generous offer, Hornheaver,” said Hetty Hyssop. “And I hope you’ve got some idea of what you’re getting yourself into. Tom, have we got a third pair of protective goggles with us?”

  Tom rummaged around in his backpack. “I haven’t got any on me,” he said finally. “But I think there’s a spare in the suitcase.”

  “Good.” Hetty Hyssop nodded and gave Erwin Hornheaver an appreciative thump on the shoulders. “It’s not often that someone offers to help us,” she said. “And tonight’s a night when we’d really appreciate it, isn’t it, Tom?”

  “Too right,” murmured Tom, who was disconcerted to see that the mud was flowing faster and faster into the school.

  It was now twenty to three. Dawn was still hours away. And they didn’t have the faintest idea how they were going to fight whatever was coming for them.

  By twenty after three, Bogpool was a deserted village. Erwin Hornheaver had walked around the place and hadn’t encountered a single living being. Not even a cat or a hen. The Bogpoolers had taken their livestock and horses with them. And mud and fog were taking possession of one house after another.

  “Good!” said Hetty Hyssop, pacing energetically up and down their room. “Everyone’s gone, so we can get to work. How are you getting on, Tom?”

  “Still nothing,” Tom spat through clenched teeth. Ever since they’d gotten back from the assembly hall, he’d been crouching in front of the computer, typing in one keyword after another — in the desperate hope of turning up some clue as to how they were supposed to fight the Zargoroth. Tom’s eyes hurt, and he had to keep taking off his glasses to rub away the veil of tiredness that made the words on the screen swim around in front of him. “Nothing,” he said again, and shook his head. “We just don’t know enough about this ghost. It’s enough to drive you crazy.”


  “That NEPGA isn’t talking, eeeeeeeeeeeither!” breathed Hugo, tapping the COCOT with his finger. “Iiiii’ve triiiiiied reeeeeeeally hard toooooo persuaaaaaade him, ghoooooost to ghoooooost, but Iiiii can’t get a peeeeeep ooout of him. Conceeeeited frazzled idiiiiiiot ghoooost!”

  Tom sat bolt upright.

  “What?” Both Hugo and Hetty Hyssop looked at him.

  “That’s it!” Tom cried, snapping the computer shut. “That’s our only chance!”

  “Does he often speak in riddles?” growled Hornheaver, giving Hetty Hyssop a mug of hot coffee and Tom his fourth can of soda.

  “Hugo, put the COCOT under my pillow,” said Tom, “so the NEPGA can’t hear what we’re talking about.”

  The ASG did as he was told, and Tom lowered his voice.

  “There’s only one thing to do!” he whispered. “We let the NEPGA go, then follow it to its master. Once we’ve actually set eyes on the Zargoroth, we might be able to identify what kind of ghost that is — and how we can fight it!”

  Tom felt really pleased with himself and his idea, but Hetty Hyssop frowned. “That’s a dangerous idea, my dear boy,” she said. “Even if I were to agree to such a plan, how do you propose to follow a NEPGA? Human legs are definitely too slow, and what are you going to do if it flies? Or if it just floats through a wall?”

  “We could coat it in a mixture of baking powder and scouring sand,” replied Tom. “That slows ghosts down and stops them from going through walls. And as far as flying is concerned, you know I’m really not that keen on it, but …” He turned to Hugo and didn’t finish his sentence.

  The ASG turned the color of pale mold. “Ooooooh! What’s that looooook suuuuupposed to meeeeeean?”

  “You can carry me on your back!” said Tom. “In all that fog out there, you’re as good as invisible, but you can see the NEPGA as clearly as anything. We can follow it to its master, find out exactly what we’re dealing with — and then fly back here. Not very difficult, is it?”