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Authors: Helen Stringer
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through the front door of her own house.
“I’m home!” she yelled, dropping her bag at the door and shrugging out of her coat. “Aunt Deirdre! I’m home!”
Silence.
She walked into the kitchen and saw a note on the table, propped up against the pepper grinder.
“Dear Belladonna,” it said. “Gone to see your grandmother. Tea in fridge. Make sure you do your homework. Back soon. D.”
Belladonna stared at it blankly for a moment, then smiled. She was right: Her grandmother
was
“the old lady” that Deirdre and Miss Parker had been discussing. It really was weird, though. As long as she’d known her, Aunt Deirdre had made fun of Grandma Johnson. And even her mother and father had been known to make the odd disparaging remark about her séances and palm reading. Why on earth would Aunt Deirdre even
think
about going to her for help, even if Miss Parker had said she should?
These thoughts passed through her mind in a flash,of course, and within moments she had her coat back on and was dashing up the street toward her grandmother’s. The going was slow, however, and the daylight was quickly fading. She slackened her pace. What about the Hound? Maybe she should go back and wait.
She turned the corner onto Dulcimer Lane and saw a familiar figure: Steve Evans popping wheelies in the road on his hand-me-down bicycle.
“Hey!” he shouted, and zoomed over, expertly spinning the bike on its back wheel as he did so. “What’s up?”
Belladonna stopped, gasping for breath.
“My Aunt Deirdre,” she panted, “she knows something. . . . She’s gone to my Grandma’s. . . . I have to find out . . .”
“Knows something?” said Steve. “About what?”
“All the ghosts have vanished. Something’s wrong.”
“That doesn’t sound too wrong to me.”
“But it is. I don’t know why. . . . I just . . .”
Her voice petered off. She couldn’t explain it. Couldn’t explain the off-balance feeling she’d had, not so much since her parents had vanished but since she’d realized that everyone else had too. From the most imposing headless horseman to the tiniest proto-poltergeist—they’d all gone.
“I have to go,” she said, and took off again.
Steve easily caught up with her. “Hop on,” he said.
“What?”
“The handlebars. Hop on. It’ll be way faster.”
Belladonna was dubious about this, but she scrambled onto the freezing handlebars and held on for dear life as Steve took off full tilt, his feet pumping the old pedals while the loose spokes created a rattling whir that bounced off the sides of the parked cars and sounded like either a roaring motorbike (Steve’s opinion) or as if the whole rackety vehicle was about to shatter into its composite parts, leaving cyclist and passenger sitting in the middle of the road (the opinion of everyone else they passed).
“Where does she live?” he yelled.
“Yarrow Street. Number 3.”
Steve turned a sharp right, narrowly missing a lady pushing her baby in a pushchair. The lady yelled some very unladylike things after them, but her voice soon faded in the rush of wind. They finally skidded to a stop around the back of Grandma Johnson’s house.
“This is the back,” said Belladonna, confused.
“Course it is,” said Steve. “If you want to find out anything, you’re going to have to eavesdrop, aren’t you? Otherwise, all you’ll get is that stuff grown-ups always hand out: Don’t you worry about a thing, just do your homework, or eat your dinner, or clear the table. You know the sort of thing.”
He was right, of course. Her Mum and Dad had never discussed anything serious with her, and as for Aunt Deirdre—well, Belladonna was fairly sure that she didn’t even rate as a sentient life-form so far as her aunt was concerned.
The back alley was one of those old-fashioned ones with high brick walls and tall wooden gates. Belladonna slid off the bike and went to her grandmother’s gate. It was locked.
Before she could even
“I’m home!” she yelled, dropping her bag at the door and shrugging out of her coat. “Aunt Deirdre! I’m home!”
Silence.
She walked into the kitchen and saw a note on the table, propped up against the pepper grinder.
“Dear Belladonna,” it said. “Gone to see your grandmother. Tea in fridge. Make sure you do your homework. Back soon. D.”
Belladonna stared at it blankly for a moment, then smiled. She was right: Her grandmother
was
“the old lady” that Deirdre and Miss Parker had been discussing. It really was weird, though. As long as she’d known her, Aunt Deirdre had made fun of Grandma Johnson. And even her mother and father had been known to make the odd disparaging remark about her séances and palm reading. Why on earth would Aunt Deirdre even
think
about going to her for help, even if Miss Parker had said she should?
These thoughts passed through her mind in a flash,of course, and within moments she had her coat back on and was dashing up the street toward her grandmother’s. The going was slow, however, and the daylight was quickly fading. She slackened her pace. What about the Hound? Maybe she should go back and wait.
She turned the corner onto Dulcimer Lane and saw a familiar figure: Steve Evans popping wheelies in the road on his hand-me-down bicycle.
“Hey!” he shouted, and zoomed over, expertly spinning the bike on its back wheel as he did so. “What’s up?”
Belladonna stopped, gasping for breath.
“My Aunt Deirdre,” she panted, “she knows something. . . . She’s gone to my Grandma’s. . . . I have to find out . . .”
“Knows something?” said Steve. “About what?”
“All the ghosts have vanished. Something’s wrong.”
“That doesn’t sound too wrong to me.”
“But it is. I don’t know why. . . . I just . . .”
Her voice petered off. She couldn’t explain it. Couldn’t explain the off-balance feeling she’d had, not so much since her parents had vanished but since she’d realized that everyone else had too. From the most imposing headless horseman to the tiniest proto-poltergeist—they’d all gone.
“I have to go,” she said, and took off again.
Steve easily caught up with her. “Hop on,” he said.
“What?”
“The handlebars. Hop on. It’ll be way faster.”
Belladonna was dubious about this, but she scrambled onto the freezing handlebars and held on for dear life as Steve took off full tilt, his feet pumping the old pedals while the loose spokes created a rattling whir that bounced off the sides of the parked cars and sounded like either a roaring motorbike (Steve’s opinion) or as if the whole rackety vehicle was about to shatter into its composite parts, leaving cyclist and passenger sitting in the middle of the road (the opinion of everyone else they passed).
“Where does she live?” he yelled.
“Yarrow Street. Number 3.”
Steve turned a sharp right, narrowly missing a lady pushing her baby in a pushchair. The lady yelled some very unladylike things after them, but her voice soon faded in the rush of wind. They finally skidded to a stop around the back of Grandma Johnson’s house.
“This is the back,” said Belladonna, confused.
“Course it is,” said Steve. “If you want to find out anything, you’re going to have to eavesdrop, aren’t you? Otherwise, all you’ll get is that stuff grown-ups always hand out: Don’t you worry about a thing, just do your homework, or eat your dinner, or clear the table. You know the sort of thing.”
He was right, of course. Her Mum and Dad had never discussed anything serious with her, and as for Aunt Deirdre—well, Belladonna was fairly sure that she didn’t even rate as a sentient life-form so far as her aunt was concerned.
The back alley was one of those old-fashioned ones with high brick walls and tall wooden gates. Belladonna slid off the bike and went to her grandmother’s gate. It was locked.
Before she could even
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