Breaking into old houses was surprisingly simple. The alarm systems were almost always broken or switched off, and the one protecting Pittingham Manor was no exception. Even before Wortley shimmied up the rusted drainpipe to disconnect the fuse, he knew that the box on the wall was little more than an ornament. When he tugged on the wires, they crumbled apart. 

Wortley smiled. He scuttled back down and checked his wristwatch. Ten seconds to go. Any longer and Alannah would have another excuse to moan. And he didn’t want that.

His trained eyes scanned the back of the house. It was a huge, sprawling building that had once been quite magnificent. Now, though, it was definitely long past its prime, and if the owner neglected the house, perhaps he neglected other things, too.

Two large French doors led from the house onto a paved patio area that was as big as a tennis court. Wortley crept toward it and noticed a lush film of moss carpeting the flagstones. It looked as if the patio was rarely used, and the young burglar smiled again. As he stepped toward the doors, he pocketed his screwdriver. A hunch told him he probably wasn’t going to need it.

At first, the brass door handles wouldn't budge. Clearly, they hadn’t been used in years and had rusted solid.

Five seconds to go! thought Wortley.

Calmly, he reached into his rucksack and pulled out a can of industrial lubricant. Even in the dark of night, his aim was good, and the jet of fluid scored a direct hit on the door handles. He counted to three, then tugged the handles again. 
 

“Time’s up, Wortley,” Alannah’s voice whispered into his earpiece. “Ready or not, here I come.”

On the second tug the handles finally twisted and Wortley heard a reassuring click. As he had suspected, the doors were unlocked, and just before Alannah appeared at his side Wortley eased them both open.

“Bravo,” said Alannah. “You really do have quite the talent for breaking and entering.”

Wortley blushed. He had no intention of telling her just how easy it had been.

“Now step aside,” Alannah said, shoving past her friend. “It’s time for the real work to start.”

The old manor house was definitely haunted. Alannah could sense a spirit’s presence and it was strong, which meant it was close. The hairs on the back of her neck bristled and a torrent of excitement gushed through her body. She never felt more alive than when she was tangling with the dead.

Wortley hurried to catch up with her. Ghosts could cause trouble. Alannah had rescued him from scary situations on more than one occasion, and he knew it paid to stay close.

“Can you see anything?” he whispered, hoping the answer would be no.

Alannah shook her head. The ghost had yet to show itself, but that didn’t matter. She could hear it, and it was coming straight toward them.

“Ring around the rosies, a house full of ghosties,” a spectral voice sang cheerfully. “We scare you! We scare you! You all leave town. . . .”

Alannah’s fingers began glowing brightly. A single flick from any one of them would send a dart of energy whizzing across the room. To other humans, these darts were invisible and harmless. But they were dangerous weapons against ghosts. A direct hit banished them forever ---  leaving their treasure for Alannah.
 

Her parents had promised to teach her how to use this energy, but that was before they went missing. Now, as the months turned to years, Alannah found that she was becoming more and more powerful. These days she could also create glowing balls of astral light that would fizz around a room like heat-seeking grenades. One day soon, she hoped to be able to harness her powers and control them. But for now, that ability was beyond her. All she knew was that whenever she got angry or upset, her attacks became stronger.

The manor house ghost knew none of this. It didn’t even know that a ghost hunter was on the premises. And as the spirit of the third Earl of Pittingham’s gamekeeper danced through the old house, merrily slamming doors and knocking vases to the floor, it had no idea that a fate worse than exorcism was lurking a few shadows away.

“Ten priceless ornaments sitting on a shelf. Ten priceless ornaments!” the ghost sang. “And if one of those priceless ornaments should happen to fall . . .” The spirit flicked a delicate porcelain statue off a shelf and watched it topple to the floor. Smash! “Oopsy! Nine priceless ornaments sitting on a shelf!”

Alannah stepped out from the shadows as the ghostly gamekeeper entered the room by floating through a wall. He was dressed in dirty tweeds and carried a very old, polished hunting rifle. Half his face was missing, which suggested he had lost his life in an accident. Or perhaps he had been murdered.

“Urgh!” gasped Alannah. “You’ve got to be the ugliest ghost I’ve ever seen.”

“Who . . . what . . . ?” spluttered the ghost. He almost jumped out of his spectral skin when he spotted Alannah, and shock bounced him from one wall to the next.

It took a few seconds for the gamekeeper to regain his composure. Then he bellowed, “Get out of this house!”

“Oh, do shut up,” Alannah ordered. “Your haunting days are over.”

“Says who?” the ghost asked scornfully.

“Says these,” Alannah replied, flicking two fingers and firing a couple of astral arrows toward the ghost.

He ducked at the last minute and managed to avoid the first arrow. But he was too slow to dodge the second, and it blew a hole clean through the butt of his rifle.

“You’ll pay for that,” the gamekeeper hissed as he examined the smoking remains of his weapon.
 
“Wrong,” said Alannah. “It’s you who’s going to pay. Now hand over the treasure before I blast a great big hole in you.”

The ghost shrugged innocently. “What treasure?”

Alannah sighed wearily. Ghosts were so predictable. “Look, I know you’ve got something valuable hidden in this house. It’s why you’re here. And now you know I know. So if you know what’s good for you, you’ll stop wasting my time and tell me where it is.”

The ghostly gamekeeper looked confused and spent the next few seconds trying to figure out what Alannah had just said to him. When he finally got it, he started to back away.

“You’re a thief. A lousy, poaching thief,” he snarled. “And do you know what I used to do to poaching thieves?”

Alannah rolled her eyes. “I couldn’t care less. Now give me the treasure.”

“Never!"

Alannah wiggled her glowing fingertips.

“Okay, you can have it,” the gamekeeper suddenly conceded. He looked a little scared. “But there’s one condition.”

This was a first. Alannah had never encountered a ghost that wanted to bargain. And there was a mischievous glint to the gamekeeper’s eye that she didn’t quite trust. But what the heck . . .

“Name it.”

The gamekeeper laughed. “You’ll have to catch me first!”

He was quick, and before Alannah could fire off a fresh volley of astral arrows, the gamekeeper had outfoxed her, disappeared through a side wall, and escaped.
 

Excerpted from GHOUL STRIKE! © Copyright 2010 by Andrew Newbound. Reprinted with permission by The Chicken House, an imprint of Scholastic Inc. All rights reserved.