Witch Twins and the Ghost of Glenn Bly (6 page)

“Oh, we promise we won’t tell anyone,” said Luna. A secret room! How romantic! “Please, Daphne, will you show us?”

Claire bit her lips to keep silent. By now, both twins knew that Daphne would do a special favor for Luna, but not for Claire.

Daphne hesitated. Then she smiled at Luna. “I suppose it wouldn’t hurt, just this once.”

The staircase was tiny, built during a time when most people were tiny, too. With Daphne in the lead, Luna and Claire followed her up the stairs that got darker, dustier, steeper, and spookier as they climbed.

At the top of the stairs was another narrow door, which Daphne opened using a long key that hung from a nail in the wall. Luna held her breath as she pushed inside, expecting to be stunned by beautiful furnishings and fixtures.

To her surprise, the circle-shaped room was almost empty. Its only light trickled through a domed window that cast a weak light onto its single piece of furniture—a carved wooden table.

Open on the table rested a thick, brittle, crumbly book.

Luna’s shoulders sagged. For so much top secrecy, this room was not very exciting at all.

She could tell her twin felt the same way. “Hmmph. What’s so valuable about some dumb table?” scoffed Claire.

“It’s not the
table
that’s valuable, American Claire. It’s the
book!
” explained Daphne. She walked over to it and smoothed her hand over a page. “This is Glenn Bly’s Book of All Records. It is the history of everything and anything in, on, or around Glenn Bly. Of crops and weather and holidays, of fishing and hunting and hawking seasons, of battles and plagues and droughts. It shows where wells were sunk and ships were wrecked and treasure was buried and thieves were hung. It’s also a record of the births, marriages, and deaths of everyone who ever lived in, or even visited this castle. That book contains over one thousand years’ worth of facts.”

“Crumbs, that’s old-old-old! Can we write our names in it?” asked Claire. She picked up the long quill pen that rested next to the book and eyed the pot of ink. “Even if we don’t live here, we visited Glenn Bly all the way from Philadelphia, U.S.A. That’s more than eight hours in two planes. It should count for something, shouldn’t it?”

“’Fraid not!” Daphne plucked the quill from Claire’s hands. “Visitors haven’t signed this particular book for three hundred years. There’s another guest book downstairs in the front hall, with a regular ink pen, for guests who want to write about the splendid view, or complain about the plumbing. You are free to sign that stupid book. Nobody reads it, anyway.”

Claire snatched the quill back. “But I want to sign this book. Hmm, maybe I’ll ask the Shrillingbirds for permission. Since it
is
the Shrillingbirds’ castle,” she teased.

“Claire’s just making a bad joke,” Luna interrupted quickly, taking the quill from her trouble-making twin and replacing it.

“I know.” Daphne’s chin stayed up, but it trembled. “But let me warn you now, American Claire, for your own good. Writing in the Book of All Records might stir up the wrath of our ghost.” Her eyes darted around the room. “He could be watching us this very minute!”

“Actually, we have good news for you about that ghost, Daphne,” Luna assured. “You don’t have to worry about him anymore. He’s gone.”

“Gone? Gone?” To Luna’s surprise, instead of being joyful, Daphne looked positively devastated. “What do you mean, gone?” she squeaked.

“As in,
See ya.
As in, Good-bye. As in,
Vamoose,
” Claire clarified. “Trust us. Our grandmother is kind of an expert at kicking out ghosts.”

“But if
he’s
gone,” said Daphne slowly, “that means they’ll stay.”

“Who?” asked Luna.

“Why, the
Shrillingbirds,
of course. They want to live at Glenn Bly. Bloatus was our last hope.” Daphne’s face was creased with worry. “He’s been with us forever, always clinking and carrying on. I’ve never minded it. A ghost is a bit like having a mouse in your house.”

“Or a garden gnome,” added Claire.

Daphne nodded. “When Grandpop and I learned that the Shrillingbirds wanted to move here, he promised he’d come up with a plan. A plan to stop Lord and Lady Shrillingbird from wanting to live here.” Daphne sighed. “To tell you the truth, for some reason I thought that perhaps you and your grandparents were part of the plan. But now I see that you’ve done just the opposite. Because if Bloatus is truly
gone,
then Lord and Lady Shrillingbird will take over Glenn Bly and Grandpop and I’ll have to move into a horrid, smelly flat in the city.”

“Cities aren’t horrid and smelly,” countered Clare, “unless it’s garbage night in the middle of August.”

But both twins knew they’d made a mistake.

Grandy shouldn’t have popped the Ghost of Glenn Bly after all. Not if Sir Percival was Mac and Daphne’s only chance of keeping their castle.

“Don’t worry, Daphne,” said Luna. “We can make things right again.”

She wasn’t sure how. But the hope in Daphne’s eyes made Luna resolve to give it her best.

“Girls!” came a shout from far, far below. “Dinner!”

“Already? Oh, no. We haven’t explored the bell tower,” said Luna.

“Another day,” Daphne promised, squeezing her hand.

Closing up the charter room, the threesome ran downstairs to find the Shrillingbirds once again seated at the head and foot of the dining room table. Lady Shrillingbird was dressed in a safari suit, and Lord Shrillingbird was wearing a Hawaiian muumuu.

“Yuck, it’s Luna and Tuna,” squealed Lady Shrillingbird.

“Yuck,” agreed Lord Shrillingbird.

“If you both dislike twins, then your opinions match,” Luna pointed out logically. “And you hate to match, remember?” But of course the Shrillingbirds pretended not to hear her.

“Hello, girls! Sit, sit, sit,” commanded Grandy as she pranced out of the kitchen. A giant cooking pot was tucked under her arm. Her eyes twinkled. “I thought I’d give Mac a night off from the kitchen, so I made my special Thanksgiving vegetarian stew.”

“Ah, delicious!” said Grampy rubbing his hands together.

“Ah, wonderful!” said Mac, rubbing his stomach.

The Shrillingbirds said nothing and rubbed nothing. They simply sniffed suspiciously and held out their bowls.

Luna watched and knew that something more than stew was brewing. For one thing, Grandy only cooked on special occasions.

And it wasn’t like Grandy to forgive the Shrillingbirds for napping in her bed. Or for resisting her best five-star spells.

It did not take long for Luna to figure out what twinkle-eyed Grandy was up to.

A hot-and-cold spell.

A hot-and-cold spell worked like this. Whenever the Shrillingbirds lifted their spoons to their lips, Grandy zapped the temperatures. It wasn’t hard to do. In fact, Luna and Claire had learned hot-and-cold spells last summer. Just a right shoulder roll to go from hot to cold, and a left shoulder roll to go from cold to hot.

Grandy was rolling both her shoulders, double time.

“Is something wrong, Arianna?” Grampy asked Grandy politely.

“Not at all, Fred. I must have pulled a muscle playing golf,” Grandy lied.

“Ouch, ouch, ouch!” gasped Lord Shrillingbird. “This stew is burning my mouth!”

“Ooh-ooh-ooh!” choked Lady Shrillingbird. “Whatever do you mean? It tastes like ice!”

“That’s odd,” said Mac, “because my stew is a perfect temperature.”

“Mine, too,” agreed everyone else.

Everyone except Daphne. She hardly touched her dinner. Her face dragged so low it nearly rested on the table.

Still brooding about poor popped Percival, Luna figured.

“When I move into Glenn Bly I’m hiring a
professional
chef,” said Lady Shrillingbird, throwing Grandy a dirty look and pushing away her bowl of stew. “Somebody who can prepare elegant French cuisine.”

“Or Indian,” said Lord Shrillingbird. “Actually, I prefer Indian cuisine.”

“I prefer French,” said Lady Shrillingbird. “C’est magnifique.”

“I prefer Indian,” argued Lord Shrillingbird. Since he did not know how to say any Indian words, he thumped his fist on the table.

“May I be excused?” asked Daphne. “I’m not feeling well.”

“Certainly, dear,” said Mac.

With a heavy heart, Luna watched Daphne leave the room. Poor Daphne. First an orphan. Now, maybe even homeless, thanks to them.

Grandy could cast all the silly, one-star spells she wanted, but zapping the food was not going to keep the Shrillingbirds out of Glenn Bly.

Grandy needed to be told what was really going on at this now unhaunted, but still very troubled castle.

Luna looked at Claire.

Claire looked at Luna.

Their expressions said everything.

It was time for a midnight meeting.

L
ATER THAT EVENING, THE
twins sent a summons to Grandy in scrambled-letters ink, writing it on a card and slipping it under the Peacock Chamber door.

To a nonwitch, the card would nonsensically read:
I am testing the mud.

But a witch would unscramble and rearrange the letters to find its secret message:

Meet us at midnight.

When the clock struck midnight, all three witches swiftly instaported themselves into Glenn Bly’s library. The library was the best place, because witches ancient and modern have always known to meet in the room that contains the most books.

Grandy looked grim in her official robes. Around her neck hung an imposing gold medal upon which was inscribed:
Seniors Silver Loch Golf Champion.

“Wow! Did you win that medal?” asked Claire, shocked.

“Of course not,” snapped Grandy. “I spell-borrowed it for the night from Hildegarde Bruce, the
real
Seniors Silver Loch Golf champion. I thought it would be inspirational. The power of positive thinking, and all that piffle. Your grandfather and I have one more shot at the title, and I’ve got to feel like a champ. I also need my sleep, so you girls had better have a good reason as to why we’re here.” Grandy flicked her fingers so that a fire roared up in the cold hearth. “By the way, Claire, where is your robe?”

While Luna had remembered hers, and even her garnet one-and-a-half-star pin, Claire had forgotten to pack her special witch robe. So she’d had to make do with her same old Camp Bliss T-shirt over Luna’s thermal long Johns.

“At home,” Claire mumbled. Then she quickly changed the subject. “Grandy, we’ve got a problem.”

Quickly, she explained about the Shrillingbirds’ plans to move into Glenn Bly and how Percival should not have been popped. “So it’s all a big mess,” Claire concluded. “And it’s kind of our fault. What should we do?”

“Yes, yes,” said Grandy. “It
is
a big mess. And it’s all my fault. I just didn’t want to think about it until the golf tournament was over.” She sat back in the armchair, cracking her knuckles. “When Mac wrote that he had a problem with ghosts, he didn’t mean I should pop the one he had. He meant that he was having a problem getting more ghosts to come help haunt. He told me earlier tonight that his intention was to drive off the dratted Spillingbirds. But I couldn’t bear to tell him I had popped his only ghost. And if you pop one, it’s difficult to coax others over, obviously.”

“So what are we going to do, Grandy?”

“Well, I don’t know.” Grandy scowled. “Why is it up to me to solve everything? Besides, advanced-star spells don’t work on that confounding couple. Which means we can’t turn them into dandelions or bread-crumb toppings or goldfish. Or, for that matter, hypnotize them into selling back Glenn Bly. Hmm. If only we knew who used to live in this castle...”

“Why? How would that help?” Claire leaned forward.

“Well,
obviously,
” said Grandy, rolling her eyes, “if we had a record of who used to live here, we could scrounge up a really good ghost. A professional, who is specifically trained to haunt houseguests.”

Claire smiled at her twin as she snapped her fingers. “I’ve got an idea!” She leaped out of her chair and ran to the secret, strawberry-scrolled charter-room door. “Follow me!”

With Grandy and Luna behind her, Claire led the way up-up-up the stairs, and, with a turn of the key, into the charter room.

At midnight, it was dark as the inside of a boot.

Grandy quickly took care of that. “Light, alight!” she commanded, sweeping her finger in a circle. Candles sputtered to life in their sconces. “Well, well, well,” exclaimed Grandy. “What have we here?”

“See that book?” Claire pointed excitedly. “That’s the Book of All Records. The whole history of Glenn Bly is in it. If you need the names of people who’ve lived and died at Glenn Bly, then that’s the book for you!”

She pounced to the table and grabbed the quill pen. Now was her chance to sign her name. She had been itching to write
Ms. Claire Bundkin
in giant cursive letters ever since she first saw the book. She loved-loved-loved the idea of adding her name onto a thousand-year-old page of ancient history.

“Put that pen down, Claire!” hissed Luna, snatching the quill from Claire’s grasp.

“Foiled again,” muttered Claire.

“Hush, girls!” said Grandy. “You’re both so busy squabbling, you didn’t even notice that this room is shaped like a circle!”

“Actually, I noticed,” said Luna.

“And I noticed, too,” said Claire.

“But. Do you know what it means?” asked Grandy.

Both twins shook their heads.

“In past centuries, circular rooms were built specially as meeting places for witches,” said Grandy. “It’s an outdated custom, since circle-shaped rooms proved to be such a pain in the neck to decorate. But witching power lives deep within these walls. Can’t you feel it?”

Claire nodded. She did feel a bit tingly, especially in her spell-casting pinkie finger. At her side, Luna nodded, too.

Now Grandy glided over to examine the Book of All Records.

“Fascinating!” she exclaimed, as she turned the parchment pages. “Aha. Oh, yes. Very interesting.”

“What’s interesting, Grandy?” asked Luna.

“Well, it seems that some of these guests were actually Bramblewine witches. Sophia Spregg Bramblewine visited in 1899. And Eulalie Bramblewine was Glenn Bly’s Witch Laureate in 1731. Do you know what this means, twinsicles?”