Horror Holiday (9 page)

“Never,” said Mrs St John. “Who’d want strangers poking around when you could have peace and quiet instead? All those ramblers and campers and yompers …” She
was gripping a scone so tightly that it crumbled to pieces. “…trampling my flowerbeds … pitching their tents in my garden …”

Mrs St John looked at the crumbs in her hand and smiled again. “Present company excepted, of course. Silly me, I seem to have broken this scone! Let me fetch another one.”

As Mrs St John went back to the larder, Wilf tapped Maud and pointed to a cupboard at the side of the room. Maud couldn’t work out what he’d noticed. The door was
open very slightly, but not enough to see inside. Then she spotted it. In front of the cupboard, there were a couple of muddy clawprints on the floor, just like the ones they’d been
following.

“It smells just like the Beast’s tracks! Do you think the monster’s in there?” whispered Wilf.

“It can’t be a very big monster if it is,” said Maud. “It looks like there’s barely room for an ironing board.”

Mrs St John came over, plonked a plate of scones and chocolate fingers on the table, and returned to the stove. Maud looked from the cupboard back to the old lady, and all at once an idea
occurred to her.
Could it be?
she wondered.

Maud lifted Quentin out of her pocket.

“I need you to do something,” she whispered. “Run over to that cupboard and open the door.” Quentin glanced at the huge clawprints and leapt straight back into
Maud’s pocket, pink legs kicking frantically.

Maud hauled him out again. “Don’t worry,” she whispered. “I’m sure the monster isn’t in there. I think I might know what’s going on, but I need you to
help me prove it. There’s a piece of scone in it for you.”

Maud lowered Quentin to the floor, and he scuttled across as the kettle let out a high-pitched whistle.

“Do you take sugar?” asked Mrs St John.

“Yes, please,” said Maud. “We’d both like four sugars.”

Wilf turned to her and whispered, “But I don’t usually have any sugar.”

“Just trying to buy Quentin some time,” muttered Maud.

Mrs St John poured four spoons of sugar into each cup and gave them a stir. She ambled over and placed the steaming cups on the table.

At that moment, the cupboard door flew open, and its contents spilled over the floor with a clatter. There was an ornate horn, a pair of strong metal shears, and an enormous cut-out in the shape
of a claw.

Quentin darted back across the floor, scrabbled up the chair leg, and dived into Maud’s pocket.

“Well done, Quent,” said Maud. She broke off a piece of scone and handed it to him, then folded her arms and turned to the old lady. “So, what’s all that stuff doing in
your cupboard, Mrs St John?” she said. “Or should I say … the Beast of Oddington!”

M
rs St John gave a gasp. “I’m sure I don’t know what you mean!” she said, scrabbling around on her hands and knees to scoop
everything back inside the cupboard.

“Don’t give me that,” said Maud. “That’s the very clawprint we’ve been following from our campsite. It’s even got an elastic strap on the back, to put
your foot through. And those shears look exactly the right size to make the scratch marks we’ve seen and slash tyres!”

“Yeah,” said Wilf. “And I don’t even take sugar in my tea.”

Maud wasn’t quite sure why that mattered, but at least Wilf was trying to help.

Giving up, Mrs St John let everything fall to the floor. She got to her feet.

“Alright, I admit it,” she said fiercely. “I am the Beast of Oddington.”

“Ah-hah!” cried Wilf, hopping to his feet. Then a look a confusion crossed his face. “Wait … really?”

“Why do you want everyone to think there’s a monster here?” asked Maud.

“To save Oddington,” said the old woman, gesturing all around her. “This is such a quiet, lovely spot. I don’t want strangers trampling all over it.”

Maud and Wilf gave each other a sidelong glance. Quiet maybe, but lovely?

“What’s it to you if a few harmless ramblers pass through?” asked Maud.

“You don’t understand,” cried Mrs St John. “One day, years ago, some men in hard hats and neon jackets called round here. They showed me some blueprints. Said they were
building a holiday camp with a pool and a spa and an unlimited buffet.”

Mrs St John was spitting the words out, a blue vein on her pale forehead bulging.

“I had to stop them. Oddington has always been such a peaceful place. I couldn’t bear to think about all those loud, chubby families stomping around.”

“There must have been someone you could go to,” said Maud. “My dad launched a petition last year. I think it was to stop the city centre from being pedestrianised.”

“I tried,” said Mrs St John. “I wrote to the council, but they said it was too late. I was about to throw the letter away when I noticed that they’d misspelled my name.
I’m Bea, you see, short for Beatrice. Bea St John. And they’d written ‘Beast John’. At first I thought,
How rude!
But it gave me the idea.”

“But how did you do it?” asked Wilf. “What were all those spooky noises?”

Mrs St John picked up the horn and blew into it. A low howl blasted out.

“I ran around leaving clawprints and blowing the horn whenever the mist came down,” said Mrs St John. “Soon word of the horrendous Beast spread, and all the yompers and campers
stayed away. Even the builders abandoned the place eventually. I listened to the blissful peace and quiet, and I knew I’d done the right thing.”

“It was certainly clever,” said Wilf. “But I don’t think you should have slashed Dad’s tyres.”

The old lady slumped into an armchair and put her head in her hands.

“Please don’t tell anyone,” she pleaded. “All I wanted was to preserve Oddington. Wouldn’t you have done the same to save your home?”

Maud looked out of the window. Oddington was sort of pretty, if you ignored the mist, marshes and dead trees. If they walloped a holiday camp in the middle of it, a coffee shop would soon
follow, then a supermarket, then a bowling alley. Soon it would be concreted over like so many other places, and all the spookiness would be gone forever. She thought about all the crazy things
she’d done to make sure Rotwood stayed safe, and made up her mind.

Just as she was about to speak, Maud spotted movement among the trees outside. She got up and peered out of the window. Penelope and Warren were bumbling through the mist towards the house.

“Alright,” said Maud. “Your secret is safe with us. But you must help us with something.”

Mrs St John looked up. “Anything,” she said. “Anything to keep my home the way it is.”

A
minute later, Maud watched through a crack in the kitchen door as Mrs St John doddered down the hallway and opened the front door.

“Finally,” said Penelope. “Do you know the way back to the clearing? We’re lost.”

“Certainly, dearies,” said Mrs St John. “You walk back that way for …”

Mrs St John looked behind Penelope and let out a terrified gasp. “Oh no! I just saw something in the trees! I think it was the Beast!”

Penelope spun around, her skin turning pale. “What should we do?”

“Come inside,” said Mrs St John, ushering them into the house. “You’ll be safer in here.”

Penelope and Warren darted inside, and Mrs St John slammed the door behind them.

Warren yelped with fear.

“Quiet!” barked Mrs St John. “Don’t let it know you’re afraid. It can smell fear.”

“You don’t think it will attack us, do you?” asked Penelope, her voice trembling.

“Attack you?” said the old lady. “It will do more than that. Last time it came round here it ate three children … whole. Nothing left of them but a pair of trainers and
a sweet wrapper.’

Maud watched Penelope and Warren quaking with fright and tried not to giggle. She lifted the horn to the gap in the door and blew into it.

A deep howl filled the cottage, making the pictures in the hallway rattle.

“Good heavens! It’s in the kitchen!” screamed Mrs St John. “It must have come in through the back door!”

Penelope shrieked, and Warren whimpered.

“Shh!” hissed Mrs St John. “You’ll draw it in here.”

Maud sneaked over to the kitchen table, where she’d stored her scaring equipment. She wrapped the fluffy black bathroom rug around herself and tied it with elastic. She stuck wooden spoons
into the ribbon on Mrs St John’s summer hat and put it on. Then she attached forks to her fingers with rubber bands. Now she couldn’t pick up the horn any more, so she bent down and
grabbed it with her teeth, using her elbows to keep it steady.

She rushed back to the door as Mrs St John surreptitiously flicked the hall lights off.

“The power’s gone!” yelled Mrs St John. “It’s chewed through the cables! Saints preserve us!”

Maud flung the door aside, and Penelope and Warren screamed. In the dim light leaking in through the hall window, Maud saw them pressing their backs to the wall.

“It’s the Beast!” shouted Mrs St John. “Look at its fearsome horns!”

Maud waggled her head, making the wooden spoons wobble from side to side.

“Look at its deadly claws!” cried Mrs St John.

Maud shook the forks attached to her fingers.

“Listen to its chilling roar!” said Mrs St John.