Dial a Ghost
Authors: Eva Ibbotson
Tags: #Juvenile Fiction, #Horror & Ghost Stories, #Humorous Stories, #General, #Juvenile Nonfiction, #Curiosities & Wonders, #Humor
Dial a Ghost
Eva Ibbotson writes for both adults and children. Born in Vienna, she now lives in the north of England. She has a daughter and three sons, now grown up, who showed her that children like to read about ghosts, wizards and witches ‘because they are just like people but madder and more interesting’. She has written seven other ghostly adventures for children.
Which Witch?
was runner-up for the Carnegie Medal and
The Secret of Platform 13
was shortlisted for the Smarties Prize. Her novel
Journey to the River Sea
won the Smarties Prize and was shortlisted for the Carnegie Medal.
‘You’ll love this chain-rattlingly, blood-oozingly hilarious story’
Daily Telegraph
‘Eva Ibbotson is on top form with this highly entertaining story’
Lindsey Fraser,
Scotsman
‘Warm, funny, scary and exciting – this is an absolute gem of a book’
Jonathan Weir,
School Librarian
Also by Eva Ibbotson
The Great Ghost Rescue
Which Witch?
The Haunting of Hiram
Not Just a Witch
The Secret of Platform 13
Monster Mission
Journey to the River Sea
The Star of Kazan
The Beasts of Clawstone Castle
For older readers
A Song for Summer
Eva Ibbotson
MACMILLAN CHILDREN’S BOOKS
First published 1996 by Macmillan’s Children’s Books
This edition published 2001 by Macmillan Children’s Books
This electronic edition published 2008 by Macmillan Children’s Books
a division of Macmillan Publishers Limited
20 New Wharf Rd, London N1 9RR
Basingstoke and Oxford
Associated companies throughout the world
www.panmacmillan.com
ISBN 978-0-330-47767-3 in Adobe Reader format
ISBN 978-0-330-47766-6 in Adobe Digital Editions format
ISBN 978-0-330-47768-0 in Mobipocket format
Copyright © Eva Ibbotson 1996
The right of Eva Ibbotson to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted by her in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.
You may not copy, store, distribute, transmit, reproduce or otherwise make available this publication (or any part of it) in any form, or by any means (electronic, digital, optical, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise), without the prior written permission of the publisher. Any person who does any unauthorized act in relation to this publication may be liable to criminal prosecution and civil claims for damages.
A CIP catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.
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The Wilkinson family became ghosts quite suddenly during the Second World War when a bomb fell on their house.
The house was called Resthaven after the hotel where Mr and Mrs Wilkinson had spent their honeymoon, and you couldn’t have found a nicer place to live. It had bow windows and a blue front door and stained glass in the bathroom, and a garden with a bird table and a lily pond. Mrs Wilkinson kept everything spotless and her husband, Mr Wilkinson, was a dentist who went to town every day to fill people’s teeth, and they had a son called Eric who was thirteen when the bomb fell. He was a Boy Scout and had just started having spots and falling in love with girls who sneered at him.
Also living in the house were Mrs Wilkinson’s mother, who was a fierce old lady with a dangerous umbrella, and Mrs Wilkinson’s sister Trixie, a pale, fluttery person to whom bad things were always happening.
The family had been getting ready to go to the air raid shelter at the bottom of the garden and they were collecting the things they needed. Grandma took her umbrella and her gas mask case which did not hold her gas mask but a bottle labelled poison which she meant to drink if there was an invasion rather than fall into enemy hands. Mrs Wilkinson gathered up her knitting and unhooked the budgie’s cage, and Eric took a book called
Scouting for Boys
and the letter he was writing to a girl called Cynthia Harbottle.
In the hall they met Mr Wilkinson, who had just come in and was changing into his khaki uniform. He belonged to the Home Guard, a brave band of part-time soldiers who practised crawling through the undergrowth and shooting things when they had finished work.
‘Hurry up everyone,’ he said. ‘The planes are getting closer.’
But just then they remembered that poor Trixie was still in her upstairs bedroom wrapped in a flag. The flag was her costume for a show the Women’s Institute was putting on for the gallant soldiers, and Trixie had been chosen to be The Spirit of Britain and come on in a Union Jack.
‘I’ll just go and fetch her,’ said Mrs Wilkinson, who knew that Trixie had not been at all happy with the way she looked and might be too shy to come down and join them.
She began to climb the stairs ... and then the bomb fell and that was that.
Of course it was a shock realizing that they had suddenly become ghosts.
‘Fancy me a spook!’ said Grandma, shaking her head.
Still, there they were – a bit pale and shimmery, of course, but not looking so different from the way they had before. Grandma always wore her best hat to the shelter, the one with the bunch of cherries trimmed with lover’s knots, and the whiskers on her chin stuck out like daggers in the moonlight. Eric was in his Scout uniform with the woggle and the badge to show he was a Pathfinder, and his spectacles were still on his nose. Only the budgie didn’t look too good. He had lost his tail feathers and seemed to have become rather a
small
bird.
‘Oh, Henry, what shall we do now?’ asked Mrs Wilkinson. The top half of her husband was dressed like a soldier in a tin hat which he had draped with leaves so as to make him look like a bush, but the bottom half was dressed like a dentist and Mrs Wilkinson, who loved him very much, glided close to him and looked up into his face.
‘We shall do what we did before, Maud,’ said Mr Wilkinson. ‘Live decent lives and serve our country.’
‘At least we’re all together,’ said Grandma.
But then a terrible silence fell and as the spectres looked at each other their ectoplasm turned as white as snow.
‘Where is Trixie?’ faltered Mrs Wilkinson. ‘Where is my dear sister?’
Where indeed? They searched what was left of the house, they searched the garden, they called and called, but there was no sign of a shy spook with spectacles dressed in nothing but a flag.
For poor Maud Wilkinson this was an awful blow. She cried, she moaned, she wrung her hands. ‘I promised Mother I would look after her,’ she wailed. ‘I’ve always looked after Trixie.’
This was true. Maud and Trixie’s mother had run a stage dancing school and ever since they were little, Maud had helped her nervy sister to be a Sugar Puff or Baby Swan or Dandelion.
But there was nothing to be done. Why some people become ghosts and others don’t is a mystery that no one has ever solved.
The next years passed uneventfully. The war ended but nobody came to rebuild their house and the Wilkinsons lived in it much as they did before. It was completely ruined but they could remember where all the rooms were, and in a way being a ghost is simple; you don’t feel the cold or have to go to school, and they soon got the hang of passing through walls and vanishing. Having Mr Wilkinson to explain things to them was a great help of course.
‘You have to remember,’ he said, ‘that while people are made of muscle and skin and bone, ghosts are made of ectoplasm. But that does not mean,’ he went on sternly, ‘that we can allow ourselves to become feeble and woozy and faint. Ectoplasm can be strengthened just the way that muscles can.’
But however busy they were doing knee bends and press-ups and learning to move things by the power of their will, they never forgot poor Trixie. Every single evening as the sun went down they went into the garden and called her. They called her from the north, they called her from the south and the east and the west but the sad, goose-pimpled spook never appeared.
Then, when they had been phantoms for about fifteen years, something unexpected happened. They found the ghost of a lost child.
They were out for an early morning glide in the fields near their house when they saw a white shape lying in the grass, under the shelter of a hedge.
‘Goodness, do you think it’s a passed-on sheep?’ asked Mrs Wilkinson.
But when they got closer they saw that it was not the ghost of a sheep that lay there. It was the ghost of a little girl. She wore an old-fashioned nightdress with a ribbon round the neck and one embroidered slipper, and though she was fast asleep, the string of a rubber sponge bag was clasped in her hand.
‘She must be a ghost from olden times,’ said Mrs Wilkinson excitedly. ‘Look at the stitching on that nightdress! You don’t get sewing like that nowadays.’
‘She looks wet,’ said Grandma.
This was true. Drops of water glistened in her long, tousled hair and her one bare foot looked damp.
‘Perhaps she drowned?’ suggested Eric.
Mr Wilkinson opened the sponge bag. Inside it was a toothbrush, a tin of tooth powder with a picture of Queen Victoria on the lid – and a fish. It was a wild fish, not the kind that lives in tanks, but it too was a ghost and could tell them nothing.
