Crop circles

"Who is she, Pa? said Tom as he stared through the iron bars of Clear County's only jail cell.
"No idea, son," said his father as he unclipped his gun belt and slung it on the table. "Cricker brought her in."
Cowering in the corner, with her knees clasped to her chest, was a young girl in dirty rags and with a mop of tangled, sandy hair on her head.
When Tom's eyes met hers his body jolted, like a bolt of lightening had just speared him. In his mind's eye he saw his mother mopping his brow when he was sick.
He shook his head.
"Where did he find her?" Tom asked.
"Wandering through one of Hamley's corn field. Damn old coot thought she was making crop circles."
Tom laughed. "Like Mom," he muttered.
"Now, now, Tom, what did I tell you about dragging up the past. It's a whole world of hurt. You've gotta move on. She would have wanted that."
Tom sat back on a wooden bench, unable to take his eyes from the girl.
"I wish you had let me see her, before she died."
"What good would that have done?" said Tom's dad as kicked back and lit a pipe. As ribbons of wispy smoke curled through the air the girl stood up.
She unfurled her body and in doing so her tangled hair blossomed into flowing golden tresses, and her tattered dress burst into a riot of floral colours. As she stepped forward she held her arms out toward Tom.
Mesmermised, Tom walked towards her, drawn in by her angelic form and her soft voice, like a feather on a breeze.
"Goodbye Tom," she said.

The ghostly gravedigger

There was a gravedigger called Jones
who dug holes for skeleton bones
but one spooky dark night
he got quite a fright
when he saw his name on a headstone

Second sight

Gemma fidgeted in the back seat of the car. She peeled off her jacket and unwrapped the scarf from round her neck in the hope of cooling herself from the sudden flush of heat coursing through her body.
"What's wrong?" asked her mother as she turned the car into the driveway of their house.
"It's Jenna. Will you tell her to stay away from the radiator. I'm too hot," said Gemma as she loosened the collar of her shirt.
"What are you talking about, your sister's with your grandmother?"
"I know but she's sat real close to the radiator and it's burning me."
Gemma's mother huffed as she reached for her mobile.
Gemma could hear the melodic beeps ringing out over the muted drawl of the music on the radio.
"You and your sister will be the death of me, you know," said her mother as she waited for call to be answered.
As Gemma sat in the back breathing heavily from the oppressive heat that seemed to engulf her a pungent smell of charred wood drifted across her nose.
"That's strange," said her mother. "There's no answer."
"Does Nanna smoke?" asked Gemma.
"Why do you ask that?" said her mother as she fiddled with the phone.
"Cos I can smell it," she said as the coloured suddenly drained from her mother's face.
"No. She doesn't."

The impossible dream

Every Christmas Eve she sat in front of the Christmas tree staring at the twinkling lights, admiring the coloured baubles.A different colour scheme every year-once red, then green, then purple, then pink and white. Her pilgrimage to the lounge, from the comfort of the attic, had become an annual ritual. She lost count of how many times she'd done it-was it ten, twenty, a hundred years?
Although dazzled by the opulence of the decorations, she wanted nothing more than to taste the mince pie on the plate and the glass of warm milk beside it. She wanted to relish the sweetness of the fruit, the delicate hint of warm spice, the crunch of the shortcrust pastry. She wanted to feel it tickle and tantalise her taste buds and send her gliding round the room on a sugar merry-go-round, before sliding down her throat. If only she could have it.
But alas when she reached out her wispy, white hand it swept clean through the pie, like a drifting mist, for she was nothing more than a forgotten ghost.

Dominic Chiller: Ghost Warrior

They were on the phone again. Dominic Chiller could tell by the tone of his mother's voice. It had a frank, formidable quality, when she was given a new assignment, that belied her gentle nature. But rather than ignore the phone call like he was always told to, Dominic hid at the top of the stairs and eavesdropped over it.
"How many this time?" his mother said. "Ah huh, and what about weaponry? Is it packing anything?...No...And where?...the graveyard?...that's original...Yeah I'm familiar with him. Died in a house fire right?...any casualties so far? No. That's a relief. Okay, give me until Thursday. I'll take care of it."
His mother clicked the phone onto receiver. Dominic trotted down the stairs and casually followed her into the kitchen.
"Was that the Council again?" he asked.
"Oh that, yeah, it was," she said as she flicked the gas stove on and rested a saucepan full of water on top of the flaming ring. "But its nothing that need concern you."
Dominic pulled a chair out from underneath the table and plonked himself down onto it. "You always say that," he huffed as he picked at a splinter of wood sticking up from the surface of the table. "When can I come on a hunt with you?"
"Dominic, we've been over this. Firstly you're too young to be a WAG, and secondly it's far too dangerous."
His mother was a WAG, or Warrior Against Ghosts, one of many recruited across the Britain to rid the land of the scourge of spirits. Ever since the Other Realm became overcrowded the souls of the recently deceased, with nowhere to go, took residence amongst the living.
Over the years their grip on the land was forged on the basis of terror. Fear would drive the living away leaving it free for them. It took the death of a young child called William Blake, at the hands of a poltergeist, to make the British Government take notice. The Ghost Council was then formed with the sole objective of eradicating all unearthly demons.
Dominic knew the history well. He made a point of learning all about it. He wanted nothing more than to fight them to the death.
"So who is it this time? The menace, I mean?" Dominic asked.
His mother raised her eyebrows at him.
"I only want to know. That's all," Dominic said.
"His name is, or I should say was, Eli Dawson," said his mother, reluctantly.
Dominic instantly knew who she was talking about.
"He lived in Carvers Woods," she continued as she poured dried pasta into the bubbling water.
And he was a belligerent character. Eli hated people, especially if they trespassed on his land. It wasn't unusual to hear stories at school of kids being shot at by Eli and his air gun. When news spread that he'd died in a fire after he fell asleep with a lit cigarette in his hand, nobody mourned him.
"And he's at the graveyard?"
"Yes. And soon he'll have Total Awareness."
Dominic knew that was the stage that all WAGs feared. It was the stage when a new spirit realised it possessed powers and capabilities beyond that which it had when it was alive. For Eli Dominic knew this was especially bad. Eli had been house-bound since he was a child, after a car accident left him a paraplegic. Over the years of his incarceration he had become bitter, angry and hostile to anyone he came into contact with, to the point where nurses and health workers refused to go near him. But as a spirit, the ills that had beset him would disappear. He would have full use of his limbs and thus would be able to venture into the neighbouring village of Carstairs.
"So are you going out tonight then?" Dominic asked.
"No, the forecast isn't good tonight. They're predicting an electric storm."
"What a load of hokum," muttered Dominic. He didn't believe the idea that electricity fuelled spirit activity. From all that he had read, opinion across the Ghost Council was divided on the subject. Some believed it was the person's own energy that fuelled their spirit self, not electrically charged air around it.
"What did you say?" asked his mother.
"Nothing, mum," he said as he left the table.
"Don't go anywhere. Dinner will be ready in twenty minutes."
As Dominic climbed the stairs he thought about how much he would like to capture Eli Dawson, to get him back for all the times he'd tormented people he knew. The more he thought about the more he found he was grinding his teeth in anger and frustration. He had the knowledge to take Eli on. He was sure of that. He'd devoted most of his free time to reading about the work of the WAGs and the spirit world.
Before he knew it, Dominic was packing his rucksack with vials of holy water, his Electro Magnetic Pulse scanner, his infra-red goggles and his silver Spirit Leash. He was set and ready and whilst his mother busily prepared his dinner, Dominic climbed out of his bedroom window and shinnied down the drain pipe.
Outside the air was damp. Dominic could smell it. The humidity of the day had charged it. Above him thick charcoal grey clouds swirled, threatening to deposit a hefty deluge at any moment. Dominic knew that he'd have to strike a swift blow to Eli if he was to defeat the spirit before the weather got the better of him.
As he turned the corner of Bleachers which led to the old Church, he could hear Eli. His deep growl of a voice was clearly audible through the whistle of the wind.
Dominic swallowed the lump of apprehension that had risen in his throat and stepped onto the sacred ground of the graveyard. He readied his EMP and swiped the air in front of him with it, searching for Eli. Knowing that the physical make up of spirits differed from one to another heightened his sense of foreboding. If all spirits were visible to humans he'd have been happier, but the reality was that some were invisible to everything but an EMP scanner. But as luck would have it Eli was the kind that manifested as a white, wispy cloud.
As soon as Dominic spotted it he crouched behind a half sunken gravestone and watched. Eli was hovering over a freshly filled burial plot. The mound of earth was still moist. But there was not one bouquet of flowers or wreath to note the interred was missed or indeed remembered.
"That's gotta be Eli's resting place," Dominic muttered to himself.
Eli was as tetchy in death as he was in life. He was punching the mound of earth with his wispy clenched fists, getting more and more frustrated as some blows dislodged soft clumps whilst others didn't. He was on the cusp of Total Awareness, and Dominic knew it.
Dominic felt his heart rate quicken. He had to strike now and quickly before Eli's spirit became too powerful. He delved into his rucksack and unsheathed his Spirit Leash. With a deep breath and a prayer for strength he crept out from behind the gravestone and skulked towards Eli, taking cover behind other gravestones as he went. Eli it seemed was too preoccupied with trying to punch the ground and everything round him to notice Dominic creeping up on him. That suited Dominic. The element of surprise was usually in favour of the spirit, especially if they were the invisible variety.
He uncoiled his leash, ready to whip it out, but as he neared Eli he stepped on a twig. The snap echoed through the silence of the graveyard. Dominic looked up and saw a face like melted wax and two burning red eyes staring back at him. Eli had spotted him. With his ghostly arms outstretched Eli charged for Dominic. Dominic managed only just to leap out of Eli's path, landing heavily on his shoulder against a flat gravestone.
Dominic cried out in pain as he felt the bone crack. With his other arm he pushed himself up to a sitting position just as Eli swept over head, delivering a heavy punch to the side of Dominic's face. Terrified Dominic scrambled to the nearest table grave and hid beneath it and realised in his panic he'd left his leash at the flat gravestone; his only weapon. Defenceless Dominic hoped that Eli couldn't see him but Eli had reached Total Awareness.
A second later the stone Dominic was hiding beneath was lifted and tossed across the graveyard like a frisbee. It smashed against the side of the old church.
"Who are you?" Eli roared.
"Dominic," Dominic replied.
"Why do you come?"
"To...to capture you."
Eli grinned as he hovered above Dominic, showing a mouthful of crabbed ghostly teeth.
"If I had my gun I'd shoot you down, right where you stand," said Eli.
Realising he still had his rucksack, Dominic reached a hand round his back and felt for the vial whilst he kept Eli talking.
"But you don't have your gun," Dominic replied as his fingers clasped around the glass bottle.
"No. But I can still knock you into next week," spat Eli. Just as Eli swept his hand round to punch Dominic, Dominic yanked his hand from his rucksack and threw the contents of the bottle up at Eli's face.
The holy water hissed as it made contact with Eli's form. Eli cried out in pain, swiping his face with his ghostly hands, trying to rid himself of the stinging liquid. In the moment Eli was distracted Dominic scrambled across the damp grass and grasped the handle of his Spirit Leash. But Eli was behind him. A swift kick sent Dominic reeling forward. Dominic cried out in pain once more as pressure on his shoulder inflicted fresh damage to his injury.
Eli's cackle of wickedness echoed round the graveyard. As much as Dominic didn't want to admit defeat, he began to wish he had paid attention to his mother. Perhaps he was to young to become a Warrior. Perhaps he wasn't meant to.
"You kids are all alike," cackled Eli. "Worthless layabouts. No good to man nor beast. You should all be shot."
Eli's ill chosen words rang in Dominic's ears and enraged him. With a sudden thrust of energy, and ignoring the throbbing pain in his shoulder, Dominic released the tail of his leash. It whipped through the air and before Eli could dart out of the way the silvery tail coiled itself round Eli's neck. Eli clawed at the Spirit Leash, trying to pull it from his throat.
Dominic, steadied his catch, holding it firm as Eli squirmed like a freshly caught fish against the leash.
"Whose got ya now?" Dominic cackled.
"Dominic!" screamed a voice from behind him.
Dominic turned to see his mother rushing toward him.
"What are you doing?"
"I caught him, mum. I did it."
"Give me that now," she said, grabbing the Spirit Leash from Dominic's hands. "Do you know how dangerous this is, do you?"

Dominic looked sheepishly at his mother. "Yeah, I suppose," he said as he massaged his shoulder. "But I did it though, mum. I can do it. I'm gonna be a Ghost Warrior. Just you see."

Blue Ten

It had been a week since Thomas's grandparents had passed away and already his dad was clearing out their home. Their furniture had been taken away to a charity auction house, their pictures removed from the walls, their clothes bundled up into cases, and the rest of the old tat that they couldn't help but hoard, like old newspapers, utility bills and instruction manuals to equipment they no longer owned, discarded into twenty black bin bags. A lifetime's collection wiped out in a matter of days. It just didn't seem right to Thomas. But then he'd always loved his grandparents more than his dad did.
Whilst his dad busily emptied the kitchen cabinets, Thomas climbed the stairs to the upper floor and stepped inside the master bedroom. It was completely empty now. Never again would he bounce on top of his grandparents bed of a summer's morning and beg to be taken down to the beach, or spend a cold winter's night huddled under the woollen covers listening to his grandfather's elaborate tales of ghost treasures. Those times were nothing but memories.
Thomas sat down on the threadbare carpet, on the spot where his grandparents's bed used to be and spotted something glinting on the floor by the wall. He reached over and grasped it. It was a tiny old metal music box. The silver had tarnished over time but Thomas discovered, as he wound the handle, that the mechanism still worked. It played 'Clair de lune'.
As the tinkle of the notes played Thomas felt a lump rise in his throat. The sorrow of never again seeing the two people he loved so dearly was too much to bear. A lone tear broke the bank of his eye and trickled down his cheek. As it dripped from his chin onto his hand it gave him a sudden chill and an strange, unprompted image of his grandparent's cat, Jewel ,flashed across his eyes. Jewel was adored by Thomas's grandparents. They paid for him to have a dietician, a personal groomer, a personal trainer and once they even paid to take him on holiday with them. They lavished attention on him just as they lavished it on Thomas. But when Jewel passed away a year ago from old age they were devastated. Unable to bear being apart from Jewel his grandparents had the cat buried in the garden, beneath his favourite rose bush.
"Jewel," Thomas whispered to himself. "I wonder why I thought of him."
No sooner had he said it the handle of the music box began to wind all by itself. Thomas was so taken aback he threw the box to the floor and scrambled back toward the bedroom door. As he sat there trembling from fright the handle stopped turning and the music died.
"What you doin' up there, Thomas?" shouted his dad.
"Nothing. Nothing, dad," Thomas gasped.
When he looked back at the music box on the floor his breath caught in his chest. There wedged beneath it, fluttering in a draft, was a piece of paper that wasn't there before. Thomas crept toward it and gingerly plucked the paper from beneath the box. It was a newspaper cutting, so old the paper had turned a murky yellow colour. The headline read 'Lady De Meirs to give away her fortune'. Thomas's eyes skipped across the text to the photograph. Faded as it was Thomas was able to make out a small woman with white hair that looked like a whipped dollop of cream. She was clutching a black kitten. Thomas squinted at the photograph, trying to make out the detail. He couldn't be sure but something inside him made him think the cat was Jewel. There was certainly a likeness, or as much of one as Thomas could make out given black cats in his opinion all looked the same. But there was something strange about the collar. Thomas had always admired Jewel's collar. It was a tatty leather strap, nothing more, and puckered in places, but Thomas always felt there was something rather magical about it, like the magic belts he'd read about in witch and werewolf legend-belts that magically transformed the wearer into animals when worn. The collar on the cat in the photograph looked almost exactly like Jewel's, distinctive because it was wider than most collars he'd seen on cats. But that didn't answer the question of why was this clipping in the bedroom and where did it come from.
Was someone trying to tell Thomas something? Was this communication from beyond the grave? Was it...his grandparents?
A gust of air suddenly whistled into the bedroom and enveloped Thomas in its warm embrace. He gasped. It was his grandparents. He could feel them, he could even smell them. They were all around him, as though they'd never left, as though they'd never died.
Fear and excitement intermingled within him making his heart beat faster and his breathing become shallow and rapid. He knew what he had to do. He had to get outside.
Whilst his dad heaved the black sacks into the back of his four-wheel drive, Thomas slipped into the back garden. He picked up a shovel resting against the fence and strode across the grass to the row of rose bushes at the back of the garden.
One by one he dug up the earth around each bush in search of the last remains of Jewel. When he drove the shovel into the soft ground beside the last bush he hit something solid. Frantically he clawed at the earth with his fingers, digging up huge lumps until he reached something white. Bones. Thin, but firm, they were definitely that of an animal, Thomas was sure of it. Fortunately he didn't have to desecrate Jewel's resting place as he soon found her smooth skull and beneath it the wide leather strap that was once her collar. He unclipped the fastening and deftly pulled it from the ground. Caked in mud he brushed the leather with his fingers, and felt tiny lumps beneath it, as though something hard was wrapped inside the fold. He grabbed the garden shears and carefully chopped the leather strap into little squares. One by one he peeled each leather square apart and to his utter astonishment found inside them ten gleaming, brilliant blue stones. He placed them in the palm of his hand and held them up to the light, admiring how the sun glinted off their facets. He'd never seen anything quite like it. He dived his free hand inside his jean pocket, pulled out the newspaper clipping and read the article. The last line read 'At the time of going to press the location of the fabled 'blue ten' , the world famous blue diamonds, remains a mystery.'

Herbert in the attic (part 2)

"Are you a ghost?" asked Mia. "Cos I'm not afraid if you are."
"For the longest time I didn't think I was. But I've been here so long now, floating amongst these boxes, I don't think I'm anything else but a ghost."
"How long have you been here?"
"Longer than this house has, that's for sure," said Herbert.
"You mean you were a ghost before this house was built?"
There was a deathly silence and Mia saw Herbert whizz so fast from one end of the attic to the other he left a smoke trail like that of an aeroplane in the sky.
"I take it that means yes," said Mia.
"YES. Yes, yes, yes, yes, yes," spat Herbert. "And if I had been alive this house would have been torn asunder."
"What do you mean?" asked Mia.
"I mean this house is a monstrosity. They demolished my home so they could build this. It's a travesty, is what it is," said Herbert."I'd lived in my home for seventy six years."
Herbert's rant suddenly fell silent and was replaced by the scratching of mice and a sound of Herbert sobbing.
"Brigley Manor," he sniffed. "That was my home. My beautiful old Georgian manor, and now I'm here."
"What's so bad about this house? I like it," said Mia.
"What's bad about it? What's bad about it?" Herbert said as he whizzed about in a fit of anger. "I'm trapped by it that's what. Confined by these walls," he wailed and beat the roof trusses do hard a rain of dust fell on Mia's head.
"Why can't you leave?"
Herbert sighed. "If I knew the answer to that question I wouldn't be here now. But I'm trapped in a place I'm unfamiliar with. You're the first person I've spoken to since then. I don't tend to let people up here."
"So you're the disturbance?" Mia gasped. "I heard the man who sold the house to my mum talk about the previous residents and how none of them ever went up into the attic. No wonder mum didn't want me up here."
Mia looked about at the junk piled up on the floor. "And that also explains why none of this stuff has been touched," she said as she picked up a dusty pocket watch from a open wooden box. "The owners must have decided to leave it rather than face you. You must have really scared them."
"I did nothing more than was required," snipped Herbert. "All I wanted was to be left alone."
"To do what, wallow and be sad all the time," said Mia. "What good has that done you?"
"You're very impertinent, do you know that?"
"I'm only telling the truth."
"Yes well, I'm sure you'd be sad too if you couldn't see to read again."
"Can't see?" asked Mia, surprised. " So you can't see me?"
"No, but I can hear obviously, and I have to say you do sound rather pretty."
Mia chuckled not just at the complement itself but at the way Herbert seemed uncomfortable saying it. She sat herself down on a box, wondering if there was a way she could make Herbert happy.
"What do you look like?" Herbert asked. There was a hopeful lilt to his voice. "Perhaps I could see you in words."
"Well, I have long straight brown hair, tied up in a ponytail at the back, with a fringe. I have green eyes and big ears, like my dad. Mum says I'm short for my age but that doesn't bother me. And I'm nine and three quarters years old. I'll be ten in June."
"A summer child," said Herbert. "I was a summer child too. I remember when I was little my mother used to read to me. She loved to read like I do, or did. She read everything to me, even the newspaper. I tell you I knew more about science and crime and engineering and business than anyone when I was your age."
Mia leapt off her box. "I have the perfect idea, Herbert," she gasped. "I'll read to you."
Herbert flew through the air and stopped just short of her, hovering in the air like a cloud of midge flies. "You'd do that, for me," he said excitedly.
"Of course I would. Although," she said, glancing back at the open hatch to the attic. "I'm not sure I'd get up here. I had to borrow the ladder from our neighbour to get up today, and I accidentally kicked that over. To be honest I don't know how I'm going to get down."
"I think I can help you there," said Herbert as he disappeared and then reappeared at the far end of the attic, behind an old wooden sculpture. An old rope ladder rolled across the loose floorboards as Mia approached him. "You could use that. I could lower it down and let you up and then pull it back up when you leave."
"You can't see but you can move things?" Mia asked.
"I still have energy. Haven't you heard of ghosts moving things?"
Mia raised her eyebrows and thought on Herbert's point. "I suppose you're right. So we have a deal then. You help me get in and out and I'll make you happy again."
"I know you can't see this, but I'm nodding," said Herbert. "Or at least I think I'm nodding."
With that Herbert shifted the rope ladder and let it fall over the edge of the hatch. Mia began to climb down. When she was halfway she looked up and saw the wispy cloud that was Herbert swirl and twist and reanimate itself to form a face. It was full and round, with puffed out cheeks and deep set eyes. The eyes blinked and the mouth curled into a smile.
"Until next time, Mia," he said.
"Until next time," Mia replied.

Herbert in the attic (part 1)

For weeks Mia Lucas felt chills every time she walked past the hatch to the attic. At first they didn't bother her; she thought it was the onset of winter making the house cold. But when her mother insisted the heating was turned on full power Mia sensed something wasn't quite right.
"What's in the attic?" she called out one morning as she stood beneath the hatch.
"I really have no idea Mia," replied her mother from the empty spare room. "Your father and I haven't gotten round to clearing it out. There's far to much to do in every other room."
"Can I go up and look?"
"I don't think that's wise, Mia. We don't have a tall enough ladder and the attic might not have a proper floor."
Mia hung her head and trudged back to her room. She hated being restricted from doing things. But far from sitting on her bed and sulking about it, Mia thought about how she could get up there without anybody knowing. Like streetlights flickering into life at dusk, ideas popped into her head. She leapt off her bed and bounded down the stairs, two at a time.
"Just going outside for a bit," she called out before slamming the front door shut behind her.
The first thing she needed was a ladder. That was easy. Mr Hugsly next door had a very tall set of steps that Mia had seen him use to prune his trees and hedgerows.
"Hi Mr Hugsly," said Mia as she peeped over the privet into Mr Hugsly's front garden.
Mr Hugsly was bent over weeding his bed of pansies. "I recognise that bouncing voice," he said as he sat back on his haunches. "So what do you need from me this time? Binoculars? Wood to make a bird feeder? You know you still have my wife's Wellington boots?"
Mia shied sheepishly and twiddled her hair around her fingers. She remembered the Wellingtons. They were now somewhere beneath Camely Bog. But then if her mother had bought her a pair like she asked she wouldn't have borrowed Mrs Hugsly pair.
"I just wondered...erm...if I could borrow your step ladder?" she asked putting on her most girlish, innocent voice that everyone seemed to melt to.
"Oh, go on then," he replied. "But I'd be grateful if you'd bring it back as I want to clean my gutters tomorrow."
"I will," said Mia, aware that it was unlikely he'd get them back before the end of the week as it rather depended on the rest of her plan.
Mia knew her mother better than her mother knew herself. She was an Art teacher by day and by night she was a slave to her fascination with the strange and usual. All Mia had to do was find something that would occupy her mother for long enough. It wasn't long before Mia found the answer inside the 'What's on' section of the local newspaper.
"Look mum, there's a Witchery tour of the town on tonight. You should go. I know you'd like it," Mia said holding up the paper.
"Mmmm. It does look interesting. And they cover the Camely Trials of 1642," she said as she studied the advertisement.
"I can look after myself now, after all I am twelve," said Mia. "You can trust me!"
Mia gave her mother the toothiest smile she could muster; so wide her lips stuck to her gums.

It was six o'clock when Mia's mother finally clicked the front door shut behind her. Mia peeped through the curtains watching her mother as she walked down the street and disappear round a corner. When she was out of sight Mia set to work. She skidded across the smooth kitchen floor to the back door and grabbed the steps that were leaning against the side of the house. Then she carried them up the stairs and carefully positioned them beneath the hatch. With a deep breath Mia climbed the steps , feeling the air getting cooler with every step. Determinedly she placed her hands on the hatch and pushed it open.
Inside it was dark and dusty and smelt of old books and mouldy wood.
"I should have brought a torch," Mia said as she grabbed a thin cord hanging from one of the rafters. She didn't realise it was a light until she pulled it. Slowly the bulb, swinging from the ceiling, flickered into life, as though it hadn't been turned on in years. "That was fortunate."
Mia looked about the attic. There was definitely a floor, from what she could tell, but there was so much clutter she wasn't sure how much of the attic it covered. There were boxes and chests piled in a higgledy-piggledy fashion, dusty paintings, mirrors strewn with thick cobwebs and piles of newspapers and discarded toys.
"Wow, it's like Aladdin's cave in here," Mia said. But as she hauled herself inside her foot kicked the ladder and with a clatter it tipped over and crashed onto the landing.
She knew that was going to be a problem later but ignored it. She had more important things to do, like investigate this space. Caring little for the presence of spiders and webs and dust, she busily raked through the boxes examining board games, wind up toys, dolls dressed in dirty lace frocks and comics.
But it was a strange whimpering sound and a faint wispy cloud that darted behind boxes that caught Mia's attention.
"Hello," she said. "Is anybody there?"
No reply came.
"If you are there, my name's Mia."
The cloud appeared again from behind a tall mirror. It had no form that Mia could identify, it just looked like floating dust. Then it disappeared. Mia sensed there was something unusual about the attic. She felt it, tickle her skin just like it had done when she lived in an old house in Blakestone; that house had a past too, but that's another story.
"I can sense you, whoever you are. You don't need to be afraid of me. "
"Leave me," a whistly voice said.
"What's your name?"
"Leave me," it said again.
"I'm afraid I can't. I'm trapped up here. The ladder has fallen down. I can't get out," said Mia. "Please tell me who you are. We can be friends."
There was a still silence. Mia scanned the attic trying to locate the wisp.
"Herbert," said the voice.

Walter the dead genius

Walter was Amy's best friend in the whole world. After she met him, when her parents moved to the town of Walcott, they became inseparable-she loved how brainy he was and he loved how vulnerable she was. But nobody else could see Walter. Not even her parents. They thought Walter was an imaginary friend but Amy knew different. He wasn't imaginary at all. He was a ghost. But not the scary kind of ghost. Walter was a friendly genius.
"Class hush now," said Miss Parmeter, Amy's primary teacher. "Today we're discussing the Victorian era. Now who can tell me why it's called the Victorian era?"
As Amy twiddled with her pencil and chewed on her bottom lip, searching her brain for an answer, Walter whispered the answer into her ear.
In an instant she launched her hand into the air and waved it frantically.
"Yes, Amy," Miss Parmeter drawled.
"Because that was when Queen Victoria reigned, from 1837 to 1901," Amy stated, proudly.
"Yes, correct, again."
The rest of the class groaned.

Amy was dazzled by how brainy Walter was and so grateful she came to know him. If it wasn't for him she was sure she would fail everyone of her classes. When she asked him how he came to be so bright Walter shrugged it off as though he wished he wasn't blessed with such a great memory for facts and figures. He didn't care much for education but his brain was like a giant sponge. It sucked up information involuntarily.
"No, I 'ad a different passion when I was alive, really," he said to her one evening. He glided across her room, sat down at her desk and re-tied the laces to his polished ankle boots. Amy was fascinated by the outfit he wore. There was no way a boy nowadays would get away with wearing a sailor suit without being ribbed for it on a daily basis.
"What was that?" Amy asked.
"I woz like a Magpie. I loved shiny fings," he said. "I collected 'em and stashed 'em away, as savin's like, for da future. But dat's why I died. "
"What do you mean?"
"I was caught, robbin' a jewellery shop. I fell on broken glass I smashed from da back door when da coppers were after me. Went an' bled ta death didn't I."
"That was unfortunate," Amy said sorrowfully.
"Yeah well I deserved it I s'pose."
"So where did you stash your loot then?" Amy asked trying to sound curious but not so curious that she would want to steal it herself.
Walter sighed. "I can't remember. Been so long now I forget. But I know it's round 'ere somewhere. Dat's why I can't leave. Not until I've found it."
"You'll just have to start a new collection, Walter," she said as she snuggled down into her duvet.

As the weeks passed Amy continued to baffle the teachers with her astuteness even at subjects that hadn't been taught. Amy was a little concerned at their suspicion but she was having too much fun to quit. So day after day Walter accompanied her to school and hovered by her desk, feeding her answers. The teachers spoke to her parents, during parents evening, about Amy's prodigious abilities but her mother had things on her mind that were infinitely more important to her.
"Amy, have you seen your grandmother's watch?" her mother asked of her one Sunday morning. "I thought I left it on my dresser. You haven't been into our bedroom have you? Playing dress-up again?"
Amy shook her head. "No. I don't even know what it looks like."
Her mother frowned. "That is the strangest thing. I've noticed recently a lot of things that seem to be disappearing. I've lost a pair of pearl earrings, a gold necklace and even the miniature carriage clock in the lounge has gone. Are you sure you've not being moving things about the house, Amy? I promise I won't be mad if you own up to it now."
Amy again shook her head, this time with earnest. "I promise, mum. I haven't," she said and dashed up the stairs to her room.
"Walter, Walter," she whispered, searching round her room for the rogue genius.
She looked in her wardrobe, under her bed and in her toy cupboard and just when she gave up searching him he appeared out of thin air and hovered above her bed-his legs and arms crossed, like a genie.
"There you are," she gasped. "You're in big trouble. Have you been stealing stuff from our house?"
Walter sailed round the room. "I might have," he said.
"Well you mustn't. Mum's suspicious. She thinks I've taken them."
Walter stopped and looked at her. His eyes flashed with greedy delight. "Really," he said. "So I can steal and nobody would know it's me? Fascinating," he added and twirled round the room. "Do you know what this means? I could steal everything I ever wanted."
"Walter you can't. It's wrong."
"It was your idea," he said.
But Walter didn't stop. Week after week more and more of Amy's parents belongings went missing. Some turned up in the strangest of places. The carriage clock in the lounge turned up in the cupboard under the stairs, behind a box of old vinyl records, and a bronze statue of a horse was found in the garden shed. Amy's parents were so disturbed by the events that one night her mother made a phone call that Amy overheard.
"Father Collingwood," said her mother. "I wonder if you could come over to the house one day. We seem to be having some...problems...of a supernatural nature," she said hesitantly. "Thursday at five would be great. We'll be pleased to see you."
Amy had no idea what was going to happen. When she challenged her mother about it she got no response.
"It's nothing for you to worry about, Amy. You're too young to understand," she said as she poured a coffee and sat down at the kitchen table with the newspaper.
"Mum, I'm nine not five," Amy snorted.
"You've not reached double figures yet, Amy, so certain things are off the table for discussion."
All week Amy pondered what was going to happen. Why did mum want Father Collingwood to come by. Were they going to pray for the missing items to materialise?
When Thursday came there was a knock at the door. It was Father Collingwood dressed in black and wearing his familiar white dog collar. He had a brown carpet bag in one hand and a red leather bible in the other.
"Come inside," Amy's mother said and looked at Amy. "I think you should go upstairs to your room. I'm sure you have homework to do."
"But mum," Amy pleaded. Her mother was resolute and pointed toward the stairs.
Amy stomped down the hall as her mother led the priest into the lounge but when the door clicked shut Amy crept back up to it and pressed an ear against it.
"So I believe you have some spirit problems," she heard Father Collingwood say.
"You could say that," said her mother
Amy listened as her mother recounted all the strange happenings in the house.
"I think a minor exorcism could take care of that. To banish all ghosts to their heavenly realm."
The word 'banish' rang in Amy's head like a loud gong.
"No, you can't. You can't kill Walter. He's my friend," Amy cried as she burst through the door.
"Amy Walter isn't a ghost," her mother said impatiently.
"He is. He's the one taking all your stuff. He just likes it," she said. She watched on as the priest pull out a long black cassock and an embroiled red stole from his bag. "Oh please don't kill him. Without him I'll never pass another test."
"Oh don't be so melodramatic, Amy," said her mum and ushered Amy out of the room.
"Mum please," Amy wailed but her pleas fell on deaf ears.
Desperate Amy ran upstairs calling for Walter with every step.
"Where are you? Where are you?"
"I'm down 'ere," Walter said.
Amy peered down at him. He was sat with his legs crossed leaning against her bedside table, flicking through her diary.
She snatched it from him. "You've no time to be nosey, Walter. Do you know what you've done? Do you know who's down there?"
"Course I do," he said. "I'm not stupid, unlike you."
"That's not fair. I tried to warn you. I tried to tell you not to take things that weren't yours and now look what's happened. That priest is going to banish you and I'll never see you again."
"Are you more bovered 'bout not seeing me again or more bovered dat I'll never give you another answer at school?"
Amy wrestled with the question. She knew the real reason and so did Walter.
"Look Amy," he said. "You're not stupid. You never were. You just need to fink your smart and you will be. It's as simple as dat."
"It's not just that though," whimpered Amy. "You're my friend. My only friend."
"You'll make new friends," he said casually. "And real ones."
"Why are you acting like this? How can you be so...so cool about being...killed."
"I'm already dead, Amy, so dis, I s'pose, will be like a 'oliday or somefink," he said and leaned closer towards. "But seein' as I'm about ta depart dis world I'll leave you wiv one fing. I do know where I stashed me booty."
Amy stared at him as his form gradually started to fade. Her eyes glassed over with tears that threatened to burst their banks. She tilted her head back trying to stop them from flowing, knowing that if they did she wouldn't be able to stop them.
"Dig up your garden and you'll find it. It's yours," was the last word he said to her and with a pop and a flash he disappeared. For good.

Ghost writer

Clara Cleaver was not in the least bit excited about the move to the country, unlike her parents who were literally bouncing with joy in the front seats of their car.
"Why can't we stay in the city? I like it there," moaned Clara as she snapped her book shut and threw it on the seat beside her.
"Darling, we've been over this more times than I can to count," her mum said, curling herself round the passenger seat to address Clara. "Your father and I have always longed to return to Derbyshire. It's where we both grew up. Now that we have the money to do it, we are."
"But why can't I stay with Uncle Mike?"
"Because he's not your father. I am," snapped Clara's dad. "Besides, you'll love it when you get there. Fresh air, trees, hills, rivers. You can't beat it."
Clara huffed. Unless the town had a multiplex, ice rink, shopping mall and her friends, she wasn't interested.
"So what's the town called we're moving to?"
"Little Hampton. And it's not a town. It's a village," her mum said.
"A village!" Clara blasted. "But that's so boring. It'll be filled with old people."
"Oh don't be silly. I'm sure there'll be kids your age there."
As they pulled into Little Hampton Clara stared out the window hopefully. There were only a handful of houses scattered over a wide expanse of hilly nothingness and from the looks of it the village appeared deserted. There was no hussle, there was no bussle, just quiet. Clara realised, with a heavy heart, that there would be little chance of seeing any kids there, let alone ones her age.
"We're here!" her mum trilled.
Clara got out of the car and leaned against a damp, mossy wall whilst her mum and dad dragged suitcases from the back of the car. She stared up at her new home and sighed. There really was no going back.
The cottage was old and grey with thick ivy on one side that was slowly creeping round the corner, a dark green wooden door, a short wall that encircled it and a green gate that was hanging on its hinges. Clara sneered. She wasn't impressed.
"How are we all supposed to live in that?" she said pointing to the house. "It's only got one floor? Where are the bedrooms?"
"The bedrooms are on the same floor as the lounge," her mum said as she returned to the car to retrieve another suitcase.
Clara grabbed her bag and book from the back seat and trudged inside.
Beyond the front door there was a long corridor that led down to what looked like the kitchen. To the left there was a lounge and dining room and on the right there were the two bedrooms. Clara pinched her nose at the smell inside. The air stank like rotting grass and hundred year old dust, and what's more is was freezing. Clara shivered.
"I'll fire up the generator in a minute Clara while we wait for the removal trucks."
That night Clara got no sleep. She shivered, she was surrounded by stacks of unpacked boxes and trunks and she was kept awake by strange noises; lots of creaking, groaning, moaning, and grumbling noises. When she told her parents about them the next day they merely laughed it off.
"It's an old house, Clara. This is something you have to get used to. There's a lot of history in these walls. Sometimes they talk," her dad said.
"Well they talk too loud. They need to be quiet, or I'll never sleep."
"Ask your mum to give you earplugs. They might help."
They didn't. In fact the noises seemed to be getting louder and were peppered by a faint wailing. As she lay awake one night, staring at the ceiling Clara wondered if there were ghosts in the house. She'd read plenty of stories about them, both fiction and ones that were supposedly true but had never actually seen a ghost. Could that be what was causing the noises?
The next day Clara challenged her dad.
"Who lived in this house before us?" she asked over breakfast.
"A young woman I believe. But that was some time ago. I don't know where she moved to."
"So the house has been empty?"
"Yep. She had a real problem selling it. I can't imagine why as it's idyllic. Although that does explain why we got such a good deal on it," he said
"I think there are ghosts here. I think that's why she couldn't sell it."
Her dad laughed.
"I think you're letting that overactive imagination run away with you. It's far more likely to be mice or birds than ghosts, Clara."
Clara wasn't convinced. So she vowed to stay awake all night and listen to the sounds. She wasn't scared by the idea of seeing a ghost, she was intrigued. With her knees tucked up against her chest and a torch in her hand she sat and waited. When the moon was out, shining yellow-white, and the sky was dark the groaning started.
"Awrrrrr," it went. "Ohhhh, whooaaa. Whoooaaahs meee."
Clara's eyes flicked open.
"Is anybody there?" she said.
"Whooaahs meee," was the reply.
"Whoever you are, you sound sad. Perhaps I can help."
"Noooaahhh. Awwrrr."
"Are you a ghost?" she asked.
There was no reply.
"If you can tap twice for yes and once for no," she said. "Are you a ghost?"
"TAP"
"Well if you're not a ghost I should be able to see you but I can't."
There was no reply, but from the corner of Clara's eye she saw something hazy emerge from the empty bookcase. She spun round and shone her torch at the apparition. Hovering above her yet-to-be-unpacked boxes was the faint outline of a man. He was wearing, from what Clara could see, a soldier's uniform and had a tin hat on his head.
Clara was so dumbfounded that all she could do was gawp and wave at him.
He waved back.
When she finally composed herself, and got over the initial shock of seeing something she wasn't really sure she believed in, she said, "You don't know you're a ghost, do you?"
The hovering figure looked down at himself and then back at Clara. He shook his head.
"I think you died," Clara said solemnly.
The figure floated to Clara's bedroom window and looked out at the starry sky.
Clara climbed out of bed and stood at his side.
"Do you remember your name?"
"Pri-vate Samp-son," the ghost whispered. "El-more Samp-son."
"Nice to meet you Mr Sampson. I'm Clara, Clara Cleaver. I'm ten and about to start school here. I'm guessing you're a soldier. Were you in a war?"
Elmore nodded. "The Great War."
"Was that the first one or the second one?"
Elmore looked puzzled by her question. "Second?" he asked.
"You don't know there were two world wars?"
Elmore shook his head and gave a despairing sigh.
"So you were in the first one then. Where did you die?"
"France," Elmore whispered.
"Is that why you're sad?"
"Yes...and no. Yes I'm sad I died, but no that's not why I'm sad now," he began and floated over to where Clara had stacked a pile of her books waiting to go on the bookcase. He stared down at them and gave a longing sigh. "I wish I could write. I used to, in the trenches. I wrote a lot, to pass the time and so I didn't have to think about shells and guns."
"Is that why you're sad? Because you can't write?"
Elmore nodded. He reached a wispy white hand down to a pencil that rested on top of a box and tried to clasp it, but the pencil just cut straight through his hand.
"Ohhh, you can't physically write. I see," she said.
Elmore sat down on the box and sank right through it. All Clara could see of him was from the chest up.
"What do you want to write?"
"Stories," Elmore said.
"Ah, well you're in luck Private Elmore Sampson because I happen to love stories," Clara said, climbing on top of the covers of her bed. "How about I write your stories for you?"
Elmore stood up. A smiled graced his youthful but transparent face, and he nodded.

When Clara woke the following morning she couldn't wait to tell her parents about Elmore. She ran into the kitchen and before her mum could even say 'good morning' Clara launched into her revelation.
"There's a ghost," her mum repeated with wide eyes and raised brows, "in your bedroom. That wants you to write stories for him?"
Clara nodded.
Her mum held her palm against Clara's forehead. "I think you're coming down with something."
"It's true, mum," Clara said, earnestly before looking to her dad for support. "He died in the great war. He told me. He said he used to write in the trenches and now he can't. That's why he's sad."
"Don't look at me, Clara. I'm with your mother on this one. Ghosts, spooks, ghouls, spectres or whatever you want to call them simply don't exist. It's all a load of mind trickery."
Clara huffed, grabbed a slice of buttered toast and stormed out of the house. She was so mad with her parents for not believing her she paid no attention to where she was walking and smacked into an elderly lady on the gravel pathway.
"I'm so sorry," Clara said.
The elderly lady steadied herself and stared down at Clara.
"You're the Cleaver girl aren't ya. What's moved into the Sampson house?"
Clara's stomach fluttered at the mention of the name. "You know Elmore Sampson?"
The lady seemed almost as surprised at Clara as Clara was at her.
"Not personally no. He died before I was born, but I knew his parents. They lived in the house you're in now."
"Where did they move to?"
"They didn't. They died there in that house, about forty year ago. Nobody's lived in it since, apart from some young girl whose name I can't place, but she didn't last long. I think she only lived in it about a month before she left."
"Do you know why?"
The woman shook her head.
"Some tell strange tales about that house. Things are heard."
"Like wailing and moaning?"
The woman didn't answer her. She carried on her way, shuffling down the path. "Mind yerself now."

That night Clara was at the ready: torch, paper and pen.
It had crossed her mind, as she sat there in the darkness, that it might all have been a weird dream and that Elmore really didn't exist but when he appeared at the foot of her bed, she smiled.
"Hi Elmore," she said.
"Clara," Elmore said, tipping his tin helmet at her.
"I have a pen and paper. What shall we write?"
That night Elmore began recounting his entire life as a soldier in the first world war, from how he was conscripted as a seventeen year old boy, to how he ended up in France fighting the Germans in the Battle of the Somme. It wasn't the kind of story Clara was expecting to write but Elmore said that he had to 'purge some baggage' before he could be creative. Clara assumed he meant he had a lot to get off his chest. She didn't blame him. After eighty years of waiting to have a voice on paper she was sure she'd have a lot to get off her chest too.

When Clara showed her parents what she had written as dictated by Elmore they were more than a little surprised.
"Have you been reading about the war, Clara?" her dad asked as he thumbed through the pages.
"No. Elmore told me this stuff."
Her dad and mum exchanged looks of concern.
"It's okay,dad," Clara said resting a hand on her dad's arm to reassure him. "Elmore is nice. He doesn't want to hurt me. He just wants me to write his stories."
Her mum shrugged her shoulders. "If it means she stops complaining about this place she can write what she likes."

Once Elmore had told Clara all he wanted to say about the war Clara decided that she really ought to do something with Elmore's words. She had accumulated two hundred pages of a story that she really wanted others to read. The Great War, as they called it, wasn't so great for the soldiers that fought in it, particularly as many were dragged into it at seventeen years of age. That was younger than some kids are nowadays when they finish school. And the conditions those poor soldiers had to endure made Clara feel guilty for complaining about the lack of luxuries in Little Hampton that she was used to. They endured overcrowding, infestations of lice and fleas, weevils in their bread, trench foot caused by standing in the mud day after day and having to drink water diseased with cholera and typhoid. It sounded unbearable.
So Clara asked her mum to take her to the local town library so she could find out who would publish Elmore's book. After consulting with the librarian who suggested Clara look at a reference book that listed publishers and their addresses, Clara set to work. It didn't take her long to find someone to send it to-Historia Books they were called, and were even based nearby, in Derby.
Clara posted her book with a letter and waited, and waited, and waited, and waited. To pass the time Clara and Elmore wrote more stories. Not war stories but adventure stories and ghost stories and fantasy stories. But when two months passed and Clara hadn't heard anything about Elmore's war book she was convinced that the publisher didn't want it. Elmore was not as disappointed as Clara. He was happy enough to have someone write his story for him. Then to Clara's delight, a letter finally dropped through the letter box addressed to Elmore Sampson.
Clara tore it open and skim read the letter inside. As she read the words she leapt into the air and screamed at the top of her voice. "They like it, they like it," she cried.
"Like what, Clara," her mum said appearing at the lounge door with a bowl full of cake mix in one hand and a wooden spoon in the other.
"Elmore's book," she announced with glee. "They want to publish it."

After Clara and Elmore waited, and waited, and waited, and waited, and then waited some more, a box arrived at Clara's house, addressed to Private Elmore Sampson and Miss Clara Cleaver.
Clara eagerly ripped the sellotape off the box and gingerly pick up one of the books. It had a glossy jacket that covered the hard back of the book. Clara was so pleased she cried and cried. That night she waited up to see Elmore and when he appeared and saw the book he cried too-wispy white tears.
When he was done he glanced up at her from the book.
"Thank you, Clara," he said and then faded from her sight.
She never saw him again. But she still has his book, and she doesn't complain about living in the country, anymore.

Sammie's slayers

Bixby Scareham was voted the least haunted town in England 2009, according to Ghost Monthly magazine. Up until year ago it, like every other town in England, was plagued with mischievous spooks responsible for all the unexplainable things in the world. They made toast always land jam side down, they made sure there were always teaspoons in the washing up bowl when you emptied it and they stole your socks so you ended up with a draw full of odd ones . Of course nobody knew that ghosts did all this. It was only when it was proved they exist that suddenly everyone started seeing them. They were all over the place. Every town in England is teeming with ghosts, except Bixby of course. That was all down to one boy, Sammie Strepplehorn. He was a local hero, even though he was only twelve years old. Everyone praised him wherever he went. He got free sweets from Mrs Pickle's candy store, the best seat in the cinema, the ice rink all to himself on Saturday afternoon, and a flavour of ice cream named after him called Scrumptious Sammie.

Sammie wasn't always a ghost hunter. He became one by accident. Two years ago he was in a car accident that left him blind in his right eye. The doctors said there was nothing they could to repair the damage. Sammie's father was crushed by the news, even more so than Sammie, who tried not to let it bother him. His bravery wasn't enough for his dad who set about inventing a false eye for Sammie. A year later Sammie had a new eye but it didn't work in the way he expected. It was actually much cooler. He couldn't see colours and shapes, what he saw was energy, floating through the air like puffs of clouds. Some of the puffs were dense whilst others were thin and wispy. At first Sammie had no idea what it was until he saw one with a hand that kept pressing buttons on his TV remote, changing the channels. The sight made him leap off his bed so high he hit his head on the ceiling light.

Once Sammie got used to seeing ghosts he decided to try and catch one, like they did in a movie he saw with his dad before his accident, but he needed some sort of trapping device. One weekend, when his dad was out Sammie raided his dad's workshop and constructed the Ghost Vac. It was a modified HandyVac that Sammie fitted with a thin nozzle on one end and a fitting at the other on which to screw a jamjar. And that 's how Sammie stored his ghosts, in jam jars on a shelf in his bedroom. He labelled each one with the date and time and location of each ghost caught and even gave them little pet names, like Samson, who he caught putting spiders in his dad's attic and Rufus, who he caught trying to block the bathroom sink with hair from Sammie's dog, Muttster. Soon word spread of Sammie's talent and his services were in demand across Bixby. He was so busy he needed a spare room to store all his jam jars. Sammie had cleaned up the town of all undesirable spooks, even catching a particularly difficult and troublesome ghost he called Horace. Horace haunted Bixby Castle. At night Horace rearranged the bricks of the castle so it looked completely different the next day. Once he even moved the entire castle one mile down the road. Sammie was particularly proud of that catch.

One day, however, when Sammie was at school, Muttster got into his jar room and with his broom-like tail he swept one of them off the bookcase. It smashed on the floor, setting loose the wispy vapour trapped inside. It twisted round Sammie's jar room before escaping through a gap beneath the door. The label on the jar read "Horace, Bixby Castle, 03/09/08, 12:43"

Horace was free. He whizzed round Sammie's house moving the furniture as he went. He put the beds in the lounge, the sofa in the kitchen, the dining chairs in the bath and next door's cat into Muttster's kennel, all the while giggling with glee at his fortune. But he wasn't completely content. He wanted revenge for being caught, so he sniffed out Sammie's energy trail and followed it. When it led him to Bixby Secondary School and he saw all the children running around the school yard, and the large red stone building he realised there was more fun to be had there than just seeking out Sammie.

As he flew through the corridors, halls and classrooms he began to plot, all the while careful not to cross paths with Sammie. He knew what would be in store for him if he wasn't on his guard.

The first sign Sammie got that something wasn't quite right with that day was when the combination to his locker didn't work. When he looked up and down the corridor he wasn't the only one having that problem. Everyone was looking at each other, baffled by why suddenly they couldn't open their lockers. And the strangeness continued throughout the day. At first the teachers thought a prankster was responsible for their blackboards being greased up so they couldn't write on them or for stretching cling film across all the toilets. But when the tricks became unbelievable, like the school orchestra's instruments losing their sound and all the bald teachers suddenly growing a thick head of hair whilst the ones with hair went bald, that's when Sammie switched from schoolboy to Ghost Hunter extraordinaire. When he went home that afternoon and saw the smashed bottle he realised who was responsible.

Day by day Sammie struggled to catch Horace. His energy cloud would dissolve instantly the moment Sammie got anywhere near him and reappear either at the other end of the room or in a completely different room. But the longer it took to catch him the more sinister Horace's mischief became. On Monday he turned all the taps on in the gymnasium one night and flooded the equipment room and the hall. On Tuesday he piled all the furniture from the classrooms into the assembly hall into a form of a giant wobbly wooden pyramid. On Wednesday he rearranged the rooms of the school so the science rooms were on the ground floor and the metalwork rooms were on the top floor. On Thursday he turned the school inside out so the yard was inside the building and all the classrooms were outside. By Friday, when he turned on all the gas Bunsen burners he got parents and the School Governor so worried the Governor had no choice but to close the school until further notice.

Sammie's reputation was starting to take a nose dive with every passing day that Horace was loose, to the point where people were wondering whether Sammie had any special power at all. That was the final straw. Sammie wasn't about to let one rascally ghost destroy his title of Ultimate Ghostttrapper!

On Saturday Sammie set to work in his dad's workshop. He bought as many HandyVacs from charity shops as he could lay his hands on, and emptied every jar in his parents' kitchen (whether they were full or not!). By Sunday evening Sammie had constructed twenty-five GhostVacs and had enlisted the help of twenty-five kids at his school who were more than eager to become amateur trappers.

On Monday morning Sammie and his friends marched into the school armed and ready. Given Sammie was the only one with a ghost-seeing eye it was he who directed the search. Room by room Sammie's army skulked through the classrooms and corridors on the prowl for Horace and eventually found him munching on crisps and sweets in the school canteen. Horace was too busy gorging and wallowing in smug self-satisfaction at the carnage he had left to notice he was being hunted. With a nod of Sammie's head Sammie directed his team to arm their devices. Horace heard the sound of the motors and spun round. His energy cloud shimmered and distorted as he moved.

"Now!" Sammie yelled and thrust the nozzle of his GhostVac towards Horace.
His army stabbed at the air with devices as though they were sparring with swords.
The collective power of the GhostVacs was too much for Horace. Even dispersing his energy didn't work. There were too many to avoid and so molecule by molecule Horace was sucked into twenty-five different jam jars.

When Sammie confirmed that Horace was trapped his army erupted with triumphant cheers. They punched the air with clenched fists and yelled "We got 'im, we got 'im".

The rest of the townsfolk were even more delighted with Sammie and his army. They collectively agreed that the 3rd of September be known as Sammie day and that any money donated to the town council be put towards the purchase of a monument.

Now, if you visit Bixby Scareham and happen to pass by the secondary school you'll see a giant bronze GhostVac monument outside the entrance to the school, in honour of Sammie and his Slayers.

Sammie, however, has his own monument: a glass cabinet in his spare room displaying the twenty -five jars containing the remnants of Horace. The cabinet remains locked and well out of reach of Muttster.