1. The Witching Hour
The Witching Hour
It was a cold, clear night. Hundreds of diamondlike stars twinkled overhead, studding the endless stretch of black that was the sky. And if you happened to be in the village of Appleton, England, and if you happened to look up at those inky heavens at just the right moment, you might see more than stars. If you were lucky—or perhaps unlucky—you might see a figure sitting astride a broomstick, speeding past the moon.
In case you didn’t know, the best spot for witch-watching is a graveyard: witches, like most creatures of the night, are drawn to such places. Perhaps that was why the villagers gave a wide berth to the strange, spooky space that was the Appleton cemetery.
“They say it’s haunted,” Mrs. Next Door would say, sipping her tea.
“I don’t care what they say,” Mr. Down the Road would scoff, giving his glass of whiskey a swirl. “There’s no such thing as monsters.” He wouldn’t mention that just the previous evening, he awoke with a start to find the silvery specter of his late wife rocking in the chair beside his bed, her knitting needles clicking just as swiftly and loudly as they had in life….
“Even so,” Mrs. Across the Street would chip in, “that place gives me the creeps.”
Mrs. Across the Street had the better measure of that most haunted place, for at any given time there were any number of spooky things prowling about it. In fact, one such thing, a zombie named Georgie Hendrix, was approaching the Appleton graveyard at that very moment. It is here that our story begins.
Georgie ambled into the cemetery, easing the gates open with a creak. A blur of tan—Georgie’s very best friend, a masked vampire-cat called Bandit—streaked between his legs. The cat’s lamplight eyes were fixed upon a particularly old headstone. Three centuries’ worth of rain, wind, and snow had smoothed the stone, but if you looked closely, you could just make out the name Georgie Hendrix etched into the marble.
Bandit sprinted ahead, coming to a stop beside Georgie’s plot. “Meow!” he cried. Now, as you very well know I can’t speak cat, but I think Bandit must have said something along the lines of, “Georgie, I think someone’s been messing with your grave!”
The zombie’s rotting eyes swept across the graveyard. Bandit was right: someone had disturbed his plot. His moldering, splintering coffin had been dislodged from the dirt, revealing a hole—no, a tunnel. Someone must have dug it, but who? And more importantly, why?
“Eurga,” Georgie said, the drooling slash of his mouth twisting into a frown.
“Mew meow?” Bandit asked. In this case, I think he meant, “Are you saying that you think whoever’s behind this didn’t break into your grave, but out of it?”
Georgie nodded.
“Meow?” Here, I think, Bandit’s meaning was quite clear: “Who?”
Georgie pointed to the base of the headstone. There, barely visible between the overgrown weeds, was a fingernail. It was long and sharp and, judging by the sickly shade of green, full of fungus. Bandit’s fur stood on end; he thought he knew to whom it belonged….
“Eurga,” said Georgie, confirming the feline’s fears. “Eurg.”
“Meow,” Bandit sighed in agreement, reluctantly taking the filthy fingernail in his mouth.
The pair exited the graveyard, heading for the sprawling, crumbling mansion that sat on top of the hill just over yonder. Wordlessly, they picked up their pace. There was no time to waste—oh, this was bad….
You’re wondering why the appearance of a fungus-filled fingernail had so alarmed the monsters? So am I.
The old-fashioned alarm clock on the nightstand read twelve a.m. but ten-year-old Theodora Hendrix was wide awake. She was sitting on the floor in the middle of her bedroom, which looked as if it had been struck by a tornado: clothes and hair ribbons were scattered everywhere, while shoes spilled out of the wardrobe like a smelly rubber river. A suitcase sat in the middle of her bedroom floor, along with a briefcase the size of a postage stamp. But Theodora could not claim credit for this bit of packing, as the briefcase belonged to Sherman, the talking, top-hat-wearing tarantula.
“Theodora,” called a voice from above. “You still haven’t packed?”
It was Sherman, helicoptering down from a crack in the ceiling on a strand of spider silk. “You haven’t packed at all,” he chided, all eight of his milky, monocled eyes sweeping across the messy room.
“I know,” Theodora groaned, running a hand through her tomato-red hair. “I just can’t decide what to bring. What’s the weather like in New York, anyway?”
“Freezing, I expect.”
“Guess I don’t need a bathing suit, then,” she said, tossing hers aside.
“No, but some of these jumpers would do nicely.”
With Sherman’s help, Theodora finally began to make progress. Just then, there was a knock at the door. In walked a mummy, and not just any mummy. This mummy—aptly named, well, Mummy—just so happened to be one of the world’s fiercest warriors. Her small but powerful frame was wrapped from head-to-toe in soft, snowy linen offset by a shiny gold crown. And though they weren’t visible, Theodora knew that two bejeweled knives were hidden inside her bandages, waiting to be called into service.
“What are you still doing up?” asked Mummy. “It’s well past midnight.”
“Just finishing packing.”
“Then let’s close that case and get you tucked in. If you’re late for school tomorrow, Ms. Frumple won’t be happy.”
Theodora crinkled her nose at the mention of her head teacher. They had never got on, but over the past few months their relationship had deteriorated greatly—probably because Ms. Frumple blamed Theodora for ruining her plans to make some major (and awful) changes at school. Theodora and her friends had protested, and ultimately the school governors had sided with them. Ms. Frumple had taken to ignoring Theodora ever since. Mummy wasn’t pleased with this behavior (which was, in her opinion, unbecoming of an educator), but Theodora didn’t mind. In fact, in many ways she found it to be an improvement.
“Do I have to go to school tomorrow?” asked Theodora, slipping between her pumpkin-patterned sheets. “It’s the last day of term, so we won’t be learning anything.”
“School is only to be missed if you’re feeling ill or if there’s an emergency.”
Theodora scowled.
“Careful,” Mummy said lightly, smoothing the crease between her brows, “or your face will freeze like that.” (Have your parents ever said this to you? I figured. Well, I can assure you that it won’t; your parents are just trying to distract you from whatever they did to cause you to pull a face in the first place. They’re sneaky like that.)
“It’ll be over before you know it,” said Sherman, swapping his top hat for a sleeping cap. “Then we’ll be on our way to New York City!”
“And Dexter and his family arrive the day after we do,” Mummy reminded them, referring to Theodora’s best human friend, Dexter Adebola. “Mrs. Adebola has invited us for dinner at her sister’s apartment. Can you imagine? A dinner party with actual humans!”
Mummy was right—it would be fun to hang out with Dexter while they were away, and she only had one more day of school to get through. Cheered by the thought, Theodora finally settled back against her pillows.
“Sorry to interrupt,” called a deep, mournful voice from the doorway. A voice that could only belong to the mansion’s skeletal butler, Helter-Skelter. “But Dracula’s called an emergency MLM meeting.” He held up a bony finger, from which a small, furry bat was hanging upside down.
It was Mummy’s turn to frown. “Did he say why?”
The butler shook his head.
“I’d better go.” Mummy sighed. “Night, Theodora. Night, Sherman.”
Theodora waited a beat for the sound of their footsteps to fade, then whispered, “What do you think that was about?”
But Sherman didn’t reply; he was already fast asleep, the tassels of his nightcap fluttering in time with his snores. (It never ceases to amaze me that Theodora allows a spider the size of a puppy to share her pillow; nothing could convince me to do the same. I would, however, be delighted to share my pillow with a puppy—but I digress.)
Theodora sighed. She supposed she’d have to wait until tomorrow to hear Sherman’s thoughts on the matter. She burrowed beneath the covers, eyes fluttering closed for what would turn out to be one of the last nights of good sleep she would enjoy for quite some time….
