Ghosthunters and the Muddy Monster of Doom! Page 6

  Something pale and shapeless emerged from the veil of mist beneath them. Black eyes stared straight at Tom, who was still shortsightedly polishing his glasses.

  “Watch ooooout!” cried Hugo. But it was already too late. Tom lifted his head — and looked straight into the eyes of the Thirteenth Messenger.

  The messenger emitted a gentle moan, twisted its pale mouth into a smile that chilled Tom’s heart, and floated through him and Hugo like a wind that was made of nothing but ice.

  10

  Hetty Hyssop was still leaning by the inn door when Hugo returned with Tom. Erwin Hornheaver had tried several times to persuade her to wait inside. Hetty, however, had remained outside, even though the mud was already swirling around her ankles.

  “For goodness’ sake, Tom!” she cried. “Why do you think you’ve got a walkie-talkie in your backpack? I’ve died at least twenty-three times because I didn’t hear anything from you.”

  “Sorry,” murmured Tom, climbing off Hugo’s back. “I completely forgot about it.”

  “My gracious, you look terrible!” said Hetty Hyssop, looking anxiously into his face. “I hope it’s just because of your GHOSID. Don’t keep me on tenterhooks any longer. What happened? Did you see the Zargoroth?”

  Tom set his glasses straight. “Yes …” he said weakly. “You could say we have good and bad news.”

  Hugo pressed his icy fingers to his face and uttered a faint wail. Hetty Hyssop looked at him anxiously.

  “It’s a minotaurean demon,” said Tom, rubbing his eyes. They were hurting horribly. “He’s got an entire army of Second and Third Category ghosts gathered around him and, if we can trust your interpreting device, he’ll be here before daybreak.”

  Hetty Hyssop frowned. “A minotaur? Good gracious. I thought they’d died out at least four hundred years ago. Was that the good news or the bad?”

  “The good,” replied Tom. “The bad news is …”

  Hugo began to wail as if the sky were raining salt.

  “What happened?” asked Hetty Hyssop. “For pity’s sake, Hugo, be quiet!”

  “We met the Thirteenth Messenger,” replied Tom. “And I looked at him. Without protective goggles.”

  Hetty Hyssop turned as pale as an ASG. “By all gods and devils, Tom!” she burst out. Then she leaned against the wall of the inn and pressed her hands to her face.

  “Oh well …” Tom could feel his knees beginning to tremble. “There’s nothing we can do. I figure I” — his voice almost failed him — “I’ve got about three-quarters of an hour to live.”

  Hetty Hyssop stood up with a violent jerk. “Nonsense!” she said, shaking her head vigorously. “Nonsense, I’ll think of something. But we’ve no time to lose. How are you feeling? Are you seeing flashes of light? Are your knees already trembling?”

  “It’s still bearable,” replied Tom. He really was making the greatest possible effort to sound brave and fearless. However, he had the unpleasant sensation that his arms and legs were slowly turning to ice. And that his heart was already beating rather more slowly.

  “Hugo!” commanded Hetty Hyssop. “Put Tom to bed. And don’t take your eyes off him. I’ll be back soon.”

  Before Tom could protest, Hugo had already picked him up.

  “Don’t go to too much bother. There’s no antidote to being looked at by a Ghost of Death!” Tom murmured faintly as the ASG floated into the house with him.

  “Oh yes there is!” Hetty Hyssop called after him. And she added so quietly that Tom couldn’t hear it: “I’ve just never tried it out.”

  Erwin Hornheaver was standing in the kitchen warming up some canned soup for himself and the ghosthunters when Hetty Hyssop came rushing in.

  “If I didn’t know that such things didn’t bother you,” he said when he saw her ashen face, “I’d say you’d seen a ghost!”

  “You’ve got to help me, Hornheaver,” said Hetty Hyssop. “I need pine oil, marsh clover, and red food coloring. And then I need a lamp with a red lightbulb, preferably several, and the most powerful vacuum cleaner you can lay your hands on.”

  Erwin Hornheaver dropped his spoon in the soup and turned off the stove. “Is something wrong with the lad?” he asked.

  Hetty Hyssop nodded and wiped a tear from the corner of her eye.

  “The vacuum cleaner’s over there in the cupboard,” said Erwin Hornheaver. “That thing’d suck an elephant up off the carpet. I’ve not got any red lights, but I’ll find some. The food coloring might be more of a problem, but there’s paint over at the school, nontoxic, I think. Would that do?”

  Hetty Hyssop nodded. “If need be,” she said. She passed her hand across her forehead with a sigh.

  Erwin Hornheaver was already standing at the door. “Don’t you worry,” he growled. “We’ll get the lad sorted. I’ve got a feeling he’ll be chasing plenty more ghosts in the future.”

  “Thank you, Hornheaver,” said Hetty Hyssop, looking out through the kitchen window and into the fog. “But I’ll tell you one thing: If anything happens to that boy, I’ll single-handedly turn the person who landed us here into a ghost. Or my name’s not Hetty Hyssop!”

  Tom felt like a lump of ice, even though Hugo had covered him with everything he could find. The ASG had even torn down the curtains from the window so that he could wrap Tom up in them. But Tom was freezing. His teeth chattered, and he trembled so violently that the bed creaked. “H—H—Hugo?” he asked. (Gentle reader: Talking isn’t easy when your teeth are chattering.) “Hey, is being a ghost always this cold?”

  “Oh, yooooou know,” breathed Hugo, looking anxiously into his icy white face. “Yoooooou soooooon get uuuused to the cold.”

  “Really?” murmured Tom, staring at the ceiling, where one flash of light was chasing the next. As soon as the flashes turned green, he’d once read, you had about seven minutes to live. They were lemon yellow at the moment.

  Tom heard the door opening and someone coming in, but he was too weak to raise his head.

  “Out, Hugo!” he heard Hetty Hyssop saying. “It could get pretty dangerous for you in here.” Then she came to Tom’s bed and looked down at him, concerned. “My dear Tom,” she said. “You look like a FOFUG. How are you feeling?”

  (Dear reader: FOFUG = FOggy FUg-Ghost.)

  “Icy c—c—cold!” murmured Tom, trying to clench his teeth, but they kept on chattering.

  “Hurry! We’ve got to hurry!” he heard Hetty Hyssop saying anxiously. “Put the bowl just there, Hornheaver.”

  Tom managed to turn his head slightly to the right — and looked straight into a red light. The whole room was suddenly bathed in red. And at least the lamp by his bed warmed the tip of his nose ever so slightly.

  “Tom, this is going to taste revolting,” said Hetty Hyssop, holding a glass of bloodred liquid to his icy lips.

  “What is it?” croaked Tom.

  “Believe me, you don’t want to know,” replied Hetty Hyssop with a little smile. “Just trust me and drink it, OK?”

  Tom did as he was told. He had never drunk anything so disgusting in his entire life. The red brew that Hetty Hyssop mercilessly poured into him seemed to turn into liquid fire in his body. Tom felt as if he were simultaneously freezing and burning up — a truly unpleasant sensation. But after he’d forced down the tenth sip, his teeth were no longer chattering, and a delightful warmth was spreading across his face and chest. The flashes on the ceiling had turned dark yellow, but they weren’t green yet.

  “Hornheaver, look!” whispered Hetty Hyssop. “I do believe it’s working. When he’s emptied this glass, it’s your turn.”

  Tom forced the last three mouthfuls down, wondering what Erwin Hornheaver’s turn would be, when the huge innkeeper stepped toward the bed and lifted him up.

  “Ready. Steady. Go!” cried Hetty Hyssop, switching on an earsplittingly loud vacuum cleaner and holding it menacingly close to Tom’s right ear. But before he had a chance to be surprised or to wonder what was going on, Erwin Hornheaver squeez
ed. He squeezed Tom’s chest so tightly that he struggled for breath like a tadpole in the open air.

  “Aaaaaaaarrrgh!” he croaked. “What’s going on?”

  But Hornheaver was squeezing again.

  “It’s coming!” cried Hetty Hyssop. “Fantastic, Hornheaver. Squeeze again!”

  Tom felt as if his eyes were popping out of his head, and his ribs creaked as if they were made of rotten wood, so firmly did Hornheaver have his arms around his body. Then Tom suddenly saw grayish-white clouds of smoke floating past his eyes.

  “Yes! Brilliant!” cried Hetty, almost sucking off one of his ears with her vacuum hose. Amidst all the commotion, Tom thought he could hear a moan, a deep, muffled moan — and then he suddenly felt warm. As if fresh blood were flowing through his veins.

  Erwin Hornheaver loosened his grasp somewhat and looked Tom curiously in the face.

  “Oh my goodness, oh my goodness!” murmured Tom, gasping for breath. Then he blinked up at the ceiling. The flashes had disappeared. And he no longer felt like a frozen rubber doll, either.

  “I guess you can put me down now!” he said to Erwin Hornheaver in a weak voice.

  “If you think so!” growled the innkeeper, carefully setting Tom back on his feet. But Hetty Hyssop immediately pulled him toward the bed and sat him down.

  “Look at me!” she said, shining a little red lamp into his eyes and then into his ears. Then she pulled a round mirror out of her bag and held it up in front of Tom’s mouth. “Breathe in and out three times,” she ordered.

  Tom did as she said. The mirror misted up, as did his glasses.

  “Hmm, still a bit gray,” said Hetty Hyssop, “but I don’t think that matters.”

  “What’s gooooing ooooon? Can I come iiiin yet?” Hugo called through the door.

  “Just one more minute!” Hetty Hyssop called back. “Hornheaver,” she said as she felt Tom’s pulse and shone her little light into his ears once more, “would you mind opening the window and turning off the lights, or else our ASG friend will feel anything but well in this room.”

  “Will do,” said Erwin Hornheaver. “Well, blow me down!” he growled as he stomped to the window. “That was the craziest thing I’ve ever seen. Steam poured out of the lad’s ears like it pours out of my kettle.”

  “Did it really?” asked Tom, cleaning his glasses. His fingers were already working pretty well, although they still felt as if they were made of jelly.

  “Too right it did,” said Hetty Hyssop, opening the door. “Hugo, come on in.”

  “Heeee’s piiiink again!” howled Hugo, rushing across to Tom so violently that Tom dropped his glasses. “Ooooooooh!” howled Hugo, running his icy fingers through Tom’s hair until it stood up like a porcupine’s quills. “Ooooooooh, he’s all well and waaaarm again. Yesssss!”

  “But I won’t be for long if you keep squeezing me like that,” gasped Tom, trying to escape from Hugo’s embrace. The ASG reluctantly let him go, fished Tom’s glasses back up from the carpet, and put them back on his nose. Then he gave him a gentle thump on the chest.

  “Oooooh, I reeeeeally thooought yoooou’d had it. I’d eeeeven started wooooondering what kind of ghoooost yoooou miiiiight make,” he breathed.

  “How sweet of you,” said Tom, touched, straightening his glasses. “To be honest, I also thought I was going to switch over to the ghostly side tonight.” He looked inquiringly at Hetty Hyssop: “What …?”

  “What saved you?” she ended his sentence and smiled. “Well, a couple of potent plants that Mr. Hornheaver found at the village pharmacy, fortunately enough, mixed with a few other ingredients, fifteen red lamps — that’s how many we could dig up in the village — an extra-powerful vacuum cleaner, and not least” — she threw Erwin Hornheaver a grateful look — “the considerable strength of our highly respected and most helpful host. I believe he actually did manage to squeeze the last poisonous remains of the deathly breath out of you.”

  Tom felt his chest, which still hurt, and managed another feeble grin. “At least now I know how it feels to be in a vise,” he said.

  “Sorry,” growled Erwin Hornheaver. “Hope I didn’t break any of your ribs.”

  “I don’t think so,” replied Tom, although he wasn’t entirely sure.

  “Well, then.” Hetty Hyssop looked at her watch. “Quarter past four. Still a couple of hours until sunrise. Tom!” She sat down next to him on the edge of the bed with a serious expression. “You know we’ve never run away from a ghost before, but there’s always a first time. Things being as they are, I think we should pack our bags and go. There’s no way you can take on a minotaurean demon in the weakened state you’re in!”

  “Of course I can!” replied Tom indignantly. “I’m as good as new. Word of honor!”

  “Tom!” said Hetty Hyssop sternly. “This demon is Danger Category Eight. I don’t have to tell you what that means: Unpredictable. Life-threatening. Any human who confronts him stands about two-tenths of a percent chance of survival. You simply can’t take on such a dangerous opponent tonight. Just be glad and grateful that you survived your encounter with his Thirteenth Messenger!”

  “I am,” said Tom defiantly. “But I’m not going home and leaving this bull-headed beast to destroy one village after another. It’s completely out of the question. And anyway, he sent a Ghost of Death — and I take offense at that! Now, there’s a sixteenth-century account of a minotaurean demon in France….” Tom stood up shakily and staggered to his computer.

  “Don’t bother with the computer,” said Hetty Hyssop and sighed. “I know the account you’re talking about. Most people think it’s a fairy tale, but I imagine it’s based on a real event. Back then, a demon-hunter was supposed to have succeeded in destroying a minotaur that had already depopulated three villages. But the method the hunter used to achieve it was pretty risky. Not to mention that, if we were going to try it, we’d need something we’d never get ahold of in Bogpool….”

  “What?” asked Tom.

  “A sword.”

  For a moment, Tom was rendered speechless. “A … a … a sword?” he stammered. “What on Earth for?”

  Erwin Hornheaver cleared his throat. “There was a sword here once,” he growled. “Old Benno Cherrycorn found one when he was plowing over by the forest. Three museums wanted to buy it off him, but he hung the sword above his sofa. He died last year and the thing gave his wife the creeps, so she stored it up in the attic. It might still be there.”

  “I don’t liiiiike swooooords, eeeeither,” breathed Hugo, flickering anxiously. “Revooooolting sharp blaaaadey things.”

  “It’s not for you,” said Tom, looking hopefully at Erwin Hornheaver. “Could you go and see if the sword’s still there?”

  “Fine. I’ve already smashed in a few doors this evening and I don’t mind smashing another,” replied Hornheaver and disappeared outside.

  Hetty Hyssop went over to the window and watched him stamping off down the muddy street.

  “What a gloomy night,” she muttered. “What a dark, gloomy night. I don’t know what to hope for more: that the sword is gone or that our friend Hornheaver finds it….”

  11

  Erwin Hornheaver found the sword in the Cherrycorns’ attic. It was stuck between an empty birdcage and two cardboard boxes of old photos. And it was longer than Hetty Hyssop’s outstretched arm and so heavy that Tom could barely lift it. Erwin Hornheaver, however, swished it to and fro in the lobby of his inn as if it weighed no more than a handheld vacuum cleaner.

  “Hornheaver, stop waving that thing around!” Hetty Hyssop exclaimed, taking it from his hand and leaning it against the wall. “Well,” she continued, as Hugo, full of loathing, examined the cold, shimmering metal. “The mud is already seeping in through the downstairs windows, and if this demon is planning to return tonight, as Tom suspects, we’ve got one or two hours at the most. We all know that ghosts are particularly partial to the hour before dawn. That’s why I’m going to make this brief.” She clear
ed her throat, took a little can out of her bag, opened it, and held it out to Tom. “Here,” she said. “Before I forget: Since you’re crazy enough to go through with this, put three of these lozenges under your tongue and let them dissolve slowly. At least they’ll give you back some energy.” Then she turned to Erwin Hornheaver. “You’ve still got a choice, Erwin,” she said. “You can still get into your car and drive to safety before the muddy final act begins. If your car hasn’t sunk, that is.”

  “Out of the question,” replied Erwin Hornheaver. “I’m not going to miss all the fun.”

  “Good.” Hetty Hyssop nodded. “Then we’re a foursome. That’s not many of us, but it’s not too few, either. Or would you prefer not to cross your ghostly colleague’s path, Hugo?”

  “Heeeee’ll proooooobably rip us up in the air,” breathed Hugo. “But soooo what? I’ve got leeeeeast of all to loooose. After all, I’m alreeeeeady dead.”

  “Well said,” Hetty Hyssop agreed, suppressing a laugh. “OK, then. There’s only one way to render a minotaurean demon harmless. Tom’s already mentioned the account: Eugène de la Motette, chemist and demon-hunter, managed it in the sixteenth century and wrote down his experiences. The demon he faced had, together with his followers, already killed the inhabitants of three villages. Motette made a circle of highly flammable material, and in the middle he put the only bait that a minotaurean demon can’t resist….”

  “And what, may I ask, is that?” said Erwin Hornheaver hoarsely.

  “A bucket full of blood,” replied Hetty Hyssop.

  Tom swallowed, and Erwin Hornheaver rubbed his stubbly chin. “The red finger paint we had the lad drink wouldn’t do, would it?” he growled.

  Tom held his hand to his stomach. “Finger paint?” he asked weakly.

  “No, it definitely won’t do,” replied Hetty Hyssop. “But is there a doctor’s office in the village that might have a blood supply?”