Far away, a long and mournful howl rang out, swelling to a deep, throaty rumble, then fading to a low moan.
Callum froze. What the hell was that? It had to be a dog. The ghosts never made any noise at all, and this sound carried over the dark treetops like the deep chime of a bell. He shook his head and set off again, quickening his pace. Gran’s cottage was only a mile away. Fifteen minutes. Less, at the speed he was walking. But first he had to get past the overgrown lane that led to Nether Marlock church.
It was always the worst part of his journey. The lane was like a magnet for ghosts. Whenever Callum passed, they were there, drifting eerily through the darkness – long-dead parishioners making their way to prayers, just as they had done a hundred years ago, or four hundred, or more. One figure in a long black cloak always stood just beside the turning, as if waiting for someone. Callum had never been able to tell whether it was a man or a woman, because no matter where he stood, the sinister figure always had its back to him.
The bloodcurdling howl rang out again, closer this time.
Callum stared wildly through the trees, but he couldn’t work out which direction the sound was coming from. It seemed to curl all around him, like the thick darkness that was pressing down on him like a blanket. As the noise broke off, he doubled his pace. He walked head down, fast, nearly jogging. It wasn’t a good idea to run from a wild animal, right? Whatever was making a noise like that, Callum didn’t want to tempt it to chase him.
Now, at last, he was approaching Church Lane. Caught between a rock and a hard place. Between a known and an unknown terror. Taking a deep breath, Callum looked up.
The lane was empty.
Callum’s footsteps faltered. He’d never, ever passed this way, even in daylight, without seeing some sign of the dead. The sight of the ghosts had always been unsettling, but their strange and sudden absence was worse. There was no reason for it, no explanation. Unless . . .
Unless the ghosts had been scared off by something.
Callum swallowed, his throat dry. He didn’t want to think about what that something might be.
Ahead, through the trees, he could just see a pinprick of light. Home. Callum and his grandmother lived in the only inhabited cottage in a row of derelict alms houses, all that was left of the village of Nether Marlock. Everything else – the church, the old mill and all the other cottages – had been abandoned long ago.
Callum fixed his eyes on the warm, welcoming light beckoning from the house.
‘Come on, not far now,’ he encouraged himself.
As if in answer, a chilly wind sprang up around his feet, clutching at his legs with icy fingers. The wood was eerily quiet now. Nothing disturbed the perfect silence, other than the crunch of his own feet. And yet Callum could feel footsteps behind him. Soft, padding footsteps coming closer, closer . . .
He whirled round.
For an instant, he thought he saw something – a red gleam in the darkness. But whatever it was winked out so quickly, Callum couldn’t be sure it had really been there at all.
Every cell of his being screamed at him to run, but his body seemed unable to obey. Slowly, Callum backed away, his eyes wide in the darkness. He could feel the prickle as the hairs on the nape of his neck stood up. His Luck had been right – there was something there in the shadows.
Moving painstakingly slowly, Callum backed down the road. He was drenched with sweat, as if he had run a marathon rather than walked a couple of miles, but he felt freezing. He almost screamed when he felt his legs bump into something, before he realised that it was just the low brick wall that ran around the cottage garden. He’d made it. Almost.
Keeping his eyes fixed ahead of him, Callum scrambled backwards over the wall and up the garden path. The light over the small porch was on, shining like a beacon. He yanked the latch upwards but – oh, hell – the door was locked.
Callum tore off his backpack and scrabbled in the outer pocket for his key. His fingers felt numb. How did it get so cold? Without taking his eyes off the road, he slid the heavy, old-fashioned key into the lock, and turned it sharply.
The lock jammed.
It often did – the mechanism was old and stiff. It didn’t normally matter, but tonight Callum knew that every moment he was outside the cottage, he was vulnerable. Cursing under his breath, he turned his back on the road for a split second to jiggle the key in the lock. With a click, he heard it turn. As he pushed the door open, he glanced back over his shoulder – and his breath caught in his chest.
Just beyond the rails of the old picket gate, deep black against the darkness of the road, stood an indistinct animal shape. Callum couldn’t tell exactly what it was, but it was huge.
It wasn’t just the size of the creature that took his breath away, though, nor the red glow of its eyes floating in the darkness. It was the waves of icy air that seemed to flow from it, so cold they threatened to stop his heart. Callum didn’t need a lifetime’s experience of seeing ghosts to know that the creature was not of this world.
For a long moment, he stared at the phantom. What was it? And why was it following him? Then Gran’s voice called to him through the narrow gap in the door.
‘Callum? Is that you?’
For an instant, Callum turned to glance inside. When he turned back, the black shape at the gate had gone.
Chapter 2
Walking inside was like waking from a nightmare. Warm and familiar, Gran’s front room felt like the safest place on earth. A coal fire burned in the old-fashioned iron grate, and a bunch of brightly coloured rowan berries and hazel leaves had been arranged in a jar on the drop-leaf table at the bottom of the stairs. Piles of books covered every other available surface. A creaky radio-cassette player was bouncing quietly to a big-band beat, the worn tape hissing faintly in the background. Normally Callum hated Gran’s taste in music – it was at least half a century behind the times, along with pretty much everything else she liked – but tonight he was actually pleased to hear the familiar tootle of trumpets. He leaned back against the door, fighting for breath as sweat trickled down his face.
‘Callum!’ Gran gasped, looking up at him. Below her close-cropped grey hair, her clear blue eyes were tight with concern. She was curled in her favourite spot, a cracked leather armchair that fitted exactly into the space under the narrow stairs. In daylight, from the chair, you could see straight up the road into the heart of Marlock Wood. She often set up her easel there, splashing out watercolour paintings of the same scene in every possible weather and season. And keeping a sharp eye on the few people who came and went along the lonely road.
Callum fought to still his chattering teeth. ‘Hi, Gran.’
‘Callum, sit down!’ Gran uncurled herself from her chair and was at his side in a second. ‘You’re as white as a sheet! What’s wrong? Not that lad from school bothering you again?’
Callum shrugged off her concerned hands as she tried to take his jacket from him. ‘I’m not afraid of him!’ he replied quickly.
Gran steered him to the other armchair and made him sit. He hadn’t even taken off his boots.
‘Tell me what happened,’ she ordered in a voice of iron. She didn’t use that tone very often.
‘I don’t like that road at night,’ Callum said.
‘Well, at least you’re safe from traffic,’ said Gran. She looked at him sharply, like a ferret sniffing out a rabbit. ‘Did something frighten you?’
Callum shook his head. ‘A dog followed me, that’s all. It’s gone now. I don’t know where it came from.’
Gran gave a knowing nod. ‘Warren’s farm, maybe, on the other side of the wood. His dogs are always getting through the fence.’
‘Yeah, you’re probably right.’