by Mike Revell
Toward the graveyard.
The other houses on the lane are small and perfect and exactly the same, all the same color with the same roof and the same gardens. But the church . . .
The light’s so low now that the stained-glass windows look dull and colorless.
I try to ignore the cold feeling running up and down my back as I walk up the path and slip through the old wooden door. In the darkness it’s hard to see where I’m going, but I can just about make out the entrance to the crypt ahead of me.
My feet scuff on the flagstone floor. The sound echoes in the empty space.
I breathe slowly, in and out, in and out, trying to calm myself down.
Then I push through into the crypt.
It’s still there at the back of the room, a dark shape, even blacker than the gloom around it. But something’s missing. The eyes. They’re not glowing anymore.
Maybe my mind was playing tricks.
It’s only stone. Of course its eyes can’t glow.
“You’re not so bad,” I say, whispering again. I don’t know why, but it feels like the kind of place where you have to whisper.
I reach out and touch the gargoyle’s chest. It’s cold. I stand there, breathing in the damp air. It smells stale.
In here, it’s so dark that the air feels alive.
In here, school feels a million miles away.
“I don’t want to go,” I say, and right away I feel like an idiot, speaking to the empty room. But it’s not empty, is it? It’s got this great big thing in it. “My friends are all back in Colchester, and Google says they’re two hours and ten minutes away. I know I can call them, but it’s not the same. I don’t know anyone here. Mom doesn’t understand. Jess doesn’t want to know. Daisy’s the best friend I’ve got left, but she’s just a dog . . .”
I flop down and sit cross-legged on the floor.
It’ll be all right, I said to Mom, but I know it won’t. Every time I think about school, my stomach twists and turns.
I hope the teachers don’t find out about Grandma. At my last school, they kept asking. How are you? over and over again, no matter how many times I said I was okay. It’s like they expected me to fall apart at any moment. But it’s Mom they should have been worrying about. I can’t really remember that much about Grandma before the Demon in Her, but Mom can. It must be horrible to lose someone so close to you. Because that’s what it feels like. Even though Grandma’s still there, she’s lost.
Sitting there at the gargoyle’s feet, I look at Grandma’s diary. The face stares at me from the front cover. I’m one hundred percent sure it’s the same. I get that most gargoyles look similar, and I know I probably imagined the glowing eyes, but it’s got the same pose, the same face, the same snarl.
I hesitate for a moment, holding my breath. Now that I’m about to read it, I keep looking at those words TOP SECRET and thinking it feels wrong. Would I want someone to read my diary if I ever wrote one? Probably not.
But I’ve got to find out if she really is a murderer.
Holding the pages carefully, I flick through the first few entries. They’re surrounded by more sketches. Flowers and buildings and—
And fighter planes.
The War.
Of course I know Grandma lived during the Second World War, but I’ve never really thought about it. Would she have fought in it too? Could that be where she killed someone?
January 17, 1940
I can hear them every night now.
The planes. They fly like flocks of birds, heading toward Germany and Italy. But they’re much louder than birds. When birds sing, it’s the sound of happiness. When the planes roar overhead, it’s not happiness at all.
I don’t know what it is . . .
Before Dad left, he used to take us to air shows every year. I remember the Spitfires soaring overhead, and buying model toys afterward to build and paint and fly around the house. But that was only two or three planes in the sky. In Grandma’s drawing there are dozens.
I read the entry again. They don’t sound like the words of a killer. But she’s only thirteen here, and there are loads more pages. Maybe somewhere in them, something changes . . .
Suddenly I sit up.
I was so focused that it took me ages to realize.
You know how you can get so used to the furniture in a room that you don’t notice when something’s different, like when Mom switches the sofas around or changes the side table or moves the elephant statue? Then you squint, and you think, and after a while it comes to you.
That’s how I’m feeling now.
It’s still dark. Nothing’s moved. But something’s changed.
I squint around in the shadows, and that’s when it hits me—the heat on my back. I scramble up as if I’ve been burned, even though it’s not that hot, it’s just warm, like I’ve been sitting against a radiator.
But there’s no radiator at the back of the room.
It’s only the gargoyle and me.
And if the warmth didn’t come from a radiator, where did it come from?
6
The thing about school is that it always comes around too quickly.
Mom took me in so early that I was the only one there apart from the janitor, and he didn’t say anything, just looked up once and carried on with his work.
“It pays to be early,” she said. “Especially on your first day.”
But I don’t think it does pay to be early. I think that only makes things worse, because now I’m sitting outside reception watching the clock tick tick tick closer to nine o’clock, when my new teacher will come collect me and introduce me to the class.
Mom keeps saying things, but I’m not really in the mood to talk, so I say mmm and yeah in all the right places and try to ignore the snakes in my stomach. I can’t stop thinking about the gargoyle. I might have imagined the glowing eyes, but there’s no way I made up the heat coming off it . . .
How can something made of stone get so warm?
Just then a woman arrives and holds out her hand. She’s got short blonde hair and a wrinkly face, but they’re friendly wrinkles, the kind that come from smiling and laughing too much.
“Hello,” she says. “I’m Mrs. Culpepper. You must be Mrs. Williams?”
“Yes,” Mom says. “And this is Liam.”
I stand up to shake the teacher’s hand.
“Hello, Liam. Are you nervous?”
“A bit,” I say.
“Me too. We have two things in common already. It’s my first day too, you see. I’m covering Mrs. Pindle’s maternity leave,” she explains to Mom. “Shall we go and meet our class?”
We say good-bye to Mom, then Mrs. Culpepper leads me down the corridor and through a courtyard. The fifth-grade classroom is at the far end of the school, just past the library. It’s right next to the playground, and you can still hear some kids out there as they rush toward school.
Mrs. Culpepper opens the door. Most of the seats are filled.
Everyone looks up. They’re staring at me. I try to swallow, but my throat feels thick and useless. Then their eyes slide past me and on to Mrs. Culpepper, and in my head I’m saying Thank you thank you thank you, because it’s not as bad when you have someone else standing in the doorway with you.
“Stand here until I introduce you,” Mrs. Culpepper says. She walks to the front of the class and waits until everyone seems to have arrived, then clears her throat. “Hello. I’m Mrs. Culpepper, your teacher while Mrs. Pindle is off. You have a new student joining you today as well,” she continues, pointing in my direction. “Fifth grade, this is Liam. Liam, fifth grade.” Then she mouths, “Take a seat.”
I go to the nearest one, but the girl in the next seat looks up and says, “This seat’s saved.”
I move to the one behind it, but that’s saved too. A group of kids at the back of the class laugh, and I try to ignore them.
The next seat’s free, so I sit down, feeling my cheeks getting hotter and hotter.
> Something smacks me on the head and I look down to see a scrunched-up piece of paper on the floor. I pick it up and unfold it. It says: Starting on the same day as the teacher? You her pet or something?
First day at a new school, and it’s already begun.
Ignore it, I tell myself.
“That’s quite enough!” says Mrs. Culpepper. She glides over and takes the paper from my hand. “I won’t tolerate anything being thrown in my class.” She spins around and hurls the paper, and I turn just in time to see it smack against the wall and drop into the trash. She walks away from me and over to the boys at the back. “What’s your name?”
“Matt,” says the boy in the middle of the group.
“Do you like disrupting my lesson, Matt?”
“No, Miss,” he says.
“Good. I suggest you don’t do it again.” She walks back to the front of the class and stands by the board. “Now, as I was saying, you’re going to have to put up with me for the next six months, I’m afraid.”
Quiet. The room’s so quiet now.
“In front of you, you have your timetable. This is how the classes will work for the rest of term . . .”
It’s pretty much the same as my old school: math, English, history. There’s an asterisk at the bottom of the page, and next to it, in photocopied handwriting, are the words World War II.
“As you can see,” says Mrs. Culpepper, “the special focus in history this term is going to be on the Second World War. I’ve got a really exciting project for you. So let’s start with some homework, shall we?”
Homework already? Maybe she isn’t so nice after all.
The other kids are sighing and complaining but Mrs. Culpepper only smiles.
“Don’t worry,” she says. “This isn’t going to be like normal homework. It’ll be interesting, I promise. I want you to find someone who lived through the War and interview them. This could be a grandparent, or a friend of your family, or a neighbor. All you have to do is ask them a few questions. Then we’ll form a story circle next week and tell each other what we found out.”
“A story circle?” scoffs Matt. “What the hell’s a story circle?”
“Matt, language,” Mrs. Culpepper says sharply. “Now, don’t tell me you’ve never made a story circle?” She looks around the class in disbelief. Then she says, “Yes?” because a girl two rows in front of me is holding her hand so high she’s about to fall out of her chair.
“Do you mean like reading? Because Mrs. Pindle sometimes reads to us in English. We’re on The Hobbit at the moment, and last term we read Harry Potter.”
“A little like that,” says Mrs. Culpepper. “But I’m talking about stories of your own. Stories you tell, not me.”
The class is quiet, except for Matt and his friends, who keep whispering at the back of the room. Mrs. Culpepper doesn’t even seem to notice.
“I can see we’re going to need some practice,” she says. “Form a circle!” She claps her hands, and her blonde hair bounces on her shoulders as she points at the floor. “Quickly, now. That’s it! Chop, chop.”
We shove our chairs under the desks and gather cross-legged on the floor. Mrs. Culpepper stands in the middle of the circle. She reaches into her bag and takes out an egg, one of those marble ones you see in museum shops for about three pounds.
“This is a magic egg,” she says. “Only the person touching the egg is allowed to talk. You’re going to pass it around, tell me your name, and something about yourself. Okay?”
Uh-oh. Talking in front of the whole class? My mind’s moving so fast, it feels like it’s going to catch fire. I know it’s only about ten seconds of talking, but no one here knows anything about me, and if I mess up they’ll make fun of me for the rest of the year.
Mrs. Culpepper hands the egg to the girl beside me. I watch as she takes it and holds it in her small hands. Her eyes look so big behind her glasses. She says her name is Fiona and starts talking about rabbits, but I’m not listening because all I can think is Please go around the circle the other way.
I don’t have anything to say. I can’t exactly talk about my weekend.
My Grandma threatened to kill me . . .
I look up at a sudden noise.
The girl is holding the egg in my face. Up close, I can see the veins in the marble, clear blue against the rusty brown and red.
“Liam,” says Mrs. Culpepper, “is there anything you want to tell us about yourself?”
My hand trembles as I reach out and take the egg, feel its warmth seep into my hands.
“Um . . . My name’s Liam.”
Laughter breaks out around the room, and I blink to try to ignore it, and my heart’s beating and my tongue’s so heavy I can’t remember how to use it, and all the time I’m thinking, Orange penguins orange penguins orange penguins, just to try and focus.
What can I say? Anything that’s not about Grandma.
“Did you do anything at the weekend?” says Mrs. Culpepper. “How’s your grandma getting on?”
“She’s fine,” I say automatically.
Then I think, How does she know about Grandma?
Mom must have let the teachers know.
I shift the egg from hand to hand, trying to forget about the faces and the circle.
“It’s okay,” says Mrs. Culpepper. “Just pass it on if you can’t think of anything you’d like to share.”
I quickly hand the egg to the boy on my left. Matt snickers. His eyes are thin and mocking, and I can’t hold his gaze, so I close my eyes and think of the church, just the quiet church in the darkness.
And the gargoyle.
When I open my eyes, Matt’s not looking at me anymore.
The marble egg goes around the circle. Mrs. Culpepper yelps when it gets back to her. She drops it and only just catches it again before it hits the ground. She holds it up for all of us to see, and makes a big O with her mouth.
“Amazing!” she says. “It’s got so warm. That just shows how good your stories were. Lots of happy memories. And happy memories are powerful things.” She smiles at me, and I can feel my cheeks catch fire again. She’s looking at me and looking at me. Why is she only looking at me? But soon she’s smiling at the whole class and standing up and putting the egg back on her desk.
“Next week we will circle up again and tell stories of the War,” she says. “You all need to interview someone before next Monday. Now—math!”
7
Over the next few days, I can’t take my mind off the homework.
I’ve got to have something to say. Otherwise I’ll just be sitting there holding the egg like before, feeling the eyes of the whole class tearing into me.
And that means trying to talk to Grandma.
My heart pops and flutters down into my stomach. Grandma’s voice rings in my ears screaming, I’LL KILL YOU! I’VE KILLED BEFORE! I close my eyes to try to get rid of it, but then I see her face, snarling and white.
I breathe slowly, in and out, in and out.
It wasn’t her, I tell myself. It was the demon.
But it doesn’t make me feel any better.
Mom says we should always stick to simple subjects when we’re with Grandma. Things like the weather and the color of the flowers, because they’re easy to understand.
The War is not a simple subject. What if remembering it makes her go crazy again?
But there’s no one else I can ask. I don’t know any of our new neighbors. I suppose I could try asking one of the other people in the retirement home, but if the demon’s in them too, then they won’t be much help.
Then I have a thought . . . if it was during the War that Grandma killed someone, maybe asking her is the best way to find out. The homework will give me a chance to talk to her about it without Mom getting weirded out.
“Don’t worry about it,” Mom says, when I mention it to her. “Her long-term memory’s often better than her short-term memory.” I don’t know what that means, so I don’t say anything.
&nb
sp; On Saturday, Jess is out with her new friends, so Mom and I visit Grandma without her. Grandma’s asleep when we get there. I think we’ll probably have to go home, because Mom always says it’s important for her to rest. But after a moment her eyes flicker open. She looks up at the ceiling, then looks around the room and finally looks at us.
Mom says, “Hi, Mommy,” in this really quiet voice that sounds weird coming from her.
Grandma frowns slightly, and I can tell she doesn’t recognize us.
“I’ve brought Liam to see you again.” Mom moves closer, leaning in. “Jess is busy today, I’m afraid, but we thought we’d pop in anyway. How are you? How are you doing?”
“Sue,” Grandma says, her eyes shining as she smiles. “My dear Sue.”
She reaches out a thin, wrinkly hand and clutches Mom’s arm.
They hold hands for a while, then I step forward and kiss Grandma’s cheek. She smiles, and her face stretches, and the skin pulls tight over her bones, and I know it’s bad, but I keep thinking she looks like a skeleton.
“How are you, Robert?” she says.
It used to make me feel sad when she called me by Dad’s name, but I’m used to it now. I glance across at Mom, but even she looks okay.
“It’s Liam,” Mom says. “He’s just had his first week at his new school.”
“Oh, is that right?” Grandma says. Her eyes move from me to Mom and back, then she starts picking at her mouth with a long finger. “Well, I don’t know, nurse. I don’t know.”
You know how sometimes things can get so awkward that you don’t know where to look? Like when you’re daydreaming in class and you snap out of it to realize everyone’s staring at you, so you spend the next hour avoiding eye contact?
That’s how I’m feeling now.
In the sad silence that follows, I glance around the room. That’s when I notice the flowers on the windowsill. The ones from us are still there, and so are the ones from the nurses, but there are some new ones that weren’t here last time.
I move over to the window to get a better look. There’s a note on them that says: Thank you for believing in me. That’s weird. Who else has been visiting her?
