We looked at one another for a few moments, him and me. The funny thing was, he seemed just as scared of me as I was of him.
So I said, ‘Hello.’
He nodded and came towards me. I noticed his clothes. I’m not much into fashions − so long as I have the current Man United strip I don’t much care what other people wear. But I could see that this guy was dressed like someone from one of those really old movies that you find on TV on a wet Sunday. Long coat, tall hat like a chimney pot, and hair that grew right down in front of his ears. Anyone, dead or alive, who went about like that could only be a harmless twit. Maybe. Hopefully.
‘Who … who are you?’ I croaked. Not the most clever question, but cleverness doesn’t really kick in when you’re scared.
‘Lewis. Deceased, as in dead,’ the spook replied. ‘Mister Arthur Albert Lewis to you, boy. And who are you?’
‘Milo,’ I said. ‘Mister Milo Ferdinand Doyle to you.’ I never ever tell anyone about the Ferdinand bit, but it seemed right just then. ‘And what are you doing here? Are you the Lewis man who used to live here? The one who collected stones?’
‘Ah, yes,’ said Mister Arthur Albert Lewis, sitting down on one of Big Ella’s dug-up stones. ‘Well, Milo Ferdinand Doyle. We’re in deep trouble here, sir. Deep, deep trouble.’
It was the ‘we’ part I didn’t much like. So I sat down − near enough to hear what he was saying, but far enough to run if he made a spooky move in my direction.
Mister Lewis let out a sigh and leaned forward. ‘It’s to do with a special stone,’ he went on.
Ah, I might have guessed. ‘One with roundy patterns and a lizardy thing carved on it?’ I asked.
He nodded very slowly and carefully, as one would, I suppose, if one was that ancient. And dead.
Mister Lewis looked at me with staring eyes. ‘You know it?’ he said.
‘Sort of,’ I replied, not adding that it was in the bag I was carrying. ‘What about it?’
He gave another deep sigh. I wondered if spooks had lungs.