The Ghoul of Christmas Past

replied. ‘I was planning to not work for the next few days, but something came up. Do you know what dad called for?’
‘Something came up?’ Mary repeated. ‘You mean you’re working a case?’ she demanded to know. ‘It’s Christmas, Tempest. You ought to be spending it with family.’
‘You are heading to Hampshire, Mother, and we agreed I would spend the time with Amanda and see you in a couple of days.’
‘Not if you are working a case, you won’t see her,’ she argued.
‘Amanda is with me, Mother, and this case really will not wait. Is dad there?’
Disgruntled, she thrust the phone at her husband. ‘He wants to talk to you.’
‘Tempest,’ said Michael by way of greeting once he had the phone to his ear.
‘Hey, Dad. Listen, don’t tell mum, but Jane went and got herself kidnapped.’
‘Jane?’
‘Yes, Dad, Jane, the one I just asked you not to mention to mum. Amanda and I are tracking the person who we think has her, but there is … well, let’s just say I am worried and don’t have time to talk, okay?’
‘Sure thing, son. I won’t take up your time. Go do what you need to do.’ The Michaels men rarely said it, but they both had deep-rooted love for each other. Father and son were cut from the same cloth and got on as well as two men could. More than that, though, Michael was impressed by his son and continually proud of the man he had become.
‘What did you call for anyway?’ Tempest asked before his father could hang up.
‘Oh, err. I’m not sure I should trouble you with it now.’ Mary rolled her eyes. ‘It’s about the Dickens Museum.’
‘Is this about the ghoul?’ Tempest queried.
Michael’s right eyebrow raised without being told to do so. ‘A ghoul?’
‘Apparently so. I haven’t been engaged to investigate it, but there were a bunch of sightings right before the Dickens Greatest Works Theme Park shut its doors a month ago. I know that’s not the same place, but I figured the two have a lot in common. Why are you asking?’
Michael wiggled his nose. Why was he asking? ‘I spotted something in the paper, a run of coincidences you might say. One of the shareholders went missing a couple of days ago, some things were stolen from the Dickens Museum, and the shareholder who went missing, well, your mum and I saw him in the bank last week and he was yelling blue murder about not getting a loan he needed. Also, I just met the museum curator and I’d bet my left nut he’s hiding something.’
Tempest really didn’t have time to be thinking about another case. Everything indicated that the Sandman was going to kill Jane tonight unless they worked out who he was and where he would be and then stopped him. Nevertheless, it sounded like his dad was on to something. ‘Dad, your best bet is to talk with Frank.’ Tempest shot his cuff to check his watch. ‘He’ll still be working, I expect. Try calling him at the shop.’
‘I’m standing outside it now.’ Michael placed his hand over the phone to tell Mary, ‘Tempest says I should ask Frank. He also says there is a ghoul at the theme park.’
Mary gasped, then realised what she had done and rolled her eyes again. She wasn’t going to let her husband and his daft need for adventure get any rope because once his brain got running with an idea, it was difficult to stop.
‘Dad, I’ve got to go. I’ll let you know when I get Jane back. Take care of mum and have a good time in Hampshire.’
Michael opened his mouth to reply but the line went dead. He’d got some information from the call, but more than that, he’d listened to the steel in his son’s voice. Tempest’s determination to succeed galvanised Michael’s own efforts. Retirement might be alright for some, but he needed a little something more than a few hours a week at the Royal Navy Dockyard to keep his mind busy.
Mary took the phone back when he offered it but did not like the look of her husband’s gait when he pushed the door to the shop open and started jogging up the stairs.
The Mystery Men bookshop was the brainchild of Frank Decaux, a little man with big ideas who had made a small fortune very quickly through some astute business decisions, a lot of hard work, and really, really knowing his subject matter. That the shop doubled as a front for arcane practitioners to get their information, artefacts, and weapons was kept quiet, though he wasn’t actually doing anything illegal.
Frank believed in everything mysterious, supernatural, paranormal, or unexplained. It wasn’t so much that he thought it was real, but that he fervently hoped it was. Since before his age reached double digits, he’d read about the exploits of monster hunters and beast masters, of vampire lords and werewolf clans and wanted to be part of that world. He also recognised that at a shade over five feet and four inches and weighing in at barely a hundred pounds, he wasn’t going to do much damage swinging a blade. Instead, he resigned himself to being the purveyor of information and found a niche where he was of great use to all manner of idiots who believed the same utter claptrap as he did.
His shop was on the second floor above a space that had been a dozen different businesses in the last few years. Currently it was owned by some ladies selling rubbish silver jewellery, but what went on below had no bearing on his business which thrived on the internet as much as it did anywhere else.
The jingle of the door drew Frank’s eyes from the cash register as he looked across to smile warmly at yet more customers. He saw instantly