Horrible Horace and the Haunted House
Horrible Horace and the Haunted House
Chapter One – A Dare Too Far
It was a damp and drizzly Saturday afternoon when Horrible Horace, Moidering Maria, and Tinkering Tommy huddled together outside the corner shop. Horace’s socks were muddy, Maria’s pigtails were lopsided, and Tommy’s pockets clinked suspiciously with stolen nuts and bolts.
“I bet none of you dare go up to the haunted house,” Horace declared, pointing dramatically at the dark silhouette on the hill. The old place had broken shutters, ivy crawling like snakes, and a roof that leaned as though it might sigh and collapse at any moment.
“Haunted house?” Maria snorted. “That’s just Mrs. Cracklebone’s old place. She moved out ages ago when the roof caved in.”
“Exactly,” said Horace, eyes gleaming. “And they say she never moved all the way out. On stormy nights, you can hear her kettle still whistling, and see her cat sitting in the upstairs window with no eyes.”
Tommy dropped a spanner in fright. “N-no eyes?”
“None,” Horace insisted. “Just two big holes glowing like turnip lanterns. I dare you both to come with me tonight. Midnight. We’ll see if the stories are true.”
Maria crossed her arms. “And what happens if you chicken out, Horace?”
Horace puffed out his chest. “Me? Chicken out? Never! Whoever runs home first has to lick the school toilets clean!”
The dare was sealed. And as the rain began to spit harder against the cracked pavements of Ballykillduff, the three children felt a thrill of both dread and delight.
Chapter Two – Midnight Mischief
That night, long after the town had settled into silence, the three crept up Ballykillduff Hill with torches wobbling in their hands. Every shadow seemed to reach for them, every gust of wind groaned through the trees like a warning.
The haunted house loomed ahead, bigger now, its broken windows staring like blind eyes. The rusty gate creaked open by itself when Horace pushed.
“See?” he whispered, with a grin far too wide for comfort. “It’s inviting us in.”
Maria rolled her eyes, but she squeezed Tommy’s arm all the same.
Inside, the air was damp and smelled of rot. Floorboards moaned under their steps. Somewhere, water dripped steadily—plop, plop, plop—as though keeping count of their courage.
And then they heard it.
A kettle, whistling from the kitchen.
Tommy squeaked. “Th-that’s not funny, Horace!”
But Horace’s grin faltered too. Because this time, it wasn’t him.
Horrible Horace and the Haunted House
Chapter Three – The Whistling Kettle
The three tip-toed into the kitchen. The walls were furry with mould, cobwebs sagged from every corner, and the ceiling dripped water like it was leaking secrets.
On the stove—where no stove should have been working—sat an old, blackened kettle, whistling merrily as though it were tea-time.
Horace jabbed Maria with his elbow. “See? Told you! Mrs Cracklebone never left.”
“Don’t be daft,” Maria snapped. “It’s probably some silly trick—maybe the pipes hissing.”
Tommy gulped. “Pipes don’t whistle tunes.”
And sure enough, the kettle’s whistle changed pitch, like it was playing a nursery rhyme. “Three Blind Mice,” to be precise.
All three froze. Then, with a screech, the kettle lid rattled and popped clean off. Out puffed a great cloud of steam… and in the steam swirled a face.
“GET OUT!” it bellowed.
Horace squeaked, then coughed loudly to disguise it. “Nice try, Maria. You brought a torch under your jumper to make shadows, didn’t you?”
But Maria’s hands were empty. Tommy had dropped his torch. And the face in the steam was glaring straight at Horace.
Chapter Four – The Upstairs Window
They bolted from the kitchen and stumbled into the hallway. The wallpaper peeled in strips, looking like long, bony fingers reaching out to catch them.
“We should go back,” Maria hissed.
“We can’t!” Horace barked, though his knees were knocking. “If we leave now, we’ll be the laughing-stock of Ballykillduff. We have to find the cat with no eyes.”
“Oh brilliant,” muttered Tommy. “Just what I always wanted—to spend my Saturday night hunting for an eyeless ghost-cat.”
The staircase loomed ahead, crooked and steep. Horace led the way, trying to act brave but making sure Maria and Tommy were behind him in case anything leapt out.
Each step groaned and snapped. Dust rose like smoke. At the top, a long corridor stretched into darkness.
And then, halfway along, a door creaked open by itself.
Inside, a window glowed faintly. And sitting on the sill, exactly as Horace had boasted, was a black cat.
Its head turned toward them—empty sockets glowing green, like lanterns carved into turnips.
“ME-Ooooooooow,” it wailed, in a voice that sounded horribly like a person’s.
Chapter Five – Trouble in the Walls
Maria screamed. Tommy clutched the banister. Horace—though his hair stood up like he’d been struck by lightning—stepped forward with that awful grin of his.
“Nice kitty,” he said. “Pretty kitty.”
The cat leapt down. Its paws made no sound on the rotting floor. It slinked closer, eyes glowing brighter.
And then—SCRATCH!
Not the cat. The walls. From inside them came a furious scrabbling, like claws trying to dig their way out.
The plaster cracked. Fingers poked through—long, bony fingers.
Maria shrieked, “The house is ALIVE!”
Horace’s bravado finally broke. “Right! New plan! RUN!”
They tore back down the stairs, chased by the howl of the cat and the scratching of the walls.
Horrible Horace and the Haunted House
Chapter Six – The Parlour of Portraits
They stumbled into a parlour thick with cobwebs. The wallpaper was stained brown, as though tea had been flung in a fit of rage. On every wall hung portraits—dozens of them—each showing a different Cracklebone ancestor.
But as the torchlight flickered, the painted faces began to move.
One old gentleman cleared his throat and sneered.
A woman in lace wrinkled her nose.
And a child in a sailor suit giggled wickedly.
“Out… out… OUT!” the portraits chanted in a rising chorus.
Horace puffed his chest. “Oh yeah? Make me!”
At once, every painted finger pointed at him. A draught blew, rattling the shutters. Then one portrait—an especially grim-looking lady with a wart like a mountain—leaned right out of the frame.
Maria shrieked. Tommy fainted. Horace did the only thing he could think of.
He blew a loud raspberry.
The portraits gasped in outrage. Then the lady with the wart thundered, “INSOLENCE!” and tried to climb out of her frame.
That was enough. They bolted again.
Chapter Seven – The Attic Door
The children found themselves at the end of a narrow hallway. The only way left was up.
A hatch hung half-open in the ceiling, with a ladder already down—as though someone, or something, was expecting them.
“We are not going up there!” Maria hissed.
“We are,” Horace declared, though his teeth were chattering. “The cat came from upstairs. So the ghost must live in the attic. If we catch it, we’ll be famous!”
“Or dead,” muttered Tommy, pale as chalk.
Up they went. The attic was cluttered with trunks, broken chairs, and dust so thick it rose in little ghosts of its own.
In the centre sat a rocking chair. Rocking, though no one sat in it.
The kettle’s whistle started again, from nowhere. “Three Blind Mice,” but this time faster. Crazier.
Then a voice hissed:
“Horrible Horace… I’ve been waiting for YOU.”
Chapter Eight – Cracklebone’s Curse
A figure shuffled out from the shadows—tall, draped in tatters, with hair like cobwebs and eyes like burning coals.
Mrs Cracklebone herself.
Her voice boomed, though her mouth barely moved. “Thief of dares! Prince of pranks! You dare mock my house?”
Horace’s knees wobbled, but he managed a weak grin. “Er… yes? I mean—no? I mean… sorry?”
The ghost lifted a long, crooked finger. “For a hundred years I’ve waited for a child bold enough to challenge me. Tonight, my house will keep its champion.”
“Keep?” Maria squeaked.
“As in—forever,” the ghost said, with relish.
The cat slunk in behind her, hissing. The portraits’ laughter echoed down the hallway. The walls scratched furiously, claws breaking through.
Maria grabbed Tommy’s arm. “This is it! We’re doomed!”
But Horace—mad, reckless Horace—suddenly had an idea.
He pulled something from his pocket.
Not a weapon. Not a tool.
A whoopee cushion.
Chapter Nine – The Whoopee Cushion of Doom
“Ghost or not,” Horace said, puffing it up, “everyone respects a good fart.”
Before Maria could stop him, he dropped the cushion on the rocking chair and flopped onto it with a triumphant PHHHRRRAAAPPP! that echoed like thunder through the attic.
The ghost froze. The cat stopped mid-hiss. Even the scratching walls fell silent.
Then—Mrs Cracklebone burst out laughing. Not a cruel, spooky laugh. A proper belly laugh, shaking the dust from the rafters.
“By all the teapots of Ballykillduff,” she wheezed, “that’s the funniest sound I’ve heard in a century!”
She wiped a ghostly tear from her eye. “Very well, Horrible Horace. You have broken my curse—not with bravery, nor cleverness, but with… flatulence.”
The walls smoothed over. The portraits clapped politely. The cat meowed like an ordinary cat.
And Mrs Cracklebone bowed. “Leave now, prankster king, before I change my mind. But know this—you are the first child to ever make me laugh. That is your protection.”
Chapter Ten – Back to the Village
The three children bolted down the hill, the haunted house now silent behind them.
Maria punched Horace in the arm. “You nearly got us killed!”
Tommy shook his head. “And saved us—with a whoopee cushion.”
Horace grinned proudly. “Told you I’d never chicken out.”
From the top of the hill, the house gave one last creak. For a moment, just a moment, they thought they saw Mrs Cracklebone’s face at the upstairs window.
Smiling.
And somewhere, very faintly, came the sound of a kettle whistling “Three Blind Mice.”
✨ The End ✨
The Crazymad Writer Writes Again 