same storm tonight.
If I don’t find Old Peter this time, I’ll have to try again tomorrow. Auntie might have put him in a locked room. I don’t know where she keeps the keys.
She must have gone to bed by now. Why would she stay up all on her own?
I’m very nervous, but I think I’ll have to do it now. My heart’s beating very fast. I hope it’s not going to be too cold.
I tuck Mimi up really close and creep to the door. I know which one of the floorboards creaks, so I step over it and carefully lift the latch. It’s stiff. I hold my breath, waiting for the loud click. The wind is gusting strong. I’m hoping it will muffle the sound. I pull the door to but daren’t close it right up after me in case the noise wakes Auntie Ida.
A little light comes up the stairs from the hall below. It throws the long shadows of the spindles up onto the wall. Auntie must have left the lamp on for Finn.
There’s no sound from her room. She must be fast asleep.
I creep along the passage. It becomes darker with every step. My shadow goes ahead of me, shifting and changing like a phantom, as if it has a life all its own. I try the latch of a door on my right. It opens quietly, and I make out the odd shapes of furniture covered in sheets. Their black shadows leap up onto the wall behind. On the floorboards, where the door swings open, there is thick undisturbed dust. Nobody has been in for a long time.
I go to the room on the left on the other side of Auntie Ida’s. The door is heavy. When I push it into the room, something moves — a thin curtain, hanging from the roof of a huge bed draped with spiders’ webs. There are no footprints or marks of dragging in the dust on the floor behind the door. It creaks slowly as I shut it, and the bottom scrapes a little on the wooden boards. I think I can hear some other noise in the house, but then the thunder crashes again.
At the end, before the passage turns a corner to the left, there is a small window looking out over the cobbled yard and the back garden. As I wait, I can hear my breathing over the noise of the rain spattering the black panes. Sweat prickles out over my chilled skin. My pyjamas stick to me, yet I am cold.
Just as I turn to look back to the head of the stairs, I see the lamplight from the hall below flickering, then dying out altogether. I blink for a moment in the darkness.
Then I hear the bell, its lonely distant note tolling against the wailing of the wind as it speeds across the trees and the reeds, the mud and the water between the church and Guerdon Hall. In my head, I see the church in the gloom of night, the bell rope rising and falling in the empty tower.
By the next flash of lightning, I make out three wooden steps opposite the window, leading up towards the front of the house.
I could easily go back. My bedroom door is still ajar, just at the top of the staircase. It would take only seconds to run to it and bury myself in the warm blankets.
Or I could find Old Peter.
I turn and place my foot on the first step.
A narrow passage goes off to the right. I feel my way along the wall. Moist plaster crumbles under my fingers. The air is filled with the strong smell of damp. I rattle a door to my left, but it will not open. Just after it, the passage turns again.
Suddenly the floor disappears beneath me. I stumble and fall with a dreadful clatter down some steps, banging my elbow on the wall.
For a few seconds, I remain on the floor, rubbing my sore knees, then get up gingerly and move on. The floorboards give slightly under my feet. Treading carefully, I feel for spongy holes or loose splinters of wood and, with my fingers, fumble for doors. This one is locked; this scrapes open only three inches before sticking; another is nailed shut with a wooden bar. Just before the passage ends, my right hand brushes against the latch of another door. The thumbpiece lowers. It opens.
A cold draught lifts the hairs on my arms. After the thick darkness of the
If I don’t find Old Peter this time, I’ll have to try again tomorrow. Auntie might have put him in a locked room. I don’t know where she keeps the keys.
She must have gone to bed by now. Why would she stay up all on her own?
I’m very nervous, but I think I’ll have to do it now. My heart’s beating very fast. I hope it’s not going to be too cold.
I tuck Mimi up really close and creep to the door. I know which one of the floorboards creaks, so I step over it and carefully lift the latch. It’s stiff. I hold my breath, waiting for the loud click. The wind is gusting strong. I’m hoping it will muffle the sound. I pull the door to but daren’t close it right up after me in case the noise wakes Auntie Ida.
A little light comes up the stairs from the hall below. It throws the long shadows of the spindles up onto the wall. Auntie must have left the lamp on for Finn.
There’s no sound from her room. She must be fast asleep.
I creep along the passage. It becomes darker with every step. My shadow goes ahead of me, shifting and changing like a phantom, as if it has a life all its own. I try the latch of a door on my right. It opens quietly, and I make out the odd shapes of furniture covered in sheets. Their black shadows leap up onto the wall behind. On the floorboards, where the door swings open, there is thick undisturbed dust. Nobody has been in for a long time.
I go to the room on the left on the other side of Auntie Ida’s. The door is heavy. When I push it into the room, something moves — a thin curtain, hanging from the roof of a huge bed draped with spiders’ webs. There are no footprints or marks of dragging in the dust on the floor behind the door. It creaks slowly as I shut it, and the bottom scrapes a little on the wooden boards. I think I can hear some other noise in the house, but then the thunder crashes again.
At the end, before the passage turns a corner to the left, there is a small window looking out over the cobbled yard and the back garden. As I wait, I can hear my breathing over the noise of the rain spattering the black panes. Sweat prickles out over my chilled skin. My pyjamas stick to me, yet I am cold.
Just as I turn to look back to the head of the stairs, I see the lamplight from the hall below flickering, then dying out altogether. I blink for a moment in the darkness.
Then I hear the bell, its lonely distant note tolling against the wailing of the wind as it speeds across the trees and the reeds, the mud and the water between the church and Guerdon Hall. In my head, I see the church in the gloom of night, the bell rope rising and falling in the empty tower.
By the next flash of lightning, I make out three wooden steps opposite the window, leading up towards the front of the house.
I could easily go back. My bedroom door is still ajar, just at the top of the staircase. It would take only seconds to run to it and bury myself in the warm blankets.
Or I could find Old Peter.
I turn and place my foot on the first step.
A narrow passage goes off to the right. I feel my way along the wall. Moist plaster crumbles under my fingers. The air is filled with the strong smell of damp. I rattle a door to my left, but it will not open. Just after it, the passage turns again.
Suddenly the floor disappears beneath me. I stumble and fall with a dreadful clatter down some steps, banging my elbow on the wall.
For a few seconds, I remain on the floor, rubbing my sore knees, then get up gingerly and move on. The floorboards give slightly under my feet. Treading carefully, I feel for spongy holes or loose splinters of wood and, with my fingers, fumble for doors. This one is locked; this scrapes open only three inches before sticking; another is nailed shut with a wooden bar. Just before the passage ends, my right hand brushes against the latch of another door. The thumbpiece lowers. It opens.
A cold draught lifts the hairs on my arms. After the thick darkness of the
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