Frightfully Friendly Ghosties (5 page)

12

Striped Pajamas

“I was the first ghosty here,” said Wither, when we gathered on the landing late that night. “I was already in my pajamas, you see. The rest of you had to wisp away and change.”

“Yes,” said Charlie, who was still wearing his trilby, “and you have looked ridiculous all day as a result.”

Then we heard Pamela's shaky voice call out through the study door. “I hope you're working on a rescue plan.”

“Pamela,” I called back, “whenever we get you out, you get shut in again.”

“So you're leaving me in here forever? With the leggy spider? It's scampering about, and I'm a nervous wreck as it is.”

“We have to go to bed now, Pamela,” Charlie said. “Goodnight.”

“But what about the rescue plan?”

“This is part of the rescue plan,” Charlie explained, doffing his trilby. “If we make friends with the still-alives, they'll let you out as a gesture of goodwill. We'll retire to the bed in this room here, and we'll let the still-alives get a good night's sleep. Humphrey, bump the door.”

The back bedroom was far grander than those at the front. When the door creaked open, we all gasped. The bedroom had an ornate four-poster bed and plush velvet curtains.

“I hope there's enough room for us all,” said Agatha Draft. “Who will lift the sheets? Tabitha, you're a poltergeist. Would you mind awfully?”

“I don't have the skills, Agatha. Billow it with a force ten gale.”

“Tabitha dear, I'll be lucky if I can rustle up a gentle breeze.”

“Ladies,” said Charlie, taking off his hat, “why not both try together?”

We both tried together.

The sheets lifted up, and they bulged like the sail on a pirate ship.

“Well done, Tabitha,” said Agatha Draft, clutching her pearls joyfully.

“Agatha, I barely touched it.”

“Put your modesty aside,” Charlie said, adjusting his trilby, “and come to bed.”

“I've not had a good night's sleep since I was still alive,” said Gertrude. She crawled into bed, leaving a trail of glowing blue goo.

Charlie floated into bed beside her, and Wither wisped in on Charlie's left and Humphrey to his right, and I floated into the space between Humphrey and Charlie, and then Humphrey bumped us all along to make space for dear Aggie. The blanket came to rest, covering our toes and knees.

“It's drafty here at the edge,” said Gertrude.

“You think it's drafty there?” I complained. “You try lying beside Agatha.”

“Don't be mean to Agatha,” said Wither.

“What about me?” protested Humphrey. “I'm at the edge,
and
I'm beside Agatha.”

“Wither has cold feet,” said Charlie Vapor.

“Don't be mean,” said Wither. “At least I'm not wearing an outdoor hat.”

“Shh!” said Agatha. “I can hear someone coming.”

Twelve eerie eyeballs turned to the door.

The door creaked open, and there, in striped pajamas not unlike Wither's, stood the bearded still-alive.

“Perhaps he wants to sleep in this bed,” blubbed Wither.

“I should have thought of that,” whispered Charlie.

The still-alive didn't see us at first. He took a key from his pajama pocket, closed and locked the door, and returned the key to his pocket. It was only as he crept across the rug that he noticed we were here, six grinning ghosties all in a row. He screamed a mean-spirited scream and ran back to the door.

“Awfully sorry,” said Agatha, clutching her pearls. “We were trying to keep out of your way.”

“We can budge over if you like,” said Charlie. “There's plenty of room for all.”

“We're trying to make friends with you,” I explained.

“Then you will stop being mean to us,” added Wither.

The still-alive pulled the key from his pocket so excitedly that he dropped it onto the floorboards. He leapt up and down for a moment before diving under the bed, headfirst.

“He's trying to find the key,” I said. “We should help. That's what friends are for.”

We all wisped under the bed.

“It's dark under here,” blubbed Wither. There wasn't much room under the bed, so we had to keep wisping out and wisping back under again.

“Help! Help!” the still-alive yelled. Presumably he wanted us to help him find the key.

“It has to be here somewhere,” said Agatha, wisping in and out of the still-alive's pajamas.

This went on for several minutes, until finally the still-alive crawled out from under the bed, grabbed the key from where it had rolled beneath the dresser, banged the door several times with his fists, wailed at the top of his lungs, unlocked the door, and ran out.

Not frightfully friendly, I have to say, though he did leave the bedroom door open so we could float on to the landing and say goodnight to poor Pamela.

13

The Priest

Gertrude Goo and I were floating by the lounge ceiling when the doorbell donged.

“Who-woo-whooo could that be?” asked Gertrude, dripping glowing blue goo onto the coffee table.

“Don't ask me,” I said. “I don't even live here. I don't live anywhere. I'm not alive, you see.”

We floated to the lounge door and listened. First we heard the sound of high heels as one of the still-alives walked down the hall to open the front door. We heard voices for a moment and then the footsteps again, click-click-click, together with the footsteps of the visitor, clump-clump-clump.

“I hope they don't come in here,” I said.

Gertrude agreed. “Just look at the place. I'd better tidy up.”

I watched as Gertrude floated about the room, tidying pictures, ornaments, the vase of flowers, and the rows and rows of books, spraying the room with glowing blue goo.

“That's quite enough tidying for one day,” I told her.

“I'll just give the shelves a quick dusting. I'm terribly house proud, you see.”

The door handle turned with a creak.

“Gertrude, there isn't time.”

We floated up to the ceiling and wisped into the lampshade to hide. The still-alive entered with the guest, an elderly man dressed in black.

“He's got his shirt on back to front,” said Gertrude.

When the two still-alives saw the goo, their jaws dropped.

“I knew they'd be impressed,” said Gertrude. “Tabitha, I do believe he's a priest.”

“There is something sinister going on,” I said. “Let's tell the others.”

We wisped out of the lampshade, out into the hall, and up the staircase to the landing.

Wither was dictating a poem to Pamela through the study door. “When the other ghosties are mean to me, it makes my feelings sway like a tree.”

The moment he saw Gertrude and me floating behind him, he blushed bright white.

“This is only the first draft. And talking of drafts, has any ghosty seen Agatha?”

Pamela's voice vibrated through the wood.

“She's in the garden, floating by the clothesline. I can see her through the window.”

“We'd better fetch her,” I said. “Wither, the still-alives have brought in a priest.”

“Perhaps,” said Wither, as we floated down the staircase, “the still-alives have discovered religion.”

Charlie and Humphrey were floating by the stove, watching Agatha through the kitchen window.

“Agatha is drying the still-alives' laundry,” said Charlie Vapor, “as a gesture of goodwill.”

“We must fetch her,” I said. “The still-alives have brought in a priest.”

“A priest?” said Agatha, wisping in through the open window. “We must say hello.”

“It's the polite thing to do,” said Charlie, lifting his hat.

And off we floated to the lounge.

The still-alives were there together now, the Priest, the still-alive with the beard, the still-alive with the high heels, and the two half-sized still-alives. When we wisped in, they hid behind the sofa, all except for the Priest, who was engrossed in a leather-bound book.

“Perhaps they're planning a surprise party,” said Wither. “They'll jump out and yell boo!”

“I didn't think priests liked parties,” said Charlie.

“Everyone loves a party,” said Agatha Draft.

The Priest ran his finger along the mantelpiece and wiped it on his handkerchief. He then reached into his trouser pocket and took out a wooden cross.

“What does the cross mean?” asked Humphrey.

“I think,” blubbed Wither, “it means he's cross.”

The Priest held the cross in the air, half-closed his eyes, and muttered something we couldn't quite hear.

“He's trying to convert us to religion,” said Charlie.

“It's a bit late for that,” said Wither. “We're dead.”

“Let's float in and explain,” I said, but as we floated in, the Priest reached into his other trouser pocket and took out a small white thing, which he then waved about.

“Garlic,” observed Charlie.

“I hate garlic,” said Wither. “I liked it when I was still alive, but these days I find it abhorrent.”

“I don't think any of us ghosties like it,” I said. We watched in horror as the Priest peeled the garlic bulb, separated it into cloves, and placed them in different corners of the room.

“Garlic is related to the onion,” said Agatha.

“Did you know that, Wither?”

“Onion makes me blub.”

“Everything makes you blub,” said Charlie, and we floated out into the hall.

14

Wafty Garlic

“I don't like this one bit,” said Agatha Draft, floating by the lawn mower.

“It's our house too,” said Gertrude Goo.

“The entire house wafts of garlic,” said Wither, pinching his nose.

Pamela Fraidy wisped out of the study window and floated down to join us. “Thank heavens for that,” she said. “I thought they'd never let me out.”

“We'd forgotten about you,” said Humphrey, bumping into the garden shed.

Wither gave him a withering look. “Don't be mean to Pamela. She's been shut in the study since Tuesday.”

“With the leggy spider,” added Agatha. “Pamela, how did you open the study window?”

“One of the still-alives opened it. She came in to fetch something, and I wisped into the typewriter to hide. It was the still-alive with the high heels.” Pamela rolled her eyes. “Those shoes are to-die-for! She had another still-alive with her. He had his shirt on backward. Must have dressed in the dark.”

“The Priest,” I said to the others knowingly.

“He placed garlic cloves around the room,” Pamela went on. “Nailed an entire bulb to the door.”

“The meanness of it all!” cried Wither.

“I wouldn't have minded,” said Pamela, “only, I can't stand the smell.”

“Garlic does tend to waft,” said Agatha, clutching her pearls.

“The still-alives don't like it much either,” said Pamela. “That's why they opened the study window. Why put garlic in a study?”

“It's not just the study,” I said. “They're placing it all around the house. Charlie has gone to investigate. We sent Charlie because he's the only ghosty who can pass through. Good old Charlie Vapor!”

“I wish I had a skill,” said Wither.

“You can write abysmal poems,” said Humphrey Bump.

“Oh, how mean!”

“I think your poems are delightful,” I said, though honestly, I thought they were drivel.

“I don't want to write poems,” said Wither. “Who reads poems these days? I want to float through walls like Charlie, or blow leaves across the lawn like dear Agatha.”

“You can blub,” said Humphrey.

“Oh!” cried Wither, and he floated off for a blub.

“This is no time for blubbing,” I said. “Here's Charlie.”

“That house wafts to high heaven. They've nailed garlic cloves to every door in the house.”

“Perhaps they're expecting vampires,” Wither said, floating back. “Garlic wards off evil forces.”

“The leggy spider didn't seem to mind garlic,” said Pamela.

“Spiders don't have noses,” said Humphrey.

“Oh yes?” said Wither. “Then how do they smell?”

Humphrey laughed. “Terrible.”

Wither shook his head.

“Don't make jokes about spiders,” said Pamela. “I'm a nervous wreck as it is, and now the house is riddled with garlic.”

“I could tidy it away,” offered Gertrude.

“Tabitha, you could float it out of the window,” said Charlie, adjusting his cuff links.

“They've nailed it to the doors. I'm a poltergeist, not a carpenter. Have they opened any more windows?”

“Only the study window and the lounge,” Charlie said.

“How can the still-alives stand the waft?”

“They've put clothespins on their noses, Tabitha. If only we could do that.”

“We can,” said Gertrude. “I use ghostly clothespins to hang out the ghostly garters. And the spooky bloomers. Oh, and Wither's long johns.”

“Wither's long johns waft almost as much as the garlic,” said Humphrey Bump.

“Don't be mean to my long johns. If I don't wear long johns, my knees knock.”

We floated about by the garden fence for a bit, feeling the breeze blow through our transparent bits. Then Charlie had an idea.

“Our attempt at befriending the still-alives has failed. We need to get them out of the house. The only way to do that is to scare them out.”

“We can't scare the still-alives,” I told him. “We're too friendly.”

Charlie adjusted his hat. “Then there is only one thing for it. We call in a professional.”