The Dead World of Lanthorne Ghules

Mr Robbins paced up and down checking measurements,
which Edwin had to write down in a notebook,
and he looked all over for traces of rot and woodworm.
From time to time he yelped. Edwin thought this was
probably a dangerous sign. When Mr Robbins decided
on a second tour, yelps still included, Edwin stayed
behind in the brightest of the downstairs rooms, writing
his own comments to show his mother later. No furniture
had been left by the last owner, but Edwin found
a comfortable seat on the broad stone hearth.
Leaning his back against the edge of the fireplace,
which was made of three more blocks of the same stone,
he settled his behind into a shallow dip and made a few
inexpert drawings with arrows and labels. As he sat
there sketching and writing, a slight fall of soot from
the chimney made him start. He looked into the deep
grate. It still contained the remains of the last fire lit
there, some charred logs and a handful of sheets of
paper. What could these sheets of paper tell him about
the last owners, he wondered and dislodged one of them
with his pen. It had printing on it and was probably no
more than a year-old newspaper. Curiosity made him
cast his eye over it, all the same, and it turned out to be
a series of advertisements, or parts of advertisements,
with the charring from the fire obliterating much of
what had been written.
Has proved spectacularly useful in locating those who
are suspected of being lost in the mists of time, he read.
What an odd thing to write.
Green scabs peel themselves off, apologize and vanish
in minutes.
That was even odder. He couldn’t make out the
name of the product, but who on earth would need
to buy it?
Then there were some “personals”.
If you encounter my brother, please tell him that we have
forgiven the fizzing warts.
Edwin laughed. He liked magazines like this, with
spoof stories and joke advertisements. He turned to the
corner of the page where you could read about Pen Pals
of every taste, shape and length of nose.
I’d like a pen pal, he thought. One I don’t have to write
to in French, though. That’s too much like hard work.
He set about finding a new imaginary friend, from
the brief list that had not gone up in flames. One
description in particular caught his eye:
Young creature just learning the ways and how to make up his
own mind, seeks equally positive youngster not put off by other
family members with revolting habits. They are of that kind,
but I’m not allowed to say too much. If all you have to do in
the evenings is listen to your own animated thoughts, then drop
me a line. Replies may be placed in a convenient chimney and
will be responded to unless they fall into the wrong hands. In
which case, look out, because I can’t be held responsible. Your
new friend, perhaps,
L Ghules
Edwin chuckled and tore a sheet of paper from his
notebook. On it, he wrote:
Dear L Ghules, My name is Edwin and I am
twelve years old. I would have liked a swimming pool,
but I am going to take delivery of a baby instead. My
current best friends have stopped being sympathetic. It
would be very nice to have a new friend when I have got
fed up with being a slave. My parents think I am thrilled
to bits, but little do they know. I could tell you what
I really think, if you like, and you could do the same.
He folded the piece of paper and held it out over the
remains of the fire, directly underneath the chimney,
meaning to throw it away with the other rubbish. Before
he could let go of it, there was a whooshing sound and a
brief tug on his fingers. The smile on his face disappeared
in an instant, as the piece of paper shot upwards, followed
by the distinct sound of machinery—click, then ping.
Edwin jumped back, and felt absolutely no temptation
to look up the chimney to see where the message
had gone and why. His brain said it was an unusual air
current, probably, but it also said Get out of there, before
anything worse happens, and so that is what he did.