***
Inside the haunted house, Amelia pulled on the door handle. It wouldn’t budge. “Kirby!” she yelled. “Don’t move!”
She rummaged in her yellow raincoat, pulled out her hazel wand, and held it up to the door. The end quivered ever so slightly. Amelia tapped on the door with the stick, but instead of the gentle click of wood against wood an enormous, deep clanging sound reverberated through the hallway. Amelia stowed the wand back in her raincoat.
“Kirby! Can you hear me?”
No answer.
“If you can hear me, stay exactly where you are. The door is sealed tight. It’d take me hours to open it. I’m going to go in alone. DO NOT TRY TO FIND A WAY IN WITHOUT ME, OK?”
Kirby still didn’t answer.
“He’s smart,” Amelia told herself. “He won’t do anything stupid. I hope.”
Then she turned away from the door and crept further into the house.
***
Outside in the dark fog Kirby held his breath.
He waited.
Nothing happened. There was no sound from inside the house, no sign that Amelia was even still there.
He began to breathe normally again and tried the door, hoping it might open for him this time. It didn’t. For a fraction of a second he considered going back to the wall by the main road, where a single policeman was keeping watch over the place. But what would he say?
“Excuse me, Officer, my friend (who’s almost certainly a witch, by the way) and I broke in to the carnival tonight hoping to catch the soul of an evil witch who’s risen from the dead. But now my friend (the witch, remember) has gone into a haunted house (one that wasn’t here yesterday) and got trapped, probably by the ghost of the evil witch I mentioned a second ago…”
Somehow, he didn’t think that story would go down well, and he didn’t much fancy seeing Dad’s face when he opened the door to see his son standing on the doorstep with a policeman in the middle of the night, accused of wasting police time.
“So,” Kirby said to himself, “alone it is then.”
Mist swirled around the haunted house as he creaked back down the porch steps to the wet grass. The rain was getting heavier, the wind picking up. Kirby pulled up the hood of his jacket and set off around the back on the hunt for another way in. It really was an impressive place; it looked like it had been there for a hundred years, like it had always stood in that field and the carnival had been put up around it.
Kirby did a full circuit, past the carousel on one side of the house and around the back, where he half expected to find a garden. No garden, but there was a back door. It was locked. He raced back up the other side along a sort of alleyway between the house and a large striped tent where a magician performed. He checked every window only to find it locked. He stood in front of the house, arms folded in the lashing rain, and stared. He was just wondering if he could climb the porch when a voice to his right said, “Why don’t you try the back door?”
Slowly, very slowly, Kirby turned his head. Through the mist he could see the carousel. And on it, sitting on a unicorn, was the witch. She was a little girl again, no longer stretched and warped, and Kirby was glad of that, he supposed. But knowing what she really was, that she could become a monster at any moment, made the blood in his veins chill.
“You shouldn’t be frightened.” The witch smiled an innocent smile, then a flash of wickedness crossed her face and she added, “Yet.”
Kirby was aware, through the numbing fear, that his body was shaking. Any time he had encountered anything like this, Amelia had been at his side, protecting him, making him feel brave.
“I’ve already tried the back door,” he said, sounding as calm as he could.
She smiled again and swung her legs over the back of the carousel unicorn, dropping to the ground, and walking with slow, deliberate steps towards Kirby, her long black hair falling over her face.
Kirby wanted to run, to turn and get away. But he couldn’t leave Amelia. And he wouldn’t give up on Mum. So he stayed perfectly still as she came closer and closer, until she was standing beside him, so close he could feel the icy air around her on his face.
She reached out, pulled down his hood and spoke, her lips so close they brushed his ear. They were cold as the winter sea. “Run, boy. Run to the back door. Your friend is suffering…”
Kirby launched himself forward, forcing his legs to move faster and faster, not looking back, because he knew she would be there, a step or two behind, toying with him.
When he reached the back door it creaked open, and he dashed into the dim room beyond. He stopped, and spun to see the door slam shut and the shutters on the windows all close with a snap, leaving him in darkness.
Behind him, somewhere in the haunted house, he heard the witch-girl laugh, and then she was silent, and he knew he was alone.
The Shadow-Birds
Kirby’s heartbeat thundered in his ears as he peered around the gloomy haunted house. He was standing in a long hallway lit by flickering gas lamps and lined with peeling, striped wallpaper.
“Amelia?” He edged along the passage. “Are you here?”
No answer.
Kirby tried the first door he came to, but it was shut tight. They all were.
“Amelia?” he called out, cringing at the boom of his voice in the silence. “Where are you?”
Still nothing. The only sound was the monotonous ticking from a grandfather clock. Everything smelled of dust and age, and something else, something sour, like spilled milk.
Kirby walked back towards the front door and turned to see a sweeping staircase that led to the first floor. He put one foot on the worn, stained carpet of the first step.
“You’re getting warmer,” said the voice of the witch in his ear. Kirby spun round, but the hallway was empty. A cold breath of air on his face gave him the shakes.
“Where are you, Amelia?” he said, and he slowly climbed the stairs.
***
As Kirby moved up the stairs, in another part of the house Amelia Pigeon fell to her knees, panting. She wiped a trickle of blood from her cheek and stowed her hazel wand back in her yellow raincoat. In front of her was a pile of mouldy, blood-stained bandages and dust. Up until a minute or so ago, the bandages and dust had been walking around in the form of a mummy with attitude.
A sound caught her attention, something twitching and scrabbling around. Amelia got back to her feet, straightened her raincoat, and spotted where the noise was coming from.
A hand wrapped in ancient bandages was inching across the floor, using its fingers as legs, trailing a ragged strip of material behind.
Amelia frowned. “Missed a bit.” She strode forward, raised a foot, and brought it down as hard as she could on the mummy’s severed hand. There was a cracking noise. One of the fingers stuck out from beneath the sole of Amelia’s boot, wriggling, scraping at the floor. She twisted her foot, and the finger, along with the rest of the hand, turned to dust.
“Very good,” said the witch-girl behind her.
“I could end this now.” Amelia turned to face her. “You know I could.”
“You could,” said the witch, “but you can’t destroy this spell without destroying the lost boy too.” She smiled a sweet, innocent smile. Then her teeth turned to needles. “Not to mention your little friend. He’s so brave, isn’t he?”
Amelia’s eyes widened. “Kirby? Kirby came in here?”
The witch laughed, and then was gone.
“You idiot, Kirby!” yelled Amelia. “I told you not to…” She ran for the door, which flew open, and she was out into the upstairs hallway. “Kirby!” she said. “Hold on. I’m coming!”
***
Somewhere else on the first floor, Kirby heard a distant door slam shut, the sound echoing around the house.
“Amelia? Is that you?”
He moved towards the sound, along a corridor lined with portraits of terrified-looking children. Some were crying, others screaming silently. Kirby stoppe
d at a photo of a boy dressed in clothes from another age. His pale face peered out of the frame, his eyes hollow and sad. His thin hands were pressed, palms out, against the inside of the glass.
What happened next almost knocked Kirby from his feet. The boy in the photograph moved. With one fingernail he etched two words onto the inside of the glass. HELP ME.
Kirby closed his eyes and took a few slow, deep breaths. “You’re not real,” he said to the boy in the photograph. “You’re an illusion. All of this is an illusion…”
The boy started to groan and pound the glass with his fists. Then the other portraits joined in, dozens of them on the walls, all moaning and punching and scratching. The noise grew and grew. Kirby clamped his hands to his ears, stumbled backwards, spun round and reached for the first door, turning the handle and darting into the room beyond.
He closed it behind him. The voices died away and Kirby slunk to his knees in the dark silence of a library.
***
Somewhere else on the first floor, Amelia Pigeon waved her hazel stick, and the creature that stood in her way, the one made from ten thousand beetles all stuck together, turned to ash and scattered.
“Now that’s just rotten,” said the witch-girl, suddenly at her side. “I liked that one.”
Amelia spun, swiping at her, but her hand and the hazel passed right through the witch-girl.
“I’m not really here, silly,” she said. “But you’re getting closer.”
“Where’s Kirby? I swear, if you hurt him…”
“Who? Me? I wouldn’t hurt him.” She grinned. “But I can’t say the same for some of the other stuff in here. Nasty.”
“Call them off. Now. Or I’ll—” Amelia stopped, because she was alone in the hallway again. “Hold on, Kirby, I’m coming.”
***
The rows of bookshelves in the library were covered in thick dust. Cobwebs caught the light of the lamps like threads of shimmering silver.
Kirby walked between the rows of books touching the spines, running his hands along them, and found himself smiling. He imagined having a library like this for himself. Books had calmed and soothed him for as long as he could remember, and he found that he wasn’t so worried about the witch any more.
Maybe the best thing to do was stay in one place and wait for Amelia to find him. He was sure she would, eventually. And what harm could come to him here, among books? Books were his friends. He reached up, took a small one bound in green leather from a shelf, and opened it. But the pages began to turn on their own, and Kirby dropped the book to the floor. The pages slowed, and were still.
It began as a gentle breeze. At first Kirby thought someone must have left a window open. Then he realised the library had no windows. The breeze brushed his face, his hair, and as it grew stronger a smell came with it, a smell like burning wood.
In the time it took to draw breath, a cloud of shadows exploded from the book Kirby had dropped, dozens and dozens of them. They flew to the high ceiling, fluttering in a flock. Each was the size of a bat – the same sort of black as the spiders. One of them broke from the group, blazing down towards Kirby. He ducked as it flew close overhead, calling out in a strange, echoing caw. Another followed, then several more, and Kirby saw that they were birds, with long sharp beaks and glossy feathers.
Snap.
“Ow, get off me!” A sharp pain pierced Kirby’s head. He swung around, batted the bird away. Had it just pecked him?
Snap.
Another pain, another bird. He began to run.
Above, the cloud of shadow-birds called out, their caws echoing through the dark library, and they moved as one, flying low, swirling and flapping around Kirby.
Snap, snap, snap.
“Get away!” He turned another corner, sprinting along another passageway between shelves. They kept swooping, kept pecking, and every time they did Kirby became more frightened, more confused.
“Amelia!” he yelled. “Amelia! Help me!”
He wished he’d never come into the house.
Snap.
House… where was he anyway? He remembered bright lights… candyfloss…
Snap. Snap, snap.
He was here to do something important, to help Amelia find someone…
Snap.
This couldn’t be real, could it? It must be a dream. Why would he be in an old house in the middle of the night?
Snap.
He’d better get home. Mum and Dad would be worried. Only… Mum… something had happened to Mum…
Snap. Snap.
Now he was unsure of anything. What was his name? Why did his head hurt so badly? Why was he running?
Snap, snap, snap, snap…
Kirby stopped, no longer frightened. He felt numb and didn’t care what might happen to him.
The flock enveloped him. Everything went black. He could feel them, the wind from their wings, the sharp sting of their bills as they feasted on his memories and emotions. Soon there would be nothing left of him and he’d fall into a silent forever.
Everything stopped.
He opened his eyes.
The birds were all around him, but they were perfectly still. Frozen in the air. He brought a hand up, touched one of them. It was cold as ice.
“Kirby!”
There was a girl in a yellow raincoat standing a few paces away. Her hair was messy. She looked very worried.
“Hello,” he said. “I don’t know who Kirby is, but if I see him I’ll tell him you’re looking for him. What’s your name?”
The girl in the yellow raincoat stared at him. Then she looked at the shadow-birds and a dark anger filled her eyes. “Give it back.” Her voice seemed to amplify. “Everything you took from him.”
“Quite pretty, aren’t they, these birds?” said Kirby.
“No,” said the girl in the yellow raincoat, “they are not.” She looked up and around. “I mean it,” she said. “Give his memories back. And anything else you took.”
Somewhere in the library someone giggled. It sounded like a girl. “Spoil sport.”
“Who was that?”
“Never mind.”
It was as if Kirby’s head had been an empty glass and someone had turned on a tap. It filled up with memories and emotions and knowledge. He blinked. “What just happened to me?”
Amelia smiled, and sighed with relief. “Doesn’t matter now.” She reached up, touching one of the frozen birds with her finger. It turned to dust and fell to the floor. In a single burst, all the birds did the same, raining down with a soft hiss.
“What now?” said Kirby. He made a footprint in the bird-dust.
“Now?” Amelia answered. “Now we find the missing boy and finish this.”
The Second Witch
They found him in the attic. A dark, narrow staircase led them to a door. Beyond the door, they brushed through curtains of cobwebs to find a large space filled with all manner of junk: from teetering towers of boxes to creepy mannequins, their faces illuminated by moonlight, which fell through the narrow windows in silver stripes. The place smelled strongly of damp, and of fear.
And there, sitting by the window at the far end of the attic, was the boy.
“Stick close,” Amelia told Kirby as they edged closer. The boy had his back to them. He was in a small wooden child’s chair, staring out of the window. “Charlie, is that you?”
The boy blinked. He turned his head and looked at them. He was only six years old, alone in a terrible place, but there was no fear in his eyes, just emptiness. He turned away, looking back to the window.
Amelia sat on the floor beside him, and Kirby followed her lead. Charlie did not look at them.
“We’re here to help you,” said Kirby. “To get you out of here. Take you home. Would you like that?”
“Home?” said the boy, and he looked at Kirby with a puzzled expression. “Home…” It seemed like he was trying to remember the word, what it meant.
Kirby took the little boy’s hand. It was fr
eezing cold and ghostly pale in the moonlight. When they touched, the boy looked into Kirby’s eyes and his hand warmed up. Kirby could see that he was remembering.
“Home…” His brown eyes filled with tears. “I want home. I want Mummy and Daddy.”
Kirby squeezed the little boy’s hand tight. “We’ll get you back to them.” He looked to Amelia, who was standing up, glancing around.
“Kirby,” she said, “I want you to get Charlie out of the house. Don’t worry about me.”
“What are you going to do?”
“I’m going to make sure she can’t hurt anyone else.” She turned towards Charlie and smiled. “Kirby is very brave. He’s going to take you home. Stay with him, OK, Charlie?”
Charlie nodded, still holding Kirby’s hand.
“She won’t let us go,” said Kirby. The room was growing very cold, and he shivered. “She’ll try to stop us.”
“No,” Amelia reassured him. “She’ll have enough to worry about. Now go.”
Kirby pulled Charlie away, and they were off across the attic. As he reached the top of the stairs, Kirby stopped and looked back. Amelia was still standing by the window. Only now she wasn’t alone.
“Come on,” he said to Charlie. “Remember what Amelia told you. Stay with me.”
***
“They’ll never make it out, you know.”
The witch-girl appeared from the shadows and stood in front of Amelia, smiling. “If you destroy my spell while they’re still inside the house, you’ll kill them. You know that.” She put on a mock petted lip. “Oh my. We are in a tight spot, aren’t we?”
“You have no idea how much trouble you’re in,” said Amelia. “You were better off in the graveyard asleep.”
The girl hissed at her, and her tongue was black.
“Who brought you back?” said Amelia.
“Oh, I can’t tell you that! It would spoil the surprise. Don’t you like surprises?” The witch gave another wicked smile, which turned into a laugh, and then she spoke her spell, the old language ragged in the air.
Shadowsmith Page 8
