“I’m reporting you!” I yelled over Grandma’s shoulder as the broomstick took off. “I’m handing you over to a witchwarden! Poor, poor Plucky!”

“Poor Plucky?” Grandma yelled back as we lurched up into the sky. “Nothing poor – nothing plucky – WHATSOEVER about that ghastly little creature!”

I clung on. Plucky? A ghastly little creature? How could Grandma say that? Plucky wasn’t ghastly. Plucky was lovely.

“Pixie tormentor!” I yelled in her ear.

“Pixie?” Grandma yelled back as the broomstick gave a sideways lurch. “Pixie! Pah! If that – that thing was a pixie then I am a boiled striggle egg!”

“Grandma!” I yelled, clutching on to her even harder and trying not to look at Witchworld rushing past. “What are you talking about? Why did you pull Plucky’s hair out? Why?”

“Because that hair – that one hair, could save us all!” Grandma yelled as the broomstick lurched back the way we came.

Save us?

“Save us?” I yelled. “Save us from what?” But I had a horrible feeling I knew the answer.

And I did.

“Ghouls, of course,” yelled Grandma. “GHOULS!”

Ghouls. Plucky’s hair could save us from ghouls.

As if.

I yelled at Grandma all the way home. I yelled a LOT.

I yelled that I was reporting her to the Frixies for cruelty to pixies.

I yelled that I was reporting her to Witchkidline for cruelty to granddaughters. And also to witchwardens for forcing a witchkid to become an underage robber and criminal.

I even yelled – and I’m not proud of this – that Grandma should NOT be living in my house because she should be living in Heckles Haghome, along with all the other troublesome old witchladies who talked nonsense all day.

And Grandma yelled back that she had to get home fast, and had no time to waste explaining herself to a cross little witchgirl shouting rude things in her ear.

Then she leaned right over her broomstick and ignored me all the way home. She also got her revenge for my yelling. Because she sent the broomstick lurching off Skyway 121 and down to the garden – but did she come in for a landing? No. She did a loop-the-loop.

No warning. No telling me to hold on tight. Nothing.

She just sent her broomstick spinning in a big swooping loop. So – of course – I lost my grip and fell off. Again.

Only this time I fell off straight into our garden pond.

And Grandma hovered over me, looking extremely pleased with herself. “See,” she said smugly. “I said you wouldn’t fall off on landing the second time. And you didn’t. Because you fell off before landing.”

Then she went indoors, cackling, as if she’d made a very good joke. Which she hadn’t.

Forty-three minutes. That’s how long I had to spend in the shower to get rid of the smell of our pond.

But, finally, I came out of the bathroom smelling of soap and cleanness, instead of slime and mud and fish stink.

Then I stomped off to Mum’s office – because Mum works from home some of the time – switched on her witchfixer, and half an hour later I went to see Grandma.

“Grandma,” I said. “I’ve been checking. There are over two hundred million entries on the witchweb about ghouls. And every single one says the same thing. Ghouls are EXTINCT.”

Grandma just snorted.

“They all died in the Great Ghoul War,” I said. “In a very big magiquake.”

Now, not one of you witchkids needs telling about magiquakes. Whether you’re reading this in Grittenglidd, or Frakkenwild, or wherever, you’ll know about magiquakes.

Witchkids all know. Know what it’s like living on a globe sizzling with magic, in its rocks, in its trees, in its gases. In everything. Know about the sudden surges of magical power – and the astonishing sights, the mindboggling events those surges can cause.

Including magiquakes.

Like the one that finished off the ghouls. A vast crack, jagged and wide and deep, that surged across that battlefield in the Great Ghoul War. Split the battlefield in two. Then scooped them all up – ghouls, witches, all of them – swallowed them down and snapped itself shut. Buried them deep underground.

“And, Grandma,” I said. “I’ve printed out proof they are extinct for you.”

I put the proof in Grandma’s hand. The species certificate for ghouls. With a big picture of a ghoul. And, underneath – the current E status of ghouls.

Not Existing, like frogs and yafflepecks and unicorns.

Not Endangered, like forest pixies.

NO.

There, in big black letters, on the certificate. The current E status of ghouls.

But Grandma just looked at it – and snorted more.

“Grandma, stop snorting,” I said, fed up now, because she shouldn’t be snorting at such an important certificate. “This is issued by the Unity of Colonies – the most important organisation in the whole of Witchworld. And signed by the Witchglobe Guardian.”

“And THAT is your proof?” Grandma said.

Then she slapped a huge sheet of paper in my hand. “Flo, your proof is faulty,” she said. “Keep alert at all times. And if you spot any of these, tell me.”

I looked down, even more fed up. All that effort with my proof, and Grandma just ignored it.

As for this… Grandma had drawn out two shapes. Two huge shapes. Wide webbed foot with six long toes.

Ghoul footprints.

“Grandma,” I said crossly. “These are enormous. Something that made these footprints would have to be the size of a small giant.”

“An average ghoul, Flo, is two metres tall,” said Grandma. “With huge hands the size of shovels. And right now, somewhere underground, ghouls are using those huge hands to DIG THEIR WAY OUT.”

I scowled at Grandma. Because – without me having any choice whatsoever – my knees were knocking.

“Let me tell you a bit more about ghouls, Flo,” Grandma snapped, right in my face. “Ghouls – huge, towering ghouls – can send witches spinning with one swipe of their knobbly ghoul fists. And ghouls BITE witches. Turn witches into ghouls themselves. And these ghouls will be desperate to bite. These ghouls have been underground for almost a thousand years. These ghouls—”

“Grandma, STOP,” I said, pointing at my knocking knees. “Look. Look! Stop scaring me. It’s not fair.”

“You should be scared, Flo,” Grandma said. “You should be VERY scared. Ghouls are nearly here. And when they are – who will be their first witchvictims? Witches, here in Haggspit! And their favourite witchvictims? Witchchildren!”

I backed away. I could feel my hair actually standing on end now. But Grandma hadn’t finished.

“Read this!” she barked, handing me a copy of her ghoul booklet. “Read this and learn! Read this before those ghouls come prowling and sniffing and searching for witchchildren – small, juicy witchchildren to grab! Wriggling, squirming, screaming witchchildren. Witchchildren like YOU!”

I’d heard enough. I turned and ran. Hurled myself out of Grandma’s room, through the house and into my bedroom. Then I slammed the door shut.