Spook's Curse Read Online Free PDF

account of the trouble and tell the Spook the details during supper. The later I got back, the less writing there’d be. I’d done enough for one day and my wrist was aching.
    Overhung by willow trees, which we in the County call ‘withy trees’, the crossroads was a gloomy place even at noon and it always made me nervous. For one thing, you never knew who might be waiting there; for another, they almost always had bad news because that’s why they came. They needed the Spook’s help.
    This time a lad was waiting there. He wore big miners’ boots and his fingernails were dirty. Looking even more nervous than I felt, he dashed off his tale so quickly that my ears couldn’t keep up and I had to ask him to repeat it. When he left, I set off back towards the house.

    I didn’t stroll, I ran.
    The Spook was standing by the bench with his head bowed. When I approached, he looked up and his face seemed sad. Somehow I guessed that he knew what I was going to say, but I told him anyway.
    ‘It’s bad news from Horshaw,’ I said, trying to catch my breath. ‘I’m sorry but it’s about your brother. The doctor couldn’t save him. He died yesterday morning, just before dawn. The funeral’s on Friday morning.’
    The Spook gave a long, deep sigh and didn’t speak for several minutes. I didn’t know what to say so I just kept silent. It was hard to guess what he was feeling. As they hadn’t spoken for over forty years, they couldn’t have been that close, but the priest was still his brother and he must have had some happy memories of him - perhaps from before they’d quarrelled or when they were children.
    At last the Spook sighed again and then he spoke.
    ‘Come on, lad,’ he said. ‘We might as well have an early supper.’
    We ate in silence. The Spook picked at his food and I wondered if that was because of the bad news about his brother or because he still hadn’t got his appetite back since being ill. He usually spoke a few words, even if they were just to ask me how the meal was. It was almost a ritual because we had to keep praising the Spook’s pet boggart, which prepared all the meals, or it got sulky. Praise at supper was very important or the bacon would end up burned the following morning.
    ‘It’s a really good hotpot,’ I said at last. ‘I can’t remember when I last tasted one so good.’
    The boggart was mostly invisible but sometimes took on the shape of a big ginger cat; if it was really pleased, it would rub itself against my legs under the kitchen table. This time there wasn’t even so much as a faint purr. Either I hadn’t sounded very convincing or it was keeping quiet because of the bad news.
    The Spook suddenly pushed his plate away and scratched at his beard with his left hand. ‘We’re going to Priestown,’ he said suddenly. ‘We’ll set off first thing tomorrow.’
    Priestown? I couldn’t believe what I was hearing. The Spook shunned the place like the plague and had once told me that he would never set foot within its boundaries. He hadn’t explained the reason and I’d never asked because you could always tell when he didn’t want to explain something. But when we’d been within spitting distance of the coast and needed to cross the river Ribble, the Spook’s hatred of the town had been a real nuisance. Instead of using the Priestown bridge we’d had to travel miles inland to the next one so that we could steer clear of it.
    ‘Why?’ I asked, my voice hardly more than a whisper, wondering if what I was saying might make him angry.  I  thought we might be going to Horshaw, for the funeral.’
    ‘We  are  going to the funeral, lad,’ the Spook said, his voice very calm and patient. ‘My daft brother only worked in Horshaw, but he was a priest: when a priest dies in the County, they take his body back to Priestown and hold a funeral service in the big cathedral there before laying his bones to rest in the churchyard.
    ‘So we’re going there to pay our last