Ghostland

GHOSTLAND

By Annette Siketa

Copyright © 2023 Annette Siketa.

No part of this book may be manipulated, transmitted, or altered by any method or manner whatsoever. All rights reserved. Please respect the authors’ rights. Only through honesty can the insidious practice of illegal copying be curbed.

Distributed by Smashwords.

From the author.

Annsarann lodge,

Adelaide,

Australia.

Dear Reader,

I really hope you enjoy this book. If you happen to finish it before your friends do, please don’t tell them how it ends. Keep ‘em guessing!

Something very strange happened while I was writing the book. Have you ever been alone, especially late at night, and had the feeling that someone was standing behind you? Or perhaps you had your nose buried in a book and thought someone was reading over your shoulder? Well, that’s exactly what happened to me. Perhaps it was the subject matter, or perhaps the long nights pounding the keyboard, but in any event, I am absolutely sure that someone, or something, was watching me.

As if that wasn’t bad enough, my sandwich maker suddenly went on a go slow, the automatic toaster refused to POP, and I daren’t tell you what happened to my hair-dryer. During this time, I also bought a new TV, but within days of bringing it home, the people on the screen took on a hazy, ghostly shadow. Spooky eh?

I hope nothing ‘odd’ happens to you when you’re reading the book. ENJOY!

Annette Siketa

In loving memory of Albert and Peter.

Chapter 1. The Problem Child.

It was late afternoon when Professor Lution stood in her office and absently gazed out of the window. The gloomy weather and overcast sky were a perfect match for her mood. Not even the strange carpet under her feet could raise her spirits. Patterned with planets, moons, and stars, every image was either revolving or twinkling.

Professor Lution was short and slender with expressive brown eyes and an aquiline nose. Her kind, matronly smile, coupled with a pair of silver framed glasses, conveyed wisdom, efficiency, and confidence. She always wore her iron-grey hair in a bun on the top of her head, and although she appeared to be in her late 50’s, her real age was considerably older…a lot older in fact.

Always smartly dressed, she might have been mistaken for a Bank Manager or an Accountant, perhaps even a Doctor or some sort of executive. But the truth was that her job was literally ‘out of this world’. She was the Chancellor of the College of Customs and Myths and Legends, or Camals for short, and she had met more famous people than a colony of Blue-Bearded Throgwash Grubs have eyes.

The professor’s hands were wrapped around a mug of Hackleberry’s Roast Hazelnut Coffee. According to the manufacturer, the hazelnuts were collected and ground by ‘real mortal squirrels’.

The picture on the mug depicted a man looking dazed and confused. One eye was literally spinning in its socket, whilst the other was blackened as though it had been punched. The caption above the picture read - ‘Never argue with someone you can’t see’.

Suddenly, everything outside the window, including the sky, turned black. There were a few seconds of dead silence in which nothing seemed to move. Then, as lights began appearing in houses in the distance, cries of protest and what sounded like a herd of charging rhynax ran through the college.

It was the last thing the professor needed, and as she sighed in a ‘oh, not again’ sort of way, a voice spoke from behind.

Midnight at four in the afternoon? I’ve told you before, Professor, this electricaby thing is dangerous. Running lights and radar and all that other navigational stuff – Bah! Why, in my ship, The Golden Hind, I could sail anywhere in the world and not get lost.

Professor Lution glanced in the direction of the voice. Most commendable, Sir Francis, but I think you’ll find the darkness has less to do with electricity and more to do with Doctor Ambit. No doubt he’s teaching at the moment.

Teaching? repeated Sir Francis Drake scornfully. Huh, is that what he calls it.

Would you like me to light a candle? asked a woman in a thick Italian accent.

The professor smiled at a picture of Mona Lisa. The walls of the office were lined with copies of famous paintings, but unlike the mortal originals, the pictures were haunted by the people portrayed. A figure could move freely in its frame but only its spirit could leave.

No, thank you, Mona. I’m sure everything will be alright very soon.

No sooner had she spoken when the dull light and the overcast sky were restored. Jeers and applause ran through the college, and several loud 'bangs' could be heard in the distance.

Pity he didn’t make the sun come out, remarked the professor. "Which reminds me, I must put in an order for balmy weather for the Polynesian feast on Saturday evening. After the last fiasco, I hope he gets it right this time.

Perhaps I should speak to him about retirement. At 226 years of age, he's certainly entitled to it. Besides…oh, what now?

A cluster of pink soap bubbles had appeared outside the window. About the size of a football, the cluster rolled from side-to-side as though cleaning the glass, which in point of fact, it was.

The professor paid no attention to this or any of the other wondrous sights outside the window. It was vital she find a solution to the problem of Grace Darling. Moreover, the answer – whatever it might be, had to be convincing and leave no room for doubt.

A few weeks earlier, news had leaked out that Grace might be attending the college after the Christmas holidays. The problem was not Grace herself but her controversial grandfather. To some, Digby Darling was a lovable eccentric whose knowledge of the supernatural, especially its darker side, made for some interesting conversations. To others however, he was a senile old man who should have been locked up years ago.

The division of opinion had caused many of the students to become fractious. Arguments in the corridors and cafeteria were not uncommon, whilst up in the dormitories, some of the naysayers received an unwelcome surprise.

Nails had been used to pin the sheets to a bed, and no amount of tugging could pull them out. Each nail had to be stroked and told how beautiful it was…and then given a kiss. This had to be done with extreme care, for after being caressed, the nail shot out like a bullet.

Oh, Percival, murmured the professor, what is the best thing to do? Grace knows nothing of our world, and yet by the laws of the college she cannot be denied entry.

The remark had been made to a gold salamander brooch on the lapel of her jacket. The tiny creature raised its head, blinked its ruby eyes as though to say, ‘what did you wake me up for?’ and scuttled up the front of the jacket, disappearing somewhere behind the professor's neck.

Ugh! cried Mona, her long dangling earrings almost touching her neck. I don’t like rodents. They should be transported en masse to Venice and drowned in the canals.

It was not uncommon for aspects of the pictures to change. Today, Van Gogh’s vase of ‘Sunflowers’ was sporting a bunch of bright pink roses, which also smelt, while a portrait of the explorer, Captain James Cook, was studying a London A to Z.

Mona had long ditched her dowdy black dress in favour of vibrant colours. Yesterday, it had been a bright green dress with a matching headdress. The ensemble might have been charming had it not been for the headdress, which looked like it had been attacked by a cat. Today it was an eye-watering yellow concoction of laces, frills, and ruffles.

Always ready with advice or a comment – whether wanted or not, her ‘sunny’ mood vanished when she noticed that the professor was now tapping her lips with her thumb - something she only did when she was deep in thought or very worried.

Oh, no! Mona's hands twisted in agitation. Please don’t tell me there’s been an escape.

Camals was home to some of the greatest people who had ever lived, and it was not uncommon to see teachers such as Arthur Pendragon and Robin Hood wandering through the corridors. Another favourite was Leonardo Da Vinci. But, instead of holding a paintbrush and creating another masterpiece, he usually had a bar of chocolate in his hand.

But not every presence was banal, for the college was also home to some of history’s nastier characters, and not all of them human. They were kept behind protected gates where their familiar surroundings had been reproduced.

Every night, Jack the Ripper wandered the streets of 19th century London looking for a new female victim. Nobody was actually killed as the women, who were either volunteers or members of the Zanterus Amateur Dramatic Society - ZADS for short, were ghosts.

No - not an escape, responded the professor, and pointed to a report on her desk. It’s that.

The arrival of ghosts and spirits and other entities in Zanterus was, as the saying went, in ‘the lap of the gods’, whereas the admission of a mortal student to the college was subject to centuries-old rules.

Firstly, any prior academic qualifications or the lack thereof, played absolutely no part. Secondly, the candidate, no matter the age, had to have a strong connection to the world of the spirit, such as being descended from a witch doctor or a creditable clairvoyant, or indeed, possess some mystic ability of their own.

Once lineage was established – and there was an entire Department of the GGG or General Ghostly Government dedicated to this process, the candidate was then assessed by an Infospec, who was specially trained to blend into the mortal world.

On occasion, a television or a light bulb could contain more than filaments and chips, but objects such as gas meters and cans of deodorant were usually avoided. The former because it was not a good observation post, and the latter because the Infospec could inadvertently be squirted out of the can.

Should the Infospec's observations prove inconclusive, there were other methods for assessing suitability, such as the Squeamish Meter, whereby a candidate’s level of fright was recorded after receiving a ‘ghostly’ shock. There was also the Mind’s Eye Probe, but this was rarely used as it tended to make a mortal feel rather sick.

The entire exercise was conducted in secret, and it was only after the data was collected that Camals, or more particularly, Professor Lution, received a report on a candidate. Fortunately for all those concerned, the lengthy though necessary vetting process only occurred once a year.

Now that the subject of an escape had been settled, Mona was back to her usual self. "Bah! Documents and papers. You should get out more. Perhaps ride in a gondola along the Zanterus River and be serenaded by mandolins - so romantic.

You should also eat lots of pasta. A large bowl of spaghetti will cure just about anything, and I have it on reliable authority that talking to yourself is the first sign of madness.

In this instance, the ‘reliable authority’ was the reputed poisoner Lucrezia Borgia, who was best friends with alleged axe-murderer, Lizzie Borden. Though Mona knew them well, it had seemingly never occurred to her that the two notorious women had the same initials.

Quite right, Madam, said Sir Isaac Newton breathlessly. His portrait had just sprung to life, and it was immediately apparent that something was wrong.

Ordinarily, his static figure was resplendent in a black frock coat, starched lace cravat, and an impeccably powdered grey wig. Now, his coat was unevenly buttoned, his cravat was rumpled, and his wig was hanging over his right ear.

As the professor well knew, ghosts - whether a pearly white ethereal or a full colour apparition, could be very touchy about their appearance, and so in order not to offend the inventor, she spoke as if nothing was amiss.

Ah, Sir Isaac, you're back. Any problems?

He mopped his brow and straightened his wig. My dear lady, anyone who has the misfortune to encounter Edmund Hawkins will always have a problem. During my 30 years of service at the Royal Mint, never did I witness such shameful behaviour.

What did he do? asked the professor, noticing that all the figures in the paintings had stopped what they were doing. Edmund Hawkins was a notorious rogue spirit, and clearly the opportunity to hear a first-hand account of his antics was too good to miss.

Sir Isaac poured a glass of claret from a decanter painted in his picture. Your health, Madam, he toasted. He drank deeply and then continued, "I was successful in correcting the newly minted coins. Fancy changing the date to 007 - such childish behaviour.

The problem occurred when I attempted to remove him from the stamping machine. He slipped out the back and floated into a tearoom.

A what? screeched the portrait of ‘Whistler’s Mother’. Speak up, man.

Use your ear trumpet, said Professor Lution in a rather loud voice.

What for? I’m not deaf. It’s him - he mumbles. I’ve never heard of a searoom.

There was a ripple of laughter as the professor patiently explained, In the mortal world, a tearoom is a common eating area.

A what? Oh, you mean a kitchen! Why didn’t he say that in the first place?

Sir Isaac resumed, I was in the process of extracting Edmund from a tea urn when a female employee entered the room. Not only did the unconscionable devil make himself visible, but he pulled his head off and rolled it across the floor. The poor woman fainted in terror.

Every figure in every painting howled with laughter, thereby causing dogs to bark, horses to neigh, and several cows to have ‘accidents’. To the delight of a group of 18th century soldiers in bright red uniforms, three chickens and a duck promptly laid eggs.

Yay! cried one of the soldiers. Omelettes for tea!

Professor Lution held up a hand. Such was their respect for her that all fell silent, except a pig, which grunted in protest. Did you alter her memory? she asked.

Sir Isaac sounded a little offended as he replied, Of course I did. She now thinks she slipped on a slice of cheese that fell out of a sandwich.

In the ensuing fresh outburst of laughter, nobody heard the professor’s sigh of relief. The last thing she needed was another problem. I suppose we shouldn’t blame Edmund too much, she said, trying to sound reasonable. After all, he was falsely accused of stealing from the Mint and executed in 1888. Where is he now?

Well…erm… Sir Isaac nervously tugged at his cravat. In the mayhem that followed he…departed.

You lost him! cried Whistler’s Mother, sounding inordinately if unfairly pleased. She didn’t much like Sir Isaac, whose inventions she regarded as overrated. Some genius you are!

The situation was ripe for more jibes and jokes, but as the professor still had a very important matter to consider, she regretfully changed the mood. That’s enough, she said firmly. It was not Sir Isaac’s fault. Edmund is, to use a mortal expression, a slippery customer, and no doubt we’ll hear more about him in the future.

That, Madam, said Sir Isaac stiffly, is not a prospect I shall anticipate with joy. Now, if you would excuse me, I wish to bathe and change. He bowed and was about to leave when he pointed to the window. I believe you’re wanted, he said, and as his spirit exited the portrait, his original painted figure snapped into position.

Outside the window, the soap bubbles had been bobbing to attract attention. Professor Lution turned and saw that the pink cluster was now gray. Sparkling as usual, she said with a smile. She would have made the same comment even if the glass was streaky, for there were some creatures in Zanterus that were too cute or innocent to offend.

Very few employees of the Bubble & Squeak Cleaning Corporation had the ability to talk, and yet they seemed to know the meaning of a smile. The cluster broke apart, re-assembled in the shape of a tick, and happily ‘popped’ out of sight.

Professor Lution suddenly frowned. Now, I wonder…

She crossed to her desk and read the Infospec report again. The bubbles had given her an idea that might solve the problem of Grace Darling. However, there were two major issues. Firstly, the solution was extremely rare, and secondly, it would involve a great deal of organisation in a short amount of time. Undaunted, the professor picked up a pen and began to write.

Chapter 2. The Solution…Well, Sort of.

Twilight was falling by the time Professor Lution put down her pen. She looked up to see red streaks of light flashing across the encroaching darkness. Unlike the earlier mistake instigated by the good but bungling Doctor Ambit, this climatic display was perfectly natural. Flaming Fandangos were renowned for their luminosity, and they were simply doing what most birds did at night - going home to roost.

She picked up the mug of coffee and found it stone cold. She opened a drawer and withdrew a short stout stick about a hand’s span long. She muttered some words under her breath, and a moment later, steam rose from the coffee as if freshly made.

She sat back and enjoyed both the coffee and the fandangos. Even though her mind was less troubled than before, she wanted to speak to two particular men before instigating her plan.

She reached across and switched on a desk lamp, the light shining on a magnificent crystal bell. About the size of a milk bottle, the bell had symbols and markings etched into the glass, and although inert, the refracted light cast moving splotches of colour on the ceiling.

She touched a symbol on the bell, and less than a minute later, a gnome materialised in the room. Dressed in an emerald green jacket and red and gold striped trousers, his nose was the size and shape of a ping-pong ball, and his black, almond-shaped eyes, were deeply set under knobbly brows. Due to his tall, hairy pointed ears, a battered ‘pork-pie’ hat sat high on his oval-shaped head.

Bryan, said Professor Lution, a note of impatience in her voice, how many times have I told you? If you want to enter a room then use the door.

Tell that to all the arrogant ghosts around here, he grumbled, his mouth almost obscured by his long white beard. Even though it was tied in several knots, the tip still needed to be stuffed into the waistband of his trousers. That Quaker - Amos what’s-his-name, walked through my room the other day. Came out of one wall and went straight through the other. Nearly gave me a heart attack, and to emphasise his point, Bryan adopted a pained expression and clutched his chest.

At first, the professor paid no attention to his dramatics. Bryan had been her assistant for many years and rarely had a day passed without a whinge or a complaint. But then she saw that his hat was much closer to his head, and anyone who had studied even the basics of Gnomish society - and the professor was an expert on the subject, knew that the lowering or drooping of a gnome’s ears was a sign of trouble.

There were two types of gnomes in Zanterus – domesticated and native, or as the gnomes insultingly referred to each other, Picklebuts and Grimesters. Native gnomes lived in villages with names such as Martins Muckpuss, Strawberry Muckhill, and Hamlin-In-The-Muckhole, and being located within the vast Zanterus forest, they were not easy to find.

For the main part, Native gnomes abided by their own laws and customs, such as the picking of their long curled toenails after dinner. They also had their own television network, the current popular programme being ‘Wheel of Misfortune’, hosted by the cheeky and charming Skimp Implee.

Domesticated gnomes lived outside the forest and abided by the laws of Zanterus. Even so, very few forgot their heritage, and those gnomes who lived and worked at Camals - and there were quite a few of them, had created a vague representation of their home village by putting several tons of soil in their room. As the saying went, ‘You can take the gnome out of the muck but you can’t take the muck out of the gnome’.

Native gnomes considered Domesticated gnomes, traitors, and so great was the divide that some families had not exchanged a word in centuries. There was a way for an ‘outcast’ to re-join its native village but it involved a sacrifice. For a male, it was to have two thirds of his beard cut off. This was a recent development, for only a hundred years ago the beard would have been completely shaved off. For a female, it was to keep her floor length hair – of which she was inordinately vain, in plats for a year.

But whether Domesticated or Native, all gnomes have a common trait – the lowering of the ears just before a tantrum. A contestant on Wheel of Misfortune had insisted that ‘dog’ was spelt ‘dawg’. When informed he was mistaken, his ears flattened to such an extent that they seemed to melt into his head. Such was the ferocity of the tantrum that the studio was almost destroyed.

A tantrum was also responsible for a mortal disaster. According to Gnomish history, The Gnome Rebellion of 1666, which was sparked by an argument over a slice of toast, spilt into the mortal world and caused The Great Fire of London.

Professor Lution, recognising the imminent danger, employed the only known method for reducing and even averting a tantrum - flattery. Why, Bryan, what an excellent piece of acting. I didn’t know you were so talented. Have you ever considered joining the ZADS?

The gnome looked horrified. The ZADS! What would I want with a bunch of namby-pamby actors?

The Zanterus Amateur Dramatic Society is comprised of some of the greatest actors, actresses, and playwrights who ever lived, and judging from the performance you’ve just given, you would fit right in.

No chance, he responded, his hat starting to rise. You’ll never see me in a tutu.

Satisfied that she’d averted a major tantrum, Professor Lution felt confident enough to make her point. If Amos’s sudden appearances are disturbing you, I’ll have a word with him, but don’t try and hoodwink me by distorting the fact that you Arched into my office.

What’s the point of running up and down stairs and opening and closing doors when I can just Arch?

Because Arching is only to be used under certain circumstances, and receiving a general summons to my office is not one of them. Now, please find Abacus Miller and King Arthur and tell them I wish to see them.

Kingy? I thought he was on holiday.

He was, but he returned a short time ago. You’ll probably find Mr Miller in his laboratory in the dungeon, and King Arthur will be somewhere in the Department of Parties.

Oh, no he won't, said Bryan smugly, his hat now high above his head like a halo.

The professor was momentarily puzzled, and then she remembered. I keep forgetting that since Doctor Inoot arrived and modernised certain areas, it’s now called The Faculty of Ceremonial Observances. Anyway, the King will be with either Doctor Downer or the ZADS. Apparently, Shakespeare has written his 556th play.

Bryan groaned. What is it this time?

It’s called 'Justin and Tracy' and is a modern day adaptation of 'Troilus and Cressida'. Professor Lution added mischievously, Perhaps while you’re at the ZADS, you could ask Miss Shorestump about acting classes. Now, off you go, and… SLAM …don’t slam the door on your way out.

A death mask hanging on the wall by the door, announced in a mournful tone, King Arthur and Mr Miller are approaching.

Abacus Miller was the first to enter. The Deputy Head of Alchemy was short, pasty faced, and running to fat. His greasy thinning hair was styled in a comb-over, and nobody had ever seen him dressed in anything other than a pale blue Safari suit. A childhood injury had set his top lip in a curl, which made it difficult to determine whether he was snarling or smiling.

By contrast, King Arthur was impeccably dressed as usual. His green velvet tunic sparkled with jewels, and perched on top of his thick, shoulder length white hair, which was so stiff and straight that it might have been a wig, was a gold pointed crown.

Gentlemen, said Professor Lution when both men were seated, thank you for coming at such short notice.

King Arthur stood up again and placed a hand over his heart. My fairest lady, thou only hast to whisper on the wind and with all haste I shall heed the call.

Oh, sit down, Arthur, said Miller testily. Leave that kind of foolishness for the ZADS.

Professor Lution, who had rather enjoyed the flowery flattery, smiled appreciatively at the King. She pointed to the Infospec report and continued, This concerns a young girl who, by virtue of birthright is eligible to attend Camals, though at present she is unaware of our existence. She is articulate, possesses an extremely vivid imagination, and is generally kind and considerate.

Sounds like a perfect candidate, said King Arthur, and then added hopefully, I don’t suppose she can act? We could do with some fresh talent in the ZADS. Who is it? Having just returned from holiday, he was unaware of the discontent within the college.

The professor cleared her throat and tried to sound unconcerned. Her name is Grace Darling.

The only reaction of Abacus Miller was a twitch of his deformed top lip. King Arthur roared with laughter, the golden crown wobbling on his head. So, he said between guffaws, the granddaughter of Digby Darling is coming to Camals. Goodness me. That'll stir things up.

The professor responded cautiously. I believe rumours are already circulating. She looked at Abacus Miller inquiringly. And what is your opinion? she asked, though she was sure she already knew the answer.

Although there was no proof that Abacus Miller had leaked the news about Grace, his animosity towards Digby Darling was well known. Over the previous 18 months, both men had been working on the same ancient mystery, namely, a riddle engraved on a green stone, to which Miller had dropped several none-to-subtle hints about plagiarism.

Professor Lution was aware of these facts, which was why she had summoned Miller to her office. She wanted to gage the depth of his hostility before announcing her decision, and the answer he now gave showed that it was very deep indeed.

Need you ask? he drawled, sounding thoroughly bored. Digby Darling is an eccentric old fool with deluded and outdated ideas. There are those who have naively raised him to hero status, and the presence of his granddaughter will only increase this stupidity.

I say, that’s a bit harsh, said Sir Isaac from his painting. He was now wearing a purple frock coat and a flowery pink cravat. I have always found Digby Darling a most affable fellow. Granted some of his ideas and conceptions do seem radical, but then again, so did mine when I was alive.

Yes, thank you, Sir Isaac, said the professor, trying not to sound too dismissive. In truth, she was grateful for his support and would thank him later. She returned to the matter at hand. There is nothing in the report to suggest that Grace is anything like her grandfather. Therefore, is she to be barred from Camals on the basis of something she might say or do?

I say yes, said Miller, and this time there was no mistaking that his lip was curled in a sneer.

What a surprise, muttered a voice in a painting.

Miller seemingly ignored the