Spellbinder (24 page)

Elsie shook her head.

“I don’t think I can,” she said. “I haunt the school—it’s the only place I can go.”

Steve looked at Belladonna doubtfully. “Are you sure about this?”

“Uh-oh,” said Elsie, “nasty-looking alchemist at two o’clock!”

Belladonna and Steve whirled around. There, down the hill, about a hundred meters away, was Dr. Ashe. He was marching purposefully toward them, his Hound by his side and a smirk on his face.

“Huh,” said Steve grimly, “I should’ve known it’d take more than half a ham sandwich to kill anything that size.”

“Come on!” Belladonna turned and led the way back to the entrance of the charnel sprite’s tunnel.

Only it wasn’t there.

She glanced at Steve and they both started digging through the piles of dead leaves that suddenly littered the roots of the great tree.

“It was here, wasn’t it?” asked Belladonna, a note of panic creeping into her voice. “I thought it was here.”

“It was,” said Steve.

“Well, it isn’t there now,” said Elsie, jumping down, “and Ashe is getting closer. I suggest running.”

They hesitated for a second and then took to their heels, racing up the street, away from Ashe. They ducked down a side street and stopped for a moment.

“Where are we going?” asked Steve. “We can’t just run.”

“The graveyard,” suggested Belladonna. “The one near my house.”

“Why?”

“The tunnel,” she said, taking off again and doubling back, “the one that leads to the charnel sprite’s cave.”

“But that’s where you came from,” said Elsie, “and you ended up under the tree.”

Steve nodded. “If that end of the tunnel is gone, why on earth would the other end still be there?”

“I don’t know, but it’s all I can think of!”

They were at the bottom of the hill now, near the old theatre. Steve darted down the alley and peeked out into the street. He ran back and urged them forward.

“He’s coming this way,” he said. “Let’s go.”

Belladonna led the way, but it wasn’t long before her ordeal in the tunnel started catching up with her—she was gasping for breath, her ears were ringing, and the darkness seemed to be closing in again. They ran down street after street, places that in the Land of the Living were as familiar to Belladonna as her own back garden. But this wasn’t the Land of the Living—it was the Land of the Dead. What if the graveyard wasn’t even there? Why should it be? Everyone here was already dead, after all. Steve reached out as she stumbled and helped her keep going, but it seemed hopeless.

“I don’t think I can . . .” she gasped.

“Wait a minute,” said Steve. “Isn’t this Yarrow Street where your grandmother lives?”

Belladonna nodded. “Number 3. On the end.”

“We’re there.”

Belladonna looked up. Sure enough, there was the familiar row of terraced houses; even the fortune-telling sign was there, though for some reason the door was painted a different color.

“Maybe we could hide in there. Just till you feel better.”

Belladonna hesitated. Her hair was sticking to her face with sweat, but she was beginning to feel better again. Then she saw Ashe, off in the distance, marching with the unhurried confidence of someone who knows that his quarry cannot escape.

“Yes,” she said, “come on.”

Steve and Elsie helped her up the steps and Steve turned the doorknob.

“It’s locked!”

He peered through the narrow windows on either side of the door.

“Why on earth would it be locked? It’s the Land of the Dead! Who’s going to steal anything? This is so—”

He was still peering through the windows when the door was suddenly flung open. An elderly man stood in the doorway.

“Get inside!” he ordered. “Quickly!”

Belladonna stared at him.

“Quickly!” he repeated.

She lurched forward and ran inside, followed by Elsie and a completely flummoxed Steve. As soon as they were across the threshold, the man slammed the door shut.

“Kitchen,” he said, sticking an unlit pipe into his mouth. “Tea, I think.”

And with that, he marched into the kitchen, leaving Belladonna, Steve, and Elsie standing in the hall with their respective mouths hanging open.

“Who is that?” hissed Steve.

“And why is he still here?” whispered Elsie.

“I think we should go,” said Steve. “He could be another one of Ashe’s helpers. This could be a trap.”

Belladonna bit her lower lip. “No,” she said, “I think we should stay.”

Steve and Elsie looked at each other and then at Belladonna.

“Why?” they asked in unison.

“I think he might be my grandfather.”

“Might?” said Steve. “Don’t you know what your own grandfather looks like?”

“He died when I was a baby.”

“Oh. Sorry.”

Belladonna smiled and walked back to the kitchen, trying to remember the face in the picture on the mantelpiece in the living room at home. It was a small, faded snapshot of an elderly man at the seaside hoisting a baby up into the air. He had a mustache, she remembered that, and a rather baggy cardigan. But . . .

He clanked around with the kettle while Belladonna, Steve, and Elsie hung back by the door. The kitchen was far too small to accommodate all of them.

“I’ve got a cream cake here,” he said, removing a packaged cake from the fridge, “just . . . you know . . . if you’re hungry.”

Belladonna felt she should say something, but before she could decide exactly what that should be, the man’s expression changed and he eyed her narrowly.

“Wait,” he said. “You’re alive.”

Belladonna nodded.

“And you,” he added, looking at Steve.

“Not me, though!” said Elsie cheerily. “Dead as a doornail.”

“What is . . . what is your name?” asked Belladonna.

“Oh! Rude of me,” he said, holding out a thin, muscular hand. “Phil. Phil Johnson.”

Belladonna shook his hand and peered into his face. “I think you might be my grandfather.”

The old man stared at her but didn’t let go of her hand.

“Belladonna?” he said at last, his voice cracking slightly. “Are you Belladonna?”

She nodded, and in an instant he scooped her up into his arms with a hearty yell. “Belladonna! As I live and breathe! Or, well, actually, I don’t . . . but . . . Ha!”

Belladonna gasped and then grinned. It had never occurred to her that they could touch, but of course why shouldn’t they? This was their world, the Land of the Dead, and they lived here just as they had when they were alive. At home, her parents were little more than shadows, but here . . . her stomach did a little flip . . . here she might be able to hug them again. And they could hug her back. If she ever found them.

“Um . . . sorry to interrupt,” said Steve, a little embarrassed at all the emoting going on. “But what about Ashe? He’ll be here any minute.”

“Oh, I imagine he’s here already,” said Grandpa Johnson as he put Belladonna back on the floor. “Have a look.”

Steve and Elsie glanced at each other and ran to the front room. They were back a moment later.

“He’s just standing there,” said Steve. “On the path in front.”

“And look!” Elsie ran to the kitchen window. “There’s the Hound!”

Belladonna spun around. Sure enough, Ashe’s Hound was standing there, right in the middle of the back garden, its mouth slightly open, showing a fine set of really big teeth and drooling slowly onto a patch of lawn.

“Why don’t they come in?” she asked.

“Witch bottles,” said her grandfather cryptically. “Now . . . let’s get into the back room. I’ve got a nice fire going and we can sit down and make ourselves comfortable. No tea and cake for you or your friend, I’m afraid. But you, young lady—”

“Elsie. I’m Elsie. And, yes, please! One sugar.”

Steve plonked himself into one of the chairs in front of the fire and sighed, “I’m starving.”

Belladonna sat down and nodded, then suddenly jumped up again and opened her backpack.

“I nearly forgot! Sandwiches! I made sandwiches!”

She pulled one of the packets of sandwiches out.

“I made two,” she explained, sharing it out, “but I think we should save one for later. Just in case.”

Steve wasn’t listening; he just grabbed his half of the sandwich and devoured it hungrily. Elsie carried two mugs of tea in on a tray and Grandpa Johnson handed glasses of water to Steve and Belladonna.

“It’s alright,” he said. “You can drink the water.”

Belladonna looked at the glasses suspiciously. “How do I know you’re really my grandfather?” she asked.

Grandpa Johnson smiled. “Good girl. Never take anything or anyone at face value.”

He leaned over and whispered in her ear. A smile spread across Belladonna’s face. She turned to Steve and Elsie.

“It’s him.”

Steve looked at Elsie and then at the old man, then he picked up the glass of water and drank deeply.

“If you’re dead,” said Elsie, still not satisfied, “why are you still here? All the others have vanished.”

“That’ll be the witch bottles too, I rather imagine.”

“What will?” said Steve. “And what’s a witch bottle?”

“It’s a small bottle, usually blue or green. Ours were green. You put some things inside: hair, a few trinkets, some wine. Then you bury it under the doorstep or in a wall and it stops spirits from entering. Jessie and I made two when we bought this house, just for a laugh, you know. We put one under the front door and one under the back.”

“And that’s why Ashe can’t come in?”

“Yes, you have to be invited, you see. Unfortunately, they work a little differently in the Land of the Living.”

He smiled ruefully and stirred the sugar in his mug slowly.

“In what way?” asked Belladonna.

“They keep spirits out. All of them.”

Belladonna looked at him for a moment, then the
penny dropped. “Ohhhh! That’s why there are no ghosts at Grandma’s house!”

Grandpa Johnson nodded. “So I’ve never been able to visit. I couldn’t let her know that everything was alright.”

“But she knows,” said Belladonna. “Mum and Dad, they . . .”

“I know, I know,” he said, patting her hand. “But it would’ve been nice to talk.”

“Well . . . hang on,” Steve leaned forward. “If no ghosts can appear in your grandmother’s house, how can she have séances? I mean, that’s her main business, isn’t it?”

“Duh,” said Belladonna, rolling her eyes. “She does it the same way everyone else does, of course. She makes it up as she goes along.”

“You’re kidding.”

Belladonna and Grandpa Johnson shook their heads slowly. Steve looked from one to the other, then burst out laughing.

“That’s brilliant!”

“Well, it would be if I hadn’t picked that house to haunt. It never occurred to me back then that the witch bottles did anything. It was just a bit of fun. But we only get to have one place to haunt, you see, so naturally I picked this house. I thought Jessie and I could just carry on. But I can’t get through.”

“I picked the school,” said Elsie proudly.

“You’re just weird,” said Steve.

“Would you like us to dig up the witch bottles?” asked Belladonna. “When we get . . . I mean, if—”

“A week ago I would have said yes,” said her grandfather, “but I think they’re the only things that have saved me from whatever’s happened to everyone else. And in any case, I send her dreams as often as I can.”

“You mean it’s true?” asked Belladonna. “Ghosts really do send dreams to the Living?”

“How?” asked Steve skeptically.

“There’s an alabaster doorway, a door frame, in the House of Mists and a chair. They’re both very old. Anyway, you just sit in the chair and . . . I don’t claim to know how it works, but you can send messages, memories, dreams to whoever you like. Once you get the hang of it, they give you an alabaster bowl to keep at home and you can use that. I’ve got one in the front room but, of course, it won’t work from here so I always have to go to the House of Mists.”

“Who’s ‘they’?” asked Steve, still suspicious. “And what’s the House of Mists?”

“The Conclave of Shadow,” said Belladonna.

“Yes!” said her grandfather, surprised. “How did—”

“Grandma mentioned them.”

“It sounds very ominous,” said Grandpa Johnson, “but it’s just a collection of the older ghosts. Truth be told, they never really had much to do. Until recently.”

His attention seemed to wander and he began stirring his tea in an absentminded way.

“What changed?” asked Steve.

“Um . . .” Grandpa Johnson squinted at Steve. “I don’t think I got your name. . . .”

“Oh, sorry,” said Belladonna. “This is Steve. Steve Evans.”

“Really? Any relation to Roger Evans?”

“Who?”

“Young chap. Died in the First World War, I think.”

Steve shrugged, “Dunno. Anyway, what changed?”

“Oh, well . . . the bowls stopped working. That was the first thing. Everyone had to go up to the House of Mists to send their dreams. You should have seen the lines! Chaos! Then sometimes instead of the dreams going through from here to . . . you know, wherever . . . things started coming through the door from other places to here. Well, it simply wasn’t designed to work that way. The Conclave appointed a commission to research the door, to see if it had ever happened before.”

“Why didn’t they stop people using it?” asked Steve.

“They couldn’t—the Living have to have their dreams.”

“Gran said that we die without dreams. And Aunt Deirdre—”

“Oh, she’s showed up, has she?” said Grandpa Johnson, clearly unimpressed. “Well, she’s right. Without dreams, you don’t sleep properly and if you don’t sleep properly, eventually . . . well . . .”

“What’s the House of Mists?” said Steve.

“It’s a big house,” said Elsie.

“No? Really?” said Steve sarcastically. “What’s it for?”

“Don’t know,” shrugged Elsie. “It’s big, though. Very impressive . . . and the gardens are the cat’s meow.”

“It’s for government,” said Grandpa Johnson, sensing Steve’s irritation, “not that we need much, but disputes occasionally arise. There is a library housing all the records of the Shadow Lands, of course.”

“The Shadow Lands?”

“That’s where we are. You call it the Land of the Dead. There are feasting rooms on the third floor—the Vikings are very fond of those. And the Dream Door is there. In a room on the ground floor, just to the right as you go in.”