The Secret of Crickley Hall

•

It was long past midnight when Loren stirred. Someone was tugging at the duvet.

'Cally… stop it…' she muttered in her sleep.

But the tugging continued. Through a half-conscious haze she realized that someone was pulling the duvet off her. Still not quite awake, she tried to draw the bedcover back over her shoulder, but it resisted. Loren suddenly became aware of being very cold, and this rapidly brought her to her senses.

The duvet resumed its slide off her body, pausing and moving in stages. Loren felt a prickling at the back of her neck, as if the cold were causing goosebumps. The hair on her head stiffened.

She was awake, eyes open wide. The room was dark save for the muted light coming through the doorway. She could just make out Cally's small shape in the bed opposite.

Loren became aware of an odd smell. It was like… it was like detergent, something Mummy might use cleaning the house. Or was it just strong soap? If it was, it was like no other soap she'd smelled before. It was so strong…

Loren tried to lift her head from the pillow and found she couldn't. It was as if she were paralysed. Paralysed with fear.

For there was something at the end of the bed. She could sense its presence.

In the periphery of her vision she could make out a shape at the foot of the bed. A hunched shape. The dark shape of a body leaning over her feet. Pulling at the duvet.

Loren managed to open her mouth to scream, but no sound came. It was as if her voice were paralysed too. She attempted to rise, but still couldn't move: fright held her pinned to the bed.

Lying there on her side, she felt the cold on her bare arm, then down her side, penetrating the sleeveless cotton nightie she wore. Her flesh crept.

The duvet slithered over her hip, down her bent legs, left leg over the right; the hem of her nightdress had risen as she slept, and now her thigh and calf were stippled with goosebumps. She fought against the fear that bound her there, desperately tried to raise her head—she needed to see what lurked at the end of the bed. Her head lifted, came off the pillow, just a little, only a bare inch; and then, Loren fighting all the way, it gained two inches, three, more. And now she endeavoured to twist her neck so that she could confront her tormentor.

Who could it be there pulling, dragging, her bedcover? Not Cally—she was too small, so much smaller than the figure hunched over her. Besides, Cally was opposite her, fast asleep, unaware of what was happening. And not Mummy and Daddy—they wouldn't do such a thing, they wouldn't frighten her so! Who then? That smell, that horrible smell of nasty soap.

Now her head moved, but her shoulders were stuck to the bed as if a heavy weight pressed them there. Her face came round to the dim light.

And she saw the figure rising from its bent position, standing erect. It was silhouetted by the light behind so that she could see no features, nothing she could recognize. And it was raising an arm into the air, over its head. And the arm was holding something long and thin whose tip nearly touched the ceiling. It seemed to vibrate at its zenith.

Loren heard the swish as it came down, but she didn't hear the thwack! as it lashed her naked thigh.

The blinding, scorching pain released her voice because it overrode all else—all fear, all confusion, all thoughts of fright.

Loren screamed and the sound ripped through the night.

Again the stick came down and again she was jolted by excruciating pain. Now she did not even hear the swish as it swept through the air.

She screamed each time the cruel stick, with its splayed end, cut into the flesh of her legs, marking them, the agony streaking through her whole body.

And then, it stopped. Although the terrible pain lingered. And when, through tear-soaked eyes, through her hysteria, she looked towards the light again, the figure had gone and Cally, awakened by her sister's tortured cries, had started screaming too.

34: SCREAMS

Gabe was roused from his slumber as soon as the first scream came from his daughters' room. Eve, who had got into the bad habit of sometimes taking a Zopiclone to help her sleep at night, was slower to wake. She grabbed Gabe's arm as he scrambled to get out of bed.

'What is it?' she asked as the last dregs of sleep were banished by alarm.

'Loren,' he said urgently, throwing back the bedclothes. 'Something's wrong.' In bare feet he rushed to the bedroom door, Loren's agonized screams almost causing his limbs to lock and freeze. He was along the landing and tearing into Loren and Cally's room before Eve had even left their bed.

Although consumed by fear for his daughter, he could not help but register the deep iciness of the room—it was like plunging into a mountain lake or stepping inside a freezer storage unit—and it almost stopped him dead. In sheer reaction, he flicked on the light switch by the side of the door and saw Loren lying uncovered on her bed in a foetal position, her shoulders curled inwards, her arms round her legs. As she screamed, billows of breath vapour were expelled from her open mouth.

Cally was sitting up in bed, rubbing her eyes as if just awakened, and her cries were not as forceful, nor as shrill, as her sister's.

Before going to Loren, Gabe quickly checked out the bedroom, looking for an intruder. It took but a second to see there was none. He ran to his daughter, Eve coming through the door behind him, and went down on one knee beside the bed.

Loren's eyes were closed and her pale face was drenched in tears. He reached out a hand to her shoulder and she flinched away, her eyes snapping open, a wild hysteria in her glare.

'Loren, it's me, Daddy. What's wrong, what happened?' He pulled her close and comforted her as Eve moved round to the other side of the narrow bed to reach her.

'He-he-hit-me!' Loren cried through chest-heaving sobs. Gabe did his best to calm her.

'Easy, Loren, easy now,' he soothed. 'You've had a bad dream.'

'N-no, Daddy. He hit me. He hit me.'

Eve moved nearer and when Loren felt her presence, she turned and buried her face into her mother's chest.

'There's no one here, Loren,' Eve told her gently. 'There's no one who could have hurt you.'

Gabe grabbed Cally from her bed and held her in the crook of one arm. She stopped screeching immediately, intuitively aware that it was her sister who needed attention.

'What is it, baby?' Eve was saying quietly to Loren. 'What frightened you? Did you see something?'

Loren's panted sobs went on.

'It must've been a nightmare,' said Gabe, his voice equally quiet. 'There's nothing in the room.' Just to make sure, he ducked his head under both beds. 'And nothing could've got past me in the hallway.'

Loren gave a great shudder as if the frigid air had got into her flesh. But Gabe felt it was no longer as cold as a moment before. The room was still chilled, as was the rest of the house, but when he breathed out there was no misty vapour.

Eve hugged Loren tight against her and began a soft rocking motion. 'It's okay, Loren. You're safe now. Mummy and Daddy are here. Tell us what you dreamt.'

Loren suddenly jerked away from her mother, although she stayed in Eve's comforting arms. 'It wasn't a dream, Mummy,' she implored, wanting to be believed. 'Someone hit me. Hard. With a stick.'

She buried her head back against her mother again, and Gabe and Eve's eyes met, both thinking the same thing.

It couldn't be, thought Gabe. That would be crazy. He gave Eve a little shake of his head. He'd left the bamboo cane he had found earlier that day locked up in a downstairs cupboard, along with the Punishment Book.

Eve stroked Loren's hair. 'But there's no one else here, baby. Nobody could have hit you.'

Loren yanked herself away again, her tears held for a moment. She twisted round to Gabe as if for support. 'He hit me across the legs, Daddy. He hit me really hard.'

'Who did, honey?' he asked. 'Who hurt you?'

'The man. He was standing at the end of the bed. He was holding a stick and he hit me with it, on my legs. I think he made me bleed!'

As one, Gabe and Eve looked down at Loren's bare legs. There wasn't a mark on them.

Loren followed their gaze and searched her own skin for the wounds the long stick should have inflicted. 'But he hit me, he did hit me! It was as if the stick was scalding hot and the pain spread out, like he was hitting me with a lot of sticks.'

Both Gabe and Eve remembered the cane they had examined that afternoon was split several times at one end so that it would act as a flail when struck against anything.

It was Eve who asked, 'Does it hurt you now, Loren?'

The twelve-year-old stifled her sobs once more as she stared at her own body. Slowly she turned to her mother, and then to Gabe.

'No,' she said. 'It doesn't hurt at all any more. I'm not even sore.'

She broke down and Eve took her back into her arms.

35: WEDNESDAY

They left the house just before 7.30 a.m. the next morning, Loren protesting, insisting she was all right now, she didn't need to see a doctor. The sun was shining, but leaves were heavy with raindrops that had fallen in the night. The family crossed the bridge and climbed into the Range Rover.

Gabe had phoned one of his new work colleagues who lived in the area, apologizing for the early-morning call before asking him the whereabouts and the phone number of the closest GP's surgery or clinic. Then Gabe rang the latter, which was a health centre, but only got a taped message advising that the centre opened at 8 a.m.; it also gave the number of an emergency doctor if required.

The night before, Gabe had wanted to rush Loren to the A and E department of the nearest hospital, but she had pleaded with him, she was okay, she didn't want doctors and nurses poking her and asking questions. Surprisingly, Eve had agreed with her daughter. There were no marks or weals on Loren's body, no signs at all that she had been beaten with a stick. Wait 'til morning, she had suggested, see how Loren felt then. Their daughter certainly wasn't suffering any pain now.

Gabe had argued that there had to be something wrong. Loren's screams were not just because she was frightened, but because she was being hurt too. Even if it was only a terrible nightmare, there had to be something not right because dreams couldn't cause genuine pain. If she'd imagined the whole thing, that also meant something was wrong with her. Dreamt or imagined, it had been real to Loren. She needed to be medically examined in case there really was something physically wrong inside her body, even if it was only severe night cramps.

In the end, they had agreed on a compromise: Loren would see a doctor first thing in the morning. They had left for the health centre early so that they would arrive before the first scheduled patients, giving Loren a better chance to be seen right away.

Gabe was angry and frustrated, a father who had no answers for his distraught daughter. Loren maintained that there had been a man in the bedroom, a man holding a stick. Like the stick—the cane—he had found hidden away behind the false wall in the closet? he wondered. She hadn't been able to describe the intruder because he was in shadow, the light coming from behind. It must have been imagined! Or dreamt! It was this goddamn house. There was something peculiar going on inside Crickley Hall, something that caused hallucinations. Some houses had personalities, didn't they? That's what some people believed and maybe they were right. A house that fucked with the mind. Eve had been affected by it, become a little weird, wanting to stay whereas before she couldn't wait to get out of there. Now Loren had been touched by it. And Cally. Could they have been sunspots he'd seen floating round her yesterday? Or something else, something unreal?

They had to leave, find a different place to rent. It would take a day or two to arrange—no, it would take at least a week, probably more—to organize. But he'd get on with it. They were moving out.

Gabe switched on ignition, shifted into gear, and three-point-turned the Range Rover so that it was pointing uphill. They headed for Merrybridge.

36: INTRUDERS

The sister and brother with the impossibly ambitious names tramped along the road. Although the sun shone brightly enough, the air was damp and their anoraks, one blue, the other red, were zipped up to their chins.

A green van passed them heading uphill, as were they, the driver giving a short blast of the horn as he went by. Neither the girl nor the boy bothered to wave back.

'You sure?' Seraphina asked of Quentin.

Her swollen nose was a different colour to the rest of her podgy face: red and sore-looking, its yellowish bridge merging with the purple-yellow at the inner corners of her deepset eyes.

Quentin, tall and stocky, looked back at her—his sister had a hard job keeping up with him on the steep road. 'Course I'm sure. I saw them driving off when I was doing my egg round.'

His hardworking mother, besides cleaning other people's homes for a living, kept a chicken hutch in their backyard. It was her son's job to collect eggs in the morning before school (from which he was temporarily suspended) and deliver them to various customers in the area. Fresh eggs for breakfast brought a good price and Trisha Blaney needed the extra money. Cleaning did not pay particularly well, despite all the hours she put in with her friend and neighbour Megan, and since Trisha's husband Roy had walked out on her and the kids six years ago, any money she did earn was already spent. Not that her estranged husband had ever done much to bring home the bread when he was around. Idle and dim-witted he was—their son Quentin was of the same mould, had to be pushed into doing anything—and if truth be told, she had been glad to see the back of him.

Seraphina, not being one for climbing, nor even for walking far, puffed and wheezed as she straggled behind.

'Yeah, but you sure they won't come back?' she said to her brother.

Quentin slowed his pace to let her catch up. He was used to the hill road because of his morning rounds. 'Won't take a minute to leave it on the doorstep.' He held up the plastic bin-liner he carried, something heavy bulging at the bottom of it, and waggled it in the air. 'Be a nice surprise for 'em.' Noice sorproise for 'em.

Seraphina drew level with him. 'No,' she said breathlessly. 'I don't wanta leave this one outside like the pigeon. This present is going inside the house. Right into her bed.'

'Don't be daft, you can't do that. What if they catch us?'

'Look, I got the key from Mum's drawer so we could do it. I'm not gonna waste the chance.'

'She'll go demented if she finds out.'

'Mum only cleans the place once a month. She don't need the key for a coupla weeks yet. She won't notice it's gone.'

'I dunno, Seph. It's dodgy.'

'Don't be such a minger. We'll be in and out, no problem.'

'You don't know where her bedroom is.'

'We'll easy find it. She'll have Barbie Dolls and things, little girly stuff.'

'You only wanta get your own back, just 'cause she punched your lights out.'

'Shut up, Quenty. You weren't there, you don't know what happened. I wasn't looking and I fell over.'

'She decked you, you mean. Anyway, it got you a few days off school.'

'I weren't going in and letting everybody see what she done.'

'You're lucky Mum's so soft on you. She'da packed me off to school all right if I come home with a busted snout'

'It ain't busted.'

'Good as.'

'No it's not. It's just swelled up a bit.'

'And red. Like one of them baboon's bottoms.'

'Shut up or I'll make you go into the house on your own.'

Quentin stayed silent. His younger sister could bully him because she was a lot smarter. And she knew things about him that she could tell. Mum wouldn't like him stealing. Or smoking. Or throwing stones through windows when no one else was around. A lot of the time, Sephy put him up to it—she was always winding him up—but Mum wouldn't believe that Sephy could be cruel; much better to do what she said and keep her sweet.

'Let me have another look at it,' his sister called out as she lagged behind again.

'What for?'

''Cause I like looking at it. She won't, though. She'll throw a hissy fit. She'll go to bed tonight, all nice and innocent like, and she'll pull back the blankets and she'll see a bloody great rat lying there. Wish I could be around to see it!'

Seraphina gave a little snigger, an unpleasant sound. Her brother joined in and ran a hand through his spiky hair.

'Why don't you shove it right down in the bed so she don't see it at first? She'd jump in, put her feet down and feel something furry and sticky.'

The stickiness would be the rat's blood. He had cornered it in the chicken hutch, where it was after the feed, and Quentin had thrown the loose brick at it, the brick that helped keep the wire door shut. It had stunned the rat, stopped it getting away, and he had bashed it until it squealed like a baby, and then was dead.

He held the top of the bin-liner for his sister, and she peered in. Like Quentin, she also enjoyed seeing the blood.

'It stinks!' she complained.

'Yeah, it's a rat,' said Quentin drily.

Seraphina raised her head and smirked. 'Fancy-knickers is gonna wet herself.'

Her brother smirked back.

They resumed walking, and though the exercise puffed her out, Seraphina could not stop smiling.

Soon they reached the bridge leading across the river to their destination.

Crickley Hall.

•

Seraphina didn't like the way the water tumbled over itself to reach the bay. It frothed with impatience.

At least the rain had stopped. Mum said a lot of local folk were anxious about the rainfall lately. It might bring another flood like the big one sixty-odd years ago, some said. The big flood of '43 was a major part of Hollow Bay history and there were even a few in the village who remembered it first-hand. If the high moors could not soak up all the extra rain, then a tragedy might well happen again. That's what some predicted, but Mum had told her it would never be like last time. Higher bridges had been built to prevent blockages, and the river had been widened where it entered the bay, so don't you worry, my pet, the village could never be flooded like before. That's what Mum told her, and Seraphina believed her. Still, she was glad it had stopped raining today.

She stared across the river at the horrible old building. Who would want to live in a house like that? She felt spooked just looking at it. So did Quentin.

'Let's just leave the rat on the doorstep. Like the bird,' he whined.

Seraphina scowled at him. 'I already told you, it's going in her bed.'

'I don't like this place. It gives me the creeps. What if we put it in the kitchen? That wouldn't take a sec, and we wouldn't have to go right inside.'

'No! Stop being such a wuss.'

In truth, Seraphina was a lot more nervous now they were confronted by the house itself, but she wouldn't let her dim brother know it. She was always the leader, and Quentin was always the follower. She couldn't wimp out. Besides, she wanted her revenge.

She jiggled the key in her anorak pocket and felt a thrill at its touch.

'Come on, Quenty,' she said abruptly, hyped up to do the deed.

Quentin took one last, long look up the road before following his sister. He slipped on a plank's greasy surface, but caught himself.

They crossed the wet lawn together, the tall boy close behind the heavy girl, passing by the motionless swing on the way, its wooden seat dark, sodden with rainwater. Just to be sure there was no one at home, Seraphina rang the doorbell, then used the huge gothic door knocker itself, making an attention-grabbing din. If someone did come to the door, she would say her mum had sent her to ask if they wanted any eggs delivered in the mornings. But nobody came and Seraphina grinned at Quentin, a hissed 'Yes!' steaming from the thin-lipped mouth.

•

They entered through the kitchen door, using their mother's key. Trisha Blaney had a key because Crickley Hall had been unoccupied a long time now and it was more convenient for the estate manager, who had no desire to visit the property every month just to let the cleaners in.

Seraphina carefully closed the door behind them and they both crept across the kitchen on tiptoe, even though they were certain the big old house was empty. They paused at the kitchen's inner door, which was shut. They glanced at each other for reassurance before Seraphina quietly turned the doorknob.

They sneaked through and found themselves on the threshold of the grand hall. Seraphina was not surprised by its vastness, because her mother had described it to her once.

'Hello?' she called out cautiously, ready to scoot back the way they had come if there was a response. But all was silent. As the grave.

She closed the kitchen door noiselessly, then took in their surroundings.

'Look at all them puddles,' said Quentin, pointing generally at the hall's flagstone floor.

His sister eyed the puddles in surprise. Quentin was right—small pools of water were spread all around the room, mostly in the shallow indents of the worn stone. Then she remembered. When Mum had told her about the hall she had said that sometimes, when she and Megan came in to clean the house, the floor was spotted with little pools of rainwater. She said that Mr Grainger, the estate manager, had had the roof checked out for leaks by one of the builders he regularly dealt with, but there weren't any holes in the roof that they could find. Mum and Megan would mop up, but when they came down again from doing the upstairs, the puddles would be back. It didn't happen very often, but it was a mystery how it happened at all.

Quentin strolled to the centre of the hall and spun round, arms outstretched, face lifted towards the high ceiling, the weighed-down bin-liner in one hand.

'Hyah!' he bellowed before coming to a halt and chortling at Seraphina. 'No one here, Seph. Place all to ourselves.'

As she went to join him, she noticed there was one door open in the hall. Well, half open. A musty smell drifted from it and she could feel a draught. She shivered. The house was very cold. She could see Quentin's breath coming out of his mouth, hardly there but still visible.

His shoulders suddenly hunched up to his ears as if the cold had hit him too. Her brother's mood changed.

'Don't like it here, Seph. Gives me the creeps.'

Although the sun shone brightly through the great window over the stairs, there were shadows in all the corners of the room, and the wood panelling of the walls contrived to make the hall seem darker than it really was. Millions of dust motes floated in the sunbeams.

'Let's split, Seph. Look, I'll put the rat on the floor here. They'll see it as soon as they come home.' He bent over, resting the plastic bin-liner on a wet flagstone; he poked in a hand to bring out the stiff, dead animal.

'No!' his sister said sharply, but her voice still low for some reason. 'We're going upstairs.'

Her brother moaned. 'I don't like it.' Something made him frightened and he didn't know what. He needed the toilet. 'Everyone says this place is haunted.' He had straightened, the rat remaining in the bag. He twisted his neck, looked all around, at the closed doors, at the half-open door nearby, up at the galleried landing—bloodyell, it was dark up there. 'Come on, Sephy, let's go,' he persisted.

'You can stay down here if you want, but I'm gonna find her bedroom.' Seraphina stepped towards him, splashing through a puddle as she did so. 'Gimme the bag,' she demanded, reaching out for it.

Quentin swung it behind his back, keeping it away from her. 'Don't think you should go up there.'

She huffed irritably, a white mist rolling from her mouth and quickly dissolving. 'Give it me,' she whispered fiercely.

'Okay, but I'm not staying.' He handed over the bin-liner and Seraphina was surprised at its weight. Dead rats were heavy. She wrinkled her sore nose at the stink that came from the bag. Was it stronger than before?

'You wait for me,' she ordered her brother.

'No way. I'm pissing off. You're welcome to the place.'

Quentin made as if to walk towards the kitchen door, but his sister put the flat of her hand against his chest.

'I mean it, you fucking spazzo,' she said, her mouth shaping into a snarl. 'You just fucking wait—What was that?'

Quentin gawped at her. 'What was what?'

'There was a noise.'

'Didn't hear it.'

They looked around, both silent, listening hard.

Seraphina jumped. 'There it was again.'

'Think I heard it that time,' whispered Quentin, his eyes bulging in alarm.

'Where'd it come from?'

'Dunno. Up there, I think.' He lifted his chin, indicating the stairway.

They remained motionless for a full minute. But there were no other sounds.

Seraphina finally let go of a breath that briefly clouded. 'Probably just the house,' she remarked in a murmur.

'Or ghosts.' Despite his fright, Quentin leered at her.

'Shut up, Quenty.'

'You shut up.'

Seraphina made up her mind. 'I'm gonna find her bedroom. You coming or not?'

'Not.'

Carrying the bin-liner in one hand, fingers wrapped tightly round the top to confine the smell, Seraphina strode purposefully towards the broad oak staircase. She muttered something to herself when she trod in another puddle. When she was at the first stair, her foot lifting to take it, the sound came again.

She immediately became still, her foot poised. It had been a kind of swishing noise that ended loudly.

Swish-thwack!

It was coming from upstairs.

As she craned her neck to see, a shape moved in the darkness of a doorway. It must have been the door to a windowless room, because it was completely black beyond the threshold. No, not completely black: the shape was blacker and it was still moving.

It was the next swish-thwack! that galvanized her. She hurried away from the stairs, not bothering to avoid the little pools of water but treading as softly as she could.

'Quick,' she hissed to her dumbstruck brother. 'Someone's coming!'

'Let's get out,' he whispered back, at least appreciating the need to speak quietly.

'No time. Look, in there.' Seraphina was pointing at the open door she had noticed earlier. It was the nearest exit to them, somewhere to hide. She just hoped the person upstairs hadn't seen them yet.

She pushed her brother towards the opening, both of them treading carefully even though in haste. The sound from the landing above was getting louder.

Swish-thwack!

Every few seconds now.

They scuttled through the gap, as quietly as possible, Seraphina tight behind Quentin as though they were playing spoons. By the light that stretched across the hall from the tall window, they could see a stairway leading down to a basement area. Quentin had to descend two steps so that his sister could squeeze in after him.

Swish-thwack!

Almost one sound.

Footsteps now. Soft footsteps that made the boards of the stairs under the window creak.

Seraphina pulled the door they hid behind closed; mercifully the hinges did not squeak. She was very careful not to make a noise when the door shut completely. They were in darkness. When their eyes adjusted, they could only make out a line of light from beneath the door. They waited, trying to control their panicky breaths in case they were overheard.

A pungent, musty, dank smell and a soft rushing sound came from below. Seraphina soon realized its source. Her mother had also told her of the well in Crickley Hall's cellar; it dropped to the underground river that eventually joined the Bay River before reaching the sea. Mum and Megan never went down there, not even out of curiosity. Neither of them liked the idea, but couldn't say why exactly.

Cold draughts came up the cellar steps to chill the girl and her brother even more. Seraphina felt Quentin shivering next to her as they crouched in the darkness and she became aware that she was shivering too. And it wasn't because of the cold.

'Can you hear it any more?' Quentin whispered close to her ear.

She thought she could, but the background sound of rushing water and the closed door itself muted it.

Swish-thwack!

Distant.

And then there was a noise behind them. They turned their heads and stared into the pitch-black below, straining their eyes to see and their ears to listen.

It was faint. At first. But it grew slightly louder. A shuffling. Like a shoe scraping stone, underneath the noise of the underground river but audible nevertheless.

'Oh fuck, there's someone down there!' Quentin blurted out, his voice shrill, but still a whisper. A very frightened whisper.

'Can't be,' Seraphina hissed back. She had caught Quentin's fear. 'The house is supposed to be empty. You saw them leave. We rang the bell and knocked on the door. No one came. There can't be anyone at home.' She was rambling, trying to calm herself with her own logic.

Swish-thwack!

That sounded louder, as if someone were coming down the hall's stairway.

But again, that thud-scraping noise from the cellar behind them.

Quentin was scrabbling around for something in the dark; his elbow kept prodding her. He was looking for something in his anorak pockets.

The boy bit his lower lip. It wasn't in the right-hand pocket. It had to be in the left. A gasp of relief as his shaky fingers closed around the mini-torch he always kept in his anorak. The mornings were growing gloomier as winter approached and he carried the little plastic torch with him on the egg round so that he wouldn't trip over anything in the dark. He brought the torch out now, but his sister caught his attention by swearing under her breath.

'What?' he demanded, keeping his voice low.

'There's water coming in,' she replied.

Seraphina had been kneeling on the top step, her ear pressed against the door. But she had jerked away when water from the hall oozed under it like slick oil. It had soaked the knees of her blue joggers and was beginning to trickle down the stairs. She stood, careful not to lose her balance and topple backwards. Quentin startled her by switching on the torch.

Its beam was poor, the batteries weak, but a circle of light appeared on the door they hid behind. He lowered the angle so the light went to the bottom of the door.

They saw a broad stream of water seeping through the gap at the bottom, spreading and slowly flowing over onto the first step. The water crept forward until it overflowed onto the second step.

Swish-thwack!

Louder than before, but still muffled by the constant flow of the underground river.

Thud. Followed by the scraping.

That came from downstairs, from the pitch-black cellar.

His hand trembling wildly, Quentin turned the torch so that its limited beam shone down the steps. They heard the thud again. Followed by the scraping on stone, like something being dragged. A leg perhaps, the first sound a heavy footstep.

They barely noticed that the water from outside had reached the third step and was beginning to flow like spring water.

Although the torchlight was feeble, Seraphina and Quentin could make out a small area of the cellar. Something was coming into view.

'Seph!' Quentin screeched when he saw what that something was. Most of it was in shadow, but the sight was enough to loosen his bladder so that pee ran down his leg and joined the stream of water that was now flowing like a brook over stones.

Seraphina also screeched at the umbrageous form that stood near the foot of the steps. The shadows emphasized its undefined horror rather than concealed it.

Almost hysterical, Seraphina pushed open the door so hard that it swung wide, the handle smashing into the wall behind. Despite her terror, she halted in the doorway and Quentin, scrambling to get out behind her, gawped over her shoulder.

The hall was flooded as if all the small puddles had expanded into one great lake. The water was shallow, but it completely covered the flagstones. The bigger shock, though, was the figure standing at the turn of the stairs, blinding light shining through the window at its back so that the front was in shade. But not so shaded that Seraphina and Quentin could not see it was a naked man.

The man was skinny and sunlight behind created a halo effect with his white hair. But the image kept fluctuating, fading in and out so that it had no substance. One moment it looked solid, the next it was transparent and they could see the stairs and circular torchère through it. He held something in his right hand—a stick, a long stick of some kind—and as the sister and brother watched, the man raised it high over his head, then brought it down so swiftly it became a blur. The cane smacked against his own thigh, its end splaying over the flesh.

Swish-thwack!

Again, almost one sound.

Now Seraphina and Quentin shrieked in terror.

Hand in hand they ran, splashing through the water as they went, their shrieks filling the great hall and echoing off its thick walls.

37: GHOST

The plan had been to get Loren to a doctor first thing, have her checked out and, if there was nothing physically wrong with her (she seemed fine this morning, if a little tired—but then with four in a bed again, none of them got a good night's sleep) and her pain last night was not a portent or symptom of serious illness (growing pains couldn't be that violent), they would drop her off in time for school; he would return to Crickley Hall with Eve and Cally, then take himself off to Ilfracombe and get on with the job for which he was being paid. That was the plan. It didn't work out that way, though.

At the health centre, despite the Caleighs' early arrival, all three doctors had eight o'clock appointments. In fact, they had scheduled surgeries running right through the morning to midday. As Loren appeared to be perfectly fine, the clinic's receptionist said she would try to fit their daughter in between legitimate appointments. As it happened, there was a ten-thirty cancellation and Eve and Loren were ushered in to see a doctor while Gabe kept an eye on Cally in the waiting room.

According to Eve later, the congenial doctor, a handsome, short-bearded, middle-aged man who treated Loren with easygoing respect, had carried out a thorough examination of their daughter, prodding her tummy and other places with gentle fingers, pressing hard, though, into the muscles of her legs because she had told him that was where it hurt last night. He listened to her heartbeat and lungs and enquired about her health in general; he also asked if she suffered from depression or if she was hyperactive at all. Did she have mood swings (what girl approaching her 'teens' didn't?) and was she menstruating yet? He asked a score of other questions at the end of which he announced that he could find nothing wrong with Loren, although from the slight pouches under her eyes she looked as if she could do with a good night's sleep. But if Eve wanted, he could send Loren to hospital for further and more extensive tests. Seeing her daughter's negative expression, Eve had declined.

Sometimes, the doctor had gone on to explain, and contradictory to what Gabe had said the previous night, troubled sleepers could have such vivid dreams of punishment that they honestly felt they were experiencing the pain. There certainly were no marks on Loren's legs, no weals, no bruises, not even any redness, so it could only have been a severely traumatic dream experience. Should such dreams continue, then he knew an excellent child psychiatrist to whom he could refer Loren.

Eve told him they would keep it in mind if it happened again.

They left the centre just before 11 a.m. and Gabe rang Seapower's Ilfracombe office on his cell phone (which worked fine in Merrybridge) to let his colleagues know he would be in later. Loren was left at school after Eve had had a word with Horkins, the headteacher. From there the three of them returned to Crickley Hall, where Gabe intended to drop off Eve and Cally before going on to work.

But when they got back to the house, they found a police patrol car in the parking area close to the bridge.

•

The uniformed policeman was waiting on Crickley Hall's doorsteps, the front door open wide behind him.

'Mr and Mrs Caleigh?' the officer said as they approached.

'What's going on?' Gabe asked, a worried frown creasing his forehead.

'You are Mr Caleigh?'

Gabe nodded. 'This is my wife, Eve.'

The policeman took out a small notebook from his breast pocket and flipped it open. 'Your full name, sir.'

'Gabriel Caleigh.'

'Gabriel?'

'Gabriel.'

The policeman scribbled in his book.

'D'you mind telling us why you're here?' Gabe asked.

'There were more of us earlier,' the policeman responded, stepping off the doorsteps. 'I'm PC Kenrick. I was left to wait for you, sir. Can you tell me what time you left the house this morning?'

'What's this about?'

Eve glanced at Gabe, concern drawing her features.

'If you would just answer the question.' The policeman was eye to eye with Gabe.

'About seven thirty, perhaps a bit later,' Eve said quickly. 'We took our daughter to the health centre in Merrybridge.'

'This little girl?' PC Kenrick indicated Cally, who sidled up behind her mother's legs at the attention. She peeked out at the policeman.

'No, our other daughter, Loren,' replied Eve. 'We dropped her off at school on the way back.'

'And this is the first time you've returned?' He directed the question at Gabe again.

'Uh-huh. We left the centre about eleven. Took Loren to Merrybridge Middle School and came straight back here.'

'Who else occupies the house apart from yourselves?'

Gabe was perplexed. 'No one else, just us. Look, can you tell us what this is all about? And how did you open the front door?'

The officer had decided to consult his notebook at that moment. 'Uh, yes, sir. Sorry. The outer kitchen door was already open when we arrived, although we also had its key. We unlocked the front door from the inside.'

'Who's we and how did you get the key to the kitchen?'

'My sergeant and two other officers. We obtained the key from someone who'd already been inside the house. That was the, uh, complainant.'

'The complainant? Who the hell is that?'

'If you'll let me ask the questions, sir.'

'Well, what's the complaint?'

'Better that you let me ask the questions for now, sir.' There was no West Country in the PC's voice. 'I will inform you as to what this concerns in due course.'

Gabe looked at Eve, then shrugged resignedly. 'Go ahead,' he said to the policeman.

Although PC Kenrick was watching him closely, it was an indifferent stare. He must be all of twelve years old, thought Gabe. Okay, maybe in his early twenties. Young and keen, polite but breakable. Stay cool, Gabe advised himself; Kenrick was only doing his job, but his guardedness was a little irritating.

'Were you alone in your house some time this morning, Mr Caleigh?' the policeman asked.

'It isn't my house. We're only renting the place for a while.'

'Yes, we were informed of that.'

'Informed by who?' questioned Eve.

'The victims' mother. The mother is actually the complainant.'

'Victims' mother?' Gabe was becoming more intrigued by the minute.

'She and another lady are Crickley Hall's regular cleaners. Now, if we can continue with the questions?'

'The answer is no, I haven't been on my own in the house this morning. I told you—we took our other daughter to see a doctor.' He couldn't tell if the policeman was satisfied or not.

'You're saying the place was empty after you left at around seven thirty? No one else has been staying with you, a relative, or a friend?'

Gabe shook his head. 'No one.'

Kenrick considered this for a moment. He said: 'Does anyone else have a key to the property, anyone other than yourselves?'

'The realtor—' Gabe caught the policeman's frown. 'Sorry, the estate agent would obviously have a set. I guess the cleaners must have a set too.'

'They only have the kitchen-door key. Which is how the victims gained entry. The girl stole her mother's key, the mother being one of the cleaners.'

'I don't get this "victims" thing.'

Eve butted in. 'Officer, it's time you told us what this is all about. If there have been trespassers in the house, then it would seem we're the victims.'

'I was coming to that, Mrs Caleigh.' PC Kenrick slipped his notebook into the breast pocket of his uniform jacket. 'Earlier this morning while, it appears, you were out, two children—well, the boy is a youth, thirteen or fourteen years of age—say that a man exposed himself to them inside Crickley Hall.'

Eyebrows raised in astonishment, Gabe and Eve looked at one another again. Gabe turned back to Kenrick.

'Say what?' he said incredulously.

'A naked man came down the hall stairs and frightened them. They said he was carrying a thin stick that he beat himself with.'

The same thought whirled around inside both Gabe and Eve's head. The punishment cane. It couldn't be: Gabe had stashed it away in a kitchen cupboard along with the book and the photograph. But what man could have got into Crickley Hall? Eve's face paled.

'Hey, wait a sec,' Gabe suddenly said. There is another person who I'm sure will have a key, maybe the whole set.'

'Who might that be, Mr Caleigh?' The policeman was interested.

'Percy Judd. He's Crickley Hall's gardener and handyman.'

'Gabe!' Eve was shocked.

'Yeah, I know. It's unlikely.' Gabe addressed the constable: 'Look, he's in his eighties and I don't think he's the kinda guy who'd wander around without any clothes on.'

'Do you have an address for this Mr Judd?'

'No. He lives further up the hill, I think, somewhere off the road. I'm sure anyone down in the village would know—it's a pretty tight community. Or try the local vicar; Percy works around the church.'

'I'll follow it up.'

'You'd be wasting your time,' commented Eve. 'I'm certain he'd never do anything like that.'

'You know him well, Mrs Caleigh?'

'No, not well. But he's a harmless old man. A nice man. It's just not possible.'

'As I said, I'll follow it up. Can you think of anyone else who might have got inside the house in your absence?'

Gabe and Eve shook their heads.

'Nobody,' affirmed Gabe. 'Have you searched the place?'

'Yes, we've done that, sir. We found the house empty.'

'You looked everywhere?' Gabe was worrying about the safety of his own family.

'Top to bottom. Basement too. By the way, have you had any flooding in the house recently?'

Gabe immediately thought of the pools of water he'd found around the hall and stairs on their first night at Crickley Hall. But he wouldn't call that flooding.

'We've had some leaks,' he replied, 'but nothing serious.'

The policeman looked puzzled. 'Well, we found no evidence of flooding actually, but the boy and girl told us the whole ground floor was covered in water.'

'That's crazy.' Gabe rubbed the back of his neck. This is all crazy. Is the house flooded now?' He peered past the policeman into the hall and his own question was answered.

Nevertheless, PC Kenrick replied, 'No, sir. Like I said, we didn't find a drop of water anywhere it shouldn't be, not even in the basement where the well is located.'

'Did you find anything when you searched?' asked Eve.

'No. All we did discover that was peculiar was a dead rat inside a plastic bag in the middle of the hall. But the kids owned up to that. Some kind of practical joke, apparently.'

Gabe remembered the dead wood pigeon on the doorstep; he'd mentioned it to Eve.

Eve spoke: 'One of these children wasn't called Seraphina, was she?' Loren had told her mother the unusual name of the bully she'd punched.

PC Kenrick thought before he answered. They had to be informed sooner or later. 'Er, yes, Mrs Caleigh. Seraphina Blaney. The youth is her older brother, Quentin. Their mother is Patricia Blaney; she was the one who called us after her kids came home in a terrible state. They told her they'd seen a naked man in Crickley Hall. They also said the place was flooded. And oh yes, there was something nasty in the cellar.'

'I'm losing this,' said Gabe.

'What did they mean by something nasty?' Eve had gripped her husband's arm. Cally was no longer hiding but had squeezed between her mother and father to gaze up at the blue-uniformed stranger.

'Well… they couldn't describe it, actually. They said that something—a figure, an animal, we don't know yet—came out of the dark; the kids were too upset to get much sense from them. Anyway, it scared them enough to make them leave the cellar.'

'They were in the cellar?' asked Gabe, still trying to take it all in.

'Not down in the cellar; they were hiding behind the cellar door, they told us. Whatever it was—and my sergeant thinks it's only their imagination running wild—it scared them so much it drove them from their hiding place.'

'But what were they hiding from?' Eve was as mystified as her husband.

'Someone they heard upstairs. This was the naked man.'

'With a cane,' said Gabe.

'Holding a stick,' replied the constable.

'And then what?'

'They ran. They left Crickley Hall and scooted back home. According to their mother, both were crying hysterically, and she was so alarmed she rang us. What she did get out of them was that a naked man was involved. Because of that we considered it a significant incident'

'Significant?'

'Not a major one, but an incident that required immediate investigation. We pay special attention where children are concerned. Unfortunately, the boy and girl were difficult to interview because they were both still in shock.'

'Could they identify the person they saw?' asked Eve.

'Yeah,' muttered Gabe. 'Maybe it was a local…'

'I wish it were that simple. You see, the kids said it wasn't really a man at all.'

'I don't get it.' Gabe was frowning again, his blue eyes fixed on the policeman.

PC Kenrick looked slightly embarrassed. They said he wasn't clear. He appeared to, uh, to fade in and out. Of course, we didn't search the house on that basis—we were looking for a man who had deliberately exposed himself to children. But according to them, what they saw on the stairway wasn't real. They claimed it was a ghost.'

38: THE SWING

Eve finished washing Cally's lunch plate (Eve hadn't felt like eating) and laid it on the draining board where it could dry itself. As she pulled off the yellow Marigolds she looked out of the window with blank eyes, observing the narrow river that swept under the bridge and past the brief expanse of lawn with its oak tree near its centre. There was no breeze today to stir the swing that hung from a stout limb of the oak, but her thoughts were introspective, her gaze inwards, so that she did not notice.

Gabe had gone off to Ilfracombe shortly after the policeman had left and she had not felt comfortable alone in the house with just Cally for company. At that moment, her youngest daughter was in the grand hall, playing with her dolls on the stairs. Eve could hear her small voice as Cally talked to, and for, her eternally smiling, glazy-eyed 'friends' and the sound, distant though it was, was somehow reassuring. The word 'ghost' meant nothing much to Cally because she had only seen the cartoon kind, the Caspers and the rather stupid phantoms Scooby-Doo had to deal with on a regular basis. She was too young to wonder how and why dead people might haunt the living; she merely accepted it as an actuality of no particular importance.

How wonderful to be so undemanding, thought Eve, not to be in the least disturbed by phenomena that mystified and often terrified older people. Cally seemed to have even forgotten about the 'black' man she had seen in the corner of her bedroom the other night.

'Mummy?'

Eve snapped back to the moment. She turned from the window to see Cally in the kitchen doorway.

'Yes, baby?'

'Can I go outside and play? The sun is shining.'

'It's still very damp out there; the grass is wet.' And the unfenced river was too near, Eve warned herself.

'Please, Mummy. Can I go on the swing, will you push me?' Cally tucked one ankle behind the other and gripped her hands together.

Eve felt they both needed fresh air and after all that had happened that morning, Cally deserved some special attention. 'All right, let me get a tea towel to wipe the swing's seat. Just ten minutes, okay? Then we're going to do some reading together.'

'Can I choose the book?'

'No, I don't think so. I want you to try something a little bit harder today.'

Cally pulled a face, but it was gone in an instant.

'You'll need your wellies,' Eve instructed her. 'I'll get your coat; it's still chilly out there.'

'Okay, Mummy.'

Cally ran to the hall rack where coats and hats were hung, walking boots on the floor beneath them; she pulled out a pair of Wellingtons that were bright green and dotted with white spots.

In a couple of minutes they were ready to go outside.

•

Eve contemplated the frothy river. The water was a murky brown, as if the riverbank further upstream was gradually being eaten away. Even though it hadn't rained that day, the river still looked swollen and enraged. If it should spill over its banks, would it flood Crickley Hall again as it had all those years ago? The two children, the trespassers, had told the police that the hall was flooded, but there had been no sign of it later, not even any puddles or wet patches. Did the house itself trigger such images, did its thick walls remember how the house was once deluged by floodwater? Was it possible for stone and mortar to store memories? It seemed impossible, yet so many strange things had happened since the family's arrival. Eve had always been unsure of her own feelings regarding the paranormal, whether or not events that defied natural comprehension could really occur. Now she was even more uncertain. If her lost son could contact her using telepathy, then why not other phenomena? Accept one instance, accept them all? Her beliefs were being stretched to their limits.

It was good to feel the sun on her back, even though it was a weak warmth, the sun itself watery, as if dampened by the incessant rain of the past week. Behind her, Cally swung back and forth on the now-dried swing, her tiny hands grasped round the rusted chain links, her voice exuberant with the rush of it. Eve had started her off, pulling the swing seat with Cally on it as far back as possible, then letting it go with a firm push, pushing again on its return, using just the right pressure to generate a momentum. Her daughter leaned back, kicking out her legs to keep the rhythm going. It was nice for Eve to hear Cally's hoots and chuckles as the swing reached its zenith, then began its journey back.

'Push harder, Mummy!' came the cry, but Eve used only enough force to keep the swing going. Satisfied that Cally could keep up the momentum herself, Eve stepped back, smiling at her daughter's squeals of delight. Then, diverted by her own thoughts, Eve turned away and strolled towards the river.

Her gaze wandered beyond the tumbling waters and up at the high gorge wall, which was lush with vegetation and full of trees that were either deep green in colour or just turning a golden brown. Crickley Hall was splendidly positioned but, because of its structural plainness—its ugliness, would be more apt—it failed to blend in with the natural surroundings. Which was a shame, a waste. Eve drew in a deep breath, relishing the scented air, refreshing both mind and body, cleansing her thoughts so that for a moment, a moment only, she felt uplifted. She almost felt hopeful once again.

Eve caught something moving in the periphery of her vision. Looking downstream, she saw a large grey heron had landed on a glistening stone embedded in the bank at the water's edge and now its long pointed bill was poised above the flow. It was a long-legged cumbersome-looking bird that might have waded out a little way had the river not been so fierce; all it could do was wait until a fish presented itself close to the bank. It was fascinating to watch, for there was a tension in the air as the bird's S-shaped neck hovered snake-like over the water, its beak almost touching the roiling surface, ready to strike. The heron's neck twitched and then—

And then, a high-pitched scream had Eve whirling round to see what had frightened Cally.

Again, just in the periphery of her vision, Eve glimpsed movement; or thought she glimpsed movement, for there was nothing… only a white shadow… that might not have been there at all. Cally continued to scream and Eve saw her daughter high in the air, the swing's chains almost parallel to the ground, the swing arcing back again, the pendulum movement fast, too fast, Cally gripping the chains hard, her cries becoming one long screech.

Eve dashed forward as the swing reached its highest point on the other side of the oak's bough. Cally's back was to Eve, her hair whipped up behind her, her short legs kicking at empty air as if to control her flight. Now the swing began its return journey and Eve waited, her arms outstretched, ready to catch it and bring its wild oscillation to a halt. But it came at her with a force so much harder than she expected.

Her arms were easily pushed back by the heavy wooden seat, which hit her beneath the chin, sending her reeling backwards. Her legs gave way and she fell to the ground, the swing with Cally on it rising above her. Eve caught sight of her daughter's white frightened face. The swing began its return journey and Eve, trying to regain her feet, had to duck low to avoid being hit again. So high did it go that Cally almost slipped backwards off the seat, only her tight grip on the chains preventing her from doing so.

It was as if the swing were being pushed by strong invisible hands, sending it too high and too fast.

Eve straightened and readied herself this time, backing away from the swing's flight path, raising her arms, her fingers slightly curled to catch the seat as it flew back at her. It smacked into the palms of her hands, Cally screeching all the while, her pale face sodden with tears, but Eve did not try to hold on to it; she merely slowed its pace.

The next time it came her way she applied the same technique, slowing the swing's ascent so that it lost momentum. On the next swing back she managed to slip her arm round Cally's waist, her other hand grabbing one of the chains. It worked. The swing angled, the chain links almost crossing, but it was blocked by Eve's body. She teetered there for a moment, then dragged Cally off the seat, both of them falling backwards onto the soft wet grass.

Eve lay there, momentarily winded, and Cally sprawled over her.

'Why did you push me so hard, Mummy?' Cally wailed as Eve fought for breath. Through her tears, her daughter repeated the question.

'But… but I didn't push you,' Eve managed to say as she struggled to sit upright so that Cally was in her lap. 'I stopped the swing.'

'No, before. You pushed me before. I went too high, Mummy. I was frightened.'

Eve drew her daughter close and looked at the dangling swing that now swayed gently as if all the life had gone from it.

39: THE REPORTER

Startled, Eve looked across the kitchen to the window.

The man outside who had tapped on the window smiled and pressed a small card against the glass.

'Andy Pierson,' Eve head him say, his voice distant. 'North Devon Dispatch. Can I have a word?'

She lifted Cally from her lap, laying the colourful book on the table.

'Who's the man, Mummy?' Cally demanded.

'I'm not sure.' For Cally's sake she didn't want to say she didn't know. 'You carry on reading or looking at the pictures while I find out what he wants.'

As Cally went back to the book, Eve leaned over the sink to read the card this Andy Pierson was holding flat against the glass. It bore out the man's claim: NORTH DEVON DISPATCH it said with the name 'Andrew Pierson' below in smaller type.

'If I could just have a word with you,' the man called out. 'It's Mrs Caleigh, isn't it? Mrs Eve Caleigh?'

Eve was still feeling a little shaky from the incident with the swing earlier and she definitely didn't feel like talking to a journalist right now, whatever it was about. She was convinced that some malign invisible force had pushed Cally on the swing and the thought frightened her. She was no longer sure she wanted to stay at Crickley Hall.

'Mrs Caleigh?' The reporter still held his press card against the window.

'What did you want to talk to me about?' Eve asked, her voice loud enough for him to hear outside.

'Can I come round to the door, Mrs Caleigh?' At last he slipped the card into the breast pocket of his grey suit.

Eve didn't know what to do. Why was the reporter here? Could it have anything to do with what happened at Crickley Hall early that morning? Surely not. How would he have known about it? Then Eve remembered her time mixing with feature writers and journos when her career had been flourishing. A crime reporter had once told her that he gathered news by ringing round various London police stations—all crime journalists did the same—to find out if anything particularly noteworthy was going on that day or night. Duty officers were always good sources of information, especially if there was a 'drink' in it for them; sometimes the officer rang the journalist first if the crime was exciting enough. Eve wondered exactly what this North Devon Dispatch reporter had been told by the local police.

She pointed at the kitchen's outer door and he grinned and nodded his head. He quickly disappeared round the corner of the house to present himself at the door. Eve noticed another man, who must have been standing out of sight, following him, camera hanging from his neck. Oh no, she thought, this was going too far. She didn't want the children's ridiculous story appearing in the local rag. (Yes, but was it ridiculous? a sly interior voice asked. Was it any more ridiculous than the other strange occurrences at Crickley Hall?)

When she opened the door, the photographer had caught up with his companion and was pointing his lens straight at her. He reeled off three shots before she even had time to protest.

Too late, she put up her hand and said, 'Please don't do that'

'It's all right, Mrs Caleigh, we'll choose a good one,' the journalist assured her silkily. 'Now it is Mrs Caleigh, isn't it? I've got that right?'

'Yes,' Eve was too flustered to say anything else.

'And is Mr Caleigh about? It'd be useful to talk to him as well.'

'My husband's at work.'

'No matter. You'll do fine.'

'We couldn't take a picture of you on the front doorstep, could we?' put in the photographer. 'We could get in most of the house that way.'

'In a minute, Doug.' Pierson waved an arm over the photographer's camera as if to ward it off. 'Give Mrs Caleigh a chance to catch her breath. 'D'you mind if I call you Eve?'

The reporter was a slimmish individual in a TOPMAN suit, his age around thirty, thirty-five. His prematurely balding head was an embarrassment to the thick black growth of hair beneath his nose; the circle of hair above his ears was also darkly lush.

What is it you want?' asked Eve, one hand behind the open door, ready to slam it shut.

'My paper was informed there was an incident here this morning and the police had to be called.'

'It was nothing, just a mistake.'

'Not according to our source.'

There was very little West Country in his accent. In fact, Andy Pierson had been studiously trying to lose any hint of it for the past ten years, because his ambition was to become a London reporter on one of the nationals, not with the Times or Telegraph or anything grand like that, but a red-top, the Mirror or the Sun, either one would do. Unfortunately, he was not getting any younger and he was still only on the second step of his career ladder, cub reporter and obituary writer being the first.

'Actually, Mrs Caleigh,' the journalist went on as he held up a micro-cassette recorder between himself and Eve, 'I've already spoken to the boy and girl involved, as well as their mother who, I believe, cleans this very house on a regular basis.'

'I don't know what they've told you,' Eve quickly said, 'but what they said happened to them is impossible. I think they're both overimaginative, or they made up the story for their own reasons.'

'They told me—and the police, of course—that they were confronted by a naked man…'

'As I said, it's impossible. The house was empty; my family and I were in Merrybridge this morning. There was no one here for them to see.'

'Ah yes, but they claimed it was a ghost, they could see through it, and their mother, Trisha Blaney, told me that folk hereabouts—' he gritted his teeth; he hadn't meant to say 'folk', too Devonshire—'local people, I mean, believe the house is haunted. Have you got anything to say about that, Mrs Caleigh, have you seen any ghosts in Crickley Hall yourself? You're new to the area, aren't you? Mrs Blaney tells me you've hardly been here a week. But even so, you must've seen or heard something that's puzzled you, maybe even frightened you? You know the kind of thing: bumps in the night, footsteps when there's nobody there, furniture moving by itself, stuff like that. Our readers would be very interested.' He held the mini-recorder almost up to her chin.

'It's utter nonsense,' Eve replied with a conviction she hardly felt. She turned aside slightly to avoid the recorder, but it followed her.

'Well, the house does have a history, doesn't it? S'what I've been told. People—children—died here in the Forties, didn't they? All drowned, I believe. D'you think what happened today is anything to do with that?' He gave a glance at the photographer. 'Doug, why don't you go round to the front of the house and take some pics. Maybe from the bridge, eh? You'll get a nice backdrop. Make it look sinister, though, right?'

'It already does,' Doug replied without much enthusiasm.

'Well, you know, use one of them funny lenses of yours.'

Doug, an untidy-looking person with long lank hair and a drooping moustache, grunted something, then slouched away, Pentax held before him in one hand, finger on the clicker as though he would be taking pictures on the way.

'Come on, Mrs Caleigh—Eve,' Pierson said, leaning closer as if in confidence. 'There must be something a little bit scary about Crickley Hall, with its history. I mean, you only have to look at the place to feel creeped-out. Give me something to tell the readers.'

The truth was, it was another slow night and day for the Dispatch, as it often was midweek. Why do the really juicy murders always happen at weekends? the reporter wondered to himself. What was it about Saturday nights that appealed to killers? Too much weekend booze and disappointment? And Sunday evenings; they often brought out the worst in people. Depression, he supposed; the drudgery of work the next day, the thought of another week's grind ahead. Monday mornings accounted for a lot of suicides.

'The Blaney kids said the place was flooded.' Now he leaned even closer to Eve and lowered his voice as though the conversation was only between himself and Eve and not for general consumption. 'Also…' Because she was looking to the side, her head tilted downwards, he ducked a little to make eye contact. 'Also, they told the police there was someone—no, something, they said—in the cellar that scared the—that frightened them very much.'

'It's nonsense, Mr…?'

'Pierson. But call me Andy, Eve, everybody does.'

It came out fast, as if she were deliberately not giving herself time to think. 'They must be on drugs, or sniffing glue, doing something to give themselves hallucinations. You can see for yourself.' She waved her free arm at the kitchen behind her (her other was still on the back of the door ready to close it at any moment). 'No flooding, see? The only water is in the sink. As for something in the cellar, well, the police searched the house from top to bottom and found nothing.'

'So you're saying the kids were on drugs, have I got that right?'

Eve could already see the newspaper headline. 'No, I'm only suggesting that what the boy and girl saw—while they were trespassing, by the way—all they saw was in their own minds. The house is big, and it's dark, and yes, it is rather spooky if I'm to be perfectly honest, but…'

She had run out of words; she did not know what more she could say to this man.

'Look, Mr Pierson—'

'Andy, call me Andy.'

'Look, all I know is what the policeman told me when I arrived back here with my husband and daughter this morning.'

'You've got two little girls, haven't you? One's called Laura, but I don't have the other one's name…?'

'Cally. And my older daughter is Loren, not Laura.' She knew the reporter would probably get the spelling wrong, calling her Lauren instead, but she couldn't be bothered to explain it to him. Obviously, Seraphina Blaney and her brother had told the journo enough already. But if she herself played dumb, the story might go away due to lack of detail. It would just be something the brother and sister had made up between them.

Andy Pierson was not about to give up, though. 'Now come on, Eve, tell me something that's happened to you or any other member of your family in the house, you know, something spooky, something for our readers. The public likes a good ghost story now and again.'

'There's nothing to tell,' Eve lied, her voice rising in anger. She remembered Cally was still at the kitchen table, no doubt taking everything in and Eve didn't want her to be upset again. She forced herself to be calm. 'I've got nothing more to say,' she told the reporter and began to close the door on him.

'Wait, Mrs Caleigh, Eve. Give me a proper statement.'

The door was shut in his face.

But he was grinning.

40: THE VISITOR

Eve was tucking Cally into bed for her afternoon nap when the doorbell went. It was loud and an ugly sound, an electronic croak rather than a musical ring.

Cally's eyelids were already flickering with tiredness and she took no notice of the interruption. Her soft Bart Simpson doll peered over the edge of the duvet close to Cally's face and she sleepily hugged him even closer, her nose pressed into Bart's cheek. Eve bent over to kiss her young daughter's curled hair but straightened when the doorbell sounded again.

She wondered who could be at the front door in the middle of the afternoon. Had the reporter from the North Devon Dispatch returned to nag her with more unanswerable questions? What if it was the Blaney children's mother come to remonstrate with her? Eve couldn't face that; she hadn't the energy left to deal with irate mothers. But she would certainly ask how Seraphina and her brother had got hold of a door key to Crickley Hall and why they had brought a dead rat into the house! Gabe told her he had found a dead wood pigeon on the doorstep yesterday morning when he was about to go on his regular jog. Had the children planted the bird there? Was it Seraphina's way of getting back at the family because Loren had stood up for herself on the bus? Perhaps they'd intended to leave some poor dead animal every day just out of spite.

Brurrrr—brurrrr…

The doorbell made its irritating croak, the kind of sound whose repetition could put a person on edge. Nothing melodic, nothing galvanizing about it. Instead, it filled the house with a dull dread.

Tiptoeing out to the landing, she looked over the rail down at Crickley Hall's big front door as if it might provide some clues as to who was outside.

Brurrrr—brurrrr...

It echoed round the stone-floored hall, the acoustics making it louder than it should have been. Whoever was out there was persistent. Why not just knock on the kitchen window? Eve asked herself. Everybody else seemed to do that. She was reluctant to open the door, and she didn't know why. Perhaps she was on emotional overload; it had been a rough day so far. Then again, she had been on emotional overload for almost a year now.

Brurrrr—brurrrr…

All right, all right, I'm coming. I don't want to know who you are, I don't want to talk to you, but I'm coming down because I know I have to.

She went to the stairs and descended, glancing out of the tall window as she went by. The sky was clouding over again and the sun, on its downward journey, reddened the clouds' craggy edges. Their dark bulk was laden with rain.

The doorbell grouched yet again and Eve quickened her pace, both annoyed and anxious. Perhaps another local newspaper had got hold of the story—she knew the county had more than one daily journal—and this time she would make no comment, she would politely but firmly close the door on any nosy reporter or photographer who stood outside. A new thought entered her head, causing her to pause at the foot of the staircase. Perhaps the policeman had come back with more inquiries. What could she tell him? Why yes, of course Crickley Hall is haunted, I've seen the discarnate spirits of children myself and we've all heard unaccountable noises, and my daughter, Loren, was thrashed in her sleep last night by something I think might have been the evil ghost of a man called Augustus Cribben, who lived here over sixty years ago. Could she say all that? Could she say it and expect to be believed? She could scarcely believe it herself.

Eve crossed the hall—the perfectly dry hall—but took a diversion towards the cellar door. Bloody thing! Why wouldn't it stay shut?

Brurrrr—brurrrr.

Okay!

Eve pushed the cellar door closed and even turned the key in the lock for all the good it would do. Gabe really had to fix it; it was driving her to distraction.

She finally got to the front door, slid back the floor bolt and twisted the long key. Angrily, she pulled open the door and stared at the visitor on the doorstep.

•

Lili Peel's smile was weak, hardly a smile at all. She seemed nervous, uncertain. As if she were afraid.

'I was beginning to think you weren't in,' she said by way of an opening. 'I kept ringing the bell…'

'Yes. I'm sorry—I was upstairs.' Eve's heart was pounding: she hadn't expected to see the psychic again.

'I'm… I'm sorry too. About yesterday.' Lili looked down at the doorstep for a moment as though truly contrite. 'I know I was a bit brusque with you. I didn't mean to be. I've had time to think about what you told me.'

'You mean you'll help me—us?'

'You didn't leave your phone number, but of course I remembered the house. Wednesday is half-day closing in Pulvington, so I was able to get away from the shop.'

She hadn't answered Eve's question. Eve asked it again.

Lili's blonde hair was turned reddish gold by the setting sun. It also gave her face more colour than Eve recalled, but she knew the psychic's skin was pale, almost washed-out looking. Her green eyes were serious.

'I'm willing to try, Mrs Caleigh,' she said at last. 'I'll help you if I can.'

Eve was curious. 'What made you change your mind?'

'You told me you'd seen the spirits of children. There must be a reason for that. When we spoke yesterday, I could feel something was wrong, not just about you and your own suffering, but wrong with whatever it is that surrounds you. It has to come from this house.'

'Sorry, I don't understand.'

'There has to be a reason why the children who died here haven't passed over, why they're still attached to this place. They need to go on; they shouldn't be lingering here. I felt their misery in your own aura and I want to help them. Psychics, clairvoyants, spiritualists have a duty towards the dead.'

Eve was confused. 'And my own child?'

'I don't know. Once, when I was very young, I communicated with a boy who'd been in a coma for three months. They thought he was going to die and, if they'd turned off the life-support machines, he would have.'

There was a deep sadness in the psychic's manner that touched Eve. Perhaps she'd got Lili Peel all wrong; perhaps the psychic cared too much. Rejecting Eve was her way of protecting herself. It was a sudden insight that Eve intuitively knew was correct, and it made her warm to this young woman who had been so cold towards her yesterday. Standing outside under the darkening sky, Lili looked small and vulnerable; frail even. Completely different to how she had appeared before.

'Please, come in,' Eve invited.

But the moment Lili Peel stepped over the threshold and entered the great hall something seemed to happen to her. She went deathly white and swayed on her feet as if about to faint. She reached out to Eve for support and Eve quickly took the psychic's arm and allowed her to lean against her.

'Are you all right?' Eve was perplexed. 'What's wrong?'

'I… I don't… the presence is so strong. Can't you feel them here?'

'I don't know what you mean.'

'Their spirits—all around, everywhere.'

'The children?'

'Yes. But there's something terribly wrong. There's something else here… something, someone, wicked. Dark. Evil.'

She swooned and Eve held her tight.

'I must… must sit down. They're draining me. So strong, so strong. But they don't have enough power yet. They're waiting…'

'Let me take you into the sitting room,' Eve urged. 'You can rest there.'

She began to lead the psychic across the stone floor, supporting her as much as she could, but as they neared the cellar door, Lili drew back, horror on her face.

Eve had gone out of her way to close and lock the cellar door, but now it was half open again. The darkness inside seemed almost solid, a physical thing. Lili backed away and Eve clung to her, moved with her.

'That's where the children were found,' the psychic murmured almost to herself. She began to take sharp, rapid breaths as though hyperventilating and Eve, concerned for her, led her in a semicircular route towards the sitting room. For such a petite person, Lili was surprisingly heavy; it was as if something more than her own body was weighing her down.

At last Eve got her to the couch in the sitting room and gently lowered her on to it.

'I'm sorry, I'm so sorry,' Lili said between short breaths. Eve sat next to her and watched the psychic's drawn features anxiously, not knowing quite what she could do to help. But gradually Lili's breathing calmed and a smidgeon of colour returned to her pale face. She closed her eyes and rested her head back against the couch.

Eve fretted. 'Can I get you anything? Tea, coffee, something stronger?'

The faintest, drained smile appeared on the psychic's face and she opened her eyes again. She turned her head to look at Eve. 'No, thank you,' she said. 'I think I'm okay now. It was just the… the oppression inside this house. It's overwhelming. I think I can deal with it now. I hope so.'

For want of anything better to say, Eve ventured: 'Before you spoke of a boy who was in a coma; you said you were able to communicate with him. Will you tell me what happened?'

Lili took in a long, deep breath, perhaps to chase away the smaller breaths, and it seemed to work. Her green eyes studied Eve's for a few moments, searching for some kind of empathy. Many people thought psychics were a little mad, but there was no suspicion, no challenge and no distrust in Eve's expression; only hope.

There was a fire blazing in the room's hearth, but Lili felt chilled; she often did when there was a strong sense of spirit. Incorporeal energies tended to sap warmth from the atmosphere. Nevertheless, she asked Eve if she could take off her coat.

When Eve nodded and said, 'Of course,' Lili stood and removed her brown suede jacket. Underneath, she wore a tight, beige, long-sleeved sweater that emphasized her small breasts, and a loose wine-coloured skirt that ended just below the top of her knee-length burgundy boots. A pretty pink coral necklace adorned her neck and Eve noticed she still wore the wide wristbands from yesterday.

Lili folded her arms but it seemed more like a defensive gesture than a 'don't mess with me' one, because her hands clutched her upper arms. Today she did not wear the thin leather headband; her hair fell over her forehead in a natural fringe. Her light green eyes checked Eve's before she began.

'The parents of the boy who was in a coma didn't know me personally—I was seventeen at the time—but they had heard of my ability through a neighbour of ours.'

Now she unfolded her arms and leaned forward on the couch, wrists resting on her knees, her hands clasped together.

'The boy—Howard was his name—was only eleven years old and he'd been knocked down by a car that failed to stop. It was found later, abandoned; police thought kids had stolen it for a joyride.'

She was gazing at the fire, tiny flames reflected in her eyes.

'Howard was on life-support and the doctors didn't think he'd pull through. They thought his brain might have been too severely damaged, although they detected some signs of activity through their machines. They advised his parents it would be more merciful to turn off the systems keeping him alive so that he could go without more suffering. That's when Howard's parents contacted me on the chance I could reach him telepathically. They weren't true believers, but they'd heard about my psychic gift and they were desperate. They came to my house and asked me—no, they begged me—to try and make contact with their son. They weren't convinced Howard was all but brain-dead.'

She paused and looked away from the fire as if the flames were burning her pupils.

'Please go on,' Eve urged quietly.

'I agreed willingly. I have this thing about children even though I've never been a parent myself.' Lili did not relate the story of the first ghost she had ever seen, Agnes, whom she'd befriended and helped to move on; how that early experience had encouraged Lili to develop her extrasensory powers.

'I went to the hospital with the parents and was allowed into the intensive care unit. As soon as I saw Howard I felt he was far from death. Our minds made contact almost immediately. Inside his body was a lively, mischievous little boy, who missed his mother and father and wondered where they were and why they hadn't come to take him home.

'The mother broke down when I told her I was talking to her son, but the father, quite naturally, wanted to test me. He asked me questions that only Howard and his parents could know the answer to, and I put the questions to Howard. He thought it was a brilliant game because he was bored lying in the same place day after day with no one to talk or play with. He gave me all the answers, which I passed on to the parents. They were shocked, amazed. And so happy that even the father broke down in tears. They wouldn't allow the hospital to stop the life-support and eventually they were proved to be right. I visited Howard every few days and talked with him telepathically. It took another two months for Howard to regain consciousness.'

'He recovered?' Eve asked in awe. If the psychic could do this, contact a boy who was nearly dead and in a coma, then surely she could reach Cam.

'Completely,' Lili replied. 'Within another six months Howard was running around like any other healthy boy of his age. Could I have a glass of water?'

'Yes, of course. Are you sure you don't want something stronger?' Eve rose to her feet.

'No thank you. I had too much wine last night. Besides, I never drink alcohol when I use my psychic sense. For some reason it interferes with the process.'

'Then you will help us find our son?'

'I'll try. I'm not always successful. I'm also out of practice.'

'Surely it's a gift that's with you all the time.'

Lili shook her head, a single movement. 'Like any other ability, you have to keep at it. You have to develop the skill. We'll see how it goes—just don't expect too much.'

Eve hurried out to the kitchen, excited, more hopeful then ever before, already convinced the psychic would succeed. She took a glass from the cupboard and filled it with tap water, eager to get back to her visitor.

When she returned to the sitting room, Lili Peel was standing next to the round occasional table by the armchair. In her hands she held the photograph of Cam.

41: CONTACT

'This is Cameron, your missing son,' Lili said as Eve proffered the glass of water.

'Yes. We always called him Cam. That picture was taken on his fifth birthday.'

Eve's eyes fell upon the small silver-framed photograph of her beloved son. A rush of unbound love swept over her and, of course, with it came unrelenting anguish.

'Does… does the picture tell you anything?' she asked tentatively, her hopes rising because Lili was staring at the photograph so intently. To Eve's regret the interruption seemed to break the psychic's concentration.

'Only that he was a beautiful-looking boy,' Lili replied, her attention now on Eve. 'D'you have anything that belonged to him, a favourite toy, an old jumper or shirt? Anything he was familiar with, or close to.'

'I kept everything of his, I didn't throw anything away. I felt it would have been wrong to, even if he's grown out of his old clothes by now. But we left his clothes and toys behind when we came here to Devon.'

'This photo will have to do, then.' Still holding onto the silver-framed picture, she took the glass of water from Eve.

The psychic sat down in the high-backed armchair next to the round table, keeping Cam's photograph with her. Eve sat on the edge of the couch opposite and leaned forward anxiously.

'Mrs Caleigh—' Lili began to say.

'Please call me Eve.'

'Eve, I don't want you to expect too much.'

'I won't,' Eve said unconvincingly. Lili seemed different today, so much softer than when they first met yesterday. The hardness was gone from those green eyes, which made her even prettier. Inwardly, Eve prayed that the woman really had telepathic powers and could reach Cam with her mind. She was glad Gabe wasn't there, because he wouldn't have approved of this—he was too grounded to believe in such things, and that was why Eve hadn't told him of her visit to the crafts shop in Pulvington. He might even be angry with her for going down such a path. But she had nothing to lose: she would use anything that might bring their son back.

Lili Peel placed the glass on the table, then, holding Cam's picture at almost arm's length away from her, she stared at it for a full minute. Eve saw that the psychic's forehead was furrowed with concentration and she held her breath, her own body tensing, thinking only of Cam as if that might help the psychic. Eve had to blink away the tears that threatened.

Lili slowly drew the photograph towards herself and pressed it between her small breasts. She closed her eyes and her wrinkled brow smoothed out as though she was no longer concentrating quite so intensely. Eve could not know this, but Lili was allowing her thoughts to roam free. She had filled her consciousness with images of the boy and was now attempting to 'tune in' to his psyche, even though she could not yet know whether he was alive or dead.

Her breathing became shallow, faster, and her eyelids flickered but did not open.

Eve was alarmed, worried that the psychic might hyperventilate, but Lili's breaths gradually became calm once more and one hand fell away to grip the arm of the chair she was sitting on. Her fingers clenched, then settled round the cushioned arm. Her breathing was deep now, the photograph against her chest rising and falling with the rhythm.

Eve wondered if the psychic was in a trance.

But Lili was only in a semi-trance. She was aware of the room around her, aware of Eve's presence on the couch opposite and aware of the house itself. Again aware of the deep oppression here.

Her head dropped forward, chin resting on her upper chest. She murmured something that Eve did not catch. Perhaps it was only a moan.

Lili's body became agitated, her shoulders giving little shrugs, the fingers resting on the chair's arm twitching. Her head rolled slightly, but remained dropped. Her eyelids flickered once more, then shut completely. The disturbing pallor returned to her face.

Eventually, her body relaxed and became very still. Her breathing was normal and, at first, Eve thought the psychic had fallen asleep; either that or she really was in a deep trance.

Then Lili's head slowly raised itself, her eyes remaining closed. Initially, her voice was but a whisper and Eve leaned even further forward to listen.

'I can… sense… some… someone,' Lili said quietly and Eve strained to hear. 'Yes, someone… very young… a boy, a very young boy…'

Eve's heart leapt. Could the psychic have reached Cam so soon, and so easily? Was it possible? Or was it a trick? Was Lili Peel a charlatan like many so-called mediums? But then, why should she try to deceive Eve? There had been no mention of a fee, so what would be the purpose? If Lili were genuine, Eve would gladly pay any charge she might demand; no price would be too high. Please, God, let this be real.

Lili's delicate lips moved again. The boy… he's so lost. He's calling… calling for help. He wants… he wants somebody to find him. He's in darkness… so alone…'

'Lili,' Eve tried, 'ask the boy who he is. Is it Cam? Please find out.'

'It… isn't clear. The connection between us is weak…'

'Ask him, Lili, please,' Eve implored. 'Is it my son?'

Lili opened her eyes and turned them towards Eve and her gaze seemed to come back from somewhere distant. 'I—I don't know,' she stammered. 'The voice is so faint. The… the contact between us isn't strong enough. Let me keep trying. But please, Eve, you've got to be quiet. Don't ask any questions, not yet'

'I'm sorry…' Eve pressed her lips together, determined not to distract the woman again. The psychic had reached her son, she was sure of that. But Lili's next words stunned her.

'I can't tell if I'm in touch with his spirit or his mind. It just isn't clear enough…'

Despite her resolution, Eve had to speak out. 'You said the boy was lost. Cam is lost to us, you know that. It has to be him.'

Lili raised her hand to stop Eve. 'The thoughts I'm receiving are fragile. He's afraid.'

'Of course he is! He doesn't like where he is, he wants to be back with me, with his family, don't you see?' Eve could no longer stem the flow of tears. Her hands were clasped together in her lap, their grip so fierce her knuckles were white.

'I can't tell why he's afraid,' said Lili helplessly. 'Nothing is right. He's too far away.'

Eve was desperate. 'Please,' she urged, 'please…'

Lili's eyes closed again and she leaned back in the armchair. Her face was tight, drawn, the mental struggle reflected in her pained features.

And then something changed.

Lili's eyes snapped open. She twisted in the chair, cowering, her arms up before her face. She groaned and her head turned from one side to the other. It was as if she were in agony.

Eve was startled by the transformation. Lili's mouth yawned open as if in horror and her eyes were wide, gaping up at the ceiling. Dropping the photograph of Cam, she clawed at her own neck with fevered hands.

And Eve shivered as she felt the dark oppression that had infiltrated the room; it weighed upon her like a dense but unseen mantle. Light seemed to be forced from the room, which was now filled with onerous gloom. Even the fire in the hearth seemed to wither under the presence, the flames dying, losing any warmth.

Lili's arms and shoulders shivered, but Eve couldn't tell if it was because of the room's coldness or because the psychic was terrified. Vapour clouds were expelled from her open mouth in short gasps and Eve attempted to rise from the couch to go to her, but she found herself transfixed, frozen, unable even to lift a hand. She was temporarily paralysed.

Meanwhile, Lili Peel's shivers ran through her whole body, from head to toe, her shoulders shuddering against the back of the armchair. Her neck and spine arched in some sort of spasm and her lips quivered; both of her hands clutched at the ends of the armrests.

She moaned, then cried out, 'Go away, leave me alone! You don't belong here any more!'

Eve wondered at whom or what the words were directed. She and Lili were the only persons in the room, even though she could feel a potent and intimidating presence. And the smell, a malodour that stung the nostrils.

Lili Peel appeared to be having some kind of seizure: her back remained arched and her jaw had dropped so that her mouth was gaping even more; her eyes stared but they were glazed, unseeing. She began to rise from the armchair, still gripping its arms, her stomach pushed forward, head tilted backwards as far as it could go.

Eve felt suddenly nauseous and she fought against it, swallowing hard, breathing through her mouth rather than her nose. It hardly helped. She struggled inwardly to leave the couch, but still couldn't rise. Her spine felt locked, and her flesh prickled. Why couldn't she move?

The answer came to her as a mental taunt: it was sheer terror that held her there; she was too afraid to move. All she could do was watch the psychic, whose body now writhed violently in the armchair. Despite her own fear, Eve was concerned for Lili, afraid that in her paroxysms she would hurt herself. Once more, Eve strained to move and this time she was able to raise her arms. Her trembling fingers reached out to the distressed psychic.

But Lili abruptly collapsed in the armchair and became still. Her head sank to her chest again and her eyes closed. Every second or two an arm, or a leg, or a shoulder, twitched, but she remained slumped in the cushioned chair.

There came a stillness to the room.

And it became even colder.

In the hearth the flames almost died.

Eve's eyes stayed fixed on Lili, who lay in the armchair as limp as a rag doll.

And the room was dark not just because it was a late-October evening, but because something more had weakened the already fading light. Shadows grew, seemed to live.

Opposite Eve, Lili Peel lay loosely in the armchair until her left arm twitched once, twice, then once again. Finally it fell slack against her thigh.

Her head slowly rose from her chest and even her light green eyes looked dark in the room's poor light. Perhaps it was because her pupils had dilated, the irises no more than thin rings round them.

At first, Eve thought the psychic was staring at her. But then she realized that Lili's horrified eyes were looking at something over Eve's shoulder.

42: DARKNESS

Gabe pulled up behind the people-carrier that served as Merrymiddle's school bus. Because of the narrowness of the lane, it was blocking his access to the short parking space on the right-hand side. As he waited for the bus to move on, he glanced up at the clouded evening sky. Dusk was always early this time of year, but the heavily laden clouds easily smothered any last rays the dying sun could throw out.

Loren alighted from the left side of the bus and Gabe watched her wave goodbye to a friend as the vehicle moved away, heading downhill to the harbour village. He steered towards his parking spot and was surprised to see a small blue two-door Citroën had taken up much of the space in the short lay-by. Wondering who owned the car, and if whoever did was visiting Crickley Hall, he squeezed in behind it, a rear corner of the Range Rover protruding slightly into the roadway.

Loren waved to him as she crossed the lane and Gabe climbed from his vehicle, retrieving the large slim portfolio that carried his design drawings and sketches from the back seat as he did so.

'Hey, Slugger,' he greeted Loren as she skipped the last steps towards him. She kissed his proffered cheek and gave him a smile that told him all had gone well at school today.

''Lo, Dad.'

'You been okay?' Her nightmare last night and her pain, imaginary or not, that came with it had been on his mind all day long.

'Fine, Dad.'

'Really?'

'Honest. It was a dream, that's all.'

'Well, I know the doc thought that, but you were in a pretty bad way last night.' He threw an arm round her shoulders as they strolled to the bridge. Kids get over things so fast, he thought. Let's see how she faces bedtime.

'How was the injured party today?' His tone was light, but he kept the smile off his face.

Loren was happy to shake her head. Seraphina had to come to school eventually and Loren wondered if the bad feelings would continue. She hoped not, because she doubted she could punch the big girl again, and certainly not as effectively as the first time when surprise was on her side. She didn't think she could summon up the courage or the anger to do it again. However, despite the trepidation, she was enjoying Merrymiddle; she seemed to be making new friends every day and Tessa had definitely become one of her best.

The dull square shape of the house loomed up across the river and her mood changed. 'Dad, I don't like Crickley Hall,' she said, looking up at him.

He noted that she hadn't said 'I don't like it here at Crickley Hall'; she'd implied that she didn't like the house itself. He felt the same.

'S'why I left work early,' he told her. 'We gotta talk about this place. It's got bad vibes.' If someone else had said that to him just a few days ago, he would have laughed in their face. How could a house have vibes of any kind?

'Are we leaving?' Loren's eyes searched his in the gloom.

'Let's say it's a strong possibility. We'll see what your ma has to say.' After last night and all the trouble that morning, he felt sure that Eve would want to pack up and go as quickly as possible. And as much as he hated the idea of a mere house defeating him, he would happily do the packing.

They crossed the bridge, the rushing waters gurgling beneath them. Loren almost slipped on the wet boards, but Gabe held her tight against him.

'Why are there no lights on, Dad?'

He followed her gaze and saw that she was right. The building ahead was in darkness, not a single window lit, despite the early-evening dusk. It gave Gabe a bad feeling.

To reassure Loren he said: 'Maybe Mummy joined Cally for her afternoon nap and they've both overslept. None of us got much sleep last night.'

They hurried their pace, Loren moving slightly ahead of her father, passing by the front door—the family generally used the kitchen door for exit and entry now, because the front-door key was too long and cumbersome to carry comfortably. By the time Gabe turned the corner of the house, she was inserting her key into the lock. She waited for him before pushing the door open.

From behind her, Gabe reached in and flicked on the light switch. They blinked at the sudden brightness, then both headed for the open doorway into the hall, Gabe leaving the portfolio propped up against a kitchen table leg.

'Mum!' Loren called out from the hall's threshold. There was no answer.

Quickly becoming aware of the vast room's deep coolness, they stopped in their tracks.

'Hell,' Gabe muttered, perplexed. By now, he was used to the house's chill despite the working radiators and the fires he lit in various rooms, but this was something else. This was like stepping into a deep-freeze again.

'Daddy, look.' Loren was standing perfectly still in front of him, but her head was upturned as she looked at the galleried landing above. He caught sight of them, but oddly he couldn't focus on any.

They sped along the landing, fleeting wisps of—of what? Small stringy smoke clouds, hazy drifts of fog? White shadows? On their first day here, Loren had claimed to have seen what she called a white shadow outside her bedroom door—was this what she meant? But now there were several, streaking, gliding along the landing, separate entities like—like spectres—in a rush. As Gabe and Loren's eyes grew accustomed to the poor light and the depthless shadows it seemed to induce, they saw more of these vaporous moving shrouds on the broad stairway, so faint they were scarcely visible. They darted down to the hall itself to scatter this way and that as if confused.

It was an impossible sight, all the more implausible because of the vagueness of the shapes; nevertheless, Gabe felt the skin at the back of his neck stiffen, the iciness there sharp, almost stinging.

He moved in front of Loren as if to shield her, but incredibly there was no fear on her face, only a kind of astonished awe. Without further thought, he took a step back to the side of the kitchen doorway, where a row of brown light switches was situated, and pushed all three of them down with the edge of his hand.

The light—mainly from the ironwork chandelier high overhead, but also from two single, shaded hanging lights along the L-shaped landing—was ungenerous, but it at least cleared the air of the phantasms. Gabe was relieved, but still mystified.

'Eve!' he called out. 'Eve, where are you?'

He and Loren heard the low cry at the same time and both looked towards the open sitting-room door. Despite the overhead illumination, the darkness beyond the doorway was hardly softened; it was almost as if a solid black barrier barred entry. Gabe and Loren hurried towards it, passing the open cellar door on the way, and they reached the room together.

Without thought, Gabe leaned in, his fingers scrabbling round for the wall light switch, and it was like dipping his hand into thick ink so intense was the blackness there. He nearly pulled back from the awful stench that seemed to saturate the air, but he resisted the impulse, guessing his wife was somewhere there in the darkness.

Even as he sought the switch, which was at least a foot further along than he remembered, he heard Loren gasp beside him. Then he saw it too, by the dismal glow thrown out by the almost extinguished fire in the hearth. There were two figures sitting there in the dark, one in the room's armchair, the other—he knew by instinct this was Eve—on the couch, face half-turned towards something—something even blacker than the room's dense umbra—that stooped over her.

His urgent fingers finally found the light switch and struck it down. The light almost seemed reluctant to fulfil its role, for it came on dimly at first, increasing in power in slow, progressive stages, taking seconds to glow brightly. It was as if the darkness itself had fought against it.

Only Eve and an unfamiliar fair-haired woman occupied the sitting room and both sat like pale statues, perfectly still as if scared rigid.

Only then did the fire flame back into life.

43: CONFLICT

Gabe let his anger rip.

'Tell me again what happened a few minutes ago. You say there was a ghost standing over Eve, but it disappeared when I came in the room with Loren and switched on the light.'

'I don't know that it was a ghost,' Lili replied evenly, avoiding the engineer's fierce gaze. 'It was an entity of some sort, that's all I can tell you, and it wished us harm. We both saw it, a… a black shape that was reaching for Eve until you disturbed it. Somehow it lost its power and faded. Maybe it was the lights that did it, I just don't know.'

'But you say the place is haunted.' Gabe glared at the psychic, concerned that Eve was being too easily influenced by her.

'Eleven children were drowned in this house over sixty years ago, Mr Caleigh. Now something is preventing their spirits from passing over. We have to help them, we have to find out what's blocking their progress, we have to help them go to where they're meant to be.'

Gabe stopped his pacing to look down at her.

If Lili felt intimidated, she did not show it. She went on: 'I also think your daughter is some kind of catalyst for the spirit children.'

'Come on…' Gabe groaned.

'It's not uncommon for astral spirits to use the pure psychic energy of young people—especially teenage or pre-teenage girls for some reason. The darkness and smell that was in this room went away when the light was turned on and Loren came in.'

Before he could interrupt, Lili asked a question. 'Has Loren felt unusually tired recently?'

'Why yes,' responded Eve, surprised. 'We all have, but especially Loren. She's complained of tiredness since we arrived here. We thought it was because of change of environment, or anxiety over starting at a new school. Or just, you know, part of the process of growing up.'

'She's at an age when her psychic energy is strong but all over the place. It's easily tapped into.'

Gabe's voice was incredulous. 'Are you saying our daughter is possessed?'

Lili shook her head vigorously. 'No, no, nothing like that. It's just a phenomenon that nobody can explain. You must've felt how cold it was in here earlier. It's because the spirits drain energy from the atmosphere itself. But their greatest source of power is from living people, particularly young people whose open minds have yet to be dulled by cynicism. That's why I turned towards spiritualism myself; I was used by a child ghost when I was a little girl—that was when I realized I had a special gift that no one else around me seemed to have.'

Gabe regarded Loren with concern. She had been allowed to remain in the room while her mother and the psychic related what had happened earlier because both he and Eve considered her mature enough to hear their discussion—after all, she had experienced some weird stuff herself in this place. Now he was beginning to regret the decision. Loren was sitting on the couch close to her mother and her eyes were intent on the psychic. Most kids believed in ghosts, he thought, but then many also believed in fairies. He returned his attention to the young blonde woman in the armchair.

'Listen, lady—'

'Her name's Lili,' Eve quickly interjected, annoyed at his rudeness—and his blunt refusal to accept what he was being told. 'Lili Peel.'

'Okay, sorry. I don't know what game you're playing, what interest you've got in all this, but you're twisting my wife's head. You got her believing everything you say.'

Eve was about to protest, but he held up a hand as if to ward her off.

'Now it so happens I don't believe in ghosts, never have, probably never will, but I admit something's going on here that isn't normal, so I guess you'd call it the paranormal. The house has certainly got bad vibes that I can't account for. But I do know you can't talk to the dead, not for real. Don't get me wrong, I'm not saying you're a phoney, I honestly believe you're sincere in what you say. I just don't go along with it and I don't want my wife and daughter to either. We got enough problems without this.'

'Then you explain the paranormal activity that's been going on since you got here,' Lili came back at him, 'all the things Eve has told me about.'

At last Lili was showing some defiance, thought Eve, secretly glad. Before, Lili had seemed a little cowed by Gabe's verbal disdain. Now she delivered her words with the same brittle coldness that she'd used when Eve had visited the shop yesterday.

'I can't,' said Gabe, shaking his head in frustration. 'I don't know. But I don't want it to be my family's problem.'

'You can't just walk away from it.'

'Watch us.'

'There are young children involved, lost children.'

'But not real kids.'

'They need our help.'

'Your help. We don't have that psychic thing.' The last two words were derisory.

'And if I can find your missing son at the same time?'

Gabe's mouth shut tight. His fists clenched.

'Lili spoke to Cam,' Eve said as if daring her husband to disbelieve. 'He knows we're here.'

Lili faltered. 'I… I didn't speak to him. Somehow our minds connected, that was all. It was as if he was searching and had finally found what he was looking for. It wasn't very clear, I couldn't be certain it was him. But I can try again. Not now—I feel as if I've been drained dry—but soon, maybe even tomorrow?'

'Forgive my cynicism'—he didn't sound in the least bit sorry—'but is that how you get your kicks, stringing gullible people along with your talk of contacting lost souls by mind-power?'

Eve was almost out of her seat. 'That's unfair! I went to Lili, not the other way round.'

'Okay, okay.' He held up a penitent hand. 'I'm just saying maybe she's even deluding herself, thinking she can talk to dead people or that she has telepathic powers. Look, I don't know how or why, but I think this house musters up hallucinations, even in sceptics like me.'

Eve shook her head in dismay. 'You think all this is our imagination? The footsteps in the attic, the knocking behind the empty cupboard doors? Gabe, I saw the spirits of those poor little children myself out there in the hall only two days ago. You think it's all self-delusion?'

'I've never been into this kinda stuff, so I don't know what it is. But something's going on here and we're not hanging around to find out what. It's none of our business, right?'

'How can you be—' Eve stopped in mid-sentence. Both Lili and Gabe had turned their attention to the open doorway behind her. She twisted round on the couch to see for herself, Loren following suit.

Cally stood in the opening, spongy Bart Simpson cuddled in one arm, the knuckles of her other hand rubbing at her sleepy eyes. With everything that had happened, Eve had completely forgotten about her youngest daughter napping upstairs. Cally had slept for a long time, far longer than usual.

'Mummy,' the five-year-old said plaintively. 'Why are the children so frightened?'

Outside, the clouds began to shed their load and rain drummed against the windows.

44: SIXTH NIGHT

It had been a difficult evening, Gabe and Eve barely speaking to one another for much of it. There was no shouting match (although in some ways that might have been better—it would have at least cleared the air), there was just a brooding awkwardness left between them following a brief argument after Lili Peel had departed. Even this was kept low-level, for they hadn't wanted to upset Loren and Cally any further with talk of ghosts, real or otherwise. But when their daughters had gone to bed, Eve had told him of the incident with the garden swing that morning, how some invisible force had pushed the swing too high, terrifying Cally and frightening herself, how she, Eve, had been knocked to the ground, showing Gabe the small mark on her chin where she'd been hit by the wooden seat. She also spoke of the children's spirits that she—and Cally—had seen dancing in the hall. He had been dumbfounded and only made more determined to get his family away from Crickley Hall. Although he wouldn't admit it to them, he was becoming afraid for his wife and daughters. But Eve wouldn't listen, she just wouldn't hear him out. Frustrated, Gabe had retreated into a cool silence, the way he always did when events and emotions seemed to spin out of his control. Tomorrow would be different. Tomorrow, in the new light of day, he'd get Eve to change her mind.

•

Gabe turned in his sleep and his eyes suddenly opened. He stared up at the ceiling where the glow from the landing light outside spread through the open doorway, and he wondered what had awakened him.

He was in Loren's bed; the girls had planted themselves in his and Eve's four-poster without seeking permission and both were sound asleep when he and Eve had turned in for the night. They hadn't the heart to disturb their daughters and Gabe, mindful of the previous uncomfortable nights in the crowded bed, had elected to sleep alone next door. Eve had not tried to dissuade him.

Rain lashed the window and he thought a sudden gust of wind might have rattled the frame hard enough to disturb him. He lay there for a full minute listening for any sounds but, despite the heavy bullets of rain that continued to punish the glass, the window itself was still.

Yet something had roused him, he was sure. A noise? A movement? He peered into the room's shadows, into the dark corners, seeking an answer, his imagination held in check for the moment. Nothing there, as far as he could tell.

Lifting his head from the pillow, he looked through the open doorway. There was nothing to see.

Gabe rested his head again, his eyes remaining wide open, and listened to the ceaseless rain. He had become used to England's general dampness whatever the season, but this was beyond usual. Apart from an occasional break, the rain had hardly let up for weeks now. He had a mental image of the river beneath the house, coursing through its subterranean channel, fed by the waters from the high moors. What damage had been done to Crickley Hall's foundations over the decades? How long could stone and cement withstand constant pressure? It was a discomforting thought.

He closed his eyes, wanting to sleep, needing to sleep. Crickley Hall had not offered the respite he'd hoped for. There was no peace here for his family, no let-up from their anguish.

His eyes blinked open.

There was no one else in the room, but suddenly it didn't feel that way. He searched the shadowy corners again and still there was nothing to cause concern. Yet… yet he could feel eyes watching him. It was an uncanny sensation, but it felt very real. Eerie. As if something malevolent were observing—no, scrutinizing—him from somewhere in the room.

He looked towards the open doorway again. Rain, driven by a sudden wind clattered against the window, causing him to start. A hell of a night out there. But it was a minor distraction, for the sense of being watched was impossible to ignore. The muscles in his neck became taut as he stretched them.

Then he saw it.

But it was only in the periphery of his vision, for his attention had been elsewhere.

He thought a small ragged mist had passed by on the landing outside. Like a shadow. Like a white shadow. Now he felt the skin of his entire body tighten as a deep chill enwrapped him. Gabe realized he was very scared.

Of course he had known fear before, but never quite like this. This fear was filled with a dread that almost immobilized him. He had to force himself to sit up in the bed.

Perversely, the dread of something unknown made Gabe angry with himself. He wasn't a child and didn't believe in ghosts. With a muttered curse, he forced himself to whip back the duvet and go to the door. Although dressed only in T-shirt and shorts, he was already too cold to feel any worse as he padded across the wooden flooring. His spine felt rigid, as though it were gripped by an icy brace, and he rolled his shoulders to loosen it. Still he felt as if he were being observed by something in the room with him; something invisible, but nevertheless there, lurking, hiding, where it couldn't be seen.

As he reached the door he caught a whiff of something nasty mixed with the weaker scent of…? Of soap? But not a pleasant brand of soap. But the extraneous odours seemed to have nothing to do with whatever had passed by the room a moment or two ago, because the air, such as it was, was purer on the landing. The unpleasant reek was from behind him. Outside the door he paused, then saw the mist again at the top of the stairs. It lingered there, as if waiting for him. A ridiculous notion, it was true, but one he couldn't shake.

Gabe was reminded of the skittering images he and Loren had witnessed earlier that day and the description came to him again: white shadow. This thing looked as insubstantial as that.

As he took a tentative step towards the small immobile mist, it began to descend the stairway. He peered over the balustrade to follow its progress.

The landing light barely infringed upon the gloom of the grand hall below; it was like an umbrageous arena filled with deep blacks and murky greys among which anything might skulk. Yet the sinking mist was clearly visible, as though illuminated from within.

Curiosity overrode Gabe's trepidation. He headed towards the stairway, careful to tread softly as he passed the room in which his wife and daughters slept. He would have liked to have retrieved the flashlight he now kept beside the four-poster bed, but that would risk waking Eve or one of the girls and they deserved at least one night of uninterrupted sleep. Reaching the stairway, he paused again to search the space below.

His eyes had become accustomed to the poor light and he caught sight of the white shadow floating across the hall towards the cellar door.

Gabe hurried down the stairs, a hand on the banister to feel his way, his senses acutely alert, dread countered by rushing adrenaline. He stopped once again on the stairway's square turn, his feet suddenly wet. He was standing in a puddle.

Rain beat at the tall window and it was hardly surprising that water had leaked through the worn window frames. As he stood there, the sense of being observed was powerful enough to make him spin round and search the stairs and landing behind him. There was nothing there, though. At least, nothing that he could see.

Ignoring the feeling of being prey to something unseen, he descended the rest of the stairs, then made his way across the flagstone floor towards the cellar on the other side of the hall. Despite his apprehension, he felt he was meant to follow this mist, this shadow; somehow it was irresistible, as if he were being lured. And he had put reason aside for the moment, allowing himself to be drawn.

He splashed through more puddles on the flagstones, but hardly noticed them now as he moved through the darkness, the light on the landing above too feeble to provide much guidance. He was tempted to find the main light switch by the kitchen door, but if the chandelier came on it would shine through the doorway to where his family slept; he still didn't want to wake them, no point, Loren might freak.

Gabe could just make out the solid blackness that was the open cellar door and as he watched, the white shadow slipped through and disappeared down the steps. Reluctant to lose sight of it completely, he quickened his pace, bare feet now slapping on dry stone. As he went, he swung his head round as if to catch whoever was observing him unawares, but there was nobody on the stairway or on the landing above. Nobody that he could see, that is. Still the feeling of being scrutinized persisted, although he seemed to have left the smell of corruption and soap behind.

As he approached the cellar door (which he remembered having locked yet again before turning in for the night), a different smell wafted out to him. This was of dampness and mould, of cobwebs and dust. He could hear the busy rush of the river beneath the house rising from the well below. Cautiously, he peeked through the opening.

Although the darkness was complete at the bottom of the steps, he just caught sight of the lighter shadow moving into it. Gabe reached in and turned on the narrow stairway's light, a naked low-wattage bulb covered in grime. The journey down into the cellar looked uninviting, for the blackness there had hardly receded; instead it seemed to be pushing against the lowest step like a threatening tenebrous tide.

Without giving himself time for further reflection, the engineer began to descend, one hand brushing the wall as he went. He was soon on the last stair and the pitchy blackness spread out before him. Breathing in stale air, he reached round the wall on his right, fingers searching for the light switch. Found it, flicked it on.

Just in time to see the nebulous white shadow flow over the well's low circular wall and drop out of sight.

The cellar was by no means well-lit, for the naked hanging lightbulb, like the one over the steps, was dimmed by years of dust; there were corners and niches that were impenetrable. The opening to the boiler and generator room next door was a black void.

Gabe returned his attention to the well, anxious not to lose sight of the thing he'd followed. Wary of debris scattered around the cellar's floor, he went to the well's low stone wall and peered into its depths. Although he heard the endless roar of the river below—its noise was amplified by the acoustics of the circular shaft—it was like looking into a bottomless pit. Of the white shadow he had followed there was no trace: it seemed to have been absorbed into the umbra. Unconsciously, he leaned further over the lip, his shins pressing against the wall, and stared into the dense blackness below. Gabe had never before suffered from vertigo, but a sudden dizziness came upon him; it was as if the blackness was sucking him in. An iciness seemed to reach up for him, freezing his very bones, and his breath was released in vaporous clouds. He almost toppled, but caught himself just in time, and staggered backwards, away from the opening.

Gabe stood there, a foot or two away from the wall, and he inhaled a deep breath of musty air in an effort to calm himself.

He heard a noise that had nothing to do with the pounding of the river beneath the house. It was a scuffling noise and it had come from somewhere in the spacious underground chamber. Something dragging.

Gabe squinted his eyes, trying to discern anything that might be concealed by the shadows there. It was too dark, though. Someone was using the shadows as a cloak. Just as he had been certain he was being watched upstairs, he was sure that somebody lurked just out of sight.

'Someone there?' he barked with a gruffness he hardly felt.

Only the sound of rushing water came back to him.

Moving slowly, Gabe edged round the wall of the well, a path that took him closer to the source of the scuffling. There it was again! He hadn't been mistaken. Someone—an intruder—was hiding from him. Maybe they'd seen him come out onto the landing earlier and ducked through the open cellar door before he came downstairs. But then Gabe had gone straight to the cellar, so the intruder must have escaped down the steps, any noise they might have made covered by the sound of the river rising from the well.

Again! Feet scraping on concrete. From right there, inside the opening to the boiler room where the weak overhead light couldn't reach. His eyes might have been playing tricks on him, but he was sure something had moved in the darkness. Dark upon dark.

Gabe wasn't sure what to do. His instinct was to get the hell out of there, lock and barricade the cellar door and call the police. But he couldn't be sure there was someone there. Maybe the quiet scuffling he heard was nothing more than dirt falling from the cellar wall or ceiling, the house itself settling. Maybe the intruder was no more than a mouse or a rat. Yet, just as he'd felt eyes on him minutes before, he could feel a presence lurking there, hidden in the darkness. And it wasn't a mouse or a rat. This was something bigger. He was certain of that too.

His mouth felt dry and adrenaline pounded through his body. 'Okay,' he muttered to himself, talking up his courage, 'let's see what you got to offer.'

He half crouched, his muscles tensed, fists clenched, and prepared to rush the shadows and drag out whoever was there. He felt the energy surge.

'Right!' he yelled, but just as he lunged forward a fierce light came on from behind him.

'Gabe!' It was Eve's voice. 'What are you doing?'

Almost thrown off balance, he wheeled round. He raised a hand to shield his eyes against the bright glare and waited for his heart to stop pounding.

'Gabe, why are you down here?' Her voice was full of concern, bewilderment too.

'Eve,' he managed to utter, 'shine the light through the doorway.' Gabe pointed as he half turned away from her.

'What?' She was even more bewildered.

'Quick, shine it through the doorway!'

She did as she was told, even though mystified. 'What's the matter with you, Gabe? There's nothing there.'

Gabe snatched the torch from her and crossed to the opening. The beam lit up the next-door room, revealing the boiler and generator, the old mangle and blade sharpener, the pile of logs and the coal heap, odd pieces of junk that littered the dusty floor; but no one hid here, it was plain to see.

He finally let go of his breath.

45: THURSDAY

It was morning and Gabe sat at the kitchen table, on his second cup of coffee after breakfast and wishing he hadn't given up smoking. Loren had left for school and Cally was at the table with him, enthusiastically crayoning in a horse he had sketched for her (being an engineer, his version of the animal was more mechanical than it was graceful), telling her it was the horse he used to ride in his cowboy days. Cally was colouring it a bright shade of purple.

Eve tapped on the window to get the attention of Percy, who was working outside on one of the garden's flowerbeds, hood pulled up over his cap against the steady downbeat of rain. The gardener straightened and looked her way. She mimed drinking a cup of tea and he gave her a thumbs-up before making his way to the kitchen door.

Gabe was hunched over his coffee, both hands wrapped round the mug as if for warmth, and he appraised Percy silently as the old man stamped his wet boots on the doormat. Shrugging back his hood and removing the flat cap, the gardener nodded respectfully at him.

'Hey, Percy,' Gabe greeted in a low but friendly growl.

'Yup,' Percy replied.

He immediately seemed to sense the frosty atmosphere between Gabe and Eve, taking them both in as he stood awkwardly on the rough mat.

'Sit down, Percy, and I'll bring your tea over,' Eve told him and the old man mumbled something incoherent as he pulled out a chair from the table. 'Would you like some toast?' she pressed him.

'No, missus, I'm all right.' Orlroit. He smiled at Cally and touched the top of her head gently, but she was more interested in giving her purple horse a yellow mane. Eve put the cup and saucer before him on the table.

'Nasty weather, huh?' said Gabe by way of making conversation. He and Eve had barely spoken a word to each other that morning and had not even mentioned his excursion into the cellar last night. Down there, he had explained that he had followed a 'white shadow' and she had seemed to take some satisfaction in the fact that at last he was treating the strange phenomena in Crickley Hall seriously. As for something hiding in the boiler room, he himself had eventually surmised it had probably been a small animal, a rodent, whose scuffling was made louder and more sinister by the bare brick walls and concrete floor and ceiling. Eve had told him something had disturbed her sleep—a noise, instinct, she didn't know what—and when she had gone out onto the landing she had seen the light from the open cellar door below. She had gone next door to rouse Gabe and, on seeing the bed was empty, had assumed it was he who was downstairs. She had grabbed the flashlight from their bedroom and followed.

They had both returned to their separate beds, too weary—the comedown after the high adrenaline flow—to discuss whether Crickley Hall was truly haunted, should they stay or leave, and what did it all mean. Neither of them slept much that night.

'Folks is gettin' fretful,' said Percy in response to Gabe's remark on the weather.

'Oh?' The engineer's thoughts had already drifted.

'Worried 'bout what the rain's doin' to the moors.'

'Has there been a flood warning?' Eve asked anxiously.

'No, not yet there ain't.'

'But they've taken precautions should it ever happen again, haven't they, Percy? I read about it in a book I got from the village store. A flood could never do the same damage as last time.'

'So they reckons, missus. Sometimes, though, nature has its own ideas.'

Gabe didn't like the subject; there were more immediate things to worry about. 'Percy,' he said more casually than he felt, 'tell us a little about the guy who owns Crickley Hall. You said Temple or something like that was his name.'

'Templeton. Mr Templeton.'

'Okay. You told us he was never happy here…?' It ended as a question.

'No, he never were. S'why they up and left. But I think that were more to do with his wife, Mary, than anythin' else.'

'Yeah?'

'Had no kiddies, there were jus' the two of 'em an' Crickley Hall's too big for jus' a couple on their own. Needs a family, like yours.'

Percy blew into his teacup, then sipped from it, the saucer held below to catch any drips as usual. He looked directly at the American.

'What makes yer ask, Mr Caleigh?'

Somehow Gabe knew it wasn't an idle question. But it was Eve who replied.

'We wondered why the Templetons no longer used Crickley Hall themselves nowadays. Is there a reason?'

Percy placed the cup back into its saucer and then both on the table.

'Mr Templeton's wife became poorly almost as soon as they moved in all them years ago. She never took to the place, an' I think he didn't either 'cause of her.'

'D'you know why she didn't like it here?' asked Gabe, more than interested.

Percy gave it some thought. 'Mr Templeton, he told me his wife felt there was a bad atmosphere 'bout the house an' it made her depressed, like. She'd heard the rumours, y'see, 'bout Crickley Hall bein' haunted an' all, an' mebbe she took it too serious. Anyways, 't'weren't long afore she took to her bed. Small things at first—colds, headaches, backaches, them sort of problems. Then they discovered she had cancer, bad cancer—if there's any of the good kind.'

'What happened?'

'They left. Moved out. Mr Templeton took his wife to London for specialist treatment, but she died anyways, only weeks later, we heard. An' Mr Templeton, well he never came back 'cept fer one day months later. Wouldn't sell the place though.'

'Oh?' said Gabe. 'Why was that?'

'I asked him that very same question the day he returned to sort out things with the estate agent who he wanted to take charge of the prop'ty. After his good lady died, that were.' Percy nodded to himself as if remembering that very day. 'I were workin' in the garden as usual an' Mr Templeton, he came out to see me, mostly to let me know I were bein' kep' on as gardener an' maintenance even though he wouldn't be livin' here no more, but also 'cause he often like to jus' stop an' chat with me awhile. Always had done, said it took his mind off other worries jus' chattin' 'bout the garden an' what needed doin', 'bout the weather or local people, any old thing that weren't important like. When he told me he weren't comin' back to Crickley Hall no more an' that the estate agent feller—a Mr Cardew it were at that time—he had instructions to let the prop'ty whenever there were any interest, I says to him, why don't you sell up an' forget 'bout the place. I knew him an' his wife had never been happy here, y'see, so I were wonderin' why he didn't just get shot of it.'

He looked first at Gabe, and then at Eve, as if to make sure they were paying attention.

'An' he told me,' Percy continued, 'lookin' back at the house as he says it, "Percy, livin' in Crickley Hall fer too long will destroy a person's mind. The house's got a secret that'll forever haunt it." That were the word he used, haunt. And he were haunted by it, I could tell. I thought of them poor little mites who had died here years afore, an' I knew he were right. The secret is what really happened to 'em. How could they all've drowned in a buildin' as solid as Crickley Hall? What was the authorities, who came after the flood, what was they hidin' from the local people? An' I, like I told your missus t'other day, think they were terrified if what really happened to them kiddies that night of the flood became known, people in the cities would never allow their children to be evacuated, even though the war were still goin' on. They might figure the children safer at home with their mums and dads.'

Percy gave a sigh, his gaze introspective.

'Mr Templeton told me I still had my job fer as long as I wanted. Much as he didn't like Crickley Hall, he didn't want the place to go to ruin. Cleaners were paid to come in once a month, keep it liveable, like. Mr Templeton didn't like to see anythin' rot away, even if he didn't care for it hisself.'

'Did Mr Templeton ever tell you things had happened here he couldn't explain?' Eve asked quietly.

The gardener turned in his seat to face her. It was a moment or two before he responded.

'Not sure what yer mean, missus.'

'He told you Crickley Hall could destroy a person's mind. He must have had a reason for saying that.'

Percy pondered and Gabe groaned inwardly. Surely she wasn't going to tell the old man about the things that had been happening to them since they'd arrived here? But the doorbell startled them all, so intrusive was its ring.

Eve glanced at Gabe and he rose from the table. 'On it,' he said, glad of the interruption.

He went out into the hall and to the front door, opening it. A woman whose face was vaguely familiar was on the doorstep, an umbrella held low over her head. She was wearing a stern expression and a bright scarf; it was the blue-and-yellow scarf that he remembered.

'Mr Caleigh. We met on Saturday. I was with my husband.' The words were spoken quickly and brusquely.

'Sure,' he said, recognizing the vicar's wife. 'Mrs, uh, Trevellick.'

Her piercing eyes regarded him sharply, her thin unrouged lips set in a straight line across her face.

'Can you tell me the meaning of this?' she snapped at him, slapping the folded newspaper she carried in her free hand against his chest.

Surprised, he took the newspaper from her and unfolded it. The banner told him it was the North Devon Dispatch and the front page headline said in caps: COUNCILLOR RESIGNS OVER EXPENSES.

'Sorry, I—' Gabe began to say, but she snatched the journal back impatiently.

'Page five.' Awkwardly using both hands, umbrella resting on a shoulder, she pulled open the newspaper. Rain spattered its pages as she thrust it back at him.

On page five was a photograph of a surprised-looking Eve standing in the kitchen doorway. It was inset against a larger shot of Crickley Hall itself, which must have been taken from somewhere near the bridge. Gabe quickly read the headline beneath: CHILDREN CLAIM SEEING GHOST IN MANOR.

His jaw dropped. So much had happened when he'd arrived home yesterday that Eve hadn't mentioned any journalist and photographer having been to the house. Surely she hadn't given them an interview.

Before he could read on, the vicar's wife was berating him again. 'Do you realize how irresponsible you're being?'

'Look, I don't know anything about—' he began, but once more she interrupted him.

'Police called to the house, children making up stories about Crickley Hall. A ghost, indeed! And you have to blab it all to the newspapers!'

'Now wait a minute—'

'Do you realize they'll probably track down a poor sick old lady just to dredge up stories that should have been laid to rest years ago! You've started up all the silly rumours again. The whole county will have a field day. There's nothing people like more than a ludicrous haunted-house story. Crackpots will come from miles around just to see the place and take photographs for themselves. Those children the article mentions were drowned in the flood, there's nothing more to it than that!' She was almost spitting at him.

He skimmed through the story: Seraphina, 12, and Quentin Blaney, 14, while visiting— visiting?—an old manor house called Crickley Hall, near the harbour village of Hollow Bay, had been confronted by the ghost of a nude man … house flooded, water everywhere … another ghost in the cellar … hadn't seen this one clearly but knew it was there … Gabe remembered last night and the fear he'd felt himself because he thought there was something there in the cellar with him, out of sight in the shadows of the room next door. In the light of day he had questioned his own susceptibility, wondering if the noises he'd heard had merely whipped up his own imagination, causing him to think he was not alone. But then, he had followed the mist from upstairs, the thing he called the 'white shadow', so what was that all about?

Celia Trevellick was still ranting at him—something about letting the dead rest in peace, ruining someone's good name with outrageous rumours, pandering to the press with wicked lies—but he wasn't taking it in. He read on: Mrs Eve Caleigh and her husband Gabriel … currently renting the property … neither confirmed nor denied reports that Crickley Hall is haunted … police called to investigate disturbances … two young daughters Laura and Kaley … Surely Eve hadn't told the paper all this?

'Are you listening to me, Mr Caleigh?' The vicar's wife's face was taut with indignation, a blue vein clearly throbbing in her left temple.

'I wasn't here at the time,' Gabe explained firmly, 'but I'm sure my wife wouldn't have given a story like this to a reporter. She'd've slammed the door in their face.'

'Well they got it from somewhere.'

'Yeah, from the two kids who broke in most likely. But hey, I don't get it. Why are you blaming us for something we didn't do?'

For a moment she seemed lost for words, but she soon rallied. 'Because you're outsiders here and you've stirred up gossip and whispers about past events that weren't true in the first place. You're tarnishing the reputations of good people who are no longer able to defend themselves.'

'Who exactly?'

'Never mind that. Just stop this nonsense about Crickley Hall being haunted.'

'Lady, we didn't start it in the first place. You think we want crazies turning up on our doorstep asking to see the ghosts? We got better things to do. Now excuse me while I get on with one of those better things.'

He began to close the door, but she held a hand against it.

'I can make a complaint to the owner, you know,' she said fiercely. 'My husband knows the estate manager, Mr Grainger, very well. We could have your lease revoked.'

'You're kidding, right?'

'I can assure you I'm not. People who cause trouble should expect trouble back.'

Gabe felt himself beginning to burn.

'So long, Mrs Trevellick,' he said evenly, keeping his temper in check. 'Go ride your broomstick someplace else.' He forced the door shut, his last sight of the irate woman at least satisfying: she stood as stiff as a rod, her mouth agape, her eyes wide with shock. If he'd given her the chance, he was sure she would have poked him with the sharp end of the umbrella.

He turned to see Eve by the kitchen door, obviously reluctant to have become involved in the altercation. Realizing he still had the newspaper in his hand, he offered it up to her.

'Page five, great picture,' he said.

Eve took it from him and quickly leafed through to the relevant feature.

'Oh God,' she said when she saw the photographs and read the headline. She went through the story, shaking her head at parts of it. 'The reporter makes it sound like I gave a full interview and that I knew Crickley Hall was haunted. I swear, Gabe, I said none of this.'

'Okay, hon, I know.' He shrugged as if to dismiss the article.

'I refused to speak to him. And the photographer took the picture before I could close the door.'

'Don't worry. It couldn't be helped. They just run stories to fill up space.'

'So this is why Mrs Trevellick was so cross?'

'Uh-huh. You heard?'

'Most of it.'

'You did the right thing, not getting involved. She's nuts.'

They went back into the kitchen together, Eve still reading the piece.

'Seems like Seraphina and her brother enjoyed the attention,' she commented, looking up from the newspaper. 'Probably disappointed they didn't get to have a picture too.'

Percy regarded Gabe and Eve curiously. 'Sounded like the vicar's wife out there.'

'That's who it was, Percy,' said Gabe. 'Celia Trevellick. Can't get my head round why she was so mad. Said something about dredging up old rumours. Damage to the community, apparently.'

'I heard her from here. Little un was anxious like.' The gardener smiled at Cally, who was watching her parents.

'S'll right, Sparky,' Gabe told her. 'The angry lady's gone now.'

With that reassurance, Cally went back to her colouring, the tip of her tongue protruding from the corner of her mouth as she drew a tree behind the purple and yellow horse.

Gabe waved a hand at the newspaper that Eve still held open. 'I don't get it. We should be the ones to get upset. Using a picture of Eve without her permission, showing everyone the house.'

'And virtually giving out the address,' Eve put in. 'I just hope we don't start getting daytrippers and loonies looking us up. I can't understand why Mrs Trevellick got so upset though.'

Percy's jaw jutted as he scratched his neck. 'The vicar's wife is an important person in Hollow Bay. She's on the parish council an' the church committee, as well as bein' in charge of the Women's Guild hereabouts. An' her family goes way back, it's part of local history.'

'Oh yeah?' said Gabe, still baffled as to why the newspaper story had rattled her cage.

Percy nodded. 'Expects her husband to be bishop one day, so her reputation is important to her.'

'But what's that got to do with this?' Gabe indicated the journal, which Eve had closed and left on the table.

'Scandals never really fade away in these parts. Rumours don't ever die, an' reputations go back generations.'

Gabe shrugged again. 'I still don't get it.'

'Her grandpa were Hollow Bay's vicar durin' the war an' long afore.'

'So?'

'He were a great chum of Augustus Cribben. Stood by the man, admired Cribben for his pious ways an' discipline. It were the vicar, Rossbridger, who recommended Augustus Cribben for the post of guardian in the first place. Knew him of old, y'see. Not exactly pals, but they both had respect for one another.'

Eve was dismayed. 'But Cribben treated the evacuees appallingly. You told us that yourself and it's all there in the book Gabe found.'

'Yers, but nobody knew that at the time. Nobody 'cept Nancy, of course, an' she weren't able to do anythin' 'bout it in the end.'

Gabe sat back down at the table, giving Cally a faint smile when she peeked up at him. To Percy, he said: 'Why should any of this matter to Rossbridger's granddaughter after all these years?'

'Like I says, it's a dark part of her family history. She don't want it dug up again—might tarnish her an' the vicar's good name.'

'That's ridiculous. How could it matter now? It's in the past.'

'An' as I says, family history is important in these parts, 'specially when yer be fine upstandin' members of the community like the Trevellicks an' yer expects yer husband to become bishop.'

Gabe was confounded, Eve dismayed.

'Old Rossbridger, he were right behind Cribben in those days an' it were him that persuaded the authorities not to look too fer into what went on in Crickley Hall. Seems like they agreed to that—bad fer the morale of the country in time of war an' all that. 'Cause more an' more parents was refusin' to send their young uns away to strange parts. Didn't trust the authorities, an' in some cases they was right not to.'

Wait a minute.' Something had occurred to Gabe. 'Mrs Trevellick said something about an old lady being tracked down by the press. Who did she mean?'

Percy avoided Gabe's questioning gaze for a moment, tilting his head downwards, then bringing it up again.

'No, I didn't tell yer, did I?' he said. 'Didn't think it were important no more.'

Gabe and Eve glanced at each other before Percy went on.

'She's still alive, y'see. Old, in her nineties, but still alive.'

'Who is, Percy?' Eve asked patiently.

'Augustus Cribben's sister,' he told them. 'Magda.'

46: MAGDA CRIBBEN

Gabe wrinkled his nose as he followed the plump blue-uniformed nurse down the long corridor. The nursing home smelt of boiled cabbage, detergent and stale pee, all underlined by the more subtle odour of human decay, the slow rotting of living flesh.

'She doesn't get any visitors at all,' the nurse said, glancing back over her shoulder at the engineer, 'so it'll be a nice surprise for her. We thought all her relatives must be deceased by now—that is, if she had any.'

'My folks are distant cousins living in the States,' he lied easily. 'I promised 'em I'd try and look her up while I was on my tour of Europe.' It was the same story he'd given to the receptionist when he'd first arrived at the old people's nursing home. Percy had told him the location of the Denesdown Nursing Home for the Elderly and Eve had begged Gabe to look in on Magda Cribben on his way to Seapower's Ilfracombe office—the home was on the outskirts of the large sprawling seaside town. He had resisted the idea at first. What good could it do? They had both assumed that Magda was long gone by now and if she was still alive she'd be somewhere in her nineties. Percy had repeated to Gabe how the woman had been hospitalized after being found on a station platform in a catatonic state and suffering apparent amnesia. From there she'd been transferred to a mental asylum where countless psychiatrists had endeavoured to unlock her mind over the years, none of them having any success. In her seventies, and regarded as a lost cause, she had been moved to this nursing home and here she remained, speechless and without memory. She was no danger to anyone, not even to herself, and she showed no interest in the world around her. The last Percy had heard, Magda Críbben sat silently in her room every day, unwilling, despite the gentle coaxing of nurses and staff, to join other elderly residents in the common room where they watched television, played board and card games, and conversed about distant times.

To Gabe, the visit seemed pointless—what could he do that medics hadn't already tried to make her communicate? But Eve had been adamant: if he wouldn't go, then she would, taking Cally along with her. Somehow she had got it into her head that the old lady must have the key to the evacuees' mysterious deaths back in 1943, that only Magda Críbben could know why the children had drowned so needlessly in Crickley Hall's cellar. Rightly or wrongly, Eve—strongly influenced by the psychic, Lili Peel—thought that the answer might help the troubled spirits of the children who haunted Crickley Hall pass on peacefully It was all nonsense to him, but what harm could visiting Magda do? It would at least appease Eve to know—or to think— he took the matter seriously. Gabe mentally shrugged: no harm at all, he told himself.

The nurse he was following interrupted his thoughts. 'You have been informed of her condition, haven't you? You understand she won't speak to you?'

'Uh, yeah. I just figured it would be nice to see her. Family thing, y'know?'

The nurse, whose plastic nametag over her left breast named her Iris, nodded her head. 'Family is important,' she pronounced sagely.

She had an ambling gait that made Gabe want to stride ahead of her. It wasn't that he was impatient; it had more to do with being keyed up.

Although he certainly had been informed of Magda's state, Gabe had no idea of what to expect. In the photograph salvaged from its hiding place behind the cupboard, she appeared to be in her forties (although Percy had assured Gabe and Eve that Cribben's sister was in her early thirties: she just looked ten years older), a stiff, austere figure with a granite-like face, her eyes black and intimidating. She'd be in her nineties, and her once dark hair would be white or at least grey. He wondered if her hard features would be softened by wrinkles, if her rigid bearing would be mellowed by time. Would her heartless glare now be subdued?'

Gabe and the nurse passed by doors on either side of the corridor, some of them open to reveal sparsely furnished rooms, taken up mostly by narrow beds. They seemed empty of residents at the moment, but as they walked by one closed door near the end of the passage, it crept open a few inches. A small woman, whose unkempt grey hair hung over her creased face in thin straggles, peered out at him with watery eyes and he felt uncomfortable under her scrutiny. He heard a small, crusty snigger come from her, and then he was past the door.

The nurse turned to face him outside the open doorway of the next room, the last room along the corridor.

'Here we are, Mr…?' she said, eyebrows raised, questioningly.

'Caleigh,' he supplied for her.

'Yes, of course, you said before. Mr Caleigh. Magda's inside. We always have her door open so we can keep an eye on her. Not that she's ever any trouble. Magda's as quiet as a mouse—quieter, actually—and rarely moves from her chair once she sits there after breakfast. We have to come and fetch her at mealtimes, but apart from that she stays in her room all day long. Never socializes with the other residents. She has her own little toilet and washroom, so she comes out of her room only to eat and when it's her bath day.'

Iris spoke in a normal voice, not bothering to lower its tone in deference to the woman on the other side of the doorway and Gabe wondered if Magda was deaf also. Couldn't be. The nurse or receptionist would have mentioned it otherwise. He guessed that if any resident, or patient, was always passive and silent, they would probably end up being treated as an imbecile or vegetable.

Stepping up to the doorway and looking over the nurse's shoulder, the engineer immediately set eyes on Magda Cribben.

Although there was an easychair in the room, the aged woman was seated on a hardbacked chair by the tidy bed.

'Now, I'll leave you to it,' said Iris, moving aside to let Gabe through. 'It's all right, she will hear you, but don't expect a response. If she does speak, believe me, we'll all come running. They tell me she hasn't spoken a word since the last world war, even though there's nothing physically wrong with her. Not a peep, not a whisper.'

She called into the room, this time using a louder voice. 'A gentleman has come to see you, Magda, isn't that nice? He's a relative from America and he's come all this way to visit you, so be nice to him.' The nurse winked conspiratorially at Gabe, but he did not react. 'Go right in, Mr Caleigh. You can pull the armchair round or sit on the bed, whichever you prefer.'

With an unconvincing smile, she ambled away, back in the direction they had come.

Gabe entered the room.