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Zusatztext "Sophisticated fare for readers in search of a few more Unfortunate Events. . . . the thoroughly gothic setting and a madcap climax will keep younger audiences entertained." - Kirkus Reviews Informationen zum Autor P.J. Bracegirdle has done everything from tending the stage door of a haunted old Scottish theater to pushing laundry carts through dark tunnels under an insane asylum. His last job involved writing thick manuals that nobody really read for products that few people ever used. He lives with his son and wife, illustrator Susan Mitchell, in Montreal—a spooky old town with a cemetery at the summit. For more information, visit PJBracegirdle.com and JoyofSpooking.com. Klappentext Joy Wells is fascinated by the strange noises coming from the old Spooking Asylum. She knows all about the famous legends that surround the place, and is certain that she is hearing the guns of long-dead soldiers. But what if something more contemporary—and truly ghastly—is going on?When Joy’s pet frog, Fizz, gets away, Joy travels through the town’s old sewers looking for him, only to emerge above ground—inside the locked gates of the asylum. There, she uncovers a trail of greed and madness guaranteed to thrill her horror-loving heart!The night was wretched. Rain clattered and wind howled. Gates banged and screeched as garbage cans blew down driveways and crashed into garage doors. Swollen black rivers rushed along gutters, roaring down through sewer grates. Amid the clamor the crumbling old homes of the neighborhood creaked and moaned. Shingles streaming, they swam in the amber glow of the streetlights, their interiors dark and slumbering and otherwise lifeless. Except for one house, that is. There someone lurked high above the sodden, winter-weary front lawn, peering out from beneath the paint-flecked gable and making little ovals of fog appear on the glass. An unknown watcher, waiting unseen. But then came a zigzagging spear of lightning that despite its heavenly origins appeared hell-bent on striking the stubby little fire hydrant out front. With a deafening crack and a brilliant flash, the figure in the attic window was revealed. It was a girl with sunny blond hair, her clear blue eyes now wide with fright. For as long as she could remember, Joy Wells had lived at Number 9 Ravenwood Avenue. Like most properties in Spooking, a tired old neighborhood that had once been a bustling town, the home’s stately grandeur had long faded. With its scaly roof and Gothic exterior, it was a hulking dwelling, giving off a kind of menace usually accompanied by ominous organ music. This appearance was at odds with its resident family, however. They were harmless people whose most sinister activity was keeping largely to themselves—an easy thing since few other houses on their block were currently occupied. Mr. Wells was a lawyer, while Mrs. Wells was a professor of philosophy; both worked down in Darlington, the sprawling modern city that circled yokelike around Spooking Hill. At twelve years old, Joy was the older of their two children—and most certainly was expected to be in bed at midnight just like her brother, Byron. But Joy felt free to ignore such expectations, at least when they interfered with her investigations into the paranormal. With such activity occurring on her very doorstep of late, she found herself forsaking her warm bed for the frigid attic, where she now waited wrapped in a musty old sleeping bag. Thanks to a careful log, Joy had determined that the unexplained event always manifested itself late Sunday night, usually sometime after midnight. First would come a distant rumbling, rousing her from her dreams. And then a series of terrifying blasts: Ka-bang! Ka-bang! Ka-bang! Her window still rattling, Joy would leap out of bed to peer bleary-eyed through the leafy elm to the street. But each time she ...
