‘Stay close,’ I said. ‘If we find her, I’ll do all the talking. If she’ll reason with anyone, hopefully it’s me.’
‘No argument here, buddy,’ he said, stepping up to the broken window to the side of the entrance and clambering up on to the sill. He jumped through, landing on the rotten floorboard with a thump, finding me on the other side waiting for him.
The interior of the House was altogether more ruined in the cold light of day. The vines had found their way inside, rooting themselves into every exposed brick, board and beam. Paint peeled away like blistered skin the entire length of the walls, revealing crumbling damp-soaked plaster beneath. The chandelier in the entrance hall jingled suddenly, causing both of us to jump. A pair of birds took off, disappearing with a chorus of shrieks up into the broken ceiling, making for the daylight in a flurry of feathers.
‘What do you reckon?’ asked Dougie. ‘Upstairs? Like the other week?’
‘Seems as good a plan as any. She appeared when we started up the staircase, didn’t she?’
Side by side, boy and ghost, we set off up the steps. Dougie reached out, gingerly brushing the banister with his hand, feeling for the freezing chill that had burned him on that frightful night. My own eyes were fixed on the landing ahead, awaiting the reappearance of the girl at any moment. My anticipation increased as each step took us higher.
Arriving on to the first floor we looked either way along the long, dusty corridors. The doors lining each passage were closed, adding to the sense of foreboding hanging over the House. There was no sign of the girl. I turned and looked up, the curving staircase hugging the walls as it rose to the second floor.
‘This place is huge,’ I said. ‘How on earth are we supposed to find her?’
‘I was kind of hoping she’d pop up like the Wicked Witch as soon as we hit that first step. This is like pulling teeth. I hate waiting for surprises, especially nasty ones!’
‘Don’t take another step,’ I said, pointing to the ground. ‘Look. Footprints.’
In the dust on the floor, there was an outline of a large man’s shoe. We’d both seen the caretaker here the other week, creeping out of the front door under cover of darkness. What if he was in some way connected to the ghost?
‘Borley?’ asked Dougie, ahead of me already.
‘Unless there’s someone else who’s been creeping about in here, but I don’t see any other disturbances in the dust. Do you?’
We both took a moment, scouring the floor for any telltale marks, but it was quite clear that whoever the footprints belonged to hadn’t lingered on the first floor before heading up to the second. We set off in pursuit. A filthy stained-glass window allowed a murky light on to the staircase as we arrived on the top floor. The rotten floorboards on the landing groaned beneath Dougie’s feet. From here the trail in the dust took us left along a darkened corridor. There, right at the end, the cold glow of the winter sunlight illuminated a single open door. I heard Dougie gulp.
‘You OK, mate?’
‘Just wondering how quickly I can leg it out of here if things get hairy,’ he said, rubbing his throat as if he were awaiting the hangman’s noose.
I reached a reassuring hand out, my insubstantial fingers hovering in thin air against the shoulder of his green parka jacket. The two of us laughed nervously.
‘Come on,’ he said, steeling himself. ‘Let’s get this over with.’
We paced down the corridor toward the open door. I kept glancing at my friend, his fear rolling off him in waves and adding to my own. By the time the two of us reached the open doorway we were both terrified of what awaited us. Peering round the corner of the faded door frame, we looked into the room.
It had once been a classroom, the large blackboard that filled the wall still bearing the faded marks of a lesson taught long ago. A fish tank sat upon a long bench beside the windows at the room’s rear, the water within a murky, toxic sludge by the look of things. No sign of any fish. The desks remained exactly where they’d been positioned when the House was still a working school, around twenty in neat, orderly lines facing the teacher’s desk at the front. Each had a hinged lid, inkwells and ancient messages scrawled across the wooden top. And there, in the centre of a wrought-iron fireplace set into a side wall, was something which pulled us up short.
‘Are you seeing that?’ asked Dougie.
‘The shrine? Yeah. Hard to miss it.’
The pair of us stepped closer to better see it. A collection of candles were positioned in a haphazard circle, their wicks and wax melted down into puddles. Fresh candles had been embedded into the remains of those that had long since died, the occasional coloured one added to the mix to give the pooled remains a marbled look. In the centre of the circle were a collection of books, their edges curling, their jackets battered. Other strange bits and pieces were placed carefully around: a frayed old school tie hung looped from a poker stand, a delicate gold necklace beside it, with a crucifix twinkling in the sunlight. Faded sepia photographs had been carefully arranged at the back of the hearth, while a hockey stick sat on the mantelpiece above.
‘Is it me or does this rank as pretty blooming freaky?’ asked Dougie as we bent down to look at the collection of oddities.
‘It’s right up there, mate,’ I replied, stepping over toward the window. Beyond, over the bare blackened branches of the treetops, I could see our high school, the modern monstrosity that had condemned the House to the past. I couldn’t help but feel sorry for the old building, its walls and hallways rich with stories that would be forever lost when the bulldozers moved in.
Dougie reached down and picked up one of the books, catching one of the candles in the process and dislodging it from the melted wax. He tried to stop it from falling, only succeeding in haplessly knocking more of them loose as they rattled and rolled across the hearth. I winced as I watched him replace them awkwardly.
‘Are they in the same place you found them?’ I asked.
‘Dunno. Does it matter?’
He lifted the book and blew the dust from the jacket. It was an exercise book, its binding creaking as he opened it to examine the contents. I peered over his shoulder to get a closer look, the yellowed pages full of curly script. The occasional blot was the only thing to spoil the neat handwriting, where a nib had leaked its ink. The odd word caught my eye, mention of Cromwell and Charles, monarchs and monasteries.
‘A history book,’ I said.
‘Belonging to . . .’ said Dougie, clapping it shut once again so he could read the name on the cover. He squinted, holding it to the light.
‘Phyllis Carrington.’
‘Yes?’ came the sudden voice as we both turned, coming face to face with the girl in the grey pinafore as she appeared in the doorway, blocking our exit.
EIGHTEEN
Intros and Outros
Dougie was scrambling across the floor, back-pedaling into desks and tables as they clattered down upon him. I raised my hands towards the girl in the doorway, half expecting her to unleash another mournful wail, as on our previous meeting. Instead she stepped into the room where we could see her better. Her eyes now sparkled blue, alert and aware. There was nothing monstrous about her: whatever horror had stood on the staircase that awful evening had been replaced by this grey vision of innocence.
‘What’s the matter with your friend?’ she asked me as Dougie stumbled backwards. ‘Is he not right in the head?’
‘Something like that,’ I replied nervously as she stepped further into the room. ‘He’s always been nervous around . . . ghosts.’
She stopped and looked me up and down. ‘He seems all right in your company. Perhaps it’s girls he’s afraid of?’
‘You’ve a point there. His last encounter with the opposite sex left him looking like a shaved panda. Not a good look.’
‘For real?’ gasped Dougie as he clambered out of the jumble of tumbled furniture. ‘You’re ganging up on me with her? Need I remind you the last time we met her she almost scared
you back to life?’
I studied the girl as she watched my friend straighten himself. He was right, she’d frightened both of us witless the last time we encountered her. The girl before us bore no resemblance to that creature.
‘Don’t you remember meeting us before?’ I asked her.
‘Yeah,’ added Dougie. ‘Why the sudden character shift? Are you schizophrenic or what?’
She stared at us both suspiciously, her brow knitted as she considered us both. Twirling a finger through one of the red ribbons that held her pale blonde hair tied up in bunches, a mischievous smile suddenly spread across her face.
‘Oh that meeting? Yeah, I remember that, the two of you stumbling up the staircase like Abbott and Costello.’
‘Abbott and what?’ asked Dougie.
‘Comedians from old black-and-white movies,’ I explained. ‘My dad has a collection of them on DVD.’
‘Deevee what?’ countered the girl.
‘OK, hang on,’ I said. ‘I think we need to clear a couple of things up. Firstly, why did you wail at us when we first met one another? We didn’t come here looking for trouble, we came searching for answers. Local superstitions said the House was haunted and for once they were right. So why the horror show?’
‘You’re new to ghosthood, aren’t you?’ she said. I nodded as she continued. ‘The scares comes with the territory, for me, anyway. I like my own company. I don’t need people snooping around here. For anyone to return even after I’ve given them the old “black eyes” routine tells me they’re serious about wanting to meet me. I wouldn’t have harmed you, if that’s what you’re concerned about.’
‘You froze me half to death!’ Dougie was glaring at her in disbelief, but I found myself smiling. I was warming to her, and quickly too.
‘So that was all for show?’ asked Dougie.
‘Seemed to do the trick,’ she sighed, perching herself on the edge of one of the desks. ‘Must be some big questions you need answering to have come back after that.’
‘But you knew I was a ghost, right?’ I said. ‘Yet you were still happy to put the frights on me and see me disappear with my mate?’
‘You’re green,’ she said. ‘It’s written all over you, I saw it straight away. You’re still thinking like a lifer. You haven’t been cold long enough to get your head round it all, but it’s not my job to walk you through it. I had to muddle my own way along. You can learn the ropes yourself.’
‘The ropes?’
‘How to control your powers.’
‘I don’t need you to show me how to control anything. I just want to find out why I haven’t moved on and left this limbo behind me.’
‘And you think I can help you?’ she giggled. ‘Don’t you think I’d have moved on if I knew what it was that was stopping me? We’re all trapped here for whatever reasons, with our own curses keeping us tethered to the living world. No one ghost is in the same boat as the next, friend.’
I considered her words as Dougie stepped across to the window and peered outside.
‘So it’s Phyllis, right?’ I asked. ‘Do you really have no idea why you’re here? Not even a suspicion? It seems like you’ve been here a while. How did you . . . die?’
Phyllis opened her mouth as if she were about to answer, and then paused. Her face was deathly pale already, but if it was possible to drain of colour any more, it did so right then. Her playful expression was gone in an instant, replaced by one of fear and anxiety.
‘What’s the matter?’ I said, reaching out to brush her arm with my fingertips. There was an actual physical sensation as we touched, Phyllis looking up as I gave her a squeeze of encouragement. Dougie interrupted before I could say anything more.
‘He’s back,’ gasped my mate from where he stood at the window. ‘We need to go, and now!’
Dougie was off and running, not waiting to say goodbye to Phyllis, and I was torn away from her as he sped off down the corridor, only able to shout one last thing back at her as we ran.
‘We’ll be back, I promise!’
Dougie was bounding down the stairs two and three at a time now, hugging the banister as he hit the first and then ground floor.
‘Where is he?’ I gasped as he stumbled across the lobby of the House, past the double doors. Dougie pointed frantically at the entrance, his eyes wide with terror at the sound of a key sliding into the lock. The mechanism rattled before a sudden clunk told us the door was unlocked. Dougie was already in the side room, waiting to leap out of the window and be on his way. Timing was everything: Borley had to be entering into the House at the very moment Dougie was exiting. If Dougie got it wrong, he was bound to be caught.
As the double doors opened, groaning on their hinges, Dougie was on his way. Down he went, dragging his legs over the splintered windowsill, face first towards the ground where he landed with a crunch, half the frame coming away with him. He scrambled to his feet, shaking loose the shards of rotten wood before heading for the drive. His run was stumbling, a limp dogging his escape as he clutched his right thigh.
‘You there!’
He was hot on our heels, the old man skipping down the steps on spry feet before giving chase.
‘He’s catching you up,’ I warned Dougie, alerting him to the caretaker’s pursuit. ‘The woods!’
Immediately he peeled away from the gravel drive and ducked between trunk and branch, heading deeper into the undergrowth.
‘C’mere, boy!’ shouted Borley, following us into the woods.
Limping, Dougie slipped between the trees, picking his way towards the railings that encircled the grounds. I looked back all the while, keeping my eye on my friend’s hunter, unhindered by the trees and bushes that blocked the path. I could see Borley’s face twisting with anger as he tried to catch up, cursing as the branches and brambles lashed his flesh.
‘How’s your leg?’ I asked.
‘A mere scratch,’ Dougie whispered, removing a six-inch dagger of wood that had punctured through the fabric of his jeans. I knew instantly that with a slashed leg he’d have little chance of making it over the railings.
‘Follow the fence round to the gate; try and lose Borley in the undergrowth.’
‘Easier said than done,’ he panted, resting his back against a tree. ‘Where is he?’
I looked past him, spying the old man maybe twenty feet away, drawing ever closer. I could sense Dougie’s anxiety coming off him in waves, and I shared his fear. I couldn’t allow Borley to find him; I had to do what I could to help him escape. An idea was slowly forming.
‘Stay where you are,’ I said, drifting away from him directly toward Borley. ‘Run when I shout.’
I was past the caretaker in an instant, moving as far away as possible from Dougie. Although our special bond gave me strength, it also proved a hindrance. I’d been happy to become Dougie’s shadow, close by at all times, but it seemed I now depended upon him. My friend had become the centre of my world and the further I strayed from him, the weaker I became. Just as I felt the elastic connection between us stretched to its absolute limit, I braced myself, letting my anger build. I stared at Borley, my eyes drilling into the back of his head as he scoured the woods for my mate. The connection between the caretaker and Phyllis was all too obvious to me. He had to know about Phyllis: why else was he here, at the House? Was it his shrine? And what part had he played in her death? The misery at my own fate was now surging to the fore, my anger at the driver of the car who stole my life away clouding my emotions. I let it build to a crescendo, the snapping of a twig bringing my focus back to Borley.
My hand lashed out, striking the branches beside me and sending them rattling against one another. The strange ectoplasm flew from the twisted twigs like threads of a spider’s web, coating the gnarled branches where I’d struck them. Instantly the caretaker’s head spun about.
‘That you, lad?’ he called out, weather-beaten face wrinkling as he narrowed his eyes. He set off in my direction, picking his way over to where the
noise had sounded.
‘Go now!’ I shouted, confident that Borley had taken the bait.
As Dougie set off, I followed after him. I drifted past the caretaker as he continued toward where I’d been, snarling at the old geezer as I passed him by. Dougie hurried on, not daring to look back, as he flitted and fell between tree and bush on his way to the exit. The distraction had bought him just enough time to get out of the woods, and a few more precious seconds to navigate through the chained gates. He hit the grille and pushed hard, the metal links once again straining as he forced them apart.
‘C’mere!’ shouted Borley, as he burst out of the undergrowth at our backs, hurrying towards us. He reached out, his fingertips brushing the fur of my mate’s hood as Dougie collapsed between the gates and through to the other side. He bounced off the bonnet of the caretaker’s van, which was parked at the head of the drive, leaving a bloody handprint on its side. Borley rattled the gates before searching his pockets for the keys, cursing out loud. He’d have no luck finding them: I’d seen him leave them in the door to the House.
‘Now would be a good time to get going, Dougie,’ I said.
‘I saw you, boy!’ Borley shouted as my friend hobbled down the road, putting distance between us and the horrible old man. ‘I saw you!’
NINETEEN
Questions and Answers
‘You done something to your leg, Hancock?’
Dougie winced as he sat down in the chair before the headmaster’s desk. We’d spent the previous Sunday afternoon cleaning up his injury. I say we, but it was basically me wittering in his ear while Dougie washed, cleaned and dressed the wound. A thick layer of bandage – enough to clothe an Egyptian mummy – encircled his right thigh, his trousers now stretched to ripping point.
‘It’s nothing, sir. I took a bang to it falling out of a tree in my garden.’
‘Are you sure it’s not a sport injury from, say . . . hockey?’ asked Mr Goodman, raising an eyebrow as my friend settled.
Haunt Page 9
