Free The Grim Ghost by Terry Deary Page B

clash of thunder and chains, then he vanished.
    The rains came. They fell on the empty garden, smashed onto the roof tiles and gurgled in the gutters.
    The shaken family and slaves clung to one another as they went back to their beds. But one old slave didn’t move anywhere. The ancient cook was stiff and still and staring. She had died of fright.

    Morning came after a dreadful night of storms. Yet the grim ghost of the spirit seemed to hang on. No one could see the old man in the daytime… but everyone could feel him watching.

    The second night was not as bad as the night before, but the faint rattle of chains let no one sleep.
    The next morning, the master of the house gathered together the tired family and slaves. “We are selling the house,” he said. “We are moving away from this place that the gods have cursed.”
    Before the day was over, the house was empty and became the lair of the grim, grey ghost.

FIVE
    No one wanted to live there. The house was cheap, a gift, but the spirit was too fearsome for most families to face.

    Then, one day, Dorus the teacher came to the city looking for somewhere to live. He asked many questions, and the master of the house told Dorus the terrifying truth. “Even in the daytime the spirit will drive you mad with fear,” he warned.

    Dorus nodded. “I know the sort of monster you mean. It sounds unhappy.”
    “Unhappy! Not so unhappy as the slave woman it scared to death. Good sir, we would like to sell the house – of course – but are you sure you want it?”
    “I’m sure,” Dorus nodded. He decided to buy the place and no one could talk him out of it.
    A few days later, Dorus moved in. He had a special seat put at the window. First he ordered his writing tablet and pen…

    Then he ordered torches to be lit…

    Finally, he did a strange and brave thing… he sent all the slaves away so that he was alone in the house with the haunted garden.
    Night fell. Dorus waited…
    In Pliny’s garden, the old man sipped the last of his ale.
    “And then?” Pertinax breathed.
    “Then?”
    “Did the ghost attack him?”
    Pliny gave a secret smile. “I can’t remember,” he murmured.

    “Can’t remember!” the boy cried. “Why not?”
    Pliny shrugged. “Because my cup of ale is empty. I think I need another one.”

    Pertinax groaned, but took the cup and ran into the scorching kitchen to fill it up.
    A slave girl was stuffing dormice with sausage to roast in the oven.

    Another was pulling snails from a bowl of red stuff to boil them.

    “What’s that?” Pertinax asked.
    “Blood,” the girl told him. “Snails taste better if you let them feed in a dish of blood for a few days.”
    Pertinax hurried over to the larder and filled up the cup with ale. He wondered if there would be more blood in Pliny’s ghostly tale…

SIX
    Pertinax dashed back into the garden and handed the cool ale to Pliny. The man supped it and said, “Look at the birds in the trees.”

    “Birds? You were telling me about ghosts,” Pertinax groaned.
    “The birds have no spirits – there are no ghost birds to haunt us. If there were, we would never sleep. We catch them, kill them and eat them. Imagine if their sprits wanted revenge!”
    “Is that what the ghost in Dorus’s house wanted?” the boy asked. He wanted Pliny to get back to the story.

    “No. The ghost wanted peace, not revenge,” Pliny replied and went on with his tale… That first night, Dorus sat at his seat by the window. He went on with his writing. “If you have an empty mind, devils rush in to fill it,” the teacher said to the empty room.
    It was quiet and calm in the garden. But at the darkest hour, Dorus heard the faint rattle of chains.

    The noise grew louder, closer, but still the teacher went on with his writing and ignored the sounds that were in the house and in the room.
    At last, Dorus put down his pen and looked up. The ghost was there – the old man with the white beard and flowing hair.

    The spirit