Frightfully Friendly Ghosties (2 page)

3

Rusty Chains

We floated about for a bit, and then Charlie had an idea. “There is only one ghosty who can free the key from that hook, and that ghosty is Rusty Chains.”

Every ghosty has a ghostly ability. Rusty Chains has the ability to make things old and rusty. He also has the ability to bore a ghosty to tears. He drags these heavy chains around, so it takes him forever to do anything.

“I'll wisp away and find him,” said Wither.

“Charlie should go,” I said. “He's the only ghosty who can pass through.”

“Not sure I can,” said Charlie, and he blushed bright white.

“You just passed through the lounge door.”

“It was a very thin door, Tabitha.”

“Charlie Vapor,” I said, “this is no time for false modesty. Pamela is locked in the attic with a leggy spider, and we three are floating around doing nothing.”

Charlie adjusted his tie. “Perhaps I shall pass through a teeny bit. Not enough to show off, just enough to find Rusty.”

Wither was losing his patience. “Oh, get on with it!”

Charlie removed his hat—it's the polite thing to do—and poked his head through the tiled floor. “Rusty? Coo-ee! Has any ghosty seen Rusty Chains? Ah, Rusty. Would you mind floating up here to help us?”

It took Rusty one hour to drag his chains up the cellar stairs and another hour to drag them along the hallway to the front door.

“Is this it?” asked Rusty Chains, eyeing the hook.

We nodded our ghostly heads.

“I can't do it now. I have to float back down to the cellar, then jangle my chains and moan a lot.”

Wither folded his bony arms. “But it took you two hours to get here. How long does it take to dab a bit of rust on a hook?”

“Anything for a quiet life,” moaned Rusty, rattling his chains noisily.

“Just the hook,” said Charlie. “We don't want to damage the key.”

Rusty dabbed the hook with his rusty chains. The hook turned brown and crumbled to dust, and the key chinked onto the tiles.

“How did you keep the rust off the key?” asked Charlie.

“I didn't think about it. I just jangled my chains and moaned a lot.”

“You miserable old moaner!”

“Charlie,” said Wither, “don't be mean. Rusty, we are grateful for your help.”

“Thank you, Rusty,” I said. “Charlie, are you going to thank Rusty?”

Charlie removed his hat—it's the polite thing to do—replaced it on his head, and shook Rusty Chains by the hand.

4

Agatha Draft

“We're not out of the woods yet,” I said.

“No,” said Charlie. “And Pamela Fraidy is still not out of the attic. She's probably been eaten by the leggy spider.”

“Spiders don't eat ghosties,” said Wither. “Spiders are mean, but they're not
that
mean. I will float upstairs and ask how she is.” And off he wisped.

“We need to move the key along the hallway and up the stairs, Charlie,” I said.

“If we wait long enough, Tabitha, perhaps a still-alive will walk down the hall and kick the key to the foot of the staircase.”

I shook my haunted head. “The still-alive is just as likely to hide the key in his pocket.”

“Can't you jiggle it across the floor?”

“I haven't the skills. What if I jiggle it wrong, and it floats out through the letterbox and jangles off up the street? Ah, here's Wither.”

“That was quick,” said Charlie.

“I bumped into Headless Lesley on the staircase,” said Wither. “He'd just been up to the attic and held his head to the keyhole. It was too dark to see much, he said, but she seemed to be in good spirits.”

“Perhaps we should ask Agatha Draft,” said Charlie, toying with the brim of his trilby hat. “She could create an eerie breeze and blow the key all the way to the foot of the staircase.”

“Poor Aggie,” said Wither. “The still-alives are so mean to her. Have you seen the way they hunch their shoulders when she floats past?”

“When I last saw her,” I said, “she was in the dining room. Let's float in and say hello.”

And off we wisped.

The dining room door was open, so we floated straight in.

Three still-alives were sitting shivering at the dining table. Agatha Draft was floating behind their heads, blowing their hair without a care. When she saw us ghosties, she billowed the curtains for a bit and then wisped over to say hello.

“Tabitha Tumbly, Wither, how the devil are you? Charlie, how lovely to see you.”

“This is no time for pleasantries,” said Charlie. “Pamela Fraidy is locked in the attic with a leggy spider.”

“Poor Pamela!” gasped Agatha. “What can we do-woo-whooo?”

On hearing Agatha's concerned cry, the still-alives leapt from their chairs and ran about. The two half-sized still-alives hid beneath the table, playing a game I suppose, and the still-alive with the high heels began to scream.

“Never mind them,” said Wither. “They're just mean.”

“It's frightfully rude,” said Charlie as the four of us floated out to the hall. “Agatha, will you help?”

“You could create a draft,” I said, “and blow the key down the hall to the foot of the staircase.”

“We saw the way you billowed those curtains,” said Charlie. “Awfully impressive.”

“You must think I'm the most ghastly show-off.”

“Not at all,” we all said together. Then I apologized for talking over Charlie, and Charlie apologized for talking over me, and then Wither apologized for talking over us both.

“Had I known you were watching,” said Agatha, clutching her pearls modestly, “I would have billowed with a little more discretion.”

We floated up the hall to the front door, to where the key lay on the tiles.

“This is frightfully embarrassing,” said Agatha.

“We're not watching,” I said, and the three of us turned to face the front door.

A moment later we heard a clatter, and when we turned around, Agatha was blushing bright white and the key was at the far end of the hall, at the foot of the staircase.

Wither, Charlie, and I clapped our haunted hands.

“It is a very
small
key,” said Agatha.

5

Gertrude Goo

“All we have to do now,” said Charlie Vapor, “is get the key up the staircase, then up the three rickety steps to the attic door.”

We looked at the staircase, at the varnished banister, and at the plushly carpeted stairs. And suddenly it seemed that there were an awful lot of stairs and that the top stair was teeteringly high.

“How many stairs are there, Tabitha?”

“I don't know, Charlie. At my school we used calculators.”

Wither frowned. “Our math teacher used to whack our knuckles with a ruler. Thwack!”

“Wither had a classical education,” said Charlie.

“That is correct. Latin, Shakespeare, Dickens. We learned by rote.”

I looked at Charlie. “What does he mean, ‘by rote'?”

“I don't know, Tabitha. At my school we learned to tap dance.” He removed his hat—the polite thing to do—and performed an elegant little jig.

And that was when Gertrude Goo floated into view. “While you three ghosties are making merry, poor Pamela Fraidy is locked in the attic. The leggy spider keeps scampering about, and she's a nervous wreck as it is.”

“We were counting the stairs,” Charlie told her.

“I know this house inside out. I clean it from bottom to top twice daily.” Gertrude tickled the banister with her gooey feather duster. “There are twenty-six steps in this house. The front doorstep, the back doorstep, nine steps down to the cellar, twelve stairs here, and the three steps up to the attic door.”

When Gertrude was still alive, she worked at the house as a housekeeper. This is why she is so house proud. She spends most of the day straightening pictures and flicking her icky feather duster. The trouble is, she leaves a trail of glowing blue goo wherever she goes.

“How do we lift the key up twelve steps?” wondered Charlie.

“That's easy,” I said. “We ask the still-alives to carry it up.”

“They won't help us,” said Wither, folding his bony arms. “You know how mean they are, particularly the one with the beard.”

“We could drop it in one of these shoes,” said Charlie, admiring a pair of black leather oxfords. “The still-alive will put the shoes on and walk it up.”

I shook my head. “The key would smell of wafty socks.”

“We could stick the key to the sole,” Charlie said, “with Gertrude's goo.”

“We'd have to turn the shoe on its side.” Wither rubbed his bristly chin. “What if we apply the goo to the key and then wait for a still-alive to step on it?”

We all looked at Gertrude.

“Don't look at me,” said Gertrude, waving the duster, spraying goo onto the carpet, ceiling, and walls. “I don't have any goo. I'm awfully fastidious.” And she floated off up the hall to the front door.

“The house would be cleaner if she spent the day in bed,” whispered Charlie Vapor.

Wither pursed his lips. “Don't be mean.”

“Ah, here comes a still-alive,” said Charlie as we heard the click of high heels. “Miss, would you mind awfully—”

The still-alive screamed and ran back into the lounge.

Wither's lip quivered. “How can they be so mean?”

“I should have removed my hat,” said Charlie Vapor, and we agreed that that would have been the polite thing to do.

“If you don't mind,” said Gertrude, floating back along the hall toward us, “I have to finish my chores. The house won't clean itself, you know.”

“Gertrude,” said Charlie, “would you mind applying a dollop of goo—”

“Charlie,” I whispered, “Gertrude prides herself on her cleanliness. She would never admit to making a mess. We will have to trick her.”

Charlie gave me a knowing wink. “Gerty,” he said, taking off his hat, “this key is frightfully dusty. Would you mind giving it a quick spruce?”

“All in a day's work,” said Gertrude, waving her feather duster.

It took Gertrude ten minutes to polish that key. By the time she wisped off, the key was as sticky as a bug in a bag of sticky toffee.