The Haunting of Heck House (22 page)

“I hope Grandpa Ghost doesn't put in an appearance again,” Artie muttered.

“Pilot,” Tweed said in a calm, quiet voice, “I think it's time. Hit it.”

Pilot reached over to the big lever on the table and— with a noise like KA-CHUNKK!!—threw the switch. Then he stepped quickly out of the way as the projector chugged its way up to speed. A kind of dancing, sparkling, green-and-gold light raced out in a widening beam and washed over the surface of the mirrors. Edwina giggled and squirmed like she was being tickled and Roddy spun in circles, while Daphne just bounced up and down a bit and grinned.

Cheryl and Tweed beamed almost as brightly as the projector, both of them sighing the same blissful, happy sigh they felt every single time they settled in to watch a picture. Only, this time, they weren't just watching it. They were about to become a part of it. And Pilot was absolutely right: the projector was the girls' bond with the Drive-In that would carry them all safely home.

The three mirrors, side by side, seemed to merge into one seamless, wavering picture, and Daphne, Roderick and Edwina smiled broadly and stepped closer to link hands. In the dim background behind the Hecklestone trio, figures and sets started to appear. The twins instantly recognized their old friends from the attic scene in
Ding Dong, You're Dead,
preparing for the climactic seance
scene. Only, it was like they were watching it from behind the screen! All the images were reversed.

“Remember what we talked about,” Tweed said. “Whatever happens, whoever gets through, just keep on running. Head for the big red barn and hide out there until we can regroup.”

Cheryl nodded, tense and ready for action, one hand stretched out so she could grab the Drive-In speaker when the moment came. Together, C+T and Co. prepared to make a charging run for the wavering surface of the mirror, where they would grab the Hecklestone kids, hold tight and keep on running. But, suddenly, the illumination from the Astral Projector and Simon's Spirit Stone seemed to wash out beneath a lurid ghoulish-green glare that spilled in through the wide-open doors that led to the grand foyer. There was the sound of furious flapping followed by a noise like the squawking of an outraged rooster fighting with a barn cat, and Artie abruptly left his post by the mirrors.

“Ramshackle!” he cried out as he sprinted down the length of the room.

“Artie!”

“Art-Bart!”

“Shrimpcake!”

Tweed, Pilot and Cheryl ran after him. Out in the foyer, they saw that the big bronze doorknob was glowing with fury. The house seemed to have finally clued in to what they were trying to do and was either sending out
a beam of fiery green ectoplasm
into
their machine to try to short it, or it was sucking the ectoplasmic fire
out
of their machine to try to drain it. It was hard to tell. Either way, it was a BAD THING.

And Ramshackle was caught right in the middle of it.

It looked as though the little guy had thrown himself in harm's way to try to deflect the house's wrath and now he was caught in it. Tiny forks of blue-white lightning danced crazily along his outstretched wings like he was trying to fight back.

“Guys!” Feedback called frantically from the dining room. “GUYS!! We're losing power! The plasma globes are firing erratically and the portal is fading! We need more juice or we're not gonna make it!”

The Hecklestone children began to wail in panic. The house began to roar with rage. Thunder boomed outside and lightning crashed and flashed. The windows began to rattle like … well, like regular windows.

And Cheryl had an idea.

“Tweed!” she shouted. “Catch!” She drew her trusty mini-golf putter—without the tattered rubber grip it was really just an old metal rod—and threw it to her cousin, who caught it deftly out of the air with one hand. “Give it to Ramshackle!”

Then she seized the fireplace poker she'd left lying in the entryway earlier and, while the house was otherwise occupied with more important business, managed to
smash one windowpane to smithereens. Only a small one but that was the best she could do. Cheryl had seen in a movie that folks who were hit by lightning once were more likely to be hit by lightning again. She didn't know if that was true or not, but she thought it was worth a try. And Ramshackle was kind of made of magic anyway.

Tweed thought she knew what Cheryl was trying to do, and when she thrust the skinny metal club into the gargoyle's reaching paw, she saw in his glowy little eyes that he did, too. For a moment, nothing happened. Then Ramshackle roared a roar of defiance and held the putter aloft. A blinding streak of lightning forked through the shattered window and arrowed straight for the putter!

“Shack!” Artie screamed.

A fireworks-bright explosion of sparks lit up the room. When it dimmed, the twins and their friends looked up to see another ghostly figure, hovering in the air above the flapping gargoyle and outlined with the same flickering lightning flickers.

“Mumsy!” the three Hecks cried delightedly.

The regal, shadowy figure turned and smiled at them.

“Hello, darlings,” she said in an echoey voice. “Behaving nicely for your minders?”

Roderick winced, a guilty look on his impish face, but they all managed to say, “Yes, Mumsy!”

“That's good. See that you do.” She cast a refined,
civilized smile at C+T and Co. and said, “Now. Let's see about getting you all out of here, shall we? I think it's time.”

“Er … yes, ma'am.” Pilot tipped his hat politely to her. “Thank you!”

“Run along now and play, all of you.”

They hesitated for a moment. Until the Ghost of Mrs. Hecklestone, Proper Victorian Lady, turned back to that grumpy old doorknob and gave it a terrifying, ghoulish, Proper Victorian Piece of Her Mind!

“GAAAAHHHHH!!!!” they all screamed in horror as the nightmarish apparition exploded in a thrashing froth of ectoplasmic rage, and ran for the dining room as the plasma bulbs suddenly began firing again like they were trying to outdo the storm outside.

“Hurry!” Simon urged them, his voice strained and beginning to crackle with wild static. “I've poured on every ounce of mystical whiz-bangery I've got but I can't keep this up much longer!
Gnghh
…”

“Hold on, Speakie!” Cheryl shouted. “We're coming!”

Arms and legs windmilling wildly, Cheryl grabbed for him as she ran past. Then, together with Tweed, Artie, Pilot and Feedback, they dove straight for the glassy silver screen in front of them, reaching for the ghostly figures of the Hecklestone kids as they went. There was no hesitation—also, no crashing of glass, no shattering of shards—but just a weird, liquidy-cool sensation. The thunderstorm ended abruptly, almost as soon as they all
tumbled through, out of the astral plane … and into the Drive-In parking lot.

Much to the astonishment of the car-bound, movie-watching patrons.

Cheryl glanced back in time to see Artie just make it through the shrinking portal. He was looking over his shoulder at Ramshackle—who suddenly vanished in a burst of the same golden light that swallowed them up. Cheryl heard Artie's cry of denial.

And then she heard one last thing as the portal began to fade from view. The creaking and shrieking of the old house grew even louder. But, in those last few moments, Cheryl thought it sounded more like a forlorn, lonely wailing than an angry howl.

 

15
THERE'S NO PLACE LIKE HOUSE

‘‘W
OW! That's the best 3D effect I've ever seen!” Cheryl heard the voice of Mr. Bottoms exclaim as she ran, crouched low, past a wood-panelled minivan, noisy with Bottoms boys in the back seats. “It's like those characters just leaped right off the screen! Of course, the plot didn't make a lick of sense …”

It was awfully late for the Bottoms tots to be out and about. Then again, Mr. and Mrs. Bottoms had doubtless been unable to find a sitter that night and had brought John, Paul, George and Bingo along in the hopes they'd sleep through at least half of the double bill.

Talk about wishful thinking,
Cheryl thought fleetingly as she dodged past the van.

The sudden cloudburst had lasted just long enough to help disguise the fact that there really had been
real
screen-leaping-offing and Cheryl breathed a sigh of relief that it wasn't enough rain to send any of their patrons packing. As the familiar smell of damp Drive-In lot gravel mixed with buttered popcorn wafted by, she couldn't keep the goofy grin from spreading across her face. She ducked and dodged and weaved between cars, a Drive-In speaker tucked under her arm and her cousin's dark-haired head in her sights, popping up like a gopher between the cars three rows in front of her.

“Psst!” she whispered. “Tweed! Wait up!”

She caught up to her a few seconds later and the two girls shared a quick hug—with bonus congratulatory back-patting—and a robust C+T Secret Signal (patent pending) before scuttling off to hide behind a hedge at the perimeter of the lot.

“We did it!” Tweed exclaimed in a triumphant monotone. “We're home!”

“We did! We are!” Cheryl nodded so enthusiastically her rain-damp pigtails spun like helicopter rotors. “Have you seen the others?”

“I think I saw the boys heading for the barn.” Tweed hitched a thumb in the direction of C+T headquarters.

Cheryl's brow creased in a faint frown. “And … the Hecks?”

Tweed silently shook her head.

“Oh.”

“I mean … we had a pretty good hold on them,
coming through the portal,” Tweed said. “I felt that. So I
know
we got them out of the house at least.”

“Yeah,” Cheryl said. “I think so …”

“Maybe Simon can spot them,” Tweed suggested, nodding at the little metal box Cheryl still had tucked under her arm. “I mean … if they're floating around here somewhere, his Spirit Stone might spot them, right?”

“Right! Good idea!” Cheryl lifted the speaker up in front of her face. “Hey!” she whispered loudly. “Speaker Boy!”

But there was no answer. And the Spirit Stone of Simon Omar was dull and dark and lifeless. Cheryl bit her lip to keep it from trembling.

“Speakie …?”

Silence.

Tweed put a hand on her shoulder. “C'mon. Let's get to the barn.”

Cheryl nodded, and carefully tucked the defunct speaker into her knapsack pocket. Staying as low to the ground as possible, the twins ran as fast as they could back to the barn. Pilot was standing at the door, with an enormous grin plastered to his mug. Feedback was there, too—looking just a little stunned, but otherwise hale and hearty and whole.

And … so, too, were the Hecklestone Three!

Daphne, Roderick and Edwina stood in a tight knot in the middle of the big old barn, gazing around
in wonder and amazement. Roddy seemed particularly fascinated with the Moviemobile—his eyes were practically glued to the shiny red car—and little Eddy was chewing furiously on her baby finger, as if to make sure that it was really there and chewable. Daphne just stood and bounced in place, her ringlets jiggling. And there wasn't even one little spot of them that was the least bit see-through. They were every bit as flesh and blood as the twins and their friends.

“Holy moly!” Cheryl cried.

“Outstanding!” Tweed yelped, dropping her signature monotone in her excitement.

“Hooray for the magic of the movies, right, ladies?” Pilot was grinning from ear to ear.

“Now
that's
what I call an awesome 3D experience!” Cheryl exclaimed. “I mean, literally!”

There was a chaotic moment of hugging and high-fiving—with varying degrees of success and Victorian variations—between the twins and the Three. Then a flood of melancholy momentarily washed over Cheryl.

She sighed. “If only Simon Omar was here to see this,” she said quietly, and blinked at the prickling behind her eyes.

“I am!” said a familiar voice from behind her.

Cheryl nearly jumped out of her sneakers and spun to grab wildly for the speaker in her knapsack. But when she hauled the contraption out and held it up, the
ruby-red jewel was still dark. She frowned in confusion and heard Tweed snort in what sounded like amusement. Which didn't seem particularly sensitive in that moment … until she felt a tapping on her shoulder.

Slowly Cheryl raised her eyes …

“Gah!!” she exclaimed and fumbled with the speaker, dropping it into the white-gloved hands of the tall, slender gentleman wearing a natty tuxedo and a wacky grin standing right in front of her.

Even without his bejewelled mystic turban, it was, quite obviously, Simon Omar, World-famous Wizard of the West End!

“TA-DAA!” he exclaimed with a flourish, confirming it. “Look at me! I'm … I'm
me
again! I'm corporeal! Unexploded!”

Cheryl threw herself at him in a spontaneous hug, joined an instant later by Tweed.

“Yes, yes.” Simon patted them on their shoulders. “All right. You girls—and you lads—you really
are
magicians of the highest order!” He pushed them gently to arm's length, smiling. “Now tell me. Where does one procure a mystic's turban in this town?”

A babble of excited chatter erupted, but suddenly Tweed looked around. “Wait.” She frowned worriedly. “Where's Shrimpcake?”

Before anyone could answer, a rain-bedraggled Artie suddenly burst through the door, gasping for breath.

“Artie!” Cheryl exclaimed.

“Where've you been, Art-Bart?” Pilot asked.

“I wound up over on the far side of the Drive-In,” Artie huffed. “Near the mini-golf range …
huff
…
huff
… so I cut through there and circled back around. My new shoes are gonna need a shine. But, best of all, look who I found!” He pointed overhead and a wobbly-looking, slightly singed gargoyle, carrying a golf club, flapped unsteadily in through the overhead hayloft door.