outa 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 hiswaistcoat, 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.
CHAPTER TWO
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
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 hiswaistcoat, 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.
CHAPTER TWO
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
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