Dr MacKenzie walked around the table towards him.
‘No thanks, Dr MacKenzie,’ Callum said. ‘I’ll do it wrong.’
‘Nonsense. There’s nothing to it. When you’ve seen how the experiment works, we’ll run through the formula again.’
‘Have a go, Scott, show Roper the right way to do it,’ said Hugh Mayes.
Callum sighed inwardly. He’d have to do it now. He reached for the flaming pipe, his fingertips feeling numb. He shook his hand, trying to wake them up, but the tingling was getting worse. Tingling . . .
MOVE!
Without stopping to question the urge, Callum leaped sideways, almost falling into the lap of the girl in the next seat. At the same instant, Dr MacKenzie caught her foot on a large bookbag carelessly left jutting out from under the table. Grabbing at the ledge of the worktop to catch her balance, the flame-tipped hosepipe flew from her hand. Spewing its jet of burning gas, the pipe landed in the chair where Callum had been sitting less than a second earlier. Before Dr MacKenzie could straighten herself up and turn off the gas tap, the blue flame had burnt a sizeable hole into the back of Callum’s chair.
If he had still been sitting there, the flame would have bored the same hole straight through his chest.
Chaos erupted in the classroom. Several of the girls screamed.
‘Callum! Are you OK?’ Dr MacKenzie gasped. ‘My God, how did you ever get out of the way in time?’
For a moment Callum was speechless. Finally he managed to murmur numbly, ‘I . . . I saw you lose your balance. I just moved.’
‘Thank goodness! I’m so sorry. Katie, how many times have I told you not to bring that bag into my classroom . . .’
The teacher’s voice faded away as Callum tuned out her angry words. His mind was already miles away. Because he knew full well that he hadn’t seen her lose her balance. He’d been moving before she had tripped, without any idea why he was doing it.
His Luck had saved him again.
*
What’s happening to me?
The visions, his tingling fingertips, the strange hauntings – and if all this weren’t enough, there was Ed to deal with too. After the final bell went, Callum was out of the school building ahead of almost everybody, but not Ed. He was already heading down the high street with Baz and Craig, no doubt planning to lie in wait for Callum again.
Callum stood still and watched them go; there was no point in hurrying now. Better to take the scenic route, down Back Lane and along the footpath through the fields behind Warren’s farm. Ed and his foot-soldiers would never think of going all the way out there.
The other advantage of the long walk was that the last stretch along the lower edge of Marlock Wood avoided the church. He still had to pass the shell of the old mill, with its two spectral mutilated young apprentices who’d had the bad luck to fall under the waterwheel, but there weren’t as many ghosts as on the road.
It was dusk when Callum finally trudged along the row of ruined alms cottages, their broken windows dark and their empty rooms open to the sky. For a moment, he was surprised to see that there was no light beckoning from the window of Gran’s cottage. Then he remembered – it was Thursday, the evening she taught a watercolour class in the church hall up in the town. He was supposed to get tea ready for them both. Cheese toasties again, probably.
As he reached down to unhook the gate, Callum realised that this was the first time in three days that he’d actually bothered to go through the gate rather than jumping over the wall in blind terror. Letting out a short, mirthless laugh, Callum walked up the garden path towards the front door, reaching for his key.
And stopped.
Something had happened to the door. Dark splatters stained its green paint. They looked almost wet, but it hadn’t been raining. Besides, the shapes reminded him of something . . .
As Callum took a step back for a clearer view, the shapes came into focus and his stomach plummeted into his trainers.
It was a message written in blood.
There was just enough light in the sky for him to make out the glistening letters, shining black against the faded green paint. Although some of the writing had run, the letters dripping dark, clotting tails down the door, the ghastly message was still clear enough to read.
BEWARE THE DARK REFLECTION
Callum stared at the words. He had no doubt the message was for him – and written by the same person as the writing found beside the murdered boy in London. Whoever they were, they had found him.
Fear rising, Callum fumbled in his pocket for the key. His fingers were trembling. No, not trembling – tingling . . .
Callum whirled round.
Standing at the gate, less than a dozen paces away, were the ghostly white-faced boy and his demonic black dog.
The Grim’s teeth flashed in its pitch-black muzzle. Callum took one terrified step backwards down the garden path, then another, waiting for the creature to pounce.
But the strange dog remained still, a low growl rumbling in its throat. Instead, its pale master began to walk slowly towards Callum, his right hand held out as if to touch him, and in the last of the fading daylight, Callum saw that the boy’s thin, white fingers were dripping with glistening blood.
Chapter 9
His hand clutched tightly around the cold metal key in his pocket, Callum took another slow step backwards.
Don’t run! Don’t run!
Another step. Callum swallowed, preparing himself. His only chance was to get into the cottage. To put ten centimetres of solid door between him and this terror. The dead boy was at the open gate, still walking steadily towards him, his depthless eyes fixed on Callum. Beware the dark reflection . . .
Was that what the message was warning against – the dark reflection of this boy’s eyes? Another step. How many more before he reached the cottage? The boy was on the path now, the huge dog prowling at his heel. Callum didn’t imagine that the door would hold the Grim for long.
They were too close. He wasn’t going to make it . . .
Callum felt his heel bump against the doorstep. Moving like lightning, he half-twisted around, slamming his body against the door as he twisted the key in the lock.
For once, the latch turned first time.
The door flew open under the force of Callum’s impact. Caught off balance, he fell over the threshold and tumbled into the dark sitting room. He scrambled backwards, trying to kick the door shut, but the hem of his anorak, ragged where he’d torn it on the rose bush the previous night, caught beneath the door and jammed it open.
Nearly crying with terror and frustration, Callum tried to tear his coat loose. With sheer brute force he ripped it out from under the door. He was free now, but with the torn part of his anorak bunched up against the carpet, the door still wouldn’t shut.
The figure of the pale boy seemed to fill the doorway. One more step and he’d be in the house, and Callum would be alone in the darkness with him and the black dog . . .
‘STOP!’ Callum yelled desperately, his voice cracking with fear. ‘STAY OUT!’
The spectral boy flinched as if Callum had struck him. He actually took a step backwards and teetered on the edge of the doorstep.
For half a second, Callum was too surprised to move. Then, pulling himself up on to his knees on the worn carpet, he cried out wildly, ‘GET AWAY! STAY OUT OF THIS HOUSE! YOU CAN’T COME IN!’
The phantom stumbled. He was off the doorstep now. He lifted one foot to try to bring it forwards, but it was as if an unseen hand was preventing it. His eyes flashed with anger. Beside him, the black dog gave a chilling growl of frustration.
Callum took a deep breath and tried to get a grip.