Read Online Return to Groosham Grange by Anthony Horowitz - Free Book Online
Authors: Anthony Horowitz
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stagnant pool on the other. The field was dotted with trees and he made for the nearest one, grateful at least that it was a dark night. But even as he ran, the clouds parted and a huge moon broke through like a searchlight. Was that part of the magic too? Was Vincent even controlling the weather?
In the white, ghostly light, the whole park had changed. It was like something out of a bad dream. Everything was black, white and gray. The Hitler waxwork had already reached the gate and passed through with the two prisoners. The French Revolution victim had been left behind. This waxwork had tripped over a tree root and lost its head, and although the head was shouting “Over here!” the rest of the body hadn’t found it yet.
But that was the only good news.
Another half-dozen waxworks had somehow found their way to the park and were spreading out, searching through the trees. There was a man dressed entirely in black with a doctor’s bag in one hand and a huge, curving knife in the other. Jack the Ripper! And right behind him came a lady in Victorian dress, horribly stabbed, blood (wax blood, David had to remind himself) pouring out of a gaping wound in her chest. She had to be one of the women he had killed. Behind him, David heard a dreadful gurgling sound and turned just in time to see a third, white-faced waxwork rising through the scummy surface of the pool. The models were everywhere. David crouched behind a tree, trying to lose himself in it. He was surrounded and knew that it was only a matter of time before he was found.
“There he is, Adolf!” somebody shouted.
A short, dark-haired man in a double-breasted suit had climbed out of a ditch, an ugly scar twisting down his wax cheek. It was a face that David recognized from old black-and-white films: the American gangster Al Capone. He walked quickly across the grass, then brought his hands up in front of his chest. There was a metallic click. Capone was holding a machine gun. He had just loaded it.
With his breath rasping in his throat, David left the cover of the tree and broke into a run. The wax models were all around him, some like sleepwalkers, others more like clockwork toys as they scuttled forward. He felt horribly exposed out in the moonlight but he had no choice. He had to find the telephone booth, but where was it? He made a quick calculation and started forward, then dived to the ground as a spray of machine-gun bullets sliced through the air, barely an inch above his head. Al Capone had fired at him. And somehow David knew that the bullets were the one thing there that weren’t made of wax.
Someone stepped out in front of him, blocking his way. It was a small man in an old-fashioned wing-collar shirt and a stylish gray suit. He had wispy, ginger hair and a small mustache. His eyes twinkled behind round, wire-framed glasses. The man held up the palms of his hands. “It’s all right,” he said. “I’m a doctor.”
“A doctor?” David panted.
“Yes. Dr. Crippen!”
The man had pulled out a vicious-looking hypodermic syringe. David yelled and lashed out with his fist, catching the little man straight on the nose. He felt his fist sink into the soft wax, and when he jerked it back, he had left a round imprint inside the figure’s head. David ran. Behind him he could hear Hitler shouting out orders in manic German. Jack the Ripper was lumbering up behind him with the hideous knife raised above his head.
Meanwhile, another man, this one in gleaming silver armor, had just come in through the open gate. He had long black hair, tied behind his neck, and two of the cruelest eyes David had ever seen. Swords and daggers, at least a dozen of them, protruded from him in every direction. It was Attila the Hun, one of the most blood-thirsty warriors in history, and David had no doubt whose blood he was thirsting for now.
The grass curved around behind the tennis courts, bordered on the edge by a thicket of trees and shrubs. David plunged into the
In the white, ghostly light, the whole park had changed. It was like something out of a bad dream. Everything was black, white and gray. The Hitler waxwork had already reached the gate and passed through with the two prisoners. The French Revolution victim had been left behind. This waxwork had tripped over a tree root and lost its head, and although the head was shouting “Over here!” the rest of the body hadn’t found it yet.
But that was the only good news.
Another half-dozen waxworks had somehow found their way to the park and were spreading out, searching through the trees. There was a man dressed entirely in black with a doctor’s bag in one hand and a huge, curving knife in the other. Jack the Ripper! And right behind him came a lady in Victorian dress, horribly stabbed, blood (wax blood, David had to remind himself) pouring out of a gaping wound in her chest. She had to be one of the women he had killed. Behind him, David heard a dreadful gurgling sound and turned just in time to see a third, white-faced waxwork rising through the scummy surface of the pool. The models were everywhere. David crouched behind a tree, trying to lose himself in it. He was surrounded and knew that it was only a matter of time before he was found.
“There he is, Adolf!” somebody shouted.
A short, dark-haired man in a double-breasted suit had climbed out of a ditch, an ugly scar twisting down his wax cheek. It was a face that David recognized from old black-and-white films: the American gangster Al Capone. He walked quickly across the grass, then brought his hands up in front of his chest. There was a metallic click. Capone was holding a machine gun. He had just loaded it.
With his breath rasping in his throat, David left the cover of the tree and broke into a run. The wax models were all around him, some like sleepwalkers, others more like clockwork toys as they scuttled forward. He felt horribly exposed out in the moonlight but he had no choice. He had to find the telephone booth, but where was it? He made a quick calculation and started forward, then dived to the ground as a spray of machine-gun bullets sliced through the air, barely an inch above his head. Al Capone had fired at him. And somehow David knew that the bullets were the one thing there that weren’t made of wax.
Someone stepped out in front of him, blocking his way. It was a small man in an old-fashioned wing-collar shirt and a stylish gray suit. He had wispy, ginger hair and a small mustache. His eyes twinkled behind round, wire-framed glasses. The man held up the palms of his hands. “It’s all right,” he said. “I’m a doctor.”
“A doctor?” David panted.
“Yes. Dr. Crippen!”
The man had pulled out a vicious-looking hypodermic syringe. David yelled and lashed out with his fist, catching the little man straight on the nose. He felt his fist sink into the soft wax, and when he jerked it back, he had left a round imprint inside the figure’s head. David ran. Behind him he could hear Hitler shouting out orders in manic German. Jack the Ripper was lumbering up behind him with the hideous knife raised above his head.
Meanwhile, another man, this one in gleaming silver armor, had just come in through the open gate. He had long black hair, tied behind his neck, and two of the cruelest eyes David had ever seen. Swords and daggers, at least a dozen of them, protruded from him in every direction. It was Attila the Hun, one of the most blood-thirsty warriors in history, and David had no doubt whose blood he was thirsting for now.
The grass curved around behind the tennis courts, bordered on the edge by a thicket of trees and shrubs. David plunged into the
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