The Stolen Ghosts

Chapter 1

Sarah McKenzie paced around the library of Cransland House. It was only 2pm but it felt as if she’d been awake for a whole week. Her old physics teacher had once told her that time slowed down if you approached the speed of light, but Mr Tadsworth had obviously never been stuck in a country house with no internet.

Dust motes slipped down shafts of sunlight in the cool air, and the grandfather clock tick-tocked by the door. Sarah grimaced as she held the laptop aloft, hoping the dongle would find the sweet spot for her mobile broadband signal.

Even dial-up would be quicker than this. I thought Dad would get the phone line sorted and broadband connected before we moved in. At least then I could use wi-fi.

Sarah set the laptop down on the sturdy oak table near the window. She moved it around a few times, glaring at the icon in the corner of the screen until the dongle sprang into life. Moments later, an electronic chirrup told her she was connected to the outside world. Sarah sat on one of the chairs, fidgeting on the hard seat pad.

Sarah had claimed the library as her bolthole less than an hour after she had first entered the house the week before. It was tucked away behind her father’s study, and filled with books of varying ages, sizes and subjects. The room lacked the moth-eaten tapestries and dreary portraits that hung elsewhere in the house, and threadbare rugs disguised the ruts and scratches of the uneven floorboards. Shelves held tattered copies of Shakespeare, Eliot and Blake. A staircase on wheels stood gathering dust in the corner. Sarah thought the wheels would screech in protest if she tried to move it. The entire room, in all its lofty magnificence, bore a peculiar air of neglect.

Much like me, I suppose.

She clicked on the bookmark in her browser and the familiar blue-and-white login screen popped up. Sarah signed in and checked her notifications feed. It was stuffed with messages from the various games she played, interspersed with one or two updates from the two groups she was in. Sarah scrolled down, hoping to see a comment or two on one of her status updates. Maybe someone had taken a look at the photos she’d posted of her new home.

Nothing. Sarah checked her friends list to make sure no one had unfriended her, but everything looked in order. She clicked to her latest photo album and flicked through the fifteen shots of Cransland House. The morning room, the kitchen, the main staircase—the photos weren’t bad for an amateur, but not a single one had a comment. No one had even ‘liked’ them. For all Sarah knew, no one had even looked at them.

Sarah stopped when she reached the last photo. It showed as much of the library as she could fit in the frame, and she’d titled it My favourite room in the WHOLE house!! All those BOOKS! The text didn’t interest her—not right now. She leaned closer to inspect the shot. Two shelves had been removed in the bookcase, and the space now held a mirror. Yet the mirror in the photo didn’t seem to be empty.

What the hell is that? Sarah asked the empty room.

She clicked away from her browser and scanned her folders, looking for the photos of the house. She opened the library shot and zoomed in to focus on the mirror. Sarah rubbed the screen, in case a thumbprint or dust obscured the image. No matter what she did, the opaque reflection of a figure remained in the mirror. The face was too faint to make out any particular features but the heavy neck and bald head marked him out as a man.

An electronic chime wrested Sarah’s attention away from the photo and back to her browser. A chat window popped up, and Sarah recognised the thumbnail photo of Jamie Graves, her best friend.

My best friend I haven’t even met.

Why hello there, SM! he typed.

Jamie! Back from your hols? she replied.

Indeedy. Cyprus is TOO hot! Thought I’d check on you before I unpack. Just saw photos of the new house. Very jealous!

Sarah smiled, glad that someone had finally looked at her photos. She didn’t want to show off her skills with a camera, but she’d hoped some of her old friends might have shown an interest in her new life. Sarah clicked onto her profile. Two weeks ago, her wall had been filled with Can’t believe you’re going! and We’ll miss you! messages. Now…nothing.

Funny how fast they forgot me. Still, it’ll be better when I start college and find new friends. I hope.

Hey, do me a favour J? typed Sarah.

Sure.

Can you look at my photos again? See if you see anything weird?

Sarah twisted around in her seat to look at the mirror while Jamie checked her photos. The mirror behind her showed nothing but the quiet library. Her laptop chimed.

Who’s the bald guy? asked Jamie.

So you see him too! I have no idea.

"Freaky! It’s like something out of Ghost Hunters. You scared?"

Me? Scared? No.

Sarah paused. She looked back at the mirror then gazed around the room. She expected some kind of chill to run down her spine, or goose bumps to prickle across her bare arms. Maybe she would even run screaming from the room. After all, that’s what happened in the hundreds of novels she’d read. Even the presenters on her favourite TV shows got scared and ran away while the camera rolled.

But I’m not scared. I’m…curious.

The only time she remembered being scared was six years ago when an over-enthusiastic German Shepherd had cornered her in her aunt’s back garden. Having said that, she had only been ten at the time, and the dog had been large, even for its breed.

Trick of the light? asked Jamie.

Could be. Sarah looked again. She didn’t think it was something so simple.

Reflection off a spot of dust in the air?

Sarah sent back a confused emoji. The more she looked at the photo, the more she thought the mark looked more like a mist. A man-shaped mist. Is that even possible?

Argh, Mum is shouting at me to unpack. Gotta run. Catch ya later, SM!

Jamie’s status flicked to ‘offline’ before Sarah could reply. She slumped in her chair, staring at her forgotten profile. Her disappointment banished any thought of the figure in the mirror.

Sarah?

A voice floated in through the open door. Sarah groaned. Her parents usually left her to her own devices, and she’d spent most of her first week at the house alone in the library. They only disturbed her when they were driving into town, or when one of the stuffy neighbouring families arrived for a visit. They’d gone into town yesterday, so it could only mean that someone had arrived.

Time for another parade.

Her mother appeared at the door. A tall, slender woman, she reminded Sarah of a fragile doll. When they had moved to the house, she had swapped her stylish city suits for more practical attire in shades of brown and green. Today a dark green-and-beige silk headscarf covered her curly blonde hair. She looked like the bizarre offspring of a 1950s starlet and a country squire. She clasped her hands in front of her. Her blue eyes shone with excitement.

The Campbells are here, darling.

The name rang no bells for Sarah, who could only associate Campbell with soup.

You have to come and meet them. They’re waiting. Mrs McKenzie stepped back into the corridor. She gestured for Sarah to follow her.

Why do they want to meet me? Sarah didn’t budge.

They want to meet the family. Come along, darling – at least make some effort to get to know our neighbours. They have two children; they could be good friends for you.

How old are they?

They’re fourteen. Twins, darling.

Sarah sighed, shut down the laptop and pulled herself out of the chair then trudged across the room. Her mother was desperate to be accepted by the local ‘country set’ and believed in ‘making connections.’ Sarah supposed it gave her mother something to do while her father busied himself with his research and she investigated the different options for turning the house into a B&B. Or maybe she just missed London.

Sarah followed down the wood-panelled corridor towards the drawing room. It was one of the few downstairs rooms not inhabited by dust sheets. Mrs McKenzie had staked her claim on the drawing room before they had even moved in, and Sarah preferred to stay out of it.

The drawing room door loomed large. Sarah tried not to look at the empty suits of armour standing guard. She thought one day she’d peer into a helmet and see a pair of eyes peering back at her.

Her mother slipped around the drawing room door, beckoning Sarah to follow. Sighing, she straightened her T-shirt and followed. The familiar knot of resignation and boredom settled in her gut.

A mountain of a woman perched on the antique couch near the fireplace. Tight ginger curls surrounded a mottled face, broken by a bulbous nose and large, fleshy lips. Tiny eyes peered out from beneath folds of skin, giving her the appearance of a half-baked currant bun. A ghastly green paisley tea dress stretched across her frame.

Sarah, this is Mrs Campbell, said her mother. Elspeth, this is my daughter, Sarah.

Mrs Campbell barely looked at her. Sarah couldn’t bring herself to feel affronted. Being slighted by such a grotesque woman was almost comical, not to mention a relief. She wouldn’t be expected to make pointless small talk now.

Her gaze roved over the rest of the group. A slight, weak-looking man was jammed into the sliver of couch not occupied by Mrs Campbell. His thin lips and pointed nose reminded Sarah of a rat, an impression strengthened by his quivering hands and black eyes that darted around the room. A boy and a girl perched on another couch near the window. Both looked thin and sickly like their father, with the beady eyes and fleshy facial features of their mother. A pang of worry flared in her stomach. Did these kids get enough vitamin D?

Sarah, these are Mr Campbell, Christopher and Agnes.

Pleased to meet you all, said Sarah.

The newcomers failed to reply. Sarah knew this routine well. She suspected they took as little pleasure in these visits as she did. Clinging to the thought often made the whole debacle more bearable.

Sarah? Would you like to take a seat? Her mother gestured to the empty over-stuffed armchair on the far side of the room. Sarah flopped into the chair, glad to be away from the unhappy group.

From the opposite side of the room, Sarah could observe the family better. Her mother simpered and fawned over Mrs Campbell, agreeing with her pronouncements and slipping compliments into every sentence. Mr Campbell tried to interject the occasional weak joke when his wife paused for breath. These jokes were steam-rollered into oblivion by the overbearing Mrs Campbell, and disregarded by her mother. The twins ignored all around them, focusing on their Nintendo handhelds. Sarah wished she’d brought a book, before changing her mind and wishing that she were somewhere more interesting instead.

Yeah, like choking to death on Mars.

Is Dad coming? she asked, interrupting a dull conversation about kitchen gardens.

No dear, he’s too busy, replied her mother.

The glare she shot across the room warned Sarah that another lecture about society manners and etiquette would follow the visit. She made a mental note to make herself scarce when the Campbells left.

Oh, that’s a shame, isn’t it, Elspeth? Mr Campbell seemed apologetic, looking at Sarah for the first time in half an hour. He dropped her gaze as if afraid he’d turn to stone if he maintained eye contact.

Not at all. A man’s place is not in society. A woman should run the home, and run the family affairs, boomed Mrs Campbell. A strong man should be the provider. He does not have time for family. Or rather, he should not have time. No, if he has the time, then he must be given more to do.

Oh you’re right, dear, quite right, simpered Mr Campbell.

Sarah fought the urge to retch.

No man should ever be allowed to—

Mrs Campbell’s fresh tirade was cut off by a throaty cough erupting from the grandfather clock beside the fireplace.

What was that? Is there someone else here? asked Mrs Campbell.

No, Elspeth, it’s just us. Mrs McKenzie turned and peered at the grandfather clock.

Sarah tried to look beyond them.

Is it my imagination, or is the shadow darker than it should be?

The edge of the shadow flickered, as though someone waggled a feather, and the vague hint of a shadow moved across to the fireplace. Moments later, a cloud of soot shot into the room. It drifted to cover everything with a sprinkling of black dust. Sarah leapt forward. Maybe a small bird had flown into the room. She pictured Mrs Campbell seizing it from the air with one meaty fist.

What the blazes?

Oh, I’m so sorry Mrs Campbell, we haven’t managed to get all of the chimneys cleaned properly yet!

Sarah’s mother darted across the room. She fawned over Mrs Campbell to assess any soot damage. Mrs Campbell shooed Mrs McKenzie away and Mr Campbell jumped to his feet. He looked on with his mouth hanging open. Sarah couldn’t see or hear any birds.

Heavy footsteps thudded across the floor in front of the fireplace. Two heavy brass candlesticks slid along the mantelpiece and then toppled onto the floor. The noise made Sarah’s mother jump, and she threw wild stares around the room. The footsteps thumped across the room, and books fell off the shelves beside the door. The pages riffled in a non-existent breeze. The harpsichord behind the sofa shrieked, and the keys moved up and down as a doleful dirge filled the room.

What’s going on? roared Mrs Campbell, her face a deep pink.

Must be uneven floorboards…a draught must have got in somewhere—

Her mother was cut off as the couch lifted a full six inches off the floor. Seconds later it crashed back down to the wooden boards. Mrs Campbell gripped the arm of the couch so hard her knuckles turned white. Mr Campbell turned a peculiar shade of green and he backed away from the sofa. Sarah stole a look at the teenagers. For the first time since she had arrived, they appeared interested in what was going on. Their eyes wide with disbelief, they looked at her, mouths agape. Sarah shook her head and spread her hands wide, the accepted sign for Your guess is as good as mine.

And what’s your explanation for this? asked Mrs Campbell. She struggled to stand.

I…I…I don’t know, said Sarah’s mother. It’s an old house…

Balderdash! I have an old house and never have I been subjected to such…such…

Sarah sat forward in her chair. She willed something else to happen. Who knew how many people had lived, died, killed or been killed within these walls? Why, an old lord may have been strangled by his cheating wife in this very room. For all Sarah knew, that old lord might be the bald man in her photo. She’d seen things like that before on the TV ghost-hunting shows.

Calm settled over the room as the old battle-axe made herself comfortable again and Sarah’s heart sank. The twins returned to their games. Sarah’s mother took to her seat. Mrs Campbell plunged ahead with a tirade against old houses that weren’t properly maintained.

Sarah stared at the clock. The minute hand pulled itself around like a drowning swimmer. Ten minutes dragged by before a movement above the fireplace caught her eye. Sarah looked up at the oil painting above the mantelpiece. In it, an unknown Victorian gentleman and his hound posed in a clearing. A handsome cavalier had now taken the place of the gentleman. The newcomer paused to pick up a stick and Sarah gasped. He threw it beyond the scope of the frame for the dog. The dog wagged his tail. As the hound disappeared from view, the cavalier looked at Sarah. He smiled and winked at her. Sarah found herself smiling back, despite her disbelief, and the cavalier peered down at Mrs Campbell.

It’s important to look after paintings in particular. Mrs Campbell gestured at the portraits in the room with a wide sweep of her flabby arm.

Sarah’s mother screamed. Sarah followed the direction of her gaze and grinned. Her mother pointed at the strange cavalier above the fireplace. He leapt around the painting with the dog. Watching the silent scene gave Sarah goose bumps, as if she was watching the television with the sound off.

What the hell is going on? asked Mrs Campbell before she saw the cavalier. Mr Campbell’s face broke open in a wide grin.

The large woman bolted out of the drawing room, screaming all the way down the corridor before her mother could offer an excuse. Mrs McKenzie turned to look at Sarah for an explanation, but Sarah only watched as the unbearable family followed Mrs Campbell.

The cavalier stopped leaping around. He walked beyond the left-hand side of the frame then reappeared, dragging the Victorian gentleman. He cut the rope binding the gentleman’s hands and the Victorian man resumed his seat at the edge of the tree line. Both the gentleman and the hound froze in their familiar position. The cavalier doffed his hat to Sarah and strolled out of the painting.

I should be scared, or shocked.

Sarah ran her hands across the harpsichord, which she knew her mother couldn’t play. She’d never heard such melancholy music, but the instrument had been silent since they moved in. Sarah supposed it must have belonged to her great aunt Lizzie Penruddock, and suddenly wished that she could play.

The harpsichord yielded nothing. Sarah stood on a chair in front of the fireplace, running her hands around the frame of the painting. She hoped to find something unusual, some clue that might unlock the strange events. Her fingers found only hard wood, cool and smooth.

Sarah!

Her mother’s shrill cry broke her detective reverie. Climbing down from the chair, she slunk out of the drawing room.

Chapter 2

Fowlis travelled through the thick stone walls. He ducked his head into various rooms as he passed. From what he could tell, Cransland House was the haphazard offspring of an older stone residence and a later wooden mansion. The furniture was sealed in plastic or hidden under dust sheets in most of the rooms. Many of his colleagues couldn’t accept the trappings of the modern world, but plastic fascinated Fowlis. He never stopped marvelling at the scientific advances he witnessed during his assignments on the mortal plane. Bubble wrap was one of his favourite inventions; it often made a haunting more fun, and it helped to pass the time.

Moving boxes still waited to be unpacked, and almost all of the kitchen condiments were new. Most of the castle’s contents belonged to an earlier era, including the marvellous Edwardian kitchen range and assorted cooking implements. A seventeenth-century dresser in a back room pricked pangs of homesickness and Fowlis half expected to open a drawer to find his mother’s best linen. Even the butter churn in the pantry looked familiar, and he examined its faded wood for his brother’s tell-tale family mark.

An office hid in a corner of the house, and bookcases took up the eastern wall. The groaning shelves were crammed with thick tomes about quantum mechanics, particle physics and Einstein’s theories. Fowlis chuckled. Einstein’s exploits at the annual Christmas dinner were legendary.

Fowlis knew little of science, much of it having fallen under the remit of ‘witchcraft’ or ‘alchemy’ during his time, but the complicated equations on the chalkboard impressed him. Four blue coffee mugs stood forgotten amid a mess of paper, their cold contents at various stages of decay. Such chaos could not belong to the impeccable woman of the house—it could only be her husband, a man Fowlis was yet to see.

He imagined the scientist would be an unkempt fellow, with a shock of unruly hair and a look of perpetual wonder. Fowlis pictured him wearing mismatching socks and ill-fitting outfits of uncoordinated clothes. Still, it was usually against HQ policy to send haunters to the homes of scientists. They weren’t known for their receptivity to the supernatural.

The cavalier drifted into the corridor. After his debut in the drawing room, the ugly family had beaten a hasty retreat, piling into a gargantuan automobile outside. He thought the large woman referred to it as a four by four but he wasn’t sure. Cars weren’t his strong point. He made a mental note to ask Jeremiah when he got back to HQ. Jeremiah specialised in haunting automobiles. His escapade with a motorcar used in a motion picture had almost snagged him Haunter of the Year back during the 1950s.

Once the awful family had gone, the woman of the house threw fits of hysterics, apparently more upset by the disapproval of the fat woman than the idea of a haunting. A thin, shrill slip of a thing, she retired to her room. Fowlis followed her, taking up a seat by the window. The mother paced the floor, pausing every few moments to look around the room to glare at everything. Fowlis watched and waited, keen to observe her behaviour in case a pattern emerged. He considered it his duty as a haunter to understand his subjects better than they understood themselves.

The girl, apparently her daughter, arrived after an hour of the woman’s pacing. She put her mother to bed, and gave her a pile of glossy magazines selected from the groaning piles downstairs. The mother asked her to choose a radio station, explaining that the modern pop music would keep the spirits at bay. The daughter chose a station playing something tinny and idiotic. Fowlis agreed with the mother. Contemporary music annoyed him, with its poorly constructed poetry and false sentiment. Its lack of genius could drive