Witch Baby and Me After Dark Page 3

  ‘Poor Daisy. I’m so sorry you’re feeling poorly, pet. D’you think we should give Mummy a ring and see if she’ll come and take you home early?’

  ‘Wantawantagohome. Wanta – hic – WAYYY-hic-Wooooo-hic.’

  Miss McPhee nods. ‘Poor wee pet. Perhaps she’s coming down with something?’

  To herself, Dr Lily diagnoses that the tot is coming down with a bad case of Missing-my-dog-itis. To Miss McPhee, I send my sweetest smile. Heavens. If she only knew the real story, she’d probably run out of the school, shrieking even louder than Daisy.

  I’m walking home from school with Vivaldi, both of us hoping that Daisy didn’t have another fit of the demolition howls after Mum picked her up and took her home.

  ‘My house could be a pile of smoking rubble,’ I suggest.

  ‘With your mum standing in the middle of it, wagging her finger at Daisy—’

  ‘Who’s still going WAWAWAAAAAAYYYYWOOOOOO.’

  ‘And your brother’s sitting in the ruins of your kitchen, eating a bowl of cereal and going—’

  ‘TSSSsssssTSSSsssttttSSS!’ we yell in unison, then collapse in a giggling heap at the thought of the earbudded Jack, totally oblivious to everything going on around him.

  We’re still tssstssss-ing faintly at each other and snorting with laughter when we arrive home. Daisy hasn’t flattened the house and is sitting in her highchair, dipping peas in cherry yoghurt* while Mum is performing brain surgery on a pumpkin.

  Home, sweet home.

  The only sheet Mum could spare for tearing into strips for my mummy wrappings was bright pink. That’s bright pink as in makes-your-eyeballs-shrivel-up-like-raisins pink. Ugh. I’m going to look like a gift-wrapped maggot. Oh, joy. The only crumb of comfort I can find is that at least it’s going to be dark when we go out, and hopefully it won’t be too obvious who exactly is making a complete fool of herself.

  Daisy doesn’t think I look silly, bless her pointy little head. When I began to wrap my legs in pink sheet-strips, her eyes grew wide and she toddled across to stare intently at me.

  ‘What doon, Lil-Lil?’ she breathed.

  ‘I’m dressing up as a silly mummy,’ I muttered, tucking a loose strip of pink sheet into my pants.

  ‘Notta silly mumma,’ Daisy stated. ‘Pretty Lil-Lil. Mummas. Ahhhh.’

  Pretty? I don’t think so. I look across the room to where Vivaldi’s busy wrapping herself in proper white sheet-strips like a real Egyptian mummy. She’s already bandaged all the way up to her waist, so I’d better get a move on. I grab the remains of my pink sheet and rip it into long raggedy strips. This requires my full attention, which is why I don’t notice what Daisy’s doing until it’s too late.

  Oh, help. Mum’s going to kill me.

  ‘Look, Lil-Lil. Pretty mummas,’ and Daisy hands me a pile of perfectly torn strips. Of my bedroom curtains.

  Aaaaaaaargh. How did she do that? I didn’t even see her lips move. Vivaldi has fallen sideways onto my bed, shoulders shaking, clutching her middle as she whoops and gasps with uncontrollable laughter.

  Great. Thanks, guys. Already, this is shaping up to be the worst Halloween of my whole life.*

  I persuade Daisy to undo the curtain-shredding spell, and apart from the fact that the pattern doesn’t match up any more, maybe Mum would be unable to tell that my curtains had been torn into strips, jumbled up and then put back together by a toddler. Phew.

  ‘Come on, Daisy,’ Vivaldi says. ‘Time to get your costume on. What are you going as?’

  Daisy heaves a sigh and shakes her head slowly from side to side as if Vivaldi’s question was too dumb for words. ‘A pider, Valdy.’

  Fortunately Vivaldi has heaps of brothers and sisters, so she’s used to being sighed at.

  ‘WOW. What kind of spider, Daze?’

  ‘Biiiiiiiiiig pider.’ Daisy holds out her hands as wide as she can to demonstrate just how enormous her spider will be.

  ‘Biiiiiiiiiig HAIRY spider?’ Vivaldi enquires.

  I shudder. Big hairy spiders are all very well in nature programmes or in books, but when they appear in your bedroom, I remember that I’m actually a wee bit scared of them.

  Obviously Vivaldi doesn’t have any problem with giant spiders. In fact, judging by the huge grin spreading across her face, I bet she was a spider in a previous life.

  ‘Oooooh,’ she gasps. ‘Bring it on. A big hairy spider dribbling venom down its front and doing that weird sideways scuttle across the floor till it gets to your bed then drags itself up the duvet and vanishes underneath to find your toes and . . .’ Vivaldi pauses for effect.

  Daisy stares at her, her eyes growing round and wide, and I try my best not to think about big hairy spiders cosying up to my bare fee—

  ‘NO WAAAAAANT PIDERS ONNA TOES. WANTIT WAAAAAYYYYWooO–oooooooooooOO.’

  Oh, no. WayWoof was the Bedroom Guest of Honour with Special Toe-warming Privileges. Not some hideous, furry, venom-dribbling, creepy-crawling monster of a spider. Oh, dear. Oh, heck. She’s off again.

  ‘Wantit – hic – wanta – HIC – WAY – hic-WOOOooooo.’

  Vivaldi looks horrified. ‘Oh, Daisy, I’m so sorry,’ she says, taking a couple of steps towards my sobbing sister. But somehow the bandages on one of her legs have unravelled, and she manages to wrap the trailing bit of cloth round her other foot and—

  ‘Watch out!’ she yelps, toppling over and trying to grab something to stop herself falling on top of Daisy. There’s a loud CRACK! followed by a despairing ‘AWWW no!’ from Vivaldi and . . . there go my curtains again, but this time they’re accompanied by the curtain pole, which has snapped in two.

  Look on the bright side, though. Daisy isn’t crying any more. She’s gazing at Vivaldi as if to say, You know, two minutes ago I could have sworn you were every bit as dull as my big sister, but after that little performance . . . well . . . I’m deeply impressed.

  * Nope. No idea. Best not to ask.

  * Not entirely true. The real stinker of a Halloween was years ago when we lived in Edinburgh, and Jack took me out guising and we got stuck in a lift between floors at his friend’s house. And the lights went out. And Jack’s friend decided that this was the perfect moment to regale everyone trapped in the lift with the story of the Headless Hitch-hiker. I’m sure that’s why I threw up. Nothing to do with all the chocolate I’d been eating earlier on as we went round all the houses. How was I to know that the chocolate had been for all of us, not just me?

  Seven:

  Another hissy fit

  ‘I’m getting a baaaad feeling,’ the Nose said, laying down her spoon and pushing away her bowl.

  ‘After what you just stuffed down your throat, I’m hardly surprised,’ the Chin muttered under her breath. She’d watched as the Nose beasted her way through three helpings of spaghetti bolognese, ten slices of garlic bread and two mountainous bowls of apple pie with ice cream. Given how much the Nose had eaten, it was a miracle that her stomach hadn’t exploded. Raising her voice slightly, the Chin said, ‘A bad feeling about what, Sister dear?’

  ‘Tonight. You know. Halloween.’ The Nose groaned and licked the last atoms of ice cream from her spoon before continuing, ‘Us, stuck inside pretending to be sweet little old ladies while all those horrible little humans are outside, banging on our door and demanding loot. Smelly, rude, stupid little boys and vile, nose-picking, nasty little girls . . . all pretending to be us. US! The cheek of it! I tell you, Sisters, I won’t be able to stop myself from casting a few spells and showing those children that you never, never make fun of the Sisters of Hiss. Pffffffff. I can barely contain myself. My fingers are fairly fizzinging with magic.’ As if to prove her point, the Nose snapped her fingers, and immediately her hair stood on end and began to thrash around her head like a nest of maddened adders.

  ‘THAT’S ENOUGH!’ roared the Chin. ‘Stop that. You’ll get us into such deep, deep, deep—’

  ‘pOO,’ said the Toad. ‘Deep, dark, permanent pOO. Shame on you, Nose. Pull yo
urself together. It’s only for one night.’

  ‘But . . . but,’ whimpered the Nose, ‘it’s so hard to keep a lid on all this magical energy. Especially when children are making fun of us with their stick-on warts and black plastic bin-bag cloaks. How dare they pretend to be us? Where’s their respect? The temptation to turn them into headlice is . . . is . . . is irresistible’.

  ‘Talking of irresistible, how about some biscuits and cheese?’ the Toad interrupted, staggering up to the table under the weight of a laden tray. ‘Or perhaps, seeing as how it’s Halloween, as a Very Special Treat, you’d like some of my extra-special dark chocolate mints with coffee?’ she suggested, placing a heaped plateful within reach of her Sisters.

  ‘NOOOOOOOOooooaaaarghhhhwhynot,’ the Nose managed, unable to resist the golden foil-wrapped sweets. ‘Just the one, mind,’ she lied, sneakily helping herself to four mints.

  Wisely, the Toad pretended she hadn’t noticed and busied herself with pouring coffee.

  ‘I know this may sound strange to you, my dear Sisters, but I’d be so happy to have any children visit us tonight,’ she remarked, her large yellow eyes misting over at the thought of welcoming real children into Arkon House.

  The Chin and the Nose regarded her in disbelief. How could two witches of such spectacular wickedness possibly be related to this warty sack of tender-hearted fluffiness? Surely the Chin and the Nose couldn’t be made of the same stuff* as the Toad? The Chin closed her eyes in anguish as her soft Sister carried on.

  ‘I’ve already baked some Halloween cupcakes, and you probably haven’t noticed that I’ve decorated the hall with bats and webs and giant spiders, and when the dear little children come in out of the cold, I’m going to tell them my favourite Halloween joke—’

  ‘ENOUGH!’ bawled the Nose. ‘You’re the joke. Come on. You cannot be serious. Can you imagine the hoo-hah if a talking frog answered the door? Our secret would be out. Every human for miles around would discover that they had unwittingly been living cheek-by-jowl with three witches—’

  ‘Pretty soon they’d all arrive on our doorstep,’ the Chin interrupted. ‘With pitchforks—’

  ‘And stakes,’ added the Nose.

  ‘Trust you to think of food at a time like this,’ hissed the Chin, her eyes wide with fear. ‘I’m talking about being pronged with pitchforks and burned at the stake and all you can think of is filling your fat face.’

  ’WHAAAAT?’ shrieked the Nose. ‘You foul hag. My face isn’t fat.’

  ‘About the only part of you that isn’t,’ snapped the Chin, adding cuttingly, ‘You porky crone.’

  The Toad heaved a huge sigh and began to edge backwards for the safety of the kitchen.

  ‘PORKY CRONE?’ yelled the Nose. ‘At least I’m not an old, withered, dried-up, shrivelly, DRIBBLY . . . PRUNE.’

  The Chin yawned pointedly. ‘See? I’m right, as usual. All you ever think about is food,’ and she shot her Sister a look of triumph before sitting back to enjoy the sight of the Nose erupting in a cloud of steam.

  The Toad winced. Here we go again, she thought, measuring the distance between herself and the sanctuary of the dishwasher. Just as the Nose brought her arms up into the I-am-about-to-cast-a-spell-that-will-frizzle-you-like-a-roasted-sausage position, there came the sound of the front doorbell ringing.

  In the stunned silence following this interruption, the Toad quietly unwrapped two chocolate mints and jammed them into her mouth. No point in leaving any for neighbours bearing pitchforks and stakes.

  * Stuff: a technical term meaning the atoms and cells from which all life is constructed.

  Eight:

  Of geese and inflatable dogs

  ‘Whose house are you going to first?’

  Dad is seeing us off, standing at the end of our garden, his breath wrapping round his head like a misty scarf. Brrrrr. It’s freezing tonight, and there’s a full moon rising behind the trees. WayWoof has now been missing for twenty-four hours. Poor WayWoof. She must be ravenous. A whole day and night without food won’t be good for her or her puppies. No matter how long it takes or how cold we get, we’ve got to find her tonight. Already, Vivaldi and I are shivering in our mummy bandages, but Daisy is snug as a bug in her costume.

  Well, it’s not exactly a costume, but fortunately Mum and Dad and Jack don’t know that the youngest MacRae has changed into a spider. They just think that Vivaldi and I are complete geniuses for making such a good tarantula suit for her.

  ‘So realistic,’ Mum sighs in admiration as Daisy scuttles sideways across the lawn. I’ve got my fingers crossed that Daisy doesn’t run up a tree trunk and dangle upside down from a twig. At least, not when Mum, Dad and Jack can see.

  Yeeeeearrrrghhhhh, Daze,’ Jack groans, shuddering at the sight of his baby sister dressed up* as a creature that can reliably transform my brave big brother into a jelly Jack. He even takes his earbuds out in case Daisy tries to sneak up on him; then, with a final shudder, he heads inside to finish his homework. How boring is that? Poor Jack. He says he’s too old to go guising this year. Fourteen is too old? Last year, just before we left Edinburgh and moved here, Jack was totally brilliant as the THING FROM THE BLACK LAGOON. It was one of the best costumes I’ve ever seen, but I have to admit it took for ever to get all the black treacle out of his hair, and Mum banned us from making Thing-from-the-Black-Lagoon costumes for the rest of time.

  Dad shivers and folds his arms round himself. ‘Right, girls. Back here no later than eight thirty or I’ll send in the Marines.’

  Vivaldi hauls her mobile phone out from under her bandages* and taps on the keypad. ‘There,’ she says. ‘I’ve set an alarm to go off at seven-thirty and then again at eight. That way we’ll know when to start heading home.’

  If we haven’t FROZEN to death first. I’m hugging my pumpkin lantern for warmth, but I’m still chilly. Behind us, the night swallows up my house. Overhead, bare branches rattle and creak in the wind. And up ahead, its eight furry legs flashing as it scampers through the carpet of fallen leaves, is Daisy, my spider sister. Woo-Hoo, here she comes – Witch Baby, Queen of Creepy-crawlies. Don’t mess with her.

  It takes for ever to get to Jamie and Annabel’s house. I’ve never been there before, and neither has Vivaldi. Jamie and Annabel don’t have friends home for tea – at least, not friends from school. We pass the gates and trudge up the driveway, wondering when we’ll catch sight of the lights of their vast house. I’m assuming it’s vast because Annabel has told me at least a million times that it’s the biggest for miles around and we’ve just passed a stone pillar that said:

  which sounds a whole lot bigger than a normal house. We walk on, and on . . . and on. Fortunately there are signs everywhere, and some of them help us find our way. Some of the signs aren’t all that helpful.

  I’m making these up, but there are a lot of these ones:

  GANDER SECURITY

  DANGER: GUARD DOGS

  ARE TRAINED TO

  BITE

  Vivaldi nudges me and says, ‘Don’t they mean Guard Dogs Are Trained to Hiss?’

  At first I have no idea what on earth she’s on about, but then the penny drops. Gander security should use geese rather than dogs.

  ‘Give me a guard dog any day,’ Vivaldi says with a shudder. ‘Geese are totally vicious.’

  Daisy agrees. ‘Geeses visses, Lil. VISSES.’

  Gulp. If it wasn’t for WayWoof, I’d beg Vivaldi to turn back, but we have to look everywhere for our missing dog, so on we go. Past the stables, then the orangery, then along the side of the hothouses and through the walled garden, and finally we turn a corner – and there is the castle.

  WOW. It’s enormous. Annabel wasn’t exaggerating. It’s the biggest house I’ve ever seen. Someone has lit hundreds and hundreds of lanterns and arranged them all the way up the steps leading to the colossal front door. There are candles in jars dotted along the edge of a pool of dark water that wraps itself round the castle like a moat. Actually, it probably is a moat
. WOW

  Vivaldi and I stop and stare, but Daisy carries on as if she visits massive castles every day of her life. In fact, she starts running, heading for the flight of stone steps that lead up to the front door. For a moment I wonder why she’s in such a hurry; then I understand. Faintly, above the noise of the wind, I can hear a dog barking. Oh, no. Daisy must think that WayWoof is somewhere inside Mishnish Castle. When she was younger and could only manage one spell at a time, finding WayWoof would have been a no-brainer.

  Daisy still a magical spider? No WayWoof, then.

  WayWoof around? Daisy not doing a spell at the moment.

  But now, with Daisy becoming Witch Baby Mk. 2 (the hey-I-can-do-two-spells-at-once version), it’s all far more complicated.

  And now we can hear the little spider calling for her beloved pet: ‘Waaaayyyyyy-Wooooooo?’

  And, louder now: WoofWOOOOOF ARF WOOOOF YIPYIPYIPYIP.

  Vivaldi and I are running – running as fast as our mummy wrappings will allow,* but we don’t even make it to the bottom of the steps before the front door opens, sending a wedge-shaped blade of light out into the darkness. Silhouetted in the doorway are two huge men, both holding barking dogs on the ends of chains.

  Two men, four dogs, one little Witch Baby SPIDER.

  GULP.

  These men must be the security guards Annabel mentioned. They look like giants, but their dogs look even scarier. Their teeth glint* in the light from all the candles on the steps and I don’t have to hear their growls to work out just how mean and vicious they are. I can see how hard all four dogs are pulling on their leashes, straining to get up close and personal with this impertinent spider. Oh, poor Daisy. She’s too young to know that some dogs are really nothing more than people-shredders on legs. I drop my pumpkin lantern and run, desperately trying to reach my baby sister in time to stop something ghastly from happening, when—