The Beasts of Clawstone Castle

‘I didn’t, it wasn’t me! I’m a different Henry,’ he gasped, thrashing about wildly with his shooting stick.

‘You have just seen another of Clawstone’s famous ghosts,’ said Mrs Grove, as the party stumbled away from the steam and the mingled smell of washing powder and blood. ‘The Bloodstained Bride who was shot by her lover on her wedding day’ . . . She told them Brenda’s tragic story. ‘It is most unfortunate,’ she went on, ‘that Major Hardbottock has the same name as the man who killed her.’

Actually, the name of the man who had shot Brenda had not been Henry, it had been Roderick, but as the visitors waited to buy tickets, Ned had recognized Henry Hardbottock from the telly. He had told the ghosts about him and Brenda had seen at once how she could make her haunt more interesting.

‘I want to get out,’ said Ham. ‘Where’s the exit?’

But Mrs Grove did not seem to have heard him. She had opened a door labelled ‘Museum’, and the cowed visitors shuffled in after her.

Inside the room, everything was quiet. The stuffed duck that had choked on a stickleback, the rocking horse with a missing leg, the cardboard gas-mask case were all in place.

‘I will leave you to look at the exhibits on your own,’ said Mrs Grove. ‘If you want any help, just ask the curator.’

She pointed to a man sitting in a chair by the window with his back to them.

The visitors did their best to be interested in the exhibits. They were pale and shaken – the hikers kept feeling their throats – but it looked as though the worst might be over. The professor made a note of the medieval moulding over the fireplace. Then she bent over the Clawstone Hoggart.

‘I’ve never seen anything like this,’ she said to her assistant. ‘Go and ask the curator what it is.’

Angela went over to the window and cleared her throat.

‘Excuse me,’ she said. ‘I wonder if you could help me . . .’

The man swivelled round in his chair.

‘No,’ he said in a throbbing voice, ‘I cannot help you. But you must help me.’

And he stood up and slowly, button by button, he opened his shirt.

For a moment everyone in the room was silent as they took in the ghastly sight which met them. Then the screaming began – and the stampede to try to reach the door.

But the apparition with the unspeakable creature gnawing at his chest was quicker than they were.

‘You must take my burden,’ he cried, barring the door. ‘You must take my rat. Take it, take it!’ He lunged out at Major Hardbottock. ‘You! You are strong. Pluck it from me. Take it by the tail and pull.’

‘Get away from me,’ shouted the Major. ‘You’re unclean!’

‘Yes, I’m unclean but you must save me. Or you.’ He turned to the professor. ‘Snatch it from me. Free me from the rat!’

Ham retched and bent over a fire bucket. Everyone was backing away now but there was no escaping the phantom with the rat. He swooped through the cage of Interesting Stones and past the sewing machine which had belonged to Sir George’s grandmother. He beseeched and implored and pleaded – he went down on his knees and threw his arms round the visitors’ legs – and all the time the loathsome animal on his chest gnawed and crunched and chewed and clung.

Even when they found another door and stumbled down a flight of steps the visitors could still hear the maniacal voice. The little girls were clutching their parents, the hikers were deathly pale, the professor’s assistant was crying. All they thought of was getting out of the castle: out . . . out . . .out . . .

In the hall, The Feet were still dancing. The visitors stumbled through them. The nurse had run off, leaving the old lady to manage on her own.

‘Look, there’s an attendant!’ cried the professor. ‘Perhaps she’ll show us the way out.’

The visitors looked uncertainly at each other, but after a moment Major Hardbottock resolutely made his way towards the girl sitting quietly on a chair at the far side of the room.

‘How do we get out?’ he asked.

‘Yes, out, out quickly. Show us the way out,’ begged the rest of the party.

The girl on the chair smiled. It was a sweet smile and the terrified visitors were calmed for a moment.

‘This way,’ she said.

She lifted an arm and pointed. Then she gave a little sigh, her lovely midriff separated into two bloodied and jagged halves, and the top part of her floated softly, gently, up and up towards the ceiling, while her lower half, in beautiful embroidered trousers, still sat peacefully on the chair.

Upstairs in their hiding place, the children waited eagerly. As soon as Sunita had joined herself up again they were going to signal to Mrs Grove to lead the visitors out.

But something had gone wrong. Sunita’s top half still floated high up among the chandeliers, her long hair seemed to blow in some unseen breeze, but she did not come down again. She circled the huge room; she looked down, bewildered. She was lost. She could not find her lower half.

‘Oh!’ Madlyn clutched her brother. This was awful. What if Sunita could never find the rest of herself ?