My Haunted House Read Online Free PDF

rusty chunk of armor landing on me just then.
    I thought that perhaps I had better try and explain things. I know explaining things doesn’t always help, especially if the person you are explaining to is Aunt Tabby, but I thought Sir Horace might be different. So I said in my best polite voice, “Er…I’m very sorry, Sir Horace. But I…er…I thought you were just a…um…”
    â€œA moldy old rust bucket,” Sir Horace finished my sentence for me, which Aunt Tabby says is very rude.
    â€œAh…” I mumbled, trying to remember what else I had called Sir Horace when I was putting him back together. In fact, I still thought he was a moldy oldrust bucket, but I hadn’t expected him to be a talking rust bucket.

    I thought I had better check out the ghost situation with Sir Horace, so I asked him, “Are you a ghost as well?”
    â€œAs well as what?” he boomed. “Ah—as well as being a knight of the realm, you mean. Why yes, Miss Spookie, indeed I am a ghost. The ghost of Sir Horace Harbinger of Hernia Hall, at your service.” He made a sweeping bow. Three bolts fell from his neck and rattled down the stairs.
    Wow. That meant he was my second ghost that morning—what were the chances of that? Of course, it was typical, I thought. I spend years looking for a ghost and then two come along at once, and just as Aunt Tabby is about to throw me and Uncle Dracout of the house, too.
    But it all made sense to me now. Sir Horace never stayed in the same place for very long, and I had always thought that Aunt Tabby moved him around at night as a sort of joke. It would be just the sort of stupid joke that Aunt Tabby would like. But now I understood—Sir Horace moved himself around.
    â€œI’m really sorry about your helmet—er…I mean, your head,” I said, trying not to remember how I had kicked it all the way down the stairs. I hoped he didn’t remember either.
    â€œGot a terrible headache,” said Sir Horace.
    â€œOh. Yes, well I suppose you would have,” I said sympathetically.
    â€œWalking’s not too easy either,” he said. We both looked down at his left foot, which wasstill jammed on back to front.
    â€œEr…no, I can see it might not be,” I said in my best helpful voice.
    â€œBut” —he boomed and kind of rattled at the same time— “that is not what is bothering me. What is bothering me is this house-selling business.”
    â€œOh, good,” I told him, “because that’s bothering me , too.”
    Sir Horace swayed a bit, and I dodged an old spring as it flew off his neck and pinged onto the floor. “And this…cycling thing,” he said.
    For a moment I was confused, as I was sure I had never seen Sir Horace out on a bike. And then I realized what he meant.
    â€œYou mean re cycling,” I told him.
    â€œDo I?” he boomed. “Well, don’t like thesound of it whatever it’s called. Never did care for tins myself. Impossible to open. Can’t stand cat food.” And then, with a horrible teeth-on-edge creaking noise, Sir Horace stood up as straight as he could—which was not very straight at all—and took a deep breath. “Something,” he boomed so loud that I was afraid Aunt Tabby would hear, “something must be done. This house must not be sold!”
    â€œExactly!” I agreed. “And I’ve got a really great idea. I’m going to do my Awful Ambush from the balcony and—”
    â€œFrom my balcony?” he interrupted. “In my room?”
    Oops—so it was Sir Horace’s room. And it seemed like he didn’t like anyone going in there. I could understand how he felt, as I don’t like Aunt Tabby going into any of mybedrooms either. She always manages to mess something up.

    I thought I ought to explain. “I’m sorry, Sir Horace, but I found the key in your foot,