Chapter 1:
Spook's Business
My Name is Thomas Jason Ward, and I am the Chipenden Spook. I am the protector of the County, and the Seventh Son of a Seventh Son. Not only that, but I am my mam's son, too.
My Master, John Gregory, was the best spook the County ever had. He served the County for over sixty years, and went down in a battle at the Wardstone. That very battle put an end to the Fiend, but in doing so raised a new, just-born god Talkus of the Kobalos people. That god would wipe out humanity if it had half a chance.
The bell at the edge of the garden rang. Spook's business.
"What's wrong, and what's your name?" I asked the man.
"The name's Gimm, and there's a boggart been taking refuge in our house." he grunted.
I asked, "Do you know what type of boggart it is?"
"'What type'? It's a bloody BOGGART!" replied Gimm, angrily. "Your master would know these things, I'm sure. I want him to help me instead."
"Sorry," I mumbled, reluctant and sad to reflect upon it, "but my master is dead."
"DEAD? Why is it that none of you last long enough? Well, it seems that you'll have to do!" He bellowed.
"Okay, that's enough. Go and spend the night in your neighbor's house. Take your family along with you. I've to get ready, if I'm to deal with the boggart." I walked back to the house.
I turned back to him. "Where is your house?"
"Last on the left of Durbank road in Wentcher," came the gruff reply.
"I'll be there at nightfall, then."
How was I going to deal with this? He hadn't specified which type it was. For all I know it could just be a furry boggart, or it could be a ripper. How was I to know? How could I prepare?
The solution came to me. Pack everything for every kind of boggart. I decided that would be the best thing to do.
I packed my staff, a Blood Dish, a satchel full of salt and iron, and my silver chain, just in case.
I would set out for Wentcher that evening.
As I neared Wentcher, the air smelled increasingly of wet smoke. It was a foul place, and no one seemed to care about hygiene. The place reeked of pigs and chicken poop. It was a loud place with blacksmiths left and right, and parents yelling at their children. To say the least, I'd seen better places.
"Can you give me directions to. . . Erm. . . 'Durbank' road?" was the question I asked every local I passed. Most shrugged it off and walked by without an answer, but one old man said, "It's down past this road and on to the next. Follow that pattern and you'll find it." I shrugged and went down the road before it hit me: he just told me to keep walking out of town. I kept asking and finally got a strait answer: "Follow this road for two more blocks. Turn right and take the second left on that road." I thanked her and continued down the road.
When I got to the end of Durbank, it was obvious what kind of boggart it was.
A rock the size of my fist came out of the broken window, almost knocking my head off.
"We got boggart trouble! Take cover!" I yelled.
I dodged a hail of pebbles, stones, and even a few boulders, and hid beside a window. I had forgotten my shield. The boggart couldn't get me if I stayed here, right? No, wrong. The wall shook. I moved out of the way just in time, as a boulder smashed down the wall. I ran to another spot, to distract the boggart. It was then I decided to talk to it, convince it to leave.
"Why are you doing this? Why don't you leave, and move on? Go stay somewhe-" A rock flew past me and crashed into a window across the street. There was a loud, bloodcurdling scream, and I continued, "Somewhere else! We have enough problems in life without a stone chu-"
I could tell that it wasn't working, because that was when it chose to throw a stone larger than my head, which luckily missed my right shoulder by inches, crashing on to the ground a few meters behind me. Luckily, it fell short of the neighbor's house.
"Okay, if this is what you want," I said. I put my staff on the ground, reached in my satchel, and grabbed a handful of salt and iron in each hand. I had to lure it out in the open.
I teased the boggart, standing in the open just to rush out of the way when it threw a stone. Luring it outside was easier said than done. I tried what I could, and finally prevailed.
When I finally did get it out, it was a clear shot. But it had a clear shot of me, too. I dodged another stone and quickly threw the salt and iron. My aim was true. The clouds of dust met right in the middle, surrounding the boggart in dust. The stone chucker fell to the ground, screaming, writhing in pain. I put my finger into the recess in my staff. There was a loud click and a blade popped out the end.
I jabbed at the boggart with my staff, trying to find a spot where it's coat of rocks was loose, a chink in the armor. It was difficult to find one. Finally, I knocked off a rock the size of my foot, and stabbed down as hard as I could. I had never heard of doing such a thing. Would there be consequences if I killed it? I certainly hoped not.
I had the thing pinned under my staff. It was struggling and writhing harder than ever before. I pressed down harder.
There was no way for it to do what it did. It did the impossible.
It disappeared. It hadn't simply turned invisible, it. . . disappeared.
