Frightfully Friendly Ghosties (3 page)

6

Wither

We didn't have to wait long. The big bearded still-alive walked out of the kitchen, a mug of coffee in his hand, and stepped directly onto the gooey key.

We floated up to the ceiling to hide. Me, Charlie Vapor, and Wither.

“What if the still-alive doesn't walk up the stairs?” Charlie asked, adjusting his cuff links.

The moment he said this, the still-alive turned and went back into the kitchen, slamming the door behind him, the key stuck gooily to his shoe.

“Perhaps,” said Wither, “he forgot the milk.”

“Or the sugar,” I said.

Charlie Vapor passed through the kitchen door, the show-off, then passed back. “Yes, Tabitha, he's fetched himself a generous heap of sugar, and he's giving it a stir.”

Wither frowned.

The kitchen door opened again, and we floated up out of sight.

“I hope the still-alive walks upstairs,” I said. We floated about for a bit, and Charlie dropped his hat—not a polite thing to do—but still the still-alive remained in the hall.

“Perhaps we could
ask
it to walk upstairs,” said Wither.

“Charlie,” I said, “you ask. You have such frightfully good manners. Well, for a cockney.”

Charlie started to float down, but then he floated back up. “Shall I remove my hat?”

“It's the polite thing to do,” I said.

And down he floated.

But then he floated back up. “I don't want to appear too formal, you see.”

“It's good to be polite, Charlie.”

Again, Charlie floated down. This time, he wisped over to the still-alive and doffed his trilby hat. “Awfully sorry to trouble you, and I hate to be a bother—”

“Please don't be mean to us,” said Wither, floating down behind him.

The still-alive yelped, threw the mug of coffee across the hall and ran up the staircase, the key still stuck to his shoe. “Aaah!” he cried.

“Aaaaah!”

“How frightfully kind of you,” said Charlie, as we followed the still-alive up the staircase. “We wouldn't have asked, only—”

“Help!”

“Pamela Fraidy is locked in the attic,” I said, “with a leggy spider, and—”

“Oh, please help me!”

“And spiders are mean and horrid,” Wither added, covering his eyes with his hands.

“Please, no!”

The key dropped from the shoe two steps from the top.

“Thanks awfully,” said Charlie Vapor.

The still-alive ran into a bedroom at the front of the house and slammed the door. Charlie passed through, then passed back. “It must be frightfully cold in those rooms, Tabitha. He's shivering and shouting, and he has pulled the bedcovers right over his head.”

“Never mind that,” I said. “We have to lift the key up the top two stairs, then up the three creaky wooden steps to the attic.”

Charlie adjusted his tie. “You can do that, Tabitha Tumbly. You're the poltergeist.”

“Hardly,” I said. “I can topple the odd bottle.”

“Don't be modest. We saw the way you jiggled the key. If you can jiggle it, you can lift it.”

“Not with you two watching.”

“We're not watching—are we, Wither?”

And the two ghosties turned to face the wall. I was just about to lift the key when Pamela Fraidy shouted through the attic door. “Will you get on with it? I'm locked in the attic with a leggy spider, and I'm a nervous wreck as it is.”

“Certainly,” I said. But then I heard a blub.

“Wither,” I said, touching him on the shoulder, “whatever is the matter?”

“Oh, Tabitha! Why do ghosties have to be so mean?”

“No one is being mean, Wither.”

“Pamela told us off. I hate being told off.” Wither rubbed his eyes with his hands. “Tabitha, will you ask Pamela to stop being mean?”

I floated up to the attic door and peered through the keyhole. “Pamela? Pamela dear, are you still there? Have you been eaten by the leggy spider?”

“I'm here, Tabitha. Wither is right. There is no excuse for meanness.”

“You've been under a lot of pressure, Pamela.”

“It's just so frightfully dark in here, and what with the leggy spider—” I heard a faint, eerie sob. “Tabitha, please apologize to Wither on my behalf.”

I floated back down the three rickety wooden steps and rejoined Wither and Charlie at the top of the staircase. “Wither, Pamela says—”

“This key won't lift itself,” said Charlie Vapor.

“Face the wall,” I said, “and I'll see what I can do.”

Charlie and Wither turned away. I lifted the key and fitted it into the lock.

7

Humphrey Bump

“You were marvelous, darling, marvelous,” Charlie said, clapping his hands. “We're awfully impressed.”

“All I did was lift the key—”

“You fitted it into the lock, Tabitha. No other ghosty could have done that.”

“Charlie, you can pass through walls.”

He shrugged. “Bricks and mortar, Tabitha.”

“I can't do anything,” said Wither, and his bottom lip trembled. “All I do is blub and tremble and flit about.”

“But you're in touch with your feelings,” I told him. “What a wonderful quality to possess.”

“You should write poetry, Wither,” said Charlie, and he looked at me and winked.

“Actually, I do write poetry.”

“There,” I said. “You
can
do something.”

“My poems won't get Pamela out of the attic.”

“You could write a poem about key turning,” said Charlie.

“And how would that help?”

We heard Pamela Fraidy clear her throat.

“Er-herm! If you three wouldn't mind—”

“We'll have you out in the turn of a key,” said Charlie Vapor. “Tabitha?”

“Avert your gaze, and I will see what I can do.”

“That's the spirit,” said Charlie Vapor. He turned to face the wall—the polite thing to do—and Wither buried his eyes in his bottom lip.

“It's no good,” I said, jiggling the key. “I can turn the key, but the door needs a push.”

“We could ask Humphrey Bump to bump into it,” said Charlie Vapor.

Humphrey is the sort of ghosty who can bump into still-alives, then wisp away the moment they turn round. He can bump into doors, furniture, and household pets.

“That bumbling schoolboy won't help,” said Wither. “You know how mean-spirited he is.”

“We could ask him nicely,” I said.

Wither bit his fingernails nervously. “I could read him one of my poems, in payment.”

“That's a lovely idea,” I said. “I saw him bobbing about in the back bedroom. Wither, do float in and fetch him.”

“I don't mean to be rude,” Charlie whispered as Wither wisped away, “but Wither's poems are drivel.”

To our shivery surprise, when Wither floated out from the bedroom, Humphrey was floating beside him.

Humphrey wisped into position, and I gave the key a twist. But Humphrey just bobbed about, his hands in his blazer pockets. “I can't do it with everybody watching.”

“Let's give the boy some privacy,” said Charlie. “After all, it is the polite thing to do.” He adjusted his hat, then followed Wither into the back bedroom.

I turned the key, Humphrey bumped, the bolt unbolted, the attic door creaked open, and out wisped Pamela. “Thank heavens for that!”

I shook Humphrey by the hand. “Awfully kind of you to help.”

“I didn't have much choice,” Humphrey said. “Wither threatened to read me one of his poems.”

8

The Attic

Humphrey pulled a ghostly lollipop from his pocket and offered it to Pamela Fraidy.

“I'm sweet enough as it is,” said Pamela, “but thanks awfully.”

“How did you end up locked in the attic?” Humphrey asked.

“I floated in to say hello to one of the still-alives, the one with the adorable high heels. She was sorting through a box of crockery. She let out a frightful shriek, dashed out, and slammed the door in my face.”

“Yes,” I said. “I witnessed the whole thing. She locked the attic door and ran downstairs with the key.”

“No wonder I'm a nervous wreck,” said Pamela. “There's a spider in that attic as big as Charlie's hat. Perhaps we could stamp on it.”

Charlie looked horrified. “Stamp on my trilby? You will do no such thing.”

“Not your hat, Charlie. The leggy spider. Or perhaps Humphrey could bump into it.”

Humphrey gave the lollipop a ghostly lick, then shook his head.

“You're a coward,” said Charlie, “like Pamela.”

“That was double mean,” said Wither. “You were mean to Pamela,
and
you were mean to Humphrey.”

Charlie removed his hat. “Pamela, please accept my sincere and hatless apology.”

“You have to apologize to Humphrey too,” said Wither. “With your hat off.”

“He wears that hat only because he's going bald,” said Humphrey, giving the lollipop another lick.

“Will the meanness never end?” cried Wither, and he wisped down the staircase to the hall.

Pamela was deep in thought. “I have an idea. Charlie, you could trap the leggy spider in your hat.”

“A spider in a trilby is still a spider,” said Charlie.

“Trap it in the hat, then tip the spider out of the window.”

“Worth a try,” Charlie said, “but it's awfully dark in that attic. Tabitha, light the candle.”

“I'm not sure I have the skills, Charlie.”

“Tabitha, if you can't light that candle, I'll eat my hat.”

I floated into the attic, lit the candle—it was nothing, really—and floated out. “I couldn't see the spider. It must have scampered away.”

“Leave this to me,” Charlie said, adjusting his tie. He checked the floorboards, the wooden beams, and the brickwork. The candle flickered, and the wind howled, but there was no leggy spider to be found.

“I think it scampered in here,” said Pamela, and she wisped into the study.

The still-alive in the high heels was seated at the desk, typing on the clicky-clacky typewriter. When she saw Pamela, she screamed and ran out of the room, slamming the study door behind her.

“Oh, that's done it!” cried Charlie. “We've only just rescued Pamela from the attic, and now she's shut in the study.”

“Can't Humphrey just bump the door open?” I asked.

“Not a chance,” said Charlie. “This door opens outward.”

Wither came floating back up the staircase.

“The muse has struck. I have a poem in my head, and I just
have
to write it down. Where's my quivery quill?”

“In the study,” I said. “With the leggy spider. And Pamela. One of the still-alives shut her in.”

“This really is the limit,” said Charlie Vapor.

“He's right,” I said. “The still-alives have gone too far. Something must be done.”

We heard Pamela Fraidy's voice vibrate through the wood. “You have to get me out. This room is far smaller than the attic. The leggy spider is scampering about, and I'm a nervous wreck as it is.”

“Pamela,” said Wither, floating close to the study door, “I have an idea.”

We all wisped round to listen.

“I will dictate the poem through the door. Pamela, you will need quill, parchment, and ink.”