The Pull of the Moon by Diane Janes

show for us. Trudie believed in this stuff and was scared by it. She was no longer in control.
    The red glow faded from the tree tops – the change took a matter of seconds, then the sun was gone and the wood stood greenish black in the dusk, just as usual. The moment was over. The
sound of Danny’s guitar drifted up to us from the lawn. He was playing ‘Moonshadow’.
    ‘What do you think the lyrics mean?’ asked Trudie – and I noted with relief that she seemed back to normal.
    ‘I dunno – they’re a bit weird, aren’t they?’
    ‘I think the moonshadow is your fate,’ she said. ‘Everyone is pursued by their moonshadow and it always catches up with you, in the end. You just have to accept whatever
comes.’
    I didn’t bother to reply. I had wasted too many school lunch breaks dissecting lyrics to divine their inner meanings.
    When we got back to the garden, Danny and Simon were talking about the time when they had seen Ralph McTell at Birmingham Town Hall, Danny punctuating their remarks with occasional chords on his
guitar. Everything seemed calm and ordinary again, except for Danny every so often glancing at his watch. By eleven-thirty we began to run out of conversation. The air had become oppressive, but I
decided a storm couldn’t be imminent because the stars were still visible. Danny had been checking his watch at increasingly frequent intervals, until I begged him to desist as it was getting
on my nerves.
    ‘Why don’t we go up now and get it over with?’ he suggested, feigning a disinterested tone. ‘Then we can all go to bed. I don’t know about anyone else, but
I’m cream-crackered.’
    ‘Might as well,’ agreed Simon. ‘I don’t suppose your ghosts can tell the time anyway – do you reckon they’re on British Summer Time or not?’
    Trudie didn’t rise to the bait. ‘Fine,’ she said. ‘If everyone’s ready, let’s go up.’
    As we rose to our feet, a breeze like a breath of hot air shimmered across the garden. Suddenly I didn’t want to go into the house at all. It loomed over us, a dark hulk of a place, full
of whispers and secrets – when we got inside and Simon switched on the kitchen lights, the glare seemed intense. We stood for a moment, blinking and uncertain, like burglars caught in the
act.
    Trudie led the way upstairs. She had apparently regained her confidence, automatically assuming leadership of the project. Simon’s foot caught against the corner of a wooden chest which
stood on the landing at the top of the stairs: the resultant bang echoed around the stairwell.
    ‘Bloody hell, man,’ said Danny. ‘Talk about waking the dead. There’s no need to give them advance notice.’
    He spoke in obvious jest, but there was no trace of irony in Trudie’s reply. ‘It’s all right. She already knows we’re coming. She’s pleased. It’s what she
wants.’
    We had become accustomed to referring to Murdered Agnes in this casual fashion, but Trudie’s statement chilled me; it conjured up a mental image of Murdered Agnes calmly awaiting us in the
chosen room. When Trudie opened the door, I was almost surprised to find everything just as we had left it. The air was heady with incense and the candles were still burning. It came to me that
they ought not to have been. They should have burnt out long ago. I reminded myself that Trudie had slipped away several times during the evening, presumably to replenish them.
    In accordance with the instructions Trudie had issued earlier, we sat cross-legged in a circle on the floor, holding hands. In best dinner-party fashion, we arranged ourselves boy, girl, boy,
girl, maintaining the silence which Trudie had emphasized was essential. ‘Once the circle is made, it mustn’t be broken,’ she’d warned us, so I had my plan of action clear
– keep quiet and hold hands – which suited me just fine.
    Once we were settled into position, a stillness fell upon the room. The candle flames had been disturbed by our