along endless passages or an octopus digested him alive. Then he would get to his feet again and resume his restless, obsessive activities.
Ghoolion’s only companions in recent times had been the Leathermice, but he now realised how much of their behaviour had rubbed off on him. He lived more by night than by day, was extremely nervous and fluttery, had hypersensitive hearing and started at the smallest sound. He wrapped himself in his cloak like the vampire bats in their wings and, like them, was forever retreating into the shadows.
‘If I’m not very careful,’ thought Ghoolion, ‘I’ll soon be hanging from a rafter upside down, squeaking. Echo is so relaxed. I really should try to emulate him.’
Yes, he was starting to develop a respect for Echo. It had been a good idea to choose a Crat for his culminating experiment. Crat fat might contain the missing bonding agent that would weld all other substances together. But Ghoolion derived particular pleasure from the way in which Echo was being trained and used despite his natural indolence and independence - and all without his realising it. That was cruelty to animals of the highest order.
The Sheet
A fter only a few days at the castle, Echo had acquired two friends: an eccentric bird and a Cooked Ghost. Beggars couldn’t be choosers in Ghoolion’s ancient pile, so you had to take what you could get in the way of company. But even a Crat subscribed to the principle that friendship entails obligations, so he felt bound to cultivate those acquaintances, however peculiar.
The Cooked Ghost disappeared for days after Ghoolion had shooed it away, but it must have remained on the premises because it suddenly turned up again. Its manner at first was timid and hesitant, but as time went by it became increasingly confident - if a ghost could be described as such. It seemed to enjoy being near Echo, who gave a terrible start whenever the shimmering thing came sailing through a solid stone wall or bobbed up through the flagstones like a figure in a puppet theatre. In time, however, he got used to it. It never came too close but floated at a respectful distance behind him when he sauntered along the passages. If he halted, the ghost would also stop short and hover there, patiently and unobtrusively, until he walked on. That was all there was to their relationship - silent proximity - and Echo sometimes wondered what the ghost got out of it.
His private name for it was ‘the Sheet’, which shows how little it now unnerved him. He had almost completely lost his original fear of it, having grasped that the ghost was no more dangerous than a curtain stirring in the breeze. There were times, however, when the sight of it did still make his blood run cold. This happened whenever he seemed to glimpse a kind of face in the floating ectoplasm. The phenomenon, which never lasted for more than a few seconds, looked as if a scary mask with a gaping mouth and no eyes were pressing against it from behind. Echo would have liked to talk the Sheet out of this undesirable habit, but alas, Cooked Ghost was not among the languages in his repertoire.
The Sheet even followed Echo up to the roof, where it would suddenly seep through the tiles and pursue him up and down the stairways for hours on end. At night it often hovered beside his basket until he went to sleep and sometimes it would still be there when he awoke in the morning.
But the Sheet was no less scared of the Alchemaster than anyone else in Malaisea. As soon as Echo heard his clattering, iron-shod footsteps, the ghost would instantly disappear through some wall or painting or the floor and refrain from showing itself again for a long time thereafter. Thus, Ghoolion was unaware of its continued presence in the castle. For some reason he himself could not have defined, Echo had refrained from telling the Alchemaster about his relations with the Sheet and Theodore T. Theodore.
One warm summer night his nocturnal perambulations
Ghoolion’s only companions in recent times had been the Leathermice, but he now realised how much of their behaviour had rubbed off on him. He lived more by night than by day, was extremely nervous and fluttery, had hypersensitive hearing and started at the smallest sound. He wrapped himself in his cloak like the vampire bats in their wings and, like them, was forever retreating into the shadows.
‘If I’m not very careful,’ thought Ghoolion, ‘I’ll soon be hanging from a rafter upside down, squeaking. Echo is so relaxed. I really should try to emulate him.’
Yes, he was starting to develop a respect for Echo. It had been a good idea to choose a Crat for his culminating experiment. Crat fat might contain the missing bonding agent that would weld all other substances together. But Ghoolion derived particular pleasure from the way in which Echo was being trained and used despite his natural indolence and independence - and all without his realising it. That was cruelty to animals of the highest order.
The Sheet
A fter only a few days at the castle, Echo had acquired two friends: an eccentric bird and a Cooked Ghost. Beggars couldn’t be choosers in Ghoolion’s ancient pile, so you had to take what you could get in the way of company. But even a Crat subscribed to the principle that friendship entails obligations, so he felt bound to cultivate those acquaintances, however peculiar.
The Cooked Ghost disappeared for days after Ghoolion had shooed it away, but it must have remained on the premises because it suddenly turned up again. Its manner at first was timid and hesitant, but as time went by it became increasingly confident - if a ghost could be described as such. It seemed to enjoy being near Echo, who gave a terrible start whenever the shimmering thing came sailing through a solid stone wall or bobbed up through the flagstones like a figure in a puppet theatre. In time, however, he got used to it. It never came too close but floated at a respectful distance behind him when he sauntered along the passages. If he halted, the ghost would also stop short and hover there, patiently and unobtrusively, until he walked on. That was all there was to their relationship - silent proximity - and Echo sometimes wondered what the ghost got out of it.
His private name for it was ‘the Sheet’, which shows how little it now unnerved him. He had almost completely lost his original fear of it, having grasped that the ghost was no more dangerous than a curtain stirring in the breeze. There were times, however, when the sight of it did still make his blood run cold. This happened whenever he seemed to glimpse a kind of face in the floating ectoplasm. The phenomenon, which never lasted for more than a few seconds, looked as if a scary mask with a gaping mouth and no eyes were pressing against it from behind. Echo would have liked to talk the Sheet out of this undesirable habit, but alas, Cooked Ghost was not among the languages in his repertoire.
The Sheet even followed Echo up to the roof, where it would suddenly seep through the tiles and pursue him up and down the stairways for hours on end. At night it often hovered beside his basket until he went to sleep and sometimes it would still be there when he awoke in the morning.
But the Sheet was no less scared of the Alchemaster than anyone else in Malaisea. As soon as Echo heard his clattering, iron-shod footsteps, the ghost would instantly disappear through some wall or painting or the floor and refrain from showing itself again for a long time thereafter. Thus, Ghoolion was unaware of its continued presence in the castle. For some reason he himself could not have defined, Echo had refrained from telling the Alchemaster about his relations with the Sheet and Theodore T. Theodore.
One warm summer night his nocturnal perambulations
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