The Ghost of Sir Herbert Dungeonstone (2 page)

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Authors: Kate McMullan

BOOK: The Ghost of Sir Herbert Dungeonstone
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“Sit down!” Mordred bellowed. “I’ll tell you when to stand up! I’ll tell you when a day is happy! SIT!”
Erica quickly sat. She looked stunned. Every month, she won the Future Dragon Slayer of the Month Award. She was not used to being treated this way.
Mordred beamed adoringly at the yellow-haired family.
“Let me introduce Lord and Lady Smotherbottom,” he said.
The big-boned couple stood. They smiled toothy smiles and waved.
“And,” Mordred went on, “their very lovely, athletic, talented daughter, Janice.”
The girl stood. Wiglaf saw that she was as tall as Harley Marley.
“Hi ya, lads,” said Janice, chewing boldly.
“Janice Smotherbottom,” Mordred went on, “is the very first student in the long history of Dragon Slayers’ Academy to pay her tuition in solid gold coins—up front!” His violet eyes spun with joy.
“Uh, sir?” Coach Plungett elbowed the spell-bound headmaster. “I think you mean to say that Janice is our first...”
“Our first
girl!
” cried Mordred. “Yes! Girl! Yes! That’s what I meant to say. Our first lass! Female! Little woman!”
Erica’s mouth dropped open in surprise.
“Oh, Mordie!” cried Lady Lobelia. “This is a bold step!”
“Janice is going to stay with us for a couple of days,” Mordred added, “to see if she likes it here. I want all you lads to make our one-and-only lass feel welcome!”
Chapter 3
 
 
 
 
“
O
ne-and-only lass, my foot!” grumbled Erica. She, Angus, and Wiglaf made their tired way up the wide stone steps to the dorm room.
A feast had indeed been served—to those at the head table. The students got the usual eel casserole. Afterward, the three friends had been tapped by Frypot, the cook, for cleanup duty.
“I was the first girl at DSA,” Erica went on. “Not Janice What’s-her-bottom!”
“Your parents are king and queen of the realm,” said Wiglaf. “They must have paid your tuition up front in gold.”
“No,” said Erica. “The truly rich never pay up front.”
They walked into the Class I dorm and stopped short.
“What
happened
?” cried Wiglaf.
“Keep it down!” Torblad called. “We’re trying to sleep.”
Even in the dim glow of the lone night-light torch, they saw that all the cots had been shoved over to one side. A brown curtain had been strung across the center of the room. A hastily made sign tacked onto the curtain said: CLASS I LASS’S DORM.
Erica strode over to the curtain and swept it aside. For the second time that evening, she gasped.
Wiglaf and Angus ran over to her. When they saw what was behind the curtain, they were stunned.
A big gold canopy bed stood against the wall. A matching wardrobe, chest of drawers, and dressing table surrounded it. A jousting pole and a pair of crossed lances hung over the bed.
A loud snap sounded. The gum-chewing Janice rose from a trunk she was unpacking.
“Hi ya, lads,” she said. “I’m all moved in.”
Everything about Janice was big, Wiglaf thought. Her cheeks were dotted with big freckles. She had a big space between her two front teeth. She had big, broad shoulders.
“Hello,” said Angus. “I’m Angus.”
Wiglaf told her his name, too.
“I’m, uh, Eric,” said Erica.
“Well, you know who I am,” said Janice.
“What school did you come from?” asked Angus.
“Dragon Whackers.” SNAP!!
“How come you changed schools?” asked Wiglaf.
“Mordred showed up at Whackers one day and saw me win a jousting match,” Janice replied. “He said he wanted me for the DSA jousting team, and Mom and Dad said I could transfer.”
Wiglaf shot Angus and Erica a look. DSA didn’t have any jousting team.
Janice yawned and stretched. “Listen, lads, I’m beat,” she said. “My Whackers pals threw lots of farewell parties. I haven’t slept in a week.” She took the wad of green gum from her mouth and stuck it on top of a bedpost. “Nighty-night!”
As they turned to go, Erica caught sight of the Sir Lancelot tapestry that had hung on the wall over her cot. It lay crumpled on the floor. Erica darted over and picked up the stitched portrait of her beloved knight, then hurried after Wiglaf and Angus.
Brrrr! Wiglaf slipped under his covers fully dressed.
“Good night,” he whispered.
“Night,” murmured Angus.
“How can you sleep?” hissed Erica. “It’s not fair!
I
am the first DSA lass ever. And I am a princess! But did I ask for a bigger share of the dorm room? I did not.”
“Uh-uh,” Wiglaf managed sleepily.
“Jousting team, indeed!” Erica muttered. Then she was still for a moment. “Surely you hear it now!”
Wiglaf had begun to drift off to sleep. “Wha—?”
“Don’t you hear it?” Erica whispered.
“Hear what?” said Wiglaf.
“The awful moaning!” cried Erica. “It is coming from deep inside this very castle!”
Chapter 4
“
G
ome!” Erica shook Angus and Wiglaf until they rolled out of their cots. “We must find out what is making that awful sound!”
Wiglaf pulled himself to his feet. He listened but heard nothing.
Angus groaned. “I don’t hear anything.”
“You think I’m making it up?” said Erica. “I’m not!” She put her hands over her ears. “Ohhh! It is a terrible sound! I’m going down there, and you’re both coming with me. Get your swords. Let us be on our way!”
Without giving Wiglaf and Angus a chance to say no, Erica dragged her friends down the wide stone steps. She lit the way with her mini-torch. At the bottom, she stopped and tilted her head. “The moaning is coming from the dungeon.”
Wiglaf’s heart began to race. The dungeon was scary enough during the daytime. But at night? He didn’t want to
think
about how scary it would be. With a last glance through a slit in the castle wall at the full, silvery moon, he followed Erica and Angus down to the dungeon.
Erica opened the door.
Wiglaf felt for the hilt of his sword. His heart beat like a drum.
Erica stepped into the pitch-dark dungeon. She shone her torch around. “Empty,” she declared.
Wiglaf sighed. “Oh, good!”
Erica frowned. “The moans are coming from below,” she said. “How can that be?”
Angus swallowed. “I happen to know that there is a Deeper Dungeon beneath this one.”
“Then lead the way,” Erica commanded.
Angus’s hand trembled as he took the mini-torch from Erica. He led them to a hidden staircase. Down, down, down they crept. The air grew thin. The smell of mold grew thick.
Wiglaf heard a faint, high-pitched wail.
“I hear it!” he whispered. “I do! ’Tis awful!”
“I told you,” said Erica.
At the bottom of the stairway, Angus stopped. Without a word, the three joined hands. They inched forward together.
The mini-torch barely lit the darkness. Wiglaf heard the moaning plainly now. The back of his neck tingled. What was it?
Angus stopped before an old wooden door. “This is it,” he whispered.
Erica snatched the torch. She drew her sword. “Open the door, Wiglaf.”
Wiglaf’s hand was none too steady as he reached for the cold circle of iron. He pulled. The door creaked open. A sickening smell of something old, something rotten whooshed out.
“Yikes!” Wiglaf cried as bats darted out of the Deeper Dungeon.
Ducking to avoid the flapping wings, Erica stepped into the Deeper Dungeon. She waved her torch from side to side. “Empty!” She whirled around. “Angus, what now?”
“Please!” cried Angus. “Let us go back to bed!”
“Yes, let’s!” whispered Wiglaf.
But Erica only glared at Angus. “Tell me!”
“Th-th-there is the Deepest Dungeon,” Angus croaked. “That is where the Duke of Doublechin was tortured. The poor man was tickled for a solid month without stopping! Oh, the Deepest Dungeon is a bad place! No one goes there! Ever!”
“Is that so?” said Erica. “Well, we are. Now!”
Wiglaf trembled as Angus led them down a dark passageway to another staircase. This one was so narrow that clammy stone walls pressed into them as they went. The stairs were steep, moss-covered, and slippery. Wiglaf nearly choked on the strong, fishy odor.
One last step, and Wiglaf found himself ankle-deep in something wet.
“Gack!” cried Angus. “This is disgusting!”
“It is only moat water,” said Erica. She shone her torch downward.
Wiglaf’s stomach gave a sickening lurch. “Oh, no!” he cried. “We’re standing in rotten eel guts and bubbling moat slime!”
“Forward!” growled Erica.
On they waded. As they neared the Deepest Dungeon, the moaning and wailing grew louder still. If Wiglaf had not been wearing his helmet, his hair would have been standing on end.
At last they came to an ancient iron door. Erica shone her torch upon it. It was coated in thick, slimy, green moss.
Suddenly, the door began to open by itself.
The three jumped back.
Wiglaf could not breathe.
In the mossy, green doorway stood a knight! A knight with a patch over one eye and a wispy mustache. A knight wearing silver armor. A knight glowing with an eerie white light. A knight waving a chain-mailed hand, inviting them to come into the Deepest Dungeon.
“Hello, sir!” cried Erica eagerly. She started forward.
“Wait!” Wiglaf cried. Something was wrong with the knight. But what?
Erica paid no attention to Wiglaf.
“Greetings, knight!” she said.
Now Wiglaf saw what was wrong. He could see right through the knight! He could see all the way to the back wall of the Deepest Dungeon.
Wiglaf grabbed Erica’s arm. “Stop!” he cried. “It’s a ghost!”
Chapter 5
 
 
 
 
“
Y
AAAAAAAAAAAI” screamed Angus, Wiglaf, and even Erica.
They whirled around, stumbling through the muck, fleeing the Deepest Dungeon.
The ghost appeared suddenly before them. Wiglaf skidded to a stop. Angus and then Erica slammed into him from behind. The three clutched one another.
“Tell old Herbie where the gold is hidden,” growled the ghost.
“We know nothing of any gold,” said Erica.
“Please!” cried Angus. “Let us go!”
The ghost laughed and said, “Let’s have a little heart-to-heart.”
They waded back to the Deepest Dungeon, the ghost prodding them with an icy finger.
Once inside, the ghost turned over an iron bench and ordered, “Sit!”
Wiglaf sat. Oooh, that bench was freezing! He thought his bum might turn to ice.
The ghost dragged over a big iron chair. It had spikes all over the seat and the back. As the ghost sat down, the spikes slid right through his transparent armor.
A mug sat on the floor beside the ghost. Steam rose from it. The ghost picked up the mug and took a long gulp. Wiglaf was horrified to see bright red liquid flow down his ghostly throat all the way to his stomach.
Wiglaf thought there was something familiar about the ghost.
“H-have we met you before, sir?” he asked.
The ghost ignored him, taking another swig of the red brew. “Think hard, me little friends,” he said. “You must have seen that headmaster of yours sneaking around, trying to find a spot to hide his gold.”
“No, sir,” said Erica. “We haven’t.”
“I know who you are!” cried Wiglaf suddenly. “Sir Herbert Dungeonstone!”
“Bingo!” The ghost grinned.
“Oh, sir!” said Erica. “I had the honor of reading a poem about you this very evening. Is good Sir Ichabod here with you?”
“Nah,” said Sir Herbert. “It’s only me. Icky’s resting peaceful in his grave, like I wants to do.” He frowned. “It isn’t because Icky has a clear conscience. Not after all the blokes he robbed!”
Sir Ichabod? A robber? Wiglaf was confused. What was the ghost saying?
“But I have to say this for Icky,” Sir Herbert went on. “He was never greedy. Took up robbing for the sport of it, Icky did. Had no real love for the loot. But me?” The ghost chuckled. “I took up robbing for the gold. Ah, how I loves me gold!”
All this talk of gold reminded Wiglaf of Mordred. He loved gold, too.
“I never got enough of it to suit me,” Sir Herbert went on. “No matter how high me stack of coins grew, I always hoped it would grow higher. I was greedy. Still am. And I cannot rest in my grave until I get me gold.”
“Hold it,” said Angus. “Are you saying that you and Sir Ichabod were robbers?”
“That’s right.” The ghost nodded.
“No!” cried Erica. “That cannot be!”
“Do you doubt me?” Sir Herbert smirked. “Can’t say I blame you. I lie as easy as I steal. Still, I happen to be telling the truth.”

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