MR WETHERILL OPENED THE DOOR TO HIS cramped, tinpot-cluttered kitchen and stooped through, beckoning Molly to follow. Bringing the kettle back to the boil, he made tea and then led Molly through another low doorway, down a corridor and into a study lined with sagging bookshelves. There were no windows, so Mr Wetherill lit an oil lamp to dispel the gloom. He pointed to a well-used armchair and left Molly to nibble a crumbly slab of chocolate-marbled peppermint cream fudge while he ran a finger along a bookshelf, holding up his lamp.
“A secret stash of ancient manuscripts!” Molly gasped.
Wetherill snorted. “All the ancient manuscripts are in Howlfair Library – and the secret stashes are in private rooms, where only the mayor can get to them.”
“So what are those?”
“Modern copies of old almanacs,” muttered Wetherill. “Tourists used to buy them. They’re records of alleged monster sightings in Howlfair, from the end of the Dark Days till today.” He turned and lowered his glasses. “You do know what I mean by the Dark Days, don’t you?”
Molly swallowed a lump of fudge and nodded. “’Course. The period between the silver crisis of 1465, when miners first came to Howlfair and discovered priceless oquiel and supposedly stumbled on a gateway to Hell, and 1736, after the ghouls which Daphne Loonchance set free were supposedly banished from Howlfair.”
Mr Wetherill stared, sniffed, and pushed his glasses back up. “A textbook answer,” he grumbled. “Yes, that’s what I meant. And I suppose you can tell me how the Dark Days started? What happened when those first miners accidentally found a gateway to Hell and opened it?”
“A horrible mist came out,” said Molly, “and polluted everything in the valley.”
“Nowadays, scientific-minded folks say that the mist was probably some kind of toxic gas which poisoned people and made plants and creatures mutate. They say that’s what gave rise to Howlfair’s legends about monsters. But there are still one or two folks in this town – and I believe you’re one of them – who think that the old reports of monsters have a ring of hard truth about them.” He waved a hand. “Carry on. What happened next, according to those old stories?”
“The miners died,” said Molly. “But they came out of their graves as vampires and zombies. Townsfolk began turning into werewolves. Ghouls started appearing. Evil spirits filled the town.”
“And how, according to the old legends, did the people of Howlfair fight back?”
“They started forming groups,” said Molly. “They called them Guilds and Orders. Each Guild or Order had a special talent. Some were experts in fighting specific monsters. Some protected certain buildings.”
Mr Wetherill located a large tome, blew the dust off, sneezed, and brought it to Molly. It listed all of the Guilds and Orders that had been created to fight the evil creatures who’d supposedly plagued the town. It showed their insignias or coats of arms, and listed their founding members and their most famous exploits.
“Here we have the Order of the Silver Bullet, to which my ancestors supposedly belonged,” Wetherill intoned with pride. “See – there’s the Wetherill name on the list! And here’s the Order of Knights Astronomical, which guarded the Astronomy Tower – the old Mayor of Howlfair himself was its patron. There’s the Guild of Soothsayers. The Order of Tehuti – those folks guarded the library. The Order of Noble Vampire Hunters, founded by the Chillings family. The Guild of Asphodel, which nobody liked very much…”
“Really?” said Molly. “Why not?”
“They were miners – and folks agreed that miners were the ones to blame for the whole mess. Finally some brave members of the Guild of Asphodel managed to go down into the poisoned mine and shut Hell’s gate so that no more mist would come out. They put a special lock on the gate and wouldn’t tell anyone else the secret way to open it – and that really got the townsfolk mad. Everyone thought the Asphodels were acting like the portal to Hades was their personal property. Then there was the Guild of Gravediggers, which was hated even worse than the Asphodels.”
“Gravediggers? They’re the ones who fought ghouls, aren’t they?”
“Yes – but they were corrupt. The townsfolk killed them.”
“Oh yeah.”
“But listen – if it turned out that the old legends about monsters were true, and the monsters ever came back …”
“Or if someone deliberately set them free!” Molly cut in, with venom.
“… then it would probably be a good idea for the folks of Howlfair to start forming Guilds and Orders again, to drive the monsters away. Don’t you think?”
Molly stood up. “’Course! We should do it right now!”
Mr Wetherill bit off some more peppermint fudge. “It’s already been done.”
Molly sat down. “Huh?”
“Not too long ago, some folks tried to re-establish one of the old groups.”
“Who?”
“I won’t name names. It was a small bunch of people who suspected that the legends might be true, and who wondered if maybe the monsters of Howlfair hadn’t gone for good, just gone into hiding.”
“Really?” gasped Molly.
Wetherill nodded. “The group conducted an investigation of the whole valley. And do you know what they found?”
Molly shook her head excitedly. “What did they find?”
Swallowing his fudge, Mr Wetherill sniffed and said, “Nothing.”
“What?”
“Nothing! They found zip. No monsters. No danger. Eventually the group lost members to old age and boredom and infirmity and illness. They disbanded.”
Molly frowned. “Mr Wetherill, were you a part of this group?”
He turned away, replaced the dusty volume about the Orders and Guilds, and ran his finger along the spines of the books on a lower shelf.
“No comment,” he said. He withdrew another book. “But you can trust me when I say that there are no monsters in this valley any more – if there ever were.”
He turned and handed Molly the book.
“What’s this?”
“Copy of an almanac of alleged ghoul sightings in Howlfair. Keep it. If you ever come across a ghoul in real life, not just in a dream, you can update it yourself.”
Molly took the book and stood up. “I know what I saw, Mr Wetherill,” she said firmly. “And listen – I was lying awake last night giving it lots of thought, and I think Benton Furlock took over Loonchance Manor because he knew that the secret to raising ghouls was somewhere in there. I think he found the missing page from Daphne Loonchance’s diary, and he’s summoned ghouls to help him terrify people, sometimes scaring them to death.” She felt herself blushing. “I admit I don’t know what he’s doing it for, but I’m going to get to the bottom of it.”
The huge man sighed and headed to the study door. “Molly, I’ll tell you this before we say our goodbyes. Benton Furlock may be a curious and somewhat spooky individual …”
“No kidding!”
“… but it’s just an act. He wants to promote Howlfair as England’s scariest town, and a scary town needs a scary mayor. But listen to me well. If real ghouls ever showed up in Howlfair, I can’t think of anyone who’d defend this town with more commitment than Benton Furlock.”
“You’re joking! He’s so obviously dodgy! He—”
Wetherill held up a vast hand, the fingers iced with peppermint cream fudge. “Enough, Molly. Last time Benton Furlock ran for mayor, the reason he lost is that—”
“The Workers’ Union voted against him,” Molly butted in.
“You’ve done your homework, I see. So you’re probably aware that since last year I’ve been on the board of the Howlfair Workers’ Union.”
“You have?” blustered Molly. “I didn’t know that.”
“Well, now you do. And listen: this time I’ve convinced our people to vote for Benton Furlock. He could help turn around the fortunes of this town, bring in the tourism we desperately need.”
Molly stretched herself to full height, which admittedly was not high. “Mr Wetherill, if I could get you proof that there are ghouls in Howlfair and that Furlock has something to do with it, would you help me to stop him?”
“Help you how, exactly?”
“Set up a new group. An Order, a Guild, whatever – a ghoul-killing squadron.”
Wetherill rubbed his face and sighed. “Molly, if anybody ever proved to me beyond any doubt that real ghouls had invaded my town, I’d make those ghouls wish they’d never been spawned.”
Molly leapt with excitement. “I knew you would! Thanks, Mr Wetherill – I’ll get you the evidence, I promise, and—”
“I haven’t finished!” Wetherill growled. “Listen to me, Molly. I’m sure you’ll do whatever your overactive brain tells you to do, but I warn you: if you cause any of your usual mischief investigating Benton Furlock, I’ll go straight to your mother and tell her what you’re up to.”
“I hear you loud and clear, Mr Wetherill. I’ll be as stealthy as a panther.”
“Well, you haven’t got long to make your case, Molly. The elections are five days away – and unless you can convince me not to, I plan to help make Benton Furlock our mayor.”