Follow the brilliant Bridget Vanderpuff on a thrilling new adventure as she investigates the mystery of the ghost train haunting her town—perfect for fans of Katherine Arden and Beth Lincoln! Belle-on-Sea is getting ready for the Night of the Hungry Ghosts, the most frightfully fun time of the year. Mr. Vanderpuff's bake will be the centerpiece of the whole parade, but he needs a new creation and he's totally stumped. To make matters worse, salty old seadog Captain Lufty and his Hat Rat, Barry, have warned that something is coming to Belle-on-Sea. Something terrible… After a ghost train is seen rattling into town, people start to go missing—first the librarian, then the mayor. Bridget and Tom begin tracking the train's tracks, delighted to be in the thick of another mystery. Then the unthinkable happens: the ghost train takes Mr. Vanderpuff! Someone—or some thing —is out to destroy Belle-on-Sea. But they've forgotten one important detail… This is Bridget's town. "An absurd, sincere, and whimsical series...A charming readalike for fans of Roald Dahl’s Matilda ."— School Library Journal , starred review "Wordplay, creative inventions, ample footnotes, and boisterous illustrations continue the playful, energetic, and occasionally over-the-top vibe...A delectable concoction that contains a dash of Sherlock Holmes and a sprinkling of the supernatural."— Kirkus Reviews Martin Stewart is an award-winning Scottish author and former secondary school English teacher who likes to eat a lot of cake. David Habben is an illustrator and fine artist based in Salt Lake City, Utah. 1 Footsteps memories * lockpicks * surprises Bridget Vanderpuff slid another lockpick from her teeth. “Can’t you go any faster?” asked Tom. Bridget thinned her lips. “Tom Timpson,” she whispered, reaching for her Listening Glass. “I am going as fast as I can.” “But I—” “ Ssh! ” Bridget pressed on the earpieces. Nothing—­just the breeze from the open window, the bubble of voices in the street, and the distant hiss of evening’s tide. “No footsteps. We’ve still got time.” “ Time? ” hissed Tom. “There’s no time ! I’m going to get caught, again, and I’ll ruin everything .” Bridget shook her head. “Why you thought hiding in a glass cabinet would—” “I said sorry. This is hopeless, isn’t it? There’s no way you’ll be able to—” “Do you remember the Orphanage?” Bridget said quickly, producing a new lockpick from her explosion of orange hair. Tom blinked. “Of course I do.” “Good,” said Bridget. She angled the pick—­a hooploop—­into the little brass lock. “And do you remember the bear trap in Miss Acrid’s office?” They shared a grin. “Of course I do,” he said again. “I lost count of the number of times she put me in that thing.” “One hundred and seventy-six,” said Bridget, who never lost count of anything. She gave the lockpick another twist , then took a different one—­a tweezle-tip—­from her hair. “I never did anything to deserve that bear trap,” said Tom. Bridget raised an eyebrow. “Oh, all right ,” said Tom, holding his hands up. “Maybe sometimes I—” “Put cod liver oil in Miss Acrid’s apple juice?” “That was your idea, I just—” “Tied the enormous laces of her enormous boots to the ceiling fan, then turned it up to ‘Good Heavens That’s Fast’?” “Well, yes, but it was you who put the—” “Paint in her toothpaste?” interrupted Bridget. They laughed quietly. Tom’s breath fogged inside the cabinet. “What did she shout at us?” he said. Bridget leaned back, pulled her hair over her ears, and screamed: “All right , you horrrrrid little ur chins! Whaaaaii are my lovely tooths all bogg ing and bloooo?” Tom shuddered—­the impersonation of Miss Acrid’s seagull shriek was chillingly good. “I’m glad she’s gone,” he said. “Not just gone.” Bridget nodded. “Locked up in Barefoot Prison.” She checked the Listening Glass again. There was something: a distant rumble, as of thunder heard from under a blanket . . . then all was silent, leaving only the grandfather clock tick tocking outside Bridget’s Room of Bed. She concentrated . Tom watched her fingers dancing on the lock, eyes closing as she listened to the whispers and clicks of the pins inside. “Does it ever make you sad?” he asked, gazing up at the teeming shelves. Bridget breathed in, her blood bubbling with Vanderpuff’s sensory whoosh : smells she could taste—­fragrances she could almost hear , such was their zinging, smacking, popping power. Butter.                         Strawberries.          Vanilla.                                        Chocolate. Her heart quickened. Each scent played like a musical note in her mind, a mouthwatering wave of orchestral yumminess that filled her with so much joy she thought she might burst with happiness. “What could possibly make me sad?” she said. “You know . . .” said Tom, picking at his sleeve. “The Orphanage. Being an Errant Child. The dunge