Join the next generation of ghost busters on a spooktacularly zombified adventure! Spooksmiths Investigate is a brilliant new series that will thrill and chill middle grade readers!
Twins Indigo & Rusty live in a funeral parlour but don’t believe in ghosts. That is, until Indigo finds a secret crypt and releases the spirit of an evil category five phantom who smothers the town in ash turning all the adults into zombies.
I’m thrilled to share an extract of my favourite part of this wonderfully creepy story! A secret door in a bookcase? Yes, please!
There’s a secret door in my family’s bookcase.
A secret door with steps going down behind it…
It’s the entrance to a basement. Or a dungeon. Or maybe it’s a bat cave. I let out a nervous laugh, but I’m more excited than scared. I have so many questions. I could – and probably should – get Mum or Dad, but they’ll just tell me it’s dangerous and stop me investigating…
Or maybe they already know about the secret door and have kept it hidden? A familiar fizz of anger bubbles in my belly. It would be so typical of them to keep something like this quiet. I can hear their disapproving voices in my head: It’s too dark and dangerous and dirty.
I’m going in.
The doorway doesn’t reach down to the floor like a normal door. It’s two shelves up, so I have to climb inside, ducking to avoid the clusters of spider’s webs dangling from the ceiling. The light behind me illuminates a set of twisting stone steps. I take a deep breath and immediately regret it: the air in here is stinkier than Rusty’s bedroom, like dust mixed with sweaty socks.
Halfway down, the stairs twist to the left, a pillar blocking the light from above. The next step down is in complete darkness. I curse myself for not having my phone on me, but heading back up to get it and being caught by Dad isn’t an option, so I keep going, holding the wall to guide me. Maybe
there’s a light switch further down.
Five more steps and I reach the bottom. There’s a faint whispering sound, but it’s probably just the pipes from the house. I take a few hesitant, shuffling steps forward and my outstretched hands brush something cold and metallic. The whispering gets louder as I pick the something up. It’s the size of a coffee jar and weighs almost nothing.
Intrigued, I shuffle back to the stairs, towards the light. As I climb, the thing seems to get colder. Icy tendrils numb my hands, climbing up my arms towards my heart, leaving me wondering what could be inside.
I round the corner of the basement stairway and a shaft of light from upstairs lands on my hands.
I’m holding a dented, dusty old urn.
The hairs on the back of my neck prickle.
We’ve got urns all over the place. Why is this one hidden in a secret basement?
As if in answer, the urn lid rattles.
I scream and instinctively throw the urn away. It lands with a clatter somewhere beneath me. The gasping sound that follows chills me to the bone. It sounds like someone taking their first breath in a long time. Heart pounding, I race up the stairs to the doorway pursued by a dry, ash-choked voice:
“Speak my name.”
I’m so freaked out I can barely remember my own name, but I think…I think that voice came from whatever –or whoever – was in that urn.
Which means only one thing: I can hear the dead.
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Scope for Imagination 