Ghosthunters and the Muddy Monster of Doom! Read online

  Erwin Hornheaver nodded. “I’m sure I’ll be able to find something,” he said. “Carry on. About this Mr. Quartet or whatever he was called.”

  “Motette, Eugène de la Motette. Yes.” Hetty Hyssop rubbed the tip of her nose and glanced at her watch. The hands were still moving in the right direction. “Motette hid himself behind a wall, just a few feet away from the bait. And as soon as the demon began to devour the blood, Motette sprang out of his hidey-hole, set fire to the circle so that his opponent suddenly found himself surrounded by flames, with no way for his followers to rush to his aid, and” — Hetty Hyssop took a deep breath — “cut the demon in half right down the middle with a sword. Then he lost consciousness, as he put it. When Motette woke up again, the demon had disappeared along with his entire band of followers. Only the gigantic horns were still lying in the mud. And they glowed for two whole days afterward, as if they had a light burning inside them. Since then, there have been no reports of these horned demons, which seem to be half bull, half human. Although Motette did suspect that there had to be a second specimen somewhere — one that had the head of a human and the body of a bull.”

  “Well, our demon has a bull’s head, too,” Tom said thoughtfully. “That contradicts his theory.” He looked uneasily at the sword, which was still leaning against the door. “What if you don’t slash him right down the middle?”

  Hetty Hyssop merely shrugged. “I don’t know.”

  Erwin Hornheaver stared at the sword, too. “Have you got any idea how such a monster comes into being?” he asked. “I mean, with ghosts there are normally stories about why they’re haunting — because someone walled them up alive or because they’re being punished for their evil deeds….” He gave Hugo a suspicious look and stopped talking.

  “What’s that loooook suuuuupposed to mean?” breathed Hugo. “Eeeevil deeeeeds — what nonsense!”

  Tom grinned. “Hugo fell off a roof when he was sleepwalking,” he said. “The whole story is a bit embarrassing. Isn’t that right, Hugo?”

  Hugo merely turned his pale back on him, offended.

  Hetty Hyssop explained, “People believe that minotaurean demons have a pretty horrible history. It’s well known that, in earlier times, humans were afraid of disease and natural catastrophes, so they tried to get in their gods’ good books by making sacrifices of all sorts of animals — sometimes humans as well. Many ghost experts believe that animal-human demons were the result of barbaric rituals such as these. The minotaurean demon is just one of these creepy creatures. Its thirst for blood fits with this explanation, as does its tendency to appear at ancient pagan shrines.”

  “Ghastly,” murmured Erwin Hornheaver at the thought of such pagan rituals. “The things humans do when they’re afraid.”

  “Yes, I sometimes think that fear is the root of all misery,” said Hetty Hyssop, standing up with a sigh. “And I’m afraid we’ll all be having more than enough fear tonight, but let’s get on with it. You’ll gather up the bait, will you, Hornheaver?”

  Erwin Hornheaver nodded.

  “One last question,” he growled, already standing in the doorway. “Who’s going to do the business with the sword?”

  “I’ll do it,” replied Hetty Hyssop. “But I’d feel a whole lot better if you were waiting in the wings. I fear this is a night we just can’t plan precisely. After all, we’re dealing with the demon’s followers as well. I just hope the circle of fire works as well for us as it did for our colleague Motette. But that’s no more than a hope.” She looked at her watch and froze.

  “Oh my goodness!” she burst out. “My watch is going backward. We’ve barely got half an hour!”

  12

  The mud in front of the church was already so deep that Tom could barely make his way through it. The heavy brown mush sloshed around his knees whilst Hugo floated above it, not getting even the tiniest bit of his pale skin dirty. Panting, Tom stopped for a moment to catch his breath. The ground was heaving beneath his feet. The mud trembled ever more violently, as if a gigantic animal were stirring in the depths of the Earth. Tom shook his head anxiously. The vicarage had already sunk up to its windows in mud. Of several other houses, only the roofs were still visible.

  “Yooooou’d better get a mooooove on!” cried Hugo, floating down onto the huge stone altar.

  “Yeah, yeah!” growled Tom, pulling a large plastic container out of his backpack. Then he checked out the distance between himself and the altar and nodded, satisfied. “Yes, I think it’ll fit,” he muttered. “Now the stuff just has to stick to the mud. Wait a sec…. Hey, Hugo!” he hissed, waving to the ASG. “What about a nice sticky slimy trail?”

  Grumbling, Hugo got up and put his pale feet in the mud. “That’s revooooolting!” he breathed, leaving behind a glistening slimy trail with every step he took.

  “Don’t make such a fuss,” whispered Tom. “You’re not normally so squeamish.” Then he opened the plastic container, reached inside, and scattered a coarse gray powder onto Hugo’s trail. When the pair had finished, they were left with a large shimmering circle around the altar, barely visible in the darkness. “Well, that’s that, I think,” whispered Tom, straining his eyes to peer into the night.

  The fog had lifted. Only the altar was still surrounded by some mist. “Definitely not a good sign!” muttered Tom.

  “What?” asked Hugo.

  “That the fog’s gone,” Tom replied in a whisper. “I bet that means showtime for the Prince of Demons!”

  He looked around again, and this time he saw what he was looking for: Erwin Hornheaver and Hetty Hyssop were striding across the muddy square, carrying a large cauldron between them.

  “My goodness, I’ll never set foot in mud or bogs again!” moaned Hetty Hyssop, helping Hornheaver lift the cauldron onto the altar. “My legs feel as if I’ve already walked twice around the world this evening.”

  “Is the cauldron full of …?” Tom could barely bring himself to say the word.

  “Blood?” Erwin Hornheaver shook his head. “No. Unfortunately we can only serve up a very thin blood soup to the demon. We found three pathetic bags of blood in the doctor’s fridge; the rest is grape juice and ketchup. Now we just have to hope that this demon’s sense of smell isn’t too refined.”

  Tom looked anxiously at Hetty Hyssop. “And that’s going to work?”

  “I’ve added two sachets of Artificial Blood Aroma to the cauldron,” Hetty Hyssop reassured him. “As you know, the powder’s a standard component of our kit. After all, there are loads of ghosts who are attracted by the smell of blood. But let’s get on with it.”

  She inspected the circle that Tom and Hugo had made. “Aha! You used Hugo’s slime to secure the fire circle. Excellent. Have we all got our equipment? Helmets, spark sprayers, protective goggles …”

  The other three nodded. Erwin Hornheaver was wearing a builder’s hard hat instead of a ghosthunter’s protective helmet. It was, as Hetty Hyssop said, not ideal, but definitely better than no helmet at all.

  “What about the sword?” Tom pushed his glasses straight and examined his spark sprayer for the second time. The contraption was similar to a water pistol and looked pretty harmless, but it spat out sparks like a bundle of fireworks. Ghosts hate these sparks: They bite their pale skin like fleas. A spark sprayer will keep a ghost at bay for a fair while, although not even an ASG would actually be scared off by one.

  “I’ve got the sword,” said Erwin Hornheaver, pulling the heavy object from under his jacket. He held it out to Hetty Hyssop with a broad grin. “Where do you want it, madam? You can obviously fit a fair few things in your bag, but this thing here …”

  “Hand it over,” said Hetty Hyssop, slipping the sword into her coat belt. Then she looked around, frowning. “I think we are best off hiding there,” she said, pointing to three big blocks sticking up out of the mud behind the altar. “We’ve walked across everywhere else.”

  Tom nodded. “As soon as the circle’s on fire, we all secure our sectio
n. I’m taking the left part, Hugo the right, and Erwin’s in the middle.”

  “Can you box with ghosts?” asked Erwin Hornheaver.

  “I wooouldn’t recooommend it,” breathed Hugo.

  Hetty Hyssop climbed the steps to the altar. “Shall I wait for him under there?” she asked, peering under the big stone table.

  “No way,” replied Tom. “He’d rip your head off as soon as you came creeping out.”

  “Yes, he probably would,” said Hetty Hyssop, standing up again. Deep in thought, she went back down the steps. As she put her foot on the bottommost step, the stone underneath trembled so violently that she almost fell head over heels. Tom and Erwin Hornheaver likewise had great difficulty staying upright. The entire church square heaved as if the whole Earth were opening up beneath the mud. Tom quickly pulled his GES out of his pocket.

  “Here we go!” he cried. The mud parted sluggishly, like slow-moving lava, and a crater opened up in the middle of the church square.

  “Hide, Tom, hide!” yelled Hetty Hyssop, rushing toward the stone blocks. Hugo and Erwin Hornheaver had already disappeared behind them.

  “But the circle!” cried Tom, looking anxiously over at the glistening trail. The mud still hadn’t swallowed it up.

  “Come on!” yelled Hetty Hyssop. “Run for it!” And Tom ran for it. Or, rather, he tried to, but he could hardly move. The mud sucked at his boots as if the ground itself wanted to throw him to the Prince of Demons.

  “Heeee’s coooooming!” he could hear Hugo howling. “Heeeeee’s coooomiiiiing!”

  Tom tugged desperately at his boots until the mud finally let them go with a squelch! Trembling and with his mouth as dry as a bone, he reached one of the blocks and pressed himself against the protective stone.

  Just in time. Dripping figures floated out of the muddy crater. Moaning and howling, they rose up in the air, flew like trails of mist around the church steeple, then sank down again. They were waiting for the arrival of their master. What they didn’t realize was that four others were waiting for him, too: three living, breathing, warm-blooded humans and one icy cold ASG.

  A terrible silence fell across the deserted village. A deep, wild snorting sound boomed from the crater. And then they saw the Zargoroth.

  His horny head appeared from the mud, his eyes glowing as if they were about to burn holes in the dark cloak of night. Sulfurous yellow steam poured from his nostrils, and as his shaggy upper body emerged from the mud he emitted such a hideous bellow that Tom had to press his hands to his ears. During his ghosthunting career he had witnessed many terrible sights, but nothing had ever made such an icy shiver run down his spine as the sight of this mud-dripping, bull-headed demon.

  For a moment he closed his eyes and tried to breathe slowly. He couldn’t begin to imagine how, with his knees trembling like this, he was supposed to get to the circle and set fire to it. But this vague feeling of panic was as much part and parcel of ghosthunting as were twitching eyebrows and a dry mouth. You just had to ignore it.

  When Tom opened his eyes again, the Zargoroth was standing at full height in the Bogpool church square. He seemed much bigger to Tom than he’d been in the cave, but maybe he was mistaken there, too. He could hear the monster snorting as his burning eyes stared into the night. The crater that had spat out the Prince of Demons and his followers closed up behind them, squelching and slurping, and the Zargoroth raised his hideous head and sniffed the air. Tom pressed himself up against the stone, hardly daring to breathe. Erwin Hornheaver, who was hiding behind the second slab, had clenched his gigantic fists and was staring at the demon with wide-open eyes. They all knew: If the demon spotted one of them, their entire plan would be destroyed.

  “If he sees us now …” Tom preferred not to take that thought any further.

  Hetty Hyssop herself was evidently anxious. Tom noticed the way her hand was closed around the sword. She had made up an extra-strong potion of the scented water that would cover up their human scent, but what did she know about a demon’s sense of smell?

  The Zargoroth still stood as if rooted to the spot, legs apart, head raised, as his followers floated above him, whispering and sighing. Then he took a step forward. And then another. He strode toward the altar. Tom breathed a sigh of relief. The Zargoroth had scented the blood.

  Grunting, he sprang up the stone steps, licked his lips, bared his pale teeth — and plunged his head into the huge cauldron.

  Silently, Hetty Hyssop pushed her way out from behind one of the stone blocks and crept behind the back of the demon.

  Tom, however, ran toward the circle, already holding his lighter. The circle shone as it moved over the mud. His feet got stuck again, and he saw to his horror that the Zargoroth’s ghostly followers were floating toward the altar. Erwin Hornheaver couldn’t help him, either: He was fighting the mud just as much as Tom was.

  “Hugo!” cried Tom in despair, sinking back down yet again. “Hugo, set fire to the circle!”

  The next moment, Hugo’s icy fingers grabbed the lighter from his hand. Tom saw the Zargoroth pull his head out of the cauldron with a jerk. But the demon had noticed the danger behind him too late.

  Grinning maliciously, Hugo set fire to the protective circle — just as the ghosts were about to hurry to their master’s aid, howling and screeching. The fire blazed high up into the black sky, the flames reaching for them with hot tongues. Horrified, they retreated — and their prince was left standing alone in front of the stone altar.

  He looked even more hideous with a ketchup-stained mouth.

  Threateningly he lowered his head, snorted, and stared all around him. Then he grunted, baffled, and spread his clawed hands. Hetty Hyssop stood at the bottom of the steps, looking up at him.

  “This place doesn’t belong to you, Zargoroth!” she cried, pulling the sword from her belt. “Let’s call it quits, and don’t ever let us see you again among humans. Or it will be your doom.”

  Panting and baring its teeth, a Ghost Dog sprang through the ring of fire to where Tom was standing. Tom drove it back with his spark sprayer and threw a tennis ball into its mouth, which was wide open with anger. (Gentle reader: These little balls are very effective with Ghost Dogs. It takes them hours to force them out of their throats.) Then Tom looked around wildly. He could hear the other ghosts screeching and howling, but none of them had followed the dog. The heat shield of the fire was holding them back. Only every now and then did a pale arm or a ghostly face poke through the flames. At the moment, Erwin Hornheaver was whacking the stinking fingers of a STKNOG, and Hugo was visibly enjoying giving one of the smaller BOSGs a pinch on its impudent nose.

  Hetty Hyssop, however, was still standing before the Zargoroth, her sword drawn.

  The demon stared at the dully gleaming blade, raised his horns, and pointed one of his clawed hands at her.

  “Baaaaaaduuuuuu!” the demon howled.

  There was a deathly silence. Only the flames crackled behind Tom. He knew he needed to keep an eye on the circle, but he simply couldn’t take his eyes off the angry minotaur. Erwin Hornheaver seemed to react the same way. Even Hugo had forgotten the ghosts behind him. They hadn’t uttered a sound since their master had spoken.

  The Zargoroth took a stiff-legged step toward Hetty Hyssop. He was now just two steps above her, towering over her and examining her mockingly with his glowing eyes.

  Tom stuffed the interpreter into his ear. He could translate Badu for himself. Every ghosthunter knew that it was an extremely contemptuous description for living people. You could translate it as something along the lines of “pig swill.”

  The Zargoroth took another step.

  Hetty Hyssop didn’t move a muscle. Tom found this quite astonishing, given how truly hideous the demon looked now. He seemed to be lit up from the inside; every one of his claws shimmered like a sharp little knife.

  “Mar to wiiiiraaaa, baduuu!” he growled in a voice that sounded as if it were booming up from the gloomiest of all graves. “You’re
going to be my slave, pig swill!”

  Hetty Hyssop stood her ground. She still didn’t move a muscle. Her hand merely tightened its grip slightly on the handle of the sword. “Oh yes?” she said, her voice threateningly calm. “I think I see things a bit differently, thank you very much.”

  At that moment, something shot past Tom. He whirled around in terror, almost falling flat on his face in the mud, which was deeper than ever. Not one but two Ghost Dogs had leaped through the flames — and before Tom could aim the spark sprayer at them, they were already hanging on to Hetty Hyssop’s arm, snarling. Naturally, their pale teeth didn’t cause any damage — after all, they were just Danger Category Two ghosts — but they were stopping Hetty Hyssop from raising the sword. And the Zargoroth knew that full well.

  He jumped down the last couple of steps and stood before her, snorting. Then he threw back his head triumphantly, bellowed with anticipation, and bared his hideous teeth. Hetty Hyssop was still desperately trying to shake off the Ghost Dogs.

  “Hugo! Hornheaver! Help!” yelled Tom, leaping to her side and spraying so many sparks onto the dogs’ pale fur that they jumped away, howling.

  “Out of the way, Tom!” cried Hetty Hyssop, trying to raise the sword — but her arms lacked strength after being attacked by the dogs, and the heavy sword slipped out of her fingers and fell in the mud.

  With one bound, the demon leaped between her and Tom, grabbed them both by the scruff of their necks, and held them aloft like captured rabbits. Tom could feel the Zargoroth’s hot, stinking breath and the incredible strength of his clawed hands. They seemed to suck all courage and all hope from Tom’s bones. He felt like a rag doll waiting to be torn to shreds by those black claws. I’ve botched it! he thought in despair, the demon’s stink starting to make him feel faint. Curses! How could I have turned my back on the ring of fire?

  He saw the flames dying down and more and more ghosts floating through the protective circle. Where’s Hugo? he thought, aiming a kick at the Zargoroth’s hideous bull’s head — then he saw Erwin Hornheaver stomping toward the demon with a look of deadly loathing.