She was being fanciful, that was all.
A sound rang out from the hallway, strident and loud and
real
. Emma rushed onto the landing. She could hear tapping from below, irregular and disordered, like rapid footsteps. She went to the top of the stairs and looked down. Something shifted in the corner of her eye, as if she’d been just a little too slow to see it, and then someone laughed.
‘Charlie?’
No answer came back. She didn’t know where he was. She listened for the sound of his footsteps but heard nothing. Instead, coming from downstairs but softer – on carpet – was a soft shuffling. At once an image sprung into her mind of the old man, squat and unkempt, dragging his feet as he emerged from the drawing room, the hems of his trousers pulling along the floor.
She leaned over the balustrade. There was only the hallway, quiet as a held breath. She stretched out further, trying to see
the door that led into the drawing room. It looked as if it was shifting in some draft, but as she watched it swung wide. She jerked back. She couldn’t see but it
felt
as if someone was down there. Their anger was souring the air.
When the voice came, it was louder than she’d expected, more
present
.
‘Get
out
.’
And then she saw him, quite clearly, striding across the space below her. There was a bald patch on top of his head; the shoulders of his jacket were grimy. He vanished and the front door slammed.
‘Charlie?’
She looked around, but she couldn’t see him anywhere. There was only the silence. She drew in a deep breath.
An echo
, she thought;
it was only an echo
. Anyway, there was no reason to believe the man meant her harm. What did she think, that people came back from the dead – people who’d had their own families, children, wives, people they loved – with the sole intention of frightening the living? She closed her eyes and thought of her mother and father. Of course it didn’t have to be like that.
But then, her parents
hadn’t
come back. There was only this man with his rough words and gruff voice.
Get out
. She shook herself. Charlie would know what to do. He wouldn’t be afraid.
But the man had come to
her
; he had stood at the end of her bed.
He had locked her in the cupboard and left her to die.
No. It
wasn’t
that way, it couldn’t be. And at least it was some kind of link, a connection to a world she couldn’t glimpse or even imagine; the place her parents had gone and she could not follow. Except that now, she could follow
something
. She
pushed herself away from the balustrade and turned towards the stairs. It was only when she reached the top that she heard the footsteps behind her; only when she set her foot on the first step that she felt the hand, firm and warm, in the middle of her back.
Frank didn’t know how Sam Holroyd knew that Mire House was haunted, but Sam wasn’t saying and he couldn’t just ask. Sam didn’t brook being asked to explain himself. He’d said it was haunted and so it was and that was why they were all afraid, dutifully opening their eyes wide. There were four of them. Sam, at twelve, was a full year older than Frank, and there was Sam’s brother, Jeff, who was eight and Frank’s little brother, Mossy. Mossy’s real name was Michael, but he’d been rechristened Mossy for his short, thick hair.
A rolling stone gathers no moss
, their dad always said and Frank always wished it was true. He liked to be outside, going about the farm. If anyone was a rolling stone it was him, and yet still Mossy clung, most of all when he was least wanted.
‘There was a mad old bag who built it,’ Sam said. ‘People have seen ’er. If she grabs a hold of you, you’re dead. Anyone’ll tell you.’
Frank frowned. No one ever
had
told him, and it was
them
who lived nearest; their farm was just up the lane and his dad had never mentioned anything at all. Still, it wasn’t the sort of thing his dad talked about. Which of the sheep had caught on pregnant and which hadn’t, that was more the kind of thing his
dad discussed when they sat down for tea at the big old table, things that made his mum flick a tea-towel at him and tell him to eat his stew. Not ghosts or anything interesting.
Sam led the way down the lane, stomping especially hard as if to show he wasn’t afraid. His boots were caked in mud like Frank’s own, though they looked newer. Sam’s dad had the farm on the other side of the hill and it was bigger than theirs, a fact Sam never minded pointing out. Sam thought he was better than Frank as well as richer. His trousers were flared and he kept boasting how he was growing his hair to look like Marc Bolan’s; though Frank knew Sam’s mum would never let him, he never said anything.
They rounded the corner and broke into a run past the church – Frank was never sure why they did that, he hadn’t asked about that either – and skidded to a halt behind the garden wall of Mire House. Frank didn’t know why anyone would want to live in a place called Mire House, but it was grand enough: grey as the rain and twice as bleak, as his dad always put it. Now it wasn’t raining and white clouds were gathered behind it as if they’d arranged themselves as a backdrop. Frank wished he was anywhere else, walking in the fields maybe, alone with his thoughts, hearing only the wind whistling through the old church bells. If he left now, though, Sam would wait for him in the schoolyard on Monday, making
buk-buk-buk
noises and waggling his elbows.
Sam twisted around. His dark hair hung across his face and his eyes gleamed through it. ‘It’s your turn,’ he said, and then those magical words: ‘I dare you.’
Frank shrugged, trying to look unconcerned. ‘What d’you mean, my turn?’
‘It were me went in t’ bull pen.’
‘You put one leg in.’
‘Aye, well, it were more’n you.’
Frank let out a spurt of air. He bobbed up and looked at the house and saw more of those pale clouds, reflected in the front windows. It looked as if they were hiding secrets. It didn’t matter to him, really, if there was an old lady there, did it? It was far more likely that the old man who owned the place would get hold of him. He wasn’t made of smoke; he would have real hands, real knuckles. He might even have a belt or a cane.
‘You have to go and look in t’ window.’
‘Do not.’
Sam looked down on Frank through hair that wasn’t curly enough to be Marc Bolan’s. Suddenly Frank wasn’t even sure he liked his friend Sam at all. Sometimes he was mean. He’d found a bird’s nest once, a tight round thing that was lined with down and had four small blue eggs in it. It had been in the hedge at the top of the long field and he’d pulled it free and held it out and laughed. ‘You have to crush them,’ he’d said, holding one out with his index finger and thumb, demonstrating. ‘Like this.’ And he’d squeezed hard, just with that single finger, and he’d gone red in the face, which had made Frank want to smile. He didn’t smile though. He’d only watched, because that was what he was supposed to do, and at first he didn’t think anything was going to happen but then the egg shattered and a spurt of blood came out, and something else, not like the usual kind of egg at all; something that was damp and lumpy and gooey, and it fell to the grass and Sam had made a high-pitched noise in his throat and they’d run.
Frank was never sure what had happened to the nest. He supposed Sam must have thrown it down onto the grass, but when he went back he didn’t find it, though he did see the thing that had come out of the egg, the feathers clotted tight to its fragile bones, its eyes closed and scaly-looking, never having opened. Its claws looked far too large and they were the exact same colour as Frank’s hands. Its body had burst open and tiny black insects were crawling in and out of it. He had wondered if he was supposed to feel sick, but instead he felt tired and resigned and a little sad. He had kicked the dead thing under the hedge before walking away.
Now he knew he had to go and look in at the window of Mire House. It wasn’t even the thought of what Sam would do on Monday; it was because the idea was now out there, and it would stay out there until it was something he’d done and it was in the past.
He didn’t look at Sam again – he wouldn’t give him the satisfaction – but he felt Mossy’s hand on his back, two sharp pats, as he pushed himself up. He felt a momentary guilt that he’d ever wanted to get rid of his little brother.
He crept alongside the wall until he reached the gatepost. The fancy hexagonal pillar was strangely narrow and looked expensive; he was used to the big rugged slabs at the farm. Beyond it, weeds were pushing up through the driveway. Everything was still; there was not even the bark of a dog or the slinking shadow of a cat. It didn’t look as if anyone lived here. No wonder Sam said it was haunted. It wasn’t somewhere Frank ever came, even though they lived so close by. His dad always said,
Stay away from that there feller
, and he was happy to do so. It was more fun playing at the farm anyway, or sneaking
away to the river, though he was strictly forbidden to go there too.
Suddenly he wondered if the place really
was
haunted. Perhaps it would be worse, after all, if the hand that landed on your shoulder was made of mist.
He leaned in, looking around the garden. There wasn’t much cover. He took a deep breath just as he heard Sam’s whisper behind him: ‘
Chicken
…’
He remembered the best way to do something you didn’t want to do: something his dad had told him once. The words came to him now:
Do it like you mean it. Look as if you belong
.
He couldn’t remember why his dad had said that, or what he’d been tasked with – standing at the front of school assembly and doing a reading perhaps, or walking through the top field when the heifers were out – but he knew it was good advice. He stood up, as straight as he could, then he began to walk, quite steadily, up the drive. He hadn’t realised the gravel would be so loud under his feet. He kept going, hearing a gasp behind him – he knew that was Mossy – and he went to the nearest window. It was higher than he’d thought; he’d need to stand on tiptoe and pull himself up. That wasn’t good. It wasn’t what people did when they were somewhere they belonged, doing something they had every right to do.
He leaned against the stone and looked back down the drive, seeing a flash of movement: Sam, ducking behind the gatepost. He was watching, making sure Frank did what he was supposed to do. His heartbeat quickened. He didn’t want to move but knew he couldn’t stay where he was, trapped between the wall and Sam’s gaze. It
was
like being in assembly, with everyone looking at him and waiting for him to do something. He let out
a sigh. There was no other sound, nothing he could detect inside the house, no car in the lane; only the brief wailing call of a curlew coming from across the fields. He wished he was up there now, with only the wind in the grass for company.
He couldn’t crouch here any longer. He pulled his boots from where they’d sunk into a narrow strip of empty flowerbed, reached up and caught hold of the sill. The old paint was flaking; he could feel bits sticking to his skin. Then he looked in at the window.
He didn’t know what he expected to see. The room was dark and old-looking but grand too, with ceilings much higher than at the farm, where his dad had to stoop to pass under the doorways. The furniture barely filled it: a table, an old dresser, two high-backed chairs. One of them was facing the window and there was someone sitting in it.
Frank stared. The man was stocky with hunched shoulders and he wore black clothes. One hand held a pipe and smoke rose from it, forming a pale cloud in front of his face. It was the only thing that caught any light. Frank wondered why he didn’t light the lamp that stood behind the chair or sit closer to the window, but they were only passing thoughts; mostly he was frozen. He could see the man’s eyes, nothing but dark pits. He was facing the window but Frank had the feeling he wasn’t really seeing anything because his gaze was fixed on something far away – or on nothing at all. But he knew the exact moment when the man’s eyes focused and he looked at Frank.
Neither of them moved. Then the man whipped the pipe from his mouth and stood up. As he strode towards the door he threw the pipe onto a table and Frank saw ash spilling across the surface. He got a clear look at the man’s greying shirt and his
waistcoat, knowing all the time that he should be running, but he still hadn’t moved. He let himself drop to the ground and rubbed the flakes of paint from his hands. They wouldn’t come off and he felt a moment of panic. He heard the rattle of a door handle and he ran, scattering gravel, as behind him the front door opened.
He heard a voice, deep and gruff and angry: ‘Bloody little buggers.’
Frank let out a gasp and then he was laughing, the sound whipping from him and rising into the air. Mossy stood in the gateway, wide-eyed and staring, and that was funny too; he laughed louder and grabbed his brother’s arm as he passed, spinning him around and dragging him away. All he could see of Sam and Jeff were their backs, the flashes of the soles of their boots as they ran away up the lane. They were a good way ahead,
too
far ahead.
He glanced back; the lane was empty. The man was standing in the middle of the driveway, his hands clenched, his face scrunched up in fury. He had beetle-brows and his legs were bowed and his waistcoat was taut across his belly, as if it was a size too small.
Mossy pulled on his hand and he started to run again, already thinking of all the things he was going to say to Sam for the way he’d run away and left them.
If she grabs a hold of you, you’re dead
.
Frank couldn’t stop thinking of those words. He hadn’t been scared when Sam had told him about the ghost, not really, though he wasn’t quite sure why. He’d been scared of the old man, that was for certain. If he got caught trespassing he’d get a good hiding, and his dad would probably say he’d asked for it. But it was more than that. The memory of the old man’s eyes, suddenly shifting focus and fixing on his, had stayed with him. He rolled over on his bed. He should never have gone into the garden. It felt as if he’d set something in motion. He’d never really thought about the house before, even though it was so close; not even when he’d cut down the path at its side to get to the river. It was like a blank spot in his mind, something he’d never really considered. Now that he had, things had changed somehow, the thought was
there
, all at once beckoning and taunting him. He hadn’t liked the place, he knew that now. He hadn’t even liked stepping over the boundary between the grounds and the lane, falling under its shadow. It hadn’t felt like a good place; the person who lived there hadn’t looked like a good man. He wondered now whether its resident had cast a pall over the house or if it was the other way around.