2 The Ghostly Encounter

By R.M. Hamilton

David and Debbie were eating lunch in the library when Uncle Octavious emerged from his study. He held a book under his arm. Apparently, it had been absorbing him for most of the morning. It was a very hot day in the Southern Highlands and the library, which was in the middle of Uncle Octavious’s house was cooler than anywhere else. “Having a good breakfast?” he asked.

“Uncle, it’s ever so late,” said Debbie.

“It’s also hot,” grumbled David. “Can’t you please turn on the air conditioning?

Uncle Octavious frowned at him.

“My dear boy, air conditioning is one of the evils of modernity that I had hoped to spare you this summer. As it so happens, I do have plans for creating a clockwork air conditioner but currently it is only at the blueprint stage.”

The children looked at each other. Only last week they had had an awful encounter with Gamaliel, Uncle Octavious’s clockwork giant. The giant was now safely in bits, locked up in an old sea chest in the library. The key was hidden in the small secret compartment in the old mantel piece. A stout carving of a cherub smirked knowingly in front of the tiny door.

“Then can’t we at least go to the swimming pool?” asked Debbie, swatting at a lazy blow fly that had crept in through a hole in the screen.

“Or is swimming an evil of ugly modernity too?” asked David rudely.

Uncle Octavius gazed at him loftily. “I pardon that, dear boy. I also neglected to use my brain for higher thinking as a child. Although, I suspect I still used it for higher thoughts than that. Swimming is not an evil of ugly modernity and it so happens that I wish to go to Berrima this afternoon where there is a swimming hole.”

“Will there be snakes in the waterhole?” demanded David.

“One can only hope,” said Uncle Octavius dreamily.

“Why do you want to go to Berrima, Uncle Octavius? I can’t imagine you swimming.”

“Debbie, you are a perceptive young woman. Your brother would do well to follow your example.”

Debbie smirked and David glared at her.

“As you know, my garden has been removed from the annual garden tours for some time now. There was jealousy over my magnificently pungent grove of corpse flowers. But I will rally the public. They will demand that I am returned to the tour when I add my termite mound tennis court to the grounds.”

“Termite tennis court? What’s that?” gulped Debbie.

“I will explain in the car,” said Uncle Octavius.

The car shot along the road towards Berrima, via Moss Vale. “Uncle, you’re driving awfully fast!” said Debbie.

“I’m not driving fast! Everyone else is driving like turtles!” said Uncle Octavius. “But then, why would they be driving fast? They haven’t got a termite tennis court to build!”

“What would termites want with a tennis court, Uncle?” asked David.

“They don’t want a tennis court,’ snapped Uncle Octavius. “They are the tennis court. I was reading a most interesting book on the subject. During the first world war the old gaol (jail) at Berrima was used as a prisoner of war camp. The prisoners smashed up termite mounds and built a tennis court with the stuff. Most ingenious, no ugly modernity about that. I shall give you the book to read, The Spot the War Forgot by Wendy Hamilton.”

“But why must you have a termite tennis court?” asked Debbie, patiently.

“Because it will be something fresh!” said Uncle Octavius. “Something to get back onto the garden tour of the Southern Highlands. Ah, here we are. I’ll park on the courthouse lawn, across from the gaol.  We’ll walk down to the river, and you can have a swim while I look for the courts. He fished about in his trouser pocket and produced a twenty-dollar bill. “You may also want an ice cream. I imagine you can get one at Wopplepop’s Fudge Emporium.”

He waved a hand across the road to a line of pretty sandstone shops and cafes.

“Let’s have the ice-cream now,” said David as Uncle Octavius set off towards the river. “It’s bound to be cool in the fudge shop.”

The walls of the fudge shop were lined with shelves holding large jars of old fashioned sweets. Under the glass counter, tubs of ice cream were displayed. The man, presumably Mr Wopplepop, was reading a newspaper. The front page read, Mystery of Vanishing Art Continues.
 

David collected two toffee ripple ice-creams and he and Debbie sat at a table with a stripy cloth slowly licking them. Across the shop, two ladies sat hunched over another table laid with a pile of assorted donuts and a large candyfloss pie. One lady was very tall and the other was very short. The short one was very loud. Her voice filled the emporium. “I think, Mrs Potbelly, you will not find Berrima to be lacking in paranormal activity. As you know, Lucretia Dunkley haunts the gaol. Her spirit usually appears as drops of water and chill drafts. We find she is more likely to manifest in winter than in summer. So we were astonished when—” she suddenly broke off and glared across at David and Debbie who were listening with interest.  

“Shouldn’t you children be in school?” she demanded haughtily.

“School’s out,” said David coldly. “Not,” he added, “that we’d go if it was in. We’re homeschooled.”

“Well go away,” said the short loud lady sternly. “We have important business to discuss and there’s no need for children to hang about a fudge emporium, wouldn’t you agree Mrs Potbelly?”

“I certainly would, Miss Polewidth,” said Mrs Potbelly, taking an enormous mouthful of candyfloss pie.

“Let’s go to the waterhole, David,” said Debbie.

About an hour later, when Debbie and David were drying off under a tree, Uncle Octavius reappeared. He looked very hot and very cross. “I have found the tennis courts,” he began angrily. “All in a horrible condition but certainly made from termite mounds. But as I was about to take a spade full of the stuff for analysis in my laboratory, a completely hideous man popped out from the undergrowth yelling that I wasn’t to ruin a national treasure by digging it up. I told him I wanted to study it, but he kept yelling that he would call the police if I did not desist. So I left. But, (Uncle Octavius smiled craftily), I shall return tonight, when the moon is full and there are no completely hideous people around to stop me acquiring scientific samples.”

“We got kicked out of the fudge emporium, too,” complained David. “Some old ladies were going on about ghosts.”

“Is the gaol haunted Uncle?” asked Debbie.

“What? Haunted?” snorted Uncle Octavius. “Of course not. You find the spirits you look for. Never forget that.”

“What does that even mean?” muttered David to Debbie.

“I think it means ghosts are only real if you look for them,” said Debbie doubtfully. “Or else he’s just gone bonkers again.”

“I bet that’s it,” said David.

Miss Polewidth and Mrs Potbelly were coming out of Wopplepop’s Fudge Emporium. “Uncle,” said David, “those are the ladies that kicked us out of the ice cream shop.”  

Uncle Octavius brightened. “That’s Miss Polewidth, the president of the Society for the Propagation of Good Vibes for the Southern Highlands.” He rushed across the road, narrowly avoiding being hit by a car. “Miss Polewidth,” called Uncle Octavius.

Miss Polewidth looked like she wanted to pretend she hadn’t seen Uncle Octavius, but he was already shaking her by the hand. “I am so pleased to catch you! I was wondering if you might reconsider my application to be part of the garden tours next spring. I have this idea, wonderful stuff. I read all about it in The Spot the War Forgot. Termites! Well, that’s something new, isn’t it?”

“Termites, Octavius?”

“Yes, I know we had a bit of a mix up over the corpse flowers and,”

Miss Polewidth raised a short, stout hand. “Enough! You had your chance and you ruined it. And I don’t think termites is such an awfully good idea for a garden. In any case, I am terribly busy (she paused dramatically) Lucretia walks in summer! What do you say to that?”

Uncle Octavius opened his mouth.

“I don’t actually care what you think,” continued Miss Polewidth. “It is an extraordinary mystical deviance. Lucretia has always manifested as drops of water and chill winds in winter. It is now summer, and Lucretia has returned as moving lights!” She waved a hand towards the tall skinny woman, “This is Mrs Potbelly, deputy editor of Glorious Living, (Miss Potbelly smirked proudly) and she has kindly promised to use her contacts to find a soothsayer so we can discover what Lucretia wants of us. And no, you, can’t be part of the spring garden tour next year. Your garden stinks of death. That is not a good vibe, and we won’t have you back.”

They bustled off towards the gaol.

“Jealousy, that’s what it is,” grumbled Uncle Octavius as they pulled into his short oak shaded drive. “Wishes she could grow something a bit more interesting than tulips, herself. Now, will you two be accompanying me tonight when I collect my sample of termite court?”

“I think we better,” whispered Debbie to David. “He might fall into the river.”

Uncle Octavius was strangely silent as he drove towards Berrima. The moon was very full and the gumtrees cast long, spooky shadows across the road once they had left the village lights of Moss Vale behind.

When they arrived in Berrima, Uncle Octavius parked the car in front of the old courthouse.

Then he began speaking in a quarrelsome voice. “I am aware that you have only come with me because you think I am so old I might fall into the river.”

“Gosh, sorry Uncle, you weren’t supposed to hear that,” mumbled Debbie.

“Your whisper has a piecing quality. As I have been driving, I have been thinking. And what I have decided is this. I don’t want you to come with me to the termite tennis courts. You can stay here in the car, in front of the courthouse.”

“What about the ghost?” demanded David.

“What about it?” snapped Uncle Octavius. “Surely a great huge boy like you doesn’t believe in phantasms? You shouldn’t. In any case, that was a rude and hurtful thing for you to say and I don’t want you with me when I am digging up the tennis court. If a ghost does carry you away, perhaps it will teach you to have a little more respect for your elders.”

He got out of the car and slammed the door peevishly.

“That’s all your fault!” snarled David as the glow of Uncle Octavius’s flashlight vanished. “And now we’re stuck here, in a boiling hot car in front of that horrible old courthouse.”

“You’re not scared of ghosts, are you?” snapped Debbie.

“Of course not.” yelled David. “And if that old Lucretia ghost tries to grab me, I shall kick her in the shins!”

“Do it then!” jeered Debbie. “Get out of the car and kick the ghost in her shins. I don’t believe you could kick a ghost in the shins, I bet the kick would go right on through!”

“I’ll show you,” said David. “I’m going to go right on into that old gaol and find that ghost and kick her in the shins.”

“Uncle took the torch!”

“There’s a moon, isn’t there? Use your head!”

“I’m coming too. It’s too hot in the car and I don’t believe you are going to kick a ghost in her shins. I think you’re just going to creep off somewhere cooler and pretend you kicked a ghost in her shins.”

“No, I wouldn’t” said David in a voice that suggested that was exactly what he had been planning.

There was a narrow road that separated the gaol from the courthouse. Only a low chain blocked the side entrance into the gaol. It was easy to climb over. “If we go around to the front, we need to be careful not to trip into the rose gardens,” whispered Debbie.

“Shhh,” hissed David. He was liking his idea to ‘kick a ghost in the shins’ less and less. But if he gave up now, Debbie would never let him forget it. It’s just an old, empty building-he told himself fiercely-there are no such things as ghosts.

“Do you think that Lucretia ghost we heard about in the fudge shop is…big?” whispered Debbie in her piecing whisper.

‘Shut up!” snapped David.

“You don’t need to be rude-”began Debbie but David grabbed her arm. ‘Look!” he gasped. They had come around the edge of the building. At the far side of the rose garden, strange lights were floating along the stone wall that separated the gaol from the old empty governor’s residence.

“It’s L-l-l-Lucretia,” shrieked Debbie. “It’s the g-g-g-ghost!”

“Be quiet, she’ll hear you!” screamed David, not taking his own advice.

The lights stopped moving. Debbie and David watched in frozen horror as the lights vanished below the wall. Then suddenly, an awful, white shape flew up from behind the wall and began moving towards them.

“RUN!” screamed David.

“UNCLE!” shrieked Debbie.

They turned and ran as hard as they could for the side street. They leapt over the chain and tore past the courthouse down towards the river.

A cloud slid over the moon. The ground turned rough and suddenly the ground gave way completely, as with a scream, Debbie and David plunged into the deep, dark river.

  Come back next week to find out what happens next! Follow me on Facebook and Instagram at Ruth Marie Hamilton to never miss an instalment.

 Creepy house picture generously provided by Pixabay. All writing and graphic designs are copyright R.M. Hamilton.