“Sorry, Kenz,” she said, “but Fliss has been banging on about her silly nails all term. We’re going to Gawdy Castle in four days and there’s something you guys really ought to know.”
Mum reckons the other girls will catch up and learn to love lip-gloss and nail polish as much as I do. I hope she’s right. Sometimes I think my mates see me as a total fluff brain. As for Frankie, she’s always saying I shouldn’t worry about shallow girly stuff like getting my appliquéd butterfly jeans dirty. She says it ruins everyone’s fun.
I hate to think I might be the Sleepover Club party pooper, so right there in the dinner hall, I made a secret pact with myself that I would NOT be ruining our thrilling, end of term trip.
“Sorry, Frankie,” I said humbly. “Tell us your story.”
Frankie plans to be an actress when she grows up and she just LURVES to be the centre of attention. She took a long, very noisy sip of Snapple, to make sure everyone was watching. Then she made us all huddle closer.
“This story is going to give you terminal goose bumps,” she promised. “I heard it from a girl who made me swear not to tell anyone. She said the authorities didn’t want it to get out.”
“But it’s all right to tell us?” I said anxiously.
“Of course, you’re my mates,” said Frankie. “And I’m going to tell it exactly how she told it to me.”
Kenny’s eyes gleamed and Lyndz’s looked as if they were going to pop right out of her head. I gulped. Frankie’s the best teller of scary tales I know. Outside, a cloud had gone across the sun, and the hall suddenly became full of eerie, flitting shadows.
“It happened at Gawdy Castle exactly three years ago,” Frankie began. “In fact, by a very weird coincidence, it happened three years to the day this Friday!”
Lyndz drew in her breath. “That’s the day we’re going!”
“I know. That’s why we’d better all be careful, because the terrible events I’m about to describe could well happen to any one of us.”
Frankie was really enjoying putting the frighteners on us, but we were all loving it. “Not one word of what I am going to tell you can go outside this group,” she said commandingly. “Do you swear?”
I heard Kenny mutter, “Get on with it, Spaceman.” But the rest of us just nodded frantically.
“Then I’ll begin,” said Frankie in her special storytelling voice. “It was the day of the school safari trip and the weatherman had forecast storms. The skies were darkening as the school coach drove through the gates of Gawdy Castle. But no one wanted to miss out on seeing the animals, so the castle rangers decided to risk taking the children out in the Landrovers. They thought the storm would hold off.”
“But it didn’t,” whispered Lyndz.
“No, it didn’t. It began thundering and lightning like the end of the world. Soon rain was coming down so heavily it was impossible to see out of the windscreen. The rangers cut the tour short and told the children and teachers to shelter in the old castle. Now there was one boy, whose name was Peter Harris…”
“I’ve heard of him,” said Kenny.
“Can I PLEASE tell my story without anyone interrupting?”
We all tried not to giggle at Frankie’s impression of Mrs Weaver.
“Well, anyway, Peter soon got bored with looking at pictures of dead dukes and duchesses. And though the suits of armour were quite interesting, what he really wanted to see were the medieval torture chambers in the dungeons.”
“Dun dun du-un!” interrupted a sarky voice.
Emma Hughes was smiling down at us. I say “smile”. It was more like the lipless grin you see on mummies.
“Bug off, Emma,” said Frankie.
“Oh, I’m SO sorry,” said Emma in a scornful voice. “Was I interrupting your little story-tellingsession, Frankie? Why don’t I finish it for you? Let me see. Oh, yes.” Emma put on a fake scary voice. “Peter goes down into the dungeon where the ghost of a tortured
Mum reckons the other girls will catch up and learn to love lip-gloss and nail polish as much as I do. I hope she’s right. Sometimes I think my mates see me as a total fluff brain. As for Frankie, she’s always saying I shouldn’t worry about shallow girly stuff like getting my appliquéd butterfly jeans dirty. She says it ruins everyone’s fun.
I hate to think I might be the Sleepover Club party pooper, so right there in the dinner hall, I made a secret pact with myself that I would NOT be ruining our thrilling, end of term trip.
“Sorry, Frankie,” I said humbly. “Tell us your story.”
Frankie plans to be an actress when she grows up and she just LURVES to be the centre of attention. She took a long, very noisy sip of Snapple, to make sure everyone was watching. Then she made us all huddle closer.
“This story is going to give you terminal goose bumps,” she promised. “I heard it from a girl who made me swear not to tell anyone. She said the authorities didn’t want it to get out.”
“But it’s all right to tell us?” I said anxiously.
“Of course, you’re my mates,” said Frankie. “And I’m going to tell it exactly how she told it to me.”
Kenny’s eyes gleamed and Lyndz’s looked as if they were going to pop right out of her head. I gulped. Frankie’s the best teller of scary tales I know. Outside, a cloud had gone across the sun, and the hall suddenly became full of eerie, flitting shadows.
“It happened at Gawdy Castle exactly three years ago,” Frankie began. “In fact, by a very weird coincidence, it happened three years to the day this Friday!”
Lyndz drew in her breath. “That’s the day we’re going!”
“I know. That’s why we’d better all be careful, because the terrible events I’m about to describe could well happen to any one of us.”
Frankie was really enjoying putting the frighteners on us, but we were all loving it. “Not one word of what I am going to tell you can go outside this group,” she said commandingly. “Do you swear?”
I heard Kenny mutter, “Get on with it, Spaceman.” But the rest of us just nodded frantically.
“Then I’ll begin,” said Frankie in her special storytelling voice. “It was the day of the school safari trip and the weatherman had forecast storms. The skies were darkening as the school coach drove through the gates of Gawdy Castle. But no one wanted to miss out on seeing the animals, so the castle rangers decided to risk taking the children out in the Landrovers. They thought the storm would hold off.”
“But it didn’t,” whispered Lyndz.
“No, it didn’t. It began thundering and lightning like the end of the world. Soon rain was coming down so heavily it was impossible to see out of the windscreen. The rangers cut the tour short and told the children and teachers to shelter in the old castle. Now there was one boy, whose name was Peter Harris…”
“I’ve heard of him,” said Kenny.
“Can I PLEASE tell my story without anyone interrupting?”
We all tried not to giggle at Frankie’s impression of Mrs Weaver.
“Well, anyway, Peter soon got bored with looking at pictures of dead dukes and duchesses. And though the suits of armour were quite interesting, what he really wanted to see were the medieval torture chambers in the dungeons.”
“Dun dun du-un!” interrupted a sarky voice.
Emma Hughes was smiling down at us. I say “smile”. It was more like the lipless grin you see on mummies.
“Bug off, Emma,” said Frankie.
“Oh, I’m SO sorry,” said Emma in a scornful voice. “Was I interrupting your little story-tellingsession, Frankie? Why don’t I finish it for you? Let me see. Oh, yes.” Emma put on a fake scary voice. “Peter goes down into the dungeon where the ghost of a tortured
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