Ghosthunters and the Totally Moldy Baroness!, Page 3

  “Giiiiive me the boooook!” she cried threateningly, and her pale hand reached through the air.

  Whimpering, Mr. Worm cowered on the floor. Tom, though, quickly jumped up and threw salt into the ghostly horse’s nostrils.

  “You’re not having the book!” he cried. “Forget about it!”

  Hetty Hyssop was on her feet as well. She rammed the metal spike of the Heat-Intensifying Device into the floor and grabbed the cable from her shoulder, while Tom threw more salt at the terrible horse. Then Hetty twirled the cable above her head like a lasso and, with a sure hand, threw the plug right into the Baroness’s mouth. Shocked, the dreadful ghost shut her mouth, opened it again, and tried to spit out the plug. But she simply couldn’t manage it.

  The library became warmer and warmer and warmer. The spike began to glow red. The Baroness and her horse wavered, their silhouettes blurring as if they were made of liquid.

  “Aaaaahhhh!” shrieked the Baroness as her horse reared up beneath her on wobbly legs. “Stooooop, stooooop aaaaat oooonceeeee!”

  But Hetty Hyssop, of course, had no intention of stopping.

  “Doesn’t it taste very nice, Jaspara?” she cried.

  The ghost screeched angrily, wrenched her horse around, spurred him on, and galloped toward one of the windows. With a huge leap, the ghostly horse and its hideous rider sprang through the glass and plunged into the moat.

  Mr. Worm, Tom, and Hetty Hyssop ran to the window just in time to see the ghostly Baroness sinking down into the seething water.

  Tom leaned against the wall with a sigh. “Well, there must be some pretty interesting things about that woman in the book,” he said.

  “Let’s hope so!” Hetty Hyssop replied.

  Mr. Worm was still standing at the window, staring down into the dark water.

  “She’ll be back!” he muttered.

  “No two ways about it!” said Hetty Hyssop. “And all too soon, I fear. Come on, Mr. Worm.” She pulled him gently away from the window. “Let’s go back to your wife. In the armory we can hopefully finish the book about the Baroness in peace.”

  “What was that thing you used to drive her away?” asked Mr. Worm, full of astonishment.

  “Oh, the HID? That’s something I invented myself,” said Hetty Hyssop, hoisting the cable back over her shoulder. “A Heat-Intensifying Device. Takes power away from power-supply-guzzling ghosts and turns it into what they like least of all: warmth.”

  “Quite amazing,” murmured Mr. Worm. “Really, quite astounding.”

  Outside the library door, the floor was covered with slippery wet mud. Tom listened very intently for the sound of clattering hooves making their way back through the dark castle. But all remained silent.

  6

  When Mrs. Worm heard all about the goings-on in the library, she started to hiccup so violently that she had to lie down on the sofa.

  “Shoooooould I scaaaaare her a bit?” breathed Hugo helpfully. “Tickle her with my iiiiiicy fingers, maybeeeee? What doooo yooooou think?”

  “No,” said Tom. “But you can keep your eye on the doors and windows. Who knows when that moldy Baroness will come back.”

  “How booooring!” breathed Hugo. “Noooooobody toooo scare, noooothing to eeeeeat except spiiiiiders!”

  “Now listen to this!” cried Hetty Hyssop. She was sitting by the fire with the fat old book that Jaspara’s ghost had been so keen to snatch from her. “It says here that this ‘Totally Moldy’ Baroness was pushed into the moat at daybreak on her thirty-fifth birthday by her sister-in-law, and that she died an awful death by drowning. Which means…”

  “But that’s — hic.” Mrs. Worm’s face turned bright red. “That’s te — hic — terr — hic…”

  “Terrible? Oh, I think she got what she deserved,” said Tom. “But it means that she’s not only a GHADAP but one of the worst kinds, as she was murdered.” He shook his head. “Quite a diabolical combination.”

  “GHADAP?” Mr. Worm asked, and looked at Hetty Hyssop. “You mentioned this before?”

  “GHost with A DArk Past,” explained Tom.

  “GHADAP, dark past.” Mrs. Worm shook her head uncomprehendingly. “What — hic — on earth — hic — does all that mean for us?”

  “Well.” Hetty Hyssop sank down onto the sofa with a sigh. “I think the best way to show you is for Tom to turn on his computer.”

  “Just doing it,” said Tom, putting his small portable laptop on the table. “Ugh!” he cried. “Hugo, have you been sliming around my computer again?”

  “Ooooooh,” breathed Hugo. “Juuuuuust a bit. Aaaaa little biiiiiit.”

  “If I catch you doing it again, I’m putting salt on it,” scolded Tom. “Got it?”

  “Yeah, yeah,” grumbled Hugo. “You’re sooooooo meeeeeean.”

  Tom threw the napkin that he had used to wipe off the slime at Hugo and lifted up the screen. “Thank goodness the battery’s fully charged,” he said. “Otherwise we would have been up the creek without any power.”

  Quick as lightning, Tom’s fingers darted across the keyboard. RICOG appeared on the small screen.

  FILE A-O. SEARCH TERM: GHADAP.

  “That’s it,” murmured Tom. “Here we go.” The screen instantly filled with text, when he pressed enter.

  “Read it out loud,” said Hetty Hyssop.

  And Tom read:

  GHADAP: GHost with A DArk Past

  The broad category of HIGAs has many subcategories. It is known for a fact that one of these is particularly difficult to fight: the GHADAP. This type of ghost is already known before death for its extraordinarily unpleasant human characteristics, and these are only enhanced in its afterlife. GHADAPs who meet a violent end are particularly nasty. These very unpleasant ghosts possess a hideous body-nabbing capacity, sliding into and taking over living beings. This unappealing process leaves the victim in a state of serious mental confusion, with the unfortunate side effect of violent hiccups that can last up to twenty-four hours.

  Mrs. Worm sighed — amidst two hiccups — and her husband pressed her hand while Tom continued reading.

  Little is known about fighting GHADAPs with body-nabbing capabilities, as each one is so individual that any kind of generalizing would be dangerous when it comes to confronting them.

  However, one thing is certain: We must emphasize that it is only possible to drive GHADAPs out at the hour of their own death. If that information cannot be ascertained, any attempt to get rid of one of these evil ghosts is completely pointless.

  “The hour of death!” cried Mr. Worm. “Well, that’s a stroke of luck. We know when that was. Dawn.”

  “Yeah, but when?” Tom pushed his glasses straight. “In winter or in summer? I mean, that can make a difference of hours. If we don’t know the exact day, it’s as good as no use at all.”

  The Worms looked at each other in dismay.

  “Well, we can worry about that later,” said Hetty Hyssop. “We’ll find out one way or another. For the moment I’d love to know something about the consequences of the Baroness’s damp afterlife. Type in ‘GHADAP’ and ‘death by drowning,’ would you?”

  “No prob,” said Tom.

  The screen filled up again. And Tom read aloud once more:

  GHADAP / MUWAG: MUddy WAters Ghost

  If a ghosthunter comes to a haunted place and discovers mysterious mud trails, this may very well mean that he is dealing with a MUWAG — a GHADAP who met a violent end in the water. The MUWAG is the most dangerous subspecies of the GHADAPs, as it not only — like all forms of HIGAs — sucks electric power but can draw it from all kinds of sources: plugs, cables, electrical devices, even batteries! Thanks to its energy-packed diet, a MUWAG can become so powerful that it is able to turn its opponents to liquid merely by touching them, and — this is particularly horrific — it usually takes great delight from slurping up the puddle left by its victims. By doing so it becomes even stronger.

  “But that’s vile!” cried Mr. Worm. “Simply vile! T
hank goodness we’ve switched off this monster’s power supply.”

  “Hang on a mo',” said Tom. “Just a minute.” He frowned. “My computer battery is ghost-proofed, and so’s our car battery. But I hope you haven’t got any battery supplies anywhere?”

  The Worms turned deathly pale.

  “Y — y — y — y — yes we have!” stammered Mr. Worm. “In what used to be the stables, there are the Baron’s cars, all with brand-new batteries. I checked them only last week. The Baron collects vintage cars, you see, and he insists that they’re always ready to drive.”

  Hetty Hyssop and Tom exchanged alarmed looks.

  “Car batteries!” Tom groaned. “How many?”

  “Five,” replied Mr. Worm.

  “Five!” Hetty Hyssop shook her head in consternation. “Oh my goodness. Where are these stables?”

  “In the west — hic — wing of the castle,” said Mrs. Worm. “Where the — hic — horses used to be. The drawbridge — hic — had to be strengthened for the cars.” She looked at the ghosthunters in horror. “Oh dear, you don’t think…”

  “Yes, I most certainly do!” Hetty Hyssop sprang from the sofa. “If we don’t all want to end up as puddles to be slurped up by the Baroness, we’ve got to check out the cars as quickly as possible!”

  “We’re coming, too,” said Mr. Worm. “Aren’t we, my darling?”

  Mrs. Worm readjusted her hair ribbon. “Abso — hic — lutely.”

  “I’m not sure that’s such a good idea,” Tom objected. “What if the Baroness has also remembered about the cars and is waiting for us outside, completely stuffed full of current?”

  “And what if — hic — she’s here in the castle,” asked Mrs. Worm, her voice trembling, “and appears as soon as you’re — hic — outside?”

  “Hugo can stay behind again to protect you,” suggested Tom.

  The Worms gave Hugo a suspicious look — though he didn’t remotely notice because he was busy snuffling around in Tom’s backpack.

  “Oh please, we — hic — really would love to come with you!” cried Mrs. Worm. “I don’t — hic — want to be body-nabbed again.”

  “All right.” Hetty Hyssop shrugged her shoulders. “If that’s what you want. But in that case I must ask you to wear rubber boots and rubber gloves. They might help protect you somewhat if the Baroness touches you. And there’s one more thing: If we encounter the Baroness and she’s already sucked up the batteries…”

  The Worms looked at her, their eyes wide with fear.

  “… then run,” said Tom. “Run as fast as you can, and run in zigzags.…”

  “Like a haaaaaare,” breathed Hugo, disappearing up to his hips in Tom’s backpack.

  “Yes, dart sideways like a hare.” Hetty Hyssop nodded. “That usually confuses ghosts — though this one was a skilled huntress. But usually, if you keep changing direction, they start trembling like…”

  “…like a bowl of jelly,” said Tom, grinning. “In which case we could try to draw the current off her again.”

  He looked inquiringly at Hetty.

  “What do you think about taking the ghost whistle with us, just to be on the safe side?”

  Hetty Hyssop nodded again. “It won’t do any harm. So, let’s go. Every minute is precious.”

  “And what about you, Hugo?” Tom closed his computer. “Do you want to hold down the fort here, or do you want to come with us? Hugo?”

  There was no answer from the ASG.

  “Oh curses, where’s he got to now?” Tom looked around, annoyed.

  “I think he’s disappeared inside your backpack,” said Mr. Worm.

  “In my backpack? Oh.” Tom grinned. “Well, he’s bound to be straight out again.”

  The next moment, Hugo shot out of the backpack like a moldy green rocket.

  “Aaaaaarrrrrgggghhh!” he screeched. “Tiiiiiiny Biiiiiting Ghosts! Viiiile, stiiiinkiing, meeeeean TIBIGs! They biiit my finger!”

  “I’d nearly forgotten about them,” said Tom, laughing. “I’ll take them with me, in any case. They might still come in handy. If the Baroness screeches half as loudly as you, I’ll be pretty happy.”

  “Very fuuuuunny,” breathed Hugo, offended, sucking at his fingers. “Absoluuuutely hilariiiiouuuus!”

  7

  Hugo came with them. And so it was all five of the party that ventured out into the castle courtyard. The day had turned to pitch-black night. The heavy rain had turned to snow, and the flakes fell damp and cold from the dark sky, covering everything.

  “Ooooooooooooooohhh!” howled Hugo. “How woooonderful. Snoooooow! It’s like beeeeing in a cellar. Wooooonderful!”

  “That’s all we need!” groaned Tom. “Real ghost weather! The moldy Baroness will be chuffed to bits, won’t she?”

  Hetty Hyssop nodded. “Yes, the snow definitely works for her, but on the other hand it will be very easy in all this whiteness to see any trace of mud she leaves behind.”

  Mr. Worm led the way with his lantern. Mrs. Worm trotted beside him, then came Tom and Hetty Hyssop, salt water and GIHUFO seismograph at the ready. Hugo sometimes wobbled ahead of, sometimes behind the little group. With relish, he let the snow fall gently into his mouth.

  “The stables are in the west wing!” whispered Mr. Worm. “Just by the castle’s outside wall.”

  “So what’s that on the other side?” Tom pointed to the east wing of the castle.

  “That’s the chapel,” said Mrs. Worm. “The chapel — hic — of the Gloomstones, with the family crypt.”

  “The family crypt?” asked Hetty Hyssop. “There’s a family crypt here? That’s very interesting!”

  “The date of Jaspara’s death!” cried Tom.

  Mr. Worm slapped himself on the forehead. “Of course! Why didn’t I think of it earlier? What an idiot!” He almost tripped over his feet with agitation.

  “Chapel, crypt,” murmured Hugo. “Viiiile places, quiiiite viiiile places.”

  “Yeah, yeah, I know,” said Tom. “Graveyards, crypts, chapels… most ghosts don’t like those sorts of places, though everybody believes they do. We most probably won’t bump into the Baroness there!”

  When they finally reached the old stables, which were now the Baron’s garage, both Tom and Hetty Hyssop looked around carefully, but there was nothing suspicious to be seen or heard. And the GIHUFO seismograph didn’t utter a peep.

  “Mr. Worm,” said Hetty Hyssop, “I suggest you and your wife take care of the car batteries. But whatever you do, don’t take them with you, as that would lure the Baroness in your direction. Just pour this solution on them. That’ll make them inedible to ghosts for a while. Here’s a walkie-talkie, as well.” She passed the radio to the Worms along with two little bottles. “Hugo, you stay with the pair of them, and howl down the walkie-talkie as soon as you smell anything ghostlike. Then we’ll be with you right away.”

  “Yeah, yeah,” breathed Hugo. “Iiiii’ll doooo it. Though I woooould liiiiike tooooo get tooooo know the Baroness a bit better. Her ghooosting skiiill reeeally is quiiite fantaaaastic, and she doesn’t look toooooo bad, eeeeeither, oh nooooo!”

  “The woman is hideous!” said Tom. “So don’t you turn all romantic on us, got it?”

  “Ooooh, but Iiiii’m hideooous, toooooo!” breathed Hugo. “That woooooouldn’t booooother meeeee.”

  Tom rolled his eyes. “Great! You sound positively in love! In love with a goggle-eyed monster!”

  “Ruuubbish!” Hugo howled and gave Tom an irritated shove in the chest. “What ruuuubbish!”

  Tom laughed so much that his glasses slipped down his nose. “It’ll be hot stuff when you two press your icy fingers together. Know what, Hugo? You should just pay her a couple of ghostly compliments when she appears. Perhaps they’ll make her forget that she wants to turn us into mud puddles and slurp us up, OK?”

  “Very fimuunny!” Hugo blew his moldy breath into Tom’s face. “Absoluuuutely hilariooous!”

  “Oh, stop it, you two,” said Het
ty. “We really don’t have time for that sort of thing. Mr. Worm, have you got the key to the chapel and the crypt?”

  “Of course.” Mr. Worm pulled a huge bunch of keys from his pocket. “It’s that one there, the long ornate one.”

  Hetty Hyssop pocketed it and gave the GIHUFO seismograph to Mr. Worm. “Here,” she said, “in case worse comes to worst. You’re probably best off not relying on Hugo if his head’s all swirling with romance. Come on, Tom.”

  “See you, Hugo!” Tom laughed. “And don’t pine too much for your pinup girl, OK? Otherwise she’ll really appear.”

  “Ha-haaaaaa!” breathed Hugo, throwing a snowball at Tom’s head. Tom shook the snow out of his hair and answered with a snowball through Hugo’s pale chest. Then he hurried after Hetty Hyssop, who was marching across the snow-covered courtyard toward the crypt of the Gloomstones.…

  The snow was already piled so high that their boots disappeared into it up to their ankles and there was nothing to be heard but the crunch of frozen footsteps. Tom let his eyes wander across the dark windows that surrounded them, like he had done upon their arrival, but this time he didn’t sense eyes staring at him.

  “Thank goodness,” he murmured.

  “What?” asked Hetty Hyssop.

  “Oh, nothing,” Tom replied, wiping a couple of snowflakes from his glasses. “I guess it’s that door over there, under the coat of arms.”

  He was right. When Hetty Hyssop turned the key in the lock, the door swung open with a groan, and they found themselves standing in the crypt of the Gloomstones. It smelled of damp stone, candle wax — and mud.