The teens gathered around him, pushing and pulling the burned, bulging body toward the gateway to Quarmix. Arthur shuddered with pain, but said nothing until he was nearly over the edge, when he whispered, “Thank you. I will never forget you. I will—”
The hole closed over him with a snap.
He had taken the sword with him. The rod and the stave had been burned. Only the armband, which had shrunk back to its original size, was left.
Tansy reached down and picked it up.
“Come on,” cried Derek. “We’ve got to get out of here!”
He headed for the stairwell. The others followed close behind.
The top steps were bathed in flame.
“No choice!” Derek yelled. “Follow me!”
He plunged into the flames and was lost from sight.
Jenny hesitated and Tansy could see she was not going to make it on her own. “Come on!” she said. Grabbing Jenny around the waist, she rushed through and began to run down the steps.
It wasn’t as bad as she had feared. The top of the stairway was the worst part. Flames were leaping out all around them. But below it was a clear path. She could hear Matt and Denise coming down behind her.
It took only seconds to reach the bottom of the steps.
The foyer was filled with flames.
Denise arrived beside Tansy almost instantly. Looking back, she caught her breath. “Matt!” she cried. “Jump!”
Matt threw himself into the air. Even as he did, the stairwell collapsed beneath him. Flames rushed up. A cloud of sparks scattered outward.
Matt hit the floor beside Denise and collapsed in a heap.
Tansy and Denise reached down to help him up.
“No, get down here,” gasped Matt. “The air is better by the floor.”
Tansy dropped to her knees and crawled along the floor behind Matt, wincing as the floorboards seared her hands and knees. A beam fell from the archway that led to the dining room. Hot air rushed past her. She felt as if her lungs would catch fire next.
Derek crouched by the front door, waiting.
“Hurry!” he rasped. “Hurry!”
As he saw Tansy emerge from the smoke and flames, he stood and grabbed the doorknob. For a terrible instant Tansy wondered if the door would open, or if it was still sealed.
It opened.
Cool air rushed in.
Morning had never looked so good.
It was still raining, but the thunder and lightning had stopped. Tansy put her hands on her cheeks. The cool water felt more delicious than anything she could remember.
She stood with the others, about fifty feet from the house. She could hear a siren wailing in the town below. The firefighters would be here soon, but they would be too late. The place was like a gigantic bonfire, flames stretching up from all the windows, bursting from the turrets.
Tansy felt tears begin to stream down her cheeks, mingling with the raindrops. “Travis,” she whispered. “Oh, Travis—”
Denise put an arm around her. Tansy buried her face in her friend’s shoulder, sobbing hopelessly.
“There it goes,” said Derek softly.
Tansy looked up.
Slowly, almost delicately, like a house of cards falling in slow motion, the Gulbrandsen place began to crumble. Then the roof caved in, and flames rolled up against the sky.
After that everything moved faster. It was only a matter of seconds before the five watchers recoiled as the house plunged in on itself, and waves of heat rolled out around them.
To their right the sun was just peeking over the horizon.
“‘This house dies at dawn,’” whispered Jenny. She stopped herself, leaving the rest of the curse unspoken. But Tansy’s mind, treacherous and willful, filled in the missing words: “‘Along with everyone still in it.’”
The bushes at their right began to rustle. “There you are!” shouted a familiar voice. “I’ve been looking all over for you!”
“Travis?” cried Tansy, spinning around. “Travis?”
He came pushing through the bushes, bruised and smeared with soot, but very much alive. With a little cry she ran to him, threw her arms around him. He held her tight.
Standing behind him was another figure.
“Charity!”
The serving girl smiled. “Yes, miss.”
“But I can see you!”
“So that’s what she looks like,” said Derek appreciatively. “Not bad!”
Jenny elbowed his ribs.
“She saved me,” said Travis. “When the fire got out of control, the flames made a kind of wall and I was cut off from the rest of you. Suddenly Charity was standing there, motioning to me to come with her.” He paused. “I was a little spooked when I saw her. But I figured anything was better than burning to death.”
“I knew another way out of the room!” explained Charity. “There are—were—a lot of old passages and secret doors in the house. Mr. Gulbrandsen liked things like that. We couldn’t get back to you, because of the fire. So we had to go out another way. Did I do all right, miss?”
“Charity, you did great!” said Tansy, so weak with relief she could hardly stand.
The ghost smiled, her face radiant. “I knew I had to let Travis see me in order to save him. So I just concentrated as hard as I could. All of a sudden I heard a little pop, and there I was!” Her face grew very serious. “But I have to go now.”
Tansy wiped rain and tears from her eyes. “What do you mean?”
Charity smiled again, a softer smile, sweet and gentle. “I’m fixed, miss.”
Tansy could hear deep joy in her voice, a note of satisfaction and success. “It wasn’t my missing bones that kept me here after all. It was the wicked things I did. But now I’ve done good. I’ve helped you folks out and I feel better. So I can go.”
“Oh, Charity!” cried Tansy. “I’m so glad for you!” She paused, then said, “But I’ll miss you.”
“I’ll think of you often, miss,” said Charity softly.
She began to fade. They could see the world starting through her.
“Good-bye,” said Matt, his voice husky. “Good luck.” He blushed. It seemed like a foolish thing to say. But what else could you say to a ghost that was leaving?
“Good-bye!” called Charity. “Good-bye!”
And then she was gone.
Travis turned to Tansy. He took her hand.
In the distance sirens were screaming, drawing closer.
“Let’s go,” he said. “We’ll deal with all that later.”
Two by two, they headed east, into the sunrise.
A Personal History by Bruce Coville
I arrived in the world on May 16, 1950. Though I was born in the city of Syracuse, New York, I grew up as a country boy. This was because my family lived about twenty miles outside the city, and even three miles outside the little village of Phoenix, where I went to school from kindergarten through twelfth grade.
Our house was around the corner from my grandparents’ dairy farm, where I spent a great deal of time playing when I was young, then helping with chores when I was older. Yep, I was a tractor-ridin’, hay-bale-haulin’, garden-weedin’ kid.
I was also a reader.
It started with my parents, who read to me (which is the best way to make a reader)—a gift for which I am eternally grateful. In particular it was my father reading me Tom Swift in the City of Gold that turned me on to “big” books. I was particularly a fan of the Doctor Dolittle books, and I can remember getting up ahead of everyone else in the family so that I could huddle in a chair and read The Voyages of Doctor Dolittle.
I also read lots of things that people consider junk: Nancy Drew, the Hardy Boys, and zillions of comic books. In regard to the comics, I had a great deal going for me. My uncle ran a country store just up the road, and one of the things he sold was coverless comic books. (The covers had been stripped off and sent back to the publishers for credit. After that, the coverless books were sent to little country sto
res, where they were sold for a nickel apiece.) I was allowed to borrow them in stacks of thirty, read them, buy the ones I wanted to keep, and put the rest back in the bins for someone else to buy. It was heaven for a ten-year-old!
My only real regret from those years is the time I spent watching television, when I could have been reading instead. After all, the mind is a terrible thing to waste!
The first time I can remember thinking that I would like to be a writer came in sixth grade, when our teacher, Mrs. Crandall, gave us an extended period of time to write a long story. I had been doing poorly at writing all year long because we always had to write on a topic Mrs. Crandall chose. But this time, when I was free to write whatever I wanted, I loved doing it.
Of course, you think about doing many different things when you’re a kid, but I kept coming back to the thought of being a writer. For a long time my dream job was to write for Marvel Comics.
I began working seriously at writing when I was seventeen and started what became my first novel. It was a terrible book, but I had a good time writing it and learned a great deal in the process.
In 1969, when I was nineteen, I married Katherine Dietz, who lived around the corner from me. Kathy was (and is) a wonderful artist, and we began trying to create books together, me writing and Kathy doing the art.
Like most people, I was not able to start selling my stories right away. So I had many other jobs along the way, including toymaker, gravedigger, cookware salesman, and assembly line worker. Eventually I became an elementary school teacher and worked with second and fourth graders, which I loved.
It was not until 1977 that Kathy and I sold our first work, a picture book called The Foolish Giant. We have done many books together since, including Goblins in the Castle, Aliens Ate My Homework, and The World’s Worst Fairy Godmother, all novels for which Kathy provided illustrations.
Along the way we also managed to have three children: a son, Orion, born in 1970; a daughter, Cara, born in 1975; and another son, Adam, born in 1981. They are all grown and on their own now, leaving us to share the house with a varying assortment of cats.
A surprising side effect of becoming a successful writer was that I began to be called on to make presentations at schools and conferences. Though I had no intention of becoming a public speaker, I now spend a few months out of every year traveling to make speeches and have presented in almost every state, as well as such far-flung places as Brazil, China, Ethiopia, and Bangladesh.
Having discovered that I love performing and also that I love audiobooks, in 1990 I started my own audiobook company, Full Cast Audio, where we record books using multiple actors (sometimes as many as fifty in one book!) rather than a single voice artist. We have recorded over one hundred books, by such notable authors as Tamora Pierce, Shannon Hale, and James Howe. In addition to being the producer, I often direct and usually perform in the recordings.
So there you go. I consider myself a very lucky person. From the time I was young, I had a dream of becoming a writer. With a lot of hard work, that dream has come true, and I am blessed to be able to make my living doing something that I really love.
Hey, baby! You looking at me? I was born on May 16, 1950, in Syracuse, New York. In this picture I’m one year old.
As a farm boy, I learned to drive a tractor when I was quite young.
Reading was always important to me—anytime, anywhere.
I planned to be a cowboy …
But I ended up a boy scout. (From the look on my face, I think I just got away with something …)
In 1969 I married Kathy. She lived right around the corner from me. She’s an artist and has illustrated twenty of my books. We have three children—Orion, Cara, and Adam.
Here’s me at Buckshot Lake. Apparently no one told me I was supposed to sit in the boat.
As a young father, I often functioned as a piece of furniture.
Here’s me with my daughter. I swear I did not steal her candy!
A rare sighting of my half-mad brother Igor (on the right), star of Goblins in the Castle. When I was an elementary school teacher, Igor would visit my classroom every Halloween to celebrate his birthday. For some reason the two of us were never seen together. It was a puzzling mystery. This is a picture of Igor posing with my wife’s little brother.
Something has clearly gone very, very right!
Often I give speeches about reading and writing. But sometimes I get a little carried away.
No, seriously, I meant it when I said I get carried away …
I not only write books, I read them aloud, too. Here I am recording an audiobook for my company, Full Cast Audio. Whatever I just read has clearly surprised me!
I love my books … they make me happy! I hope they do the same for you. Photo courtesy of Charles Wainwright.
All rights reserved, including without limitation the right to reproduce this ebook or any portion thereof in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of the publisher.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, events, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, businesses, companies, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
Copyright © 1983, 1996 by Bruce Coville
Cover design by Connie Gabbert
ISBN: 978-1-4976-6851-5
This edition published in 2014 by Open Road Integrated Media, Inc.
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New York, NY 10014
www.openroadmedia.com
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Bruce Coville, Spirits and Spells
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