The Hunting Ground

by Cliff McNish

  I jumped back. I’d have pulled away completely, but Janey kept smiling at me, and her hand was delicate and warm as well, which was weird, because her fingers were gritty from touching the cold gravestone. Anyway, when I held her wrist to make her stop, she did. But as soon as I let her go again her fingers returned to my face, or wanted to. I found out later that someone else was guiding her hand. That was the only way she – it was a girl – was able to feel me. She had to do it via Janey.

  ‘Stop running away. Let me finish,’ Janey said, when I backed off.

  ‘What the hell are you doing?’ I shouted.

  She grinned and looked behind her. ‘Just because they’re dead doesn’t mean they’re not interested,’ Janey said. ‘Theo, I’d like to introduce you to Nell Smith. She’s sixteen going on three-hundred and twenty. An admirer from afar. She counts four freckles on your forehead. She says there are too many to count on the rest of your face, but that if you stay still for a minute she’ll try.’

  I backed off fast. Seconds later, what looked like a stiff breeze came out of nowhere, and this time something seemed to invisibly clutch at Janey’s legs. I hadn’t really believed or understood the Nell stuff, hadn’t taken in that it was a ghost Janey was so offhandedly talking about, but I didn’t have time to think about it before Janey murmured, ‘Here comes Leo. He’s only small. A winter death. Watch out for the snow.’

  I looked up, almost expecting white flakes, but Janey was joking about that part.

  She sat down on the grass. As she tucked her knees under her, I saw a little depression form in her dress as something dived onto her lap. ‘He’s five,’ she mouthed at me. ‘He’s still scared. All the time.’

  Another ghost came after Leo. Someone taller this time, obviously older. Janey leaned back, allowing whoever it was to take her weight. She said something friendly under her breath. ‘A farmer’s boy,’ she whispered to me. ‘He died with his boots on. Hunted.’

  He turned out to be a seventeen-year-old called Sam Cosgrove. Janey upped and went on a circular walk with him around the graveyard, and from the natural way she chatted to him I realised it was the sort of thing they did all the time. I was shocked, and really scared too, and Janey must have realised that, because she left me alone for a while. But the ghosts didn’t leave her alone. They even followed her from the graveyard when we left, only stopping when we got near Glebe House.

  Janey dropped virtually to the ground at one point to pick someone up from the grass. Soft words and smiles followed – plenty of smiles. I later found out that this ghost was a nine-year-old girl named Alice Everson.

  ‘What … what did you say to her?’ I asked afterwards.

  Janey shrugged. ‘I said I loved her.’ I must have looked confused. ‘Haven’t you ever told someone you love them?’ she asked me. ‘Something simple and truthful like that, if that’s what they needed to hear?’

  When I just stared at her like a dummy, Janey sighed. ‘The ghosts only have each other, Theo. It’s not quite enough. Hardly anyone living has my gift, and most of those who do are too afraid to use it. Or they stop using it because’ – she gestured meaningfully towards her own house – ‘it frightens people.’

  7th November. Since then I’ve watched Janey a lot. I’ve seen that wherever she goes she’s always reacting to the ghosts. There are four of them, all children – Sam, Nell, Leo and Alice – and they almost never leave her alone. Invited or not, they’re always crowding her, demanding her time. They tug her fingers, lift her hair. I stayed near her for over an hour that first day, saying nothing, while she gave something to each of the children, touched and touching.

  ‘It’s …’ Janey tried to explain what it was like having them around. ‘It’s like we’re solid,’ she said, poking my chest, ‘while they are not.’ She laughed. ‘They’re all movement, I mean. Like eels. All spirit. It’s hard for them to stay still, even for a little while. They’re meant to be on their way somewhere else. They’re always fighting the journey there. They’re all in motion from holding the journey back.’

  She made a gesture, and a ripple like a dancing wave flowed through her. Then she touched her left hand to her temple and closed the fingertips of her other hand with a small quiet snap. I realised after hours of studying her that it was a kind of special language I was seeing, something she only shared with the ghosts. Later, I dazedly followed Janey to an area where wild daisies were growing under a hawthorn bush. Fitting one into a buttonhole of her dress, she said, ‘This was Alice’s favourite flower when she was alive.’

  I thought I’d never really understand what was going on between Janey and the ghost children, but a few days later, November 5th, Guy Fawkes night, I decided to have a guess at what the ghosts were doing here. Dad had built a bonfire in the grounds, and I’d spent half the evening watching Janey’s head swaying near the flames.

  ‘The ghosts come for company, don’t they?’ I said hesitantly. ‘They left life too soon, before they were ready. And because you have this gift, they come here, you know, because, well, there’s no one else to talk to, and they’re lonely.’

  Janey laughed so hard that she honked. ‘No, Theo,’ she said. ‘This isn’t a romance or some sort of game. I’m not their dearest friend or anything. The ghosts are gathered here for one reason only.’

  ‘What reason?’

  ‘Right now, they’re hassling me about you and Eve. It’s been a long time since any kids came inside Glebe House.’

  Janey saw my bewilderment.

  ‘No, come on, tell me,’ I demanded. ‘What’s this got to do with me and Eve?’

  Janey folded her arms. ‘Describe the ways children die, Theo.’

  ‘What?’ I was thrown by the question. ‘I don’t know. Mostly accidents, I suppose. Disease … Hunger. That sort of thing.’

  ‘Or they’re deliberately killed,’ Janey said. ‘Murdered. Of course, the four ghosts don’t talk about the way they died very often. It’s not something they like being reminded of. Only the original owner of Glebe House enjoys doing that, and he does so whenever he can. Whenever, that is, he gets close enough for the ghosts to hear his whisper.’

  While I tried to take this in, Janey pointed at the perimeter walls.

  ‘I’d like to be able to walk across the Glebe estate without gathering ghosts around me all day long,’ she said grimly. ‘But that won’t happen until the hunter in the East Wing is stopped. The ghost children aren’t pining to be alive, Theo. They don’t wish to be with us at all. They should be elsewhere. The dead are meant to be dead. They’ve stayed behind on this spot because of what’s inside Glebe House. To stop the owner who killed them from killing anyone else. Right now – to stop him from killing you and Eve.’

  ‘That’s it,’ Elliott said, laying the last sheet down.

  ‘What? The diary ends there?’ Ben groaned. ‘You’re kidding! There’re no more pages?’

  ‘I know. I can’t believe it, either,’ Elliott said, ‘but it’s all Dad could find.’ He re-read the last entries. ‘The original owner,’ he murmured. ‘Janey was telling Theo that he’s still here in the house.’

  ‘The same man who did the portraits?’

  ‘Mm.’

  Ben kneaded his bruise. ‘Load of rubbish,’ he grunted. ‘This whole diary thing is made up. Has to be. Something Theo left behind as a laugh. Pretty clever, if you think about it.’

  ‘Yeah, maybe,’ Elliott said doubtfully, needing time to think.

  ‘It’s a story,’ Ben insisted. ‘It’s got to be. Anything else is just stupid.’ He stood up.

  ‘Where are you going?’ Elliott asked.

  ‘To the bathroom. If I’m not back in five minutes you might want to check, though.’

  ‘Check what?’

  ‘That I’m still in there,’ Ben said, grinning. ‘Still alive, I mean. Whoooooooooh!’

  Ben laughed, but Elliott didn’t join in, and after his brother walked off Elliott sat on the edge of his mattress, still reeling from the diary
revelations. Had Theo really made the whole thing up? Was it just the fact that he’d seen the older version of Janey Roberts, Theo’s neighbour in the 1960s, that made the diary feel so real? Elliott wanted to believe that, but only because the alternative wasn’t something he wanted to believe at all. Because if Theo was telling the truth, fifty years ago his little sister Eve had repeatedly gone into the East Wing. She’d become so obsessed with the owner’s portraits that she’d gone as far as to smash her way inside. And now the same thing was happening to Ben. How likely a coincidence was that?

  And something else was bothering Elliott. He didn’t like to admit it, but he’d been drawn to the owner’s portraits himself. He kept finding his gaze flicking up to them. In fact, knowing that the pike portrait was buried under all those magazines in his bedroom had been bothering him all the time he’d been reading the diary. He had a strong desire to return the painting to its proper place on the wall. The urge kept itching at him.

  He was busy gathering together all the diary pages to show Dad when a sharp cry came from across the hall. Seconds later Ben came crashing into his room, running full-tilt. He arrived breathless and pale, but also fizzing with excitement.

  ‘You’re never going to believe this,’ he gasped.

  ‘Believe what?’

  ‘No point telling you. It’s amazing. Come and look.’

  DO YOU WANT TO PLAY?

  Ben was so eager to haul him into his room that when he got there Elliott expected to see, well, nothing less than a ghost. Instead, Ben’s room seemed no different from normal. Elliott tried to keep himself calm while his eyes swept the room.

  ‘It’s Old Albert,’ Ben said, as if only a blind man could miss it. He pointed at a big teddy bear sitting squarely in the middle of the bed.

  ‘I didn’t know you still had that ancient thing,’ Elliott said.

  ‘I haven’t been playing with him, you idiot,’ Ben said scathingly. ‘He was in the box downstairs with all our old toys. I haven’t touched him for years.’

  ‘So what’s he doing on your bed?’

  ‘How do I know? When I came back he was just there.’

  Elliott warily circled Old Albert, studying him from all angles. The teddy’s fat hairy arms were sticking straight out. He looked desperately keen to be played with.

  ‘Maybe Dad did it as a surprise? A joke,’ Elliott said.

  ‘Don’t be dumb. Anyway, something’s been playing with him.’

  ‘Playing?’

  ‘Look.’ Without getting too close to Old Albert, Ben pointed at his head. ‘There. See where he’s been brushed? See the fur? It’s all smooth. And the bow round his neck’s been made … I don’t know … prettier. Dad wouldn’t do that. We didn’t do it. It must be the ghost.’

  Elliott felt his skin prickle. If it hadn’t been for Theo’s entries, and the scrishing sounds, he would never have taken the suggestion seriously. But an actual ghost in the house? Despite the diary, he wasn’t quite ready to accept that.

  ‘OK. Let’s suppose you’re right,’ he said, mainly to give himself time to organise his thoughts. ‘Let’s suppose it is a ghost. What kind of ghost are we talking about here?’

  ‘A child,’ Ben said. ‘Like in the diary.’

  ‘OK,’ Elliott agreed. ‘A child, because who else would want to brush an old teddy?’ The thought of that was briefly so ludicrous that he laughed.

  ‘Not just a child,’ Ben said, deadly serious. ‘A girl. Teddies, so a little girl,’ he added. ‘In the diary Eve liked her dolls, remember? We haven’t got any dolls. Old Albert was probably the nearest thing she could find in the box.’

  A real ghost girl? Elliott thought. It was hard to believe, but the evidence appeared to be on the bed. And if their ghost was playing with cuddly toys, it presumably must be young. Could it really be Eve? The diary gave no indication that Eve had died, but they only had a single fragment to go on. Maybe she’d died soon after the last entry. Had there been an accident? Dad said there’d been a tragedy here the owners didn’t want to talk about …

  ‘A little girl who wants to play,’ Ben murmured. He gave Elliott an astonished look, as if he couldn’t quite believe what he was saying. ‘Are you scared?’

  ‘Yes,’ Elliott said. ‘And stop pretending you’re not.’

  ‘I’m not that scared,’ Ben growled back. ‘How scary can a little girl be? But what’s she doing here? And where’s she been hiding all this time? We’ve been here three days now. Where’s she been?’

  ‘The East Wing, I suppose,’ Elliott said. ‘You went in there last night. You opened it, didn’t you? Maybe you stirred something up. Our ghost might have been stuck in there all this time. But now it’s out, and it wants to play.’

  ‘I didn’t make that hole into the East Wing!’ Ben yelled.

  ‘Are you sure?’

  ‘Of course I am. I’m not lying! I didn’t do it!’

  Elliott wanted to believe him, but after reading Theo’s diary he wasn’t entirely convinced Ben was telling the truth. Eve had torn the barrier down without admitting to it as well. On the other hand, if Ben was telling the truth, then something had smashed its way out of the East Wing, and suddenly the idea of a ghost in the house, little girl or otherwise, didn’t seem so harmless.

  ‘Maybe we can … I don’t know … find out what she’s doing here,’ Ben said breathlessly. ‘You know, invite her to play. Find out about her. How she died.’ He nodded to himself, squeezing his hands together. ‘Yeah, why not?’

  ‘What are you talking about?’ Elliott said, trying to think. ‘We’re not playing with any ghosts. Anyway, if you were a ghost girl, stuck here, would you rather play with toys or play with us?’

  ‘What do you mean?’ Ben asked, taken aback.

  ‘I mean, we’re real. She’ll probably be a whole lot more interested in you and me than in Old Albert.’

  That quietened Ben down. In any case, Elliott could tell that Ben had no desire to play with ghosts, little girls or otherwise. He was only getting ready to do so in case one slipped into the room, giving him no choice.

  A child wanting to play, Elliott thought, a small shiver running through him. The innocent way Ben said it, nothing could have sounded more natural. But if a dead little girl wanted to play, what did it mean? The same as with a living child? Or would a ghost child want to play in other ways? In dead ways? With dead things?

  Elliott traced the lines of the decorative bow around Old Albert’s neck. Only smaller fingers than Ben’s could have tied it so neatly.

  ‘Come on, we’re getting out of here,’ he said. ‘Let’s find Dad.’

  He was about to lead the way when Ben grabbed his shirt. ‘Wait,’ he said. ‘What’s that?’

  Elliott saw it now: a sheet of paper fluttering through the part-open door.

  When it landed near them both boys, breathing hard, stood looking at each other for a moment. Then Ben tiptoed across to pick the sheet up.

  In thick, red-pencilled letters, a child’s non-joined-up style, someone had left them a message:

  To my friends

  Ben unfolded the note and brought it across to Elliott.

  The message inside was simple.

  Do you want to play?

  Ben threw the note down, backing away. ‘It is a child!’ he whispered. ‘It might already be in the room with us. Somewhere we can’t see …’ He kicked the bed.

  Elliott didn’t know what to think, but the only sensible thing to do was to get them both out of the room.

  ‘It’s OK,’ he told Ben, gritting his teeth. ‘I don’t know what’s outside, but we’re going to leave together. Whatever’s out there, we’ll walk straight past it. Are you ready?’

  Ben swallowed and nodded, and Elliott had just taken hold of his arm when they heard a scrishing noise.

  ‘Get behind me,’ Elliott ordered.

  As Ben retreated, Elliott watched the doorway. Excited scrambling had started up outside, scurrying feet taking less than a second to run
the whole length of the corridor and back. Elliott checked the window behind him. Dad was out there, a faraway dot in the southern grounds. Heading towards the glass, Elliott was getting ready to open the window when the bedroom doorway creaked a little wider.

  Ben gasped as a shadow edged across the room. ‘Shut the door!’ he yelled. ‘Elliott, don’t just stand there! Shut it!’

  But before Elliott could move another object was thrown inside the bedroom. It entered half way up the door this time, bouncing lightly across the carpet, bump, bump, before coming to rest near Ben’s feet.

  Elliott nearly collapsed with relief when he saw that it was only a scrunched-up ball of paper.

  He opened it. Inside was a sketch. It was in Eve’s style, as described in the diary, but different as well. Blockier. Darker. Done in pencil but so heavily that it looked more like charcoal.

  It showed a boy asleep in bed, the stars visible through his bedroom window.

  ‘It is Eve!’ Ben hissed. He stared at the sketch, then gave Elliott an amazed look. ‘It’s a picture of … that’s me, isn’t it? It’s me sleeping in the new bed. She’s been watching us.’

  Sweat trickled down Elliott’s neck as he gazed at the sketch. Then he looked up at the door, preparing himself for Eve to enter. ‘Is it really you, Eve?’ he whispered. No answer. Only swift, eager panting from the corridor outside.

  Eyes wide with fear, Ben picked up a cup from the bedside table and threw it at the door.

  Readying himself, Elliott said loudly, ‘Whoever you are, I’m coming out.’

  ‘Elliott, no!’ Ben yelled. ‘Stay here! Don’t go out!’

  A new noise from the corridor stopped Elliott in mid-stride: scribbling. Seconds later another tight wad of paper was thrown into the room.

  ‘Don’t touch it!’ Ben said.

  But Elliott had already walked into the centre of the room and picked up the sheet of paper. It was another note.

  Can I come in?

  Such a simple question. Such a disarmingly simple question. But what reply to give? Say yes and whatever was in the corridor might come straight inside. They weren’t ready for that. But how would it react if they said no?