The dark figure came closer. Callum wanted to flee, but could only stand transfixed with horror. What was the point in running upstairs and hiding his head under the duvet, with something like this waiting for him outside the cottage walls?
The figure had reached the patio. It walked slowly across the stone slabs and stood at the glass door directly in front of Callum, confronting him.
It was shaped like a human. But it had no face.
Its head was a mass of wet, gleaming veins and cartilage, muscle and teeth – a face without skin or form; lipless, lidless, without nose or ears. It was a flayed face, a face that had been peeled of skin and laid bare. The creature held Callum’s gaze with its unblinking eyes. Callum, frozen in terror, dared not look away.
They stood only a foot apart, staring at each other, nothing between them but the thin panes of the old glass door. The thing tilted its glistening head with what seemed to be an arrogant, mocking curiosity.
And then the hideous face changed.
Before Callum’s eyes, human skin grew over the naked web of veins. A human face knitted itself over the bloody flesh. The staring eyes grew lids and lashes, lips grew full and hid the grinning white teeth. Hair sprouted from the gleaming skull.
The change happened in seconds. But the moment Callum realised what he was looking at seemed to go on for hours.
On the other side of the glass door stood a boy of medium height and rugged build in his early teens. There was nothing eerie about this boy, apart from the fact that seconds earlier he had been a monster. Callum saw a face with broad cheekbones and tangled brown hair that was too long and standing up at the back. The face looked a little anxious around the eyes, with a crease of worry between the eyebrows. But it was just a face. A normal face.
It was his face.
Callum stood trembling in the dark, staring through the glass at a perfect replica of himself, even down to the expression of wide-eyed horror and revulsion. It was as if the creature was giving Callum a moment to realise what he was seeing.
Beware the dark reflection . . .
The creature that was not Callum moved suddenly, reaching for the handle of the door. Callum met the movement frantically, grabbing at the handle from the inside to make sure the door was locked – both he and Gran sometimes forgot. Matching hands met on the door handles on opposite sides of the glass and Callum braced himself for a desperate struggle.
At that moment a long, wild howl cut through the silence of the night, deep and powerful and rolling like thunder, and Callum recognised the voice of Doom the Churchyard Grim.
For the first time, the creature outside produced an expression that did not reflect Callum’s. Instead, it frowned. It narrowed its eyes, glanced over its shoulder quickly, and took its hand from the door. Its look was cold and angry. Then the thing met his eyes again and smiled.
The smile turned Callum’s blood to ice. It was a look of ugly promise and anticipation. But for now, it did nothing more. Slowly, never taking its eyes off Callum’s own, the monster backed away down the garden path. Callum noticed that now the thing had taken his face, it cast a shadow too. He shivered.
Finally, with a triumphant, taunting grin, the thing with Callum’s face vanished in the black tangle of trees at the bottom of the garden, as if it had never existed.
Chapter 15
Friday. It was Friday morning, thank God.
Callum trudged wearily through the corridors, hardly noticing the other kids that rushed past on either side of him, laughing and joking. His body might have been in Marlock High School, but his mind was still trapped in the moonlit cottage garden. His brain seemed stuck in a loop, replaying over and over again the terrifying moment when the monster had stolen his face. He had hardly slept, apart from an hour’s fitful dozing around dawn. The walk to school had been a waking nightmare – with imaginary monsters lurking behind every tree. But he had made it in one piece, and at least now all he had to do was get through one day of school and then he had the weekend to try to figure out what was happening to him – and how to stop it.
‘Bolton’s looking for you, Scott,’ Baz hissed in Callum’s ear on the way into English.
Typical. As if he didn’t have enough to worry about without having to avoid Ed Bolton – who, Callum imagined, had not spent the evening chasing ghosts and demons out of his garden. No, Ed had probably been sleeping soundly, dreaming of what he would do to Callum when he finally caught up with him. Because this morning, he was definitely on the prowl.
Callum barely avoided him between lessons, ducking into an empty classroom at the last minute as Ed marched past, his beady eyes scanning the crowd. In the middle of history, Melissa passed Callum a note which said, Don’t go to the canteen at break. Heard Ed making plans to come and find you there. Meet me in the library.
She dropped the message on Callum’s desk with such cool and quiet calm that Callum was sure no one could possibly have noticed. He was impressed by her yet again.
Then, after the lesson, Callum went to his locker and found a fearsome scrawl of tomato sauce still dripping down the door. Ed’s DIY decorating job was simple and ugly, but the message to Callum was crystal clear. It also brought back, harsh and sharp, the shocking bloody message of his dream, and Jacob’s warning.
‘Bolton’s stylish signature, right?’ said Hugh Mayes sympathetically as he arrived at his own locker. ‘Want a hand, Scott?’
‘Thanks, but you’re better off out of it,’ Callum said. He shook his scruffy hair out of his face and went to get a paper towel to wipe away the mess before one of the teachers saw it. Never in all his life had a school day dragged so slowly.
Just as there were more ghosts on the streets of Marlock lately, they also seemed to have multiplied in the halls of Marlock High School that morning. Callum saw one that must be hundreds of years older than the school itself; a man in a homemade peasant smock digging what looked like a grave outside the gym. Even from a distance, Callum could see that the man’s face was covered in sores, like a plague victim, and the cold wind that seemed to swirl about him carried the faint scent of rotten flesh.
Why were there so many of them? Why now? Callum smashed his fist against his locker in frustration, prompting a hail of giggles from a group of year seven girls on their way to lessons. Owen, the rugby team captain, slapped Callum lightly on the back. ‘Cool it, Scott. Nearly the weekend!’ Callum nodded and forced a smile. He didn’t want to draw attention to himself. He didn’t want Ed to notice him.
Callum made his way quietly to the school library. Melissa was waiting for him at one of the tables, books already stacked in front of her. She looked up as Callum came in and shrugged her shoulders sadly.
‘There’s a ton of stuff here about Cheshire during World War Two. But nothing about chime children. Or big black dog ghosts. You didn’t manage to bring your gran’s scrapbook, did you?’
‘No such luck,’ said Callum, shifting awkwardly. ‘I, er, couldn’t get to it.’
Truth be told, he had completely forgotten about the old book. Although it was less than a day since they had found the hidden library, the excitement of that discovery had been completely blotted out by the late-night prowler. He shivered at the memory of the moonlight glistening on its skinless body, and Melissa gave him a curious look, widening her big eyes in a wordless question.
Callum tried to excuse himself.
‘I’m totally spooked by all this.’
‘Yeah, I can see why. And I guess you’re not telling me the whole story, either.’
‘Have you tried the obvious?’ Callum asked, ignoring Melissa’s probing comment. ‘Have you tried looking up “chime child” on the Internet?’