Ghosthunters and the Muddy Monster of Doom!

  Ghosthunters

  and the

  Muddy

  Monster

  of

  Doom!

  by CORNELIA FUNKE

  Chicken House

  For

  Elmar,

  Andre,

  and

  Henri

  Contents

  Cover

  Title Page

  1. An Easy TasK

  2. The Village in the Fog

  3. Hornheaver

  4. Ghostly Visit

  5. The Twelfth Messenger

  6. Suspicious Holes

  7. A Bad Suspicion

  8. A Daring Plan

  9. The Ghosts’ Cave

  10. The Breath of Death

  11. Blood and a Sharp Blade

  12. The Zargoroth

  13. Revenge Tastes Sweet

  In Case of an Encounter

  Indispensable Alphabetical Appendix of Assorted Ghosts

  Miscellaneous Listing of NECESSITOUS EQUIPMENT AND NOTEWORTHY ORGANIZATIONS

  About the Author

  Also by Cornelia Funke

  Copyright

  Let me introduce three of the most successful ghosthunters of our time.

  The trio depicted above are three of the most famous ghosthunters of our time: Hetty Hyssop, Tom, and Hugo, a so-called ASG or Averagely Spooky Ghost. They call themselves Hyssop & Co. – and up until now they’ve successfully completed every one of their missions, though all of them were extremely challenging, even for such experienced ghosthunters as our three friends.

  Their missions included fighting some of the most dangerous ghosts: an IRG (Incredibly Revolting Ghost), who had already deep-frozen a client of theirs; a GILIG (Gruesome Invincible LIghtning Ghost), who had turned several of its victims into Fire Ghosts, before Hyssop & Co. took care of it; and – perhaps their most difficult job – the Totally Moldy Baroness, a particularly vicious HIGA (HIstorical Ghostly Apparition) whom Tom managed to defeat only by risking his own life.

  After this adventure, the threesome had hoped it would be a while before things turned that bad again. But only a few months later they were to discover otherwise. It wasn’t a mission that almost sealed their fate, though: It was Tom’s GhostHunting Diploma (GHD). And the field test didn’t sound too difficult at all….

  One more thing: I would ask all readers who want to devour Hyssop & Co.’s fourth adventure to put it carefully aside when dusk falls. I would also recommend you not to read it in lonely, mist-shrouded places. But enough of this introduction.

  It all began on a Friday in late March. It is well known that fateful events nearly always begin on a Friday….

  1

  Later on, Tom would tell himself that his suspicions should have been aroused when he entered the huge, dimly lit office of Professor Slimeblott. Tom normally had a good nose for imminent danger. But on this occasion it failed him miserably.

  “Sit down, Tom,” said the professor, taking a swig from his coffee mug. Professor Slimeblott had only been on the GhostHunting Association’s Examining Board for a month, and Tom had never met him before.

  “You’re the boy who works with Hetty Hyssop, aren’t you?” he asked.

  Tom nodded. The professor’s eyes were strangely light, almost colorless, like everything else about him. Even his skin was as pale as faded paper, and his sparse hair, combed sideways across his bald head, was the same color as dried-out mud. This guy reminds me of a PAWOG, thought Tom. Exactly the same cold and self-satisfied look.

  PAWOGs (PAle WObbly Ghosts) are best fought off with laughing gas, and Tom had to suppress a grin as he thought of it.

  Slimeblott inspected him with his colorless eyes. “Does Hetty still work with that foolish ASG?” he asked.

  “Of course,” answered Tom, frowning. He didn’t like people insulting his friends. Although it was true that Hugo could be very foolish.

  “Well, I hope that the CEntral COmmission for COmbating Ghosts will put a stop to collaborating with ghosts this year,” said the professor, drumming on the desk with a golden letter opener. “We’re supposed to chase and destroy ghosts: That’s our sole and honorable task. Ghosts are bent on harming humans: They envy us our bodies as well as our poor souls, which they destroy … mutilate … devour.” As he said these last words, the professor’s voice began to tremble, and he thrust the letter opener into his wooden desk with such force that it remained upright. When he noticed Tom’s surprised expression, he quickly put the letter opener to one side, cleared his throat, and took another swig from his coffee mug.

  “Well. Right, then. We’ll leave it there, and move on to your diploma, Tom,” he said. “I must be honest and say that I think you are much too young to be taking final exams. The GhostHunting Diploma is normally earned by very experienced ghosthunters only. And you are, if my information is correct, a mere eleven years old.”

  Tom turned bright red with annoyance. “That’s true,” he said. “But when all’s said and done, it only involves a Danger Category Three ghost.”

  “‘Only.’ Well, well,” said the professor. “You certainly don’t seem to lack self-confidence. You must be aware that this category also includes several extremely dangerous ghosts?”

  “Yes, but they’re not that difficult to fight,” answered Tom. “And anyway, the only thing I haven’t done yet is the field test: identifying and catching an unclassified ghost.”

  It’s always the same! he thought. People discover you’re a bit younger than normal, and they all start acting as if you couldn’t tell the difference between an ASG and an IRG.

  (Gentle reader: ASG = Averagely Spooky Ghost; IRG = Incredibly Revolting Ghost, in case you imprudently skipped the introduction to delve straight into the story.)

  The professor sighed, leaned back in his chair, and allowed his pale gaze to wander along the walls of his office. Much to Tom’s surprise, they weren’t red. Most ghosthunters choose this color because it scares off ghosts. But Slimeblott’s office had dark blue walls. Dozens of framed newspaper clippings hung on them, trumpeting his triumphs in the ghosthunting field.

  “Well, I can see that you are quite determined,” said the professor, letting his gaze wander back to Tom. “Have it your way. Presumably you know the basic rules?”

  For a moment, Tom thought he could see something close to malice in the colorless eyes.

  “Of course,” he answered. “I have to catch the ghost single-handed, but I can choose two, maximum three, helpers to observe it and to lure it in….”

  “One,” the professor corrected him.

  “One?” Tom looked at him, surprised. “I thought—”

  “Well, the examinations board has tightened up the regulations somewhat,” the professor interrupted him. “At my suggestion.”

  Tom just managed to swallow a quiet curse. How was he supposed to explain this to Hugo?

  “And what’s more,” the professor continued with a nasty chuckle, “to fulfill your task, you may only use equipment that is listed in the GhostHUnting GuideLines. Special pastes and invented tools of the kind that our colleague Hyssop likes to use are not allowed. If you rely on those, you will be deemed to have failed.”

  Tom just nodded. He had been expecting this.

  “Good. Now to the task itself.” Professor Slimeblott cleared his throat and opened a slim file. “The ghostly apparition you will be dealing with was reported three days ago in a village named Bogpool, about a hundred miles northeast of here. The owner of the village’s only inn has already been informed that you will be staying there and will need a double room. Here is the full address along with travel directions and a brief summar
y of your mission.”

  The professor handed Tom a sealed envelope bearing the GhostHunting Association’s stamp. Tom scanned the summary:

  YOU MUST SUBMIT THE FOLLOWING TO THE GHOSTHUNTING ASSOCIATION’S EXAMINATIONS BOARD:

  Firstly: a precise report on all the ghostly activity you have observed (two copies, typed).

  Secondly: sound recordings, photos, and/or filmed material of the ghostly apparition (thermospiritist recordings are, of course, permitted).

  Thirdly: the ghostly specimen, captured and unharmed. We recommend that you use a COCOT (COntact-COmpression Trap); using these on Danger Category Three ghosts involves the least risk.

  Tom nodded. As if he needed to have that explained to him. Didn’t this pesky committee realize that, as a member of Hyssop & Co., he’d already caught Category Six ghosts?

  “Anything else?” asked Tom, stuffing the envelope containing his exam task into his backpack.

  “Well, I hope you have a successful hunt,” answered the professor. “Or how do ghosthunters put it? ‘Keep your head, even after midnight.‘”

  There was something about Professor Slimeblott’s voice that Tom didn’t like at all, but before he could give it any further thought, Slimeblott held out his hand to him with a thin laugh.

  The professor’s fingers were almost as cold as Hugo’s.

  “Good luck, Tom!” he said. “And send Hetty Hyssop my regards.”

  “Will do,” replied Tom, and shook the chalk-white hand as firmly as possible. “I’d estimate I’ll have it all wrapped up by the end of next week.”

  “Oh yes?” said Slimeblott. “You really are a quick worker, aren’t you, Tom?” Then he smiled again. And Tom noticed that even the professor’s lips were completely colorless.

  2

  Hugo turned as green as moldy bread when Tom told him that he and Hetty Hyssop would be going to Bogpool alone.

  “So, soooooooo. They only alloooow one helper!” he breathed, folding his arms across his pale chest. “Well, then, leave Hetty here.”

  “Oh, right, so you’re going to drive me to this village, are you?” Tom retorted crossly.

  Hugo wrinkled up his big white nose. “Car? Pah! Whooooo needs a car? Weeeee’ll fly!”

  “No!” Tom said firmly. “No, not again. Out of the question.”

  Hugo had already carried him over roofs and the tops of trees, and the speed at which the ASG traveled always took Tom’s breath away.

  “And anyway,” Tom added, “Hetty can help me with my report. The best you’d manage would be to make my computer keyboard all slimy.”

  He shouldn’t have said that. Hugo angrily blew his moldy breath into Tom’s face — and vanished through the wall. Later that evening, when Tom went to pack his backpack for the journey, he plunged his hand into greeny-yellow, disgustingly sticky ASG slime.

  Having a ghost for a friend really could be exhausting at times.

  The next day, Hetty Hyssop picked up Tom bang on time at five-thirty in the afternoon. They wanted to arrive at Bogpool at night, so that Tom wouldn’t have to wait too long to see a ghost. When all’s said and done, ninety-six percent of ghostly apparitions appear only when it’s dark.

  “I think you’ve got your diploma pretty much in the bag already,” said Hetty Hyssop as they drove down an infinitely long, infinitely straight country road. “Danger Category Three ghosts are sometimes inclined to play hideous tricks, but they shouldn’t be a problem for a ghosthunter with your experience.”

  “That’s what I figure, too,” muttered Tom, fishing a dinner roll out of his backpack. He wasn’t hungry, but every experienced ghosthunter has something to eat before getting down to work. There are some things you can withstand better if you have a full stomach — that dreadful prickling, for example, that you feel when ghosts float through you. (The smaller SWig Ghosts particularly like doing this.)

  “What bothers me the most is having to type up the report,” said Tom, biting into his roll with no enthusiasm. “And Hugo … he really was pretty offended about not being allowed to come with us.”

  “Oh well. ASGs are permanently offended,” Hetty Hyssop replied. “You should know that by now.”

  “True,” said Tom, brushing a couple of crumbs off his pants. The last time he’d quarreled with the ASG, Hugo had been offended for thirteen days and had howled outside Tom’s window every night.

  “Maybe I could bring something back for him,” murmured Tom. “But what do you give a ghost?”

  Thoughtfully, he looked out the car window. The landscape was gray and monotonous. The sky above the bare fields was full of heavy clouds, and there wasn’t a house to be seen for miles. The pallid gray ponds reflected the bare trees, and there was no hint of spring in the air even though it was already the end of March.

  “When I look at this area, it seems to me that you’re likely to be dealing with a BOSG or a FOFIFO,” said Hetty Hyssop.

  “Very likely,” said Tom. “They often do their haunting in dismal, damp places like this.”

  (Gentle reader: BOSG = BOg and Swamp Ghost. FOFIFO = FOggy FIgure FOrmer.)

  Hetty Hyssop steered around a huge puddle in the road. “Who assigned you this mission?” she asked. “Professor Eatitall?”

  A solitary church steeple appeared on the horizon.

  Tom shook his head. “No. This guy’s new to the examinations board. He’s a nasty piece of work: Professor Slimeblott.”

  Hetty Hyssop swung around to Tom so abruptly that she almost ran into a road sign. Just in time, she stepped on the brake. “Slimeblott?” she asked, steering her old sedan to the curb. “Lotan Slimeblott?”

  “No idea what his first name is,” answered Tom, looking at her in surprise. “What’s wrong with him?”

  Hetty Hyssop kneaded the tip of her nose. Then she shook her head and restarted the engine. “Oh well!” she said. “I’m sure it doesn’t mean anything. All that business was many years ago, after all.”

  “What business?” asked Tom.

  “Oh, Slimeblott and I once had a terrible row about fighting SLUrp Ghosts. He was absolutely desperate to prove to me how effective his method was. But the ghost he picked a quarrel with would have slurped him up like a cup of cold coffee if I hadn’t intervened. Slimeblott took it pretty badly.”

  “Well, that’s pretty ungrateful,” said Tom — and had to grin. “The professor doesn’t look much like coffee,” he remarked. “More like a glass of skim milk.”

  Hetty Hyssop laughed pointedly. “Well, you know what encountering a Slurper can do to you. Some victims are as white as paper tissues for the rest of their lives. Gracious! Seeing your dinner roll really makes me feel hungry. With a bit of luck, Slimeblott will have booked us into an inn where we can get something decent to eat.”

  Dusk was already falling when they reached Bogpool. The streets were shrouded in fog and the first houses in the village emerged like shadows from the mist. Bogpool was an old village, so old that it felt to Tom as if the fog had once swallowed it up and then spat it out again from some bygone era.

  A narrow cobbled street led directly to the big church. It stood in the middle of the village, surrounded by an empty square with houses crowding around it as if they were seeking protection in the shadow of the huge steeple. Only very few lights were on.

  “Not very inviting, is it?” Tom remarked as Hetty Hyssop parked her car opposite the church.

  Shivering, they got out of the car and looked around them. The place was completely silent, as if it were deserted. Not even a stray cat moved amongst the houses.

  “I can just imagine what Hugo would say now,” said Tom. “Ooooooh, what a wonderfuuuul place to go spooooooking!”

  Hetty Hyssop smiled. “Very likely. What was the address of that inn again?”

  Tom strolled to the trunk of the car. “I’ll have a look,” he said.

  The sky was becoming darker and darker, and above the houses the fog merged with the smoke that rose from the chimneys. Well, this is
ghostly weather and a half! thought Tom, reaching for the handle of the car trunk. His fingers got stuck on it — and he immediately knew what that meant.

  Angrily he wrenched the trunk open. “Come out!” he cried. “Come on out, you devious slimy creep of an ASG!”

  A pale hand cautiously slid its way up between the suitcases. “OK, OK!” breathed Hugo. “Iiiiiii’m cooooooming.”

  “Thank your lucky stars I’ve not got any eggs on me!” shouted Tom. “But I’m sure I’ll find a bit of salt, you —”

  Hugo’s hand vanished back between the suitcases with a jerk. “Eggs! Salt!” he grouched in a muffled voice. “Is that any way to greeeeeet yoooour friends?”

  (For the information of readers with no experience of ghosts: Salt is almost as painful to ASGs as hydrochloric acid is to human skin.)

  “Come on out, you silly old ASG,” said Hetty Hyssop, coming to stand next to Tom. “Tom doesn’t mean it.”

  “Oh no?” cried Tom angrily. “If that Slimeblott finds out I’ve had two helpers with me, I can forget all about my diploma!”

  “OK, OK! Iiiii won’t lift an icy finger tooooo help yoooooou!” moaned Hugo, floating out of his hiding place. “Ghost’s unholy honor!” Tom turned his back on him contemptuously. Cursing, he opened his sticky suitcase and fished out the envelope Professor Slimeblott had given him.

  “Three Old Village Street,” read Hetty Hyssop, looking around. “That’s presumably just behind there.” She turned to go, pulling Hugo along with her, but Tom didn’t follow.

  “Wait a sec,” he answered. “I’ll just have a quick look at the church. Looks like a place that might appeal to ghosts.”

  “Yes, I thought so, too,” said Hetty Hyssop, staring up at the heavy steeple. The big hand on the clock was just coming up to the twelve. They could hear it clicking from down on the ground.

  “It doesn’t smell gooooood!” breathed Hugo, floating to Tom’s side. “Oh no. Not gooooood at all!”