The Origin Stone E-Book

Kathryn Rossati

• Herausgeber: Next Chapter
• Kategorie: Fantasy und Science-Fiction
• Sprache: Englisch

Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2022

Beschreibung

Emily Renzi thinks she’s going crazy. After her parents move to a quiet village, she senses that something is off about the house they’re living in.

Dreams of strange creatures invade her sleep, and mysterious shapes appear in the garden. Confiding in her older brother, Ru, they research the house’s background and find out that a scientist disappeared there during World War Two. Afterwards, sightings of strange creatures were whispered around the village.

Could the creatures in Emily’s dreams be the same ones and if so, what do they want from her? Struggling to piece together the truth, Emily soon understands that monsters come in many forms.

Leseprobe

THE ORIGIN STONE

KATHRYN ROSSATI

CONTENTS

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

Chapter 30

Chapter 31

Chapter 32

Chapter 33

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About the Author

Copyright (C) 2019 Kathryn Rossati

Layout design and Copyright (C) 2022 by Next Chapter

Published 2022 by Next Chapter

Editor: Gina Lopez

This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without the author’s permission.

To Pa. Without you, this book wouldn’t exist.

CHAPTER1

Part of the reason we moved was because of our animals.

Our old house wasn’t big enough for them, especially when we got our nanny goat, Mrs. Swanson, who wandered next-door one day and ate our neighbour’s washing. Unfortunately, the old bat came home early and saw the mess. Furious, she threatened to have her taken away from us. Ru, my older brother, attempted to ease her anger by explaining we’d named Mrs. Swanson after her, but it made the situation much worse.

For three tense months, we looked for houses big enough for us, but nothing was in our budget. Then Great Cousin Maggie died, leaving the house empty, and several weeks later when her will was being carried out, dad got a letter saying she’d left it to him.

We all thought it was unusual, seeing as dad hadn’t been in much contact with her, but we were desperate by then, and moved in without question. He and mum fell in love with it straight away. It’s big enough that she’s now got her own home studio, and dad’s client base has expanded dramatically. Even Ru loves it, giving him six acres of land to explore for his bug obsession, including the woods at the back of the garden.

I'm the only one that hasn’t taken to it yet, but Ru keeps suggesting the move just stressed me out more than I thought. I hope so. I don’t want my uneasiness to bring them down too.

The clock chimes in the hall, and our young crow, the Grand Vizier, who’s snoozing on his perch in the corner of the room, opens one eye and looks at me. I hold my arm out to him and he flies over, landing gently on my shoulder. I scratch behind his neck, relishing the silkiness of his feathers. “Ravenswell. Ravenswell,” he croons to me softly. I blink at him; that’s the name of the house.

“You learnt that already?” I say, holding up my bowl of noodles for him to snatch some as his reward. “Everyone else really is settled here, aren’t they?”

The damp stone walls on either side of me run with trickles of water, pooling on the uneven ground to wet the moss that’s growing in the cracks of cold concrete. Large lanterns are fitted to the walls, covered in such an abundance of cobwebs, I can’t tell if they’re electric or use candles. Though the ceiling feels close and oppressive, my footsteps echo out into the darkness, sounding like I’m surrounded by a babble of people. Maybe I am. In the light of the single candle I’m holding, I can’t see more than a few feet in front of me.

A rectangle of light shines ahead, and as I near it, it grows larger and larger until I’m convinced it’s the outline of a door. Extending my arm, I finger its hard, dense surface. Metal.

I search for a handle to open it, but it swings open of its own accord, sending a sliver of light into the tunnel. Instinctively, I shrink back into the shadows, afraid someone might emerge but there’s no sign of movement.

I relax and peek through the gap in the door. Suddenly I’m bombarded by whispers, the words overlapping and hissing in my ears: Emily, Emily, Welcome, Ravenswell, Emily, Welcome, Ravenswell, Come, Come!

The whispers reach a crescendo, penetrating my own thoughts and completely swallowing them. They rebound against the walls, distorting until I can’t stand it any longer. I wrench the door open, desperate to escape.

White, intense light shines into my eyes, forcing them closed. The whispers cut off abruptly, and I’m momentarily disoriented. My head spins, but as the light fades and I can open my eyes again, everything becomes clear.

A man is standing in the room beyond the door, calmly watching me with eyes magnified to almost twice their real size by thick, wire-framed glasses. He’s wearing a white laboratory coat, and a large black bird rests on his shoulder--a raven, I think--whose plumage matches the colour of his hair exactly. It’s hard to tell where one ends and the other begins.

He extends his hand to me, moving his lips as though he’s speaking, but no sound comes out. I reach out to take it, knowing only that something deep inside assures me this is what I’m supposed to do.

Then the room darkens. Not the normal darkness when someone switches out the lights, but a strange, swirling mass that rises and falls like a flock of birds. I catch sight of leathery wings and fur amongst the swirling, and my insides plummet to the floor. My worst fear: bats.

The scream rises in my throat before I can stop it, and, adrenaline fuelling my legs, I race back out into the tunnel with such speed, my candle sputters out in seconds. The bats surround me, and I fall, the agony of hitting hard concrete shooting through my body along with the gagging sensation of being trapped under this cloud of skeletal fluttering wings.

I can’t breathe. I can’t…breathe…

I bolt upright, gasping for air. Sweat clings to my body as I shrug off my tangled duvet cover in the gloom of my darkened room. Weakness floods through me. Am I shaking? I hold out my hand, but it’s as steady as ever.

Yet my birthmark, two dark round blobs fused together like a figure eight just up from my wrist on my right arm, is searing with pain as though someone’s just stuck it with a needle. But as usual, there’s no sign of blood or even a graze.

“You were screaming in your sleep again.”

I jump, catching sight of the tall, skinny figure in the doorway, topped with a pristine waterfall of hair. Ru. In the light from the hall, concern shines in his vivid green eyes, just visible behind his glasses. Those glasses. I remember when he first made the frames for them. It was two months ago as part of his design project for school. He found several pairs of Victorian frames at an antiques shop and cobbled them together with a few added pocket watch cogs to make them fit with the steampunk style he wanted. When he showed them to his optician to get a set of lenses fitted, the old man’s jaw fell open in amazement and his false teeth came out.

Despite Ru’s eyes being the same colour as mum’s, they don’t carry the same sharpness as when she looks at me after I’ve had a night terror. No, I carry that particular trait, though thankfully, mine are dad’s steady brown, and the effect is far less intimidating.

“Jeez, you scared me,” I say, sitting back against my pillows.

They’re cold and slightly damp. Apparently, I was not only screaming, but crying too. Fantastic.

He switches on the light and joins me on the edge of the bed. “It was that dream again, wasn’t it?” he asks, his voice soft.

I nod as, completely un-called for, more tears streak down my cheeks and into my dirty-blonde hair. I brush them away angrily, but he puts his hand on my shoulder.

“It’s alright, Em,” he says. “You’re safe now.”

“You won’t tell mum, will you? She’ll only send me to the doctor again,” I say, my voice sounding much smaller than normal.

I hate that about myself. One vivid little dream and I’m a complete mess.

“You know I won’t. Or dad. But I am worried about you, Em. How many years have you been having this same dream? And since we’ve moved here, you’ve been having it almost every night.”

“I know, you don’t have to remind me,” I reply, rubbing my birthmark again. Why does it sting this much?

There’s a pause. I can tell he’s examining me, calculating my mood before he makes any suggestions.

“Perhaps you should visit the doctor again,” he suggests finally, straightening his glasses as they attempt to slide down his nose.

“Maybe, but last time all he said was my active imagination is overtaking my dreams. There’s nothing he can do to stop it unless I want to become a medicine junky.” I pull a face and he gives his half-hiccup, half-snort of a laugh.

“I suppose you’re right. I’m convinced it’s just moving stress.”

“I guess, but why? It’s not as though this place is horrible. Besides,” I add, “I’m not the one having problems at our new school.”

“I had problems at our old school too, it’s not just this one. You know how other guys treat me, Em. They just think I’m weird, and because they don’t understand me, they say stupid things. It’s just words, and words can’t hurt me.” He smiles, but it doesn’t reach his eyes. He turns to go.

“You don’t think I’m crazy like Great Cousin Maggie was, do you?” I ask, just as he reaches the door.

“Don’t be silly. Great Cousin Maggie was only nuts because of the accident she had as a kid. You’ve never so much as stubbed your toe, and you’re not exactly having hallucinations all the time, are you?”

I close my mouth, thinking about the bee I saw in the garden disappear right in front of my eyes. One minute it had been pollinating flowers near the entrance to the woods, the next it was gone, as though it had been plucked right out of the air.

“Here,” he says, rooting through his dressing gown pockets and pulling out his book on bug identification. He tosses it to me, the slim, battered volume sinking into the mounds of my duvet. “Try some light reading. I know how much it interests you, you’ll be back to sleep in no time.”

I stick my tongue out at him, but open the book all the same. His trick works, because the next thing I know, bright, warm light is spilling in through my window and the birds outside are singing merrily. As their song warms my ears, the fear I felt in the night seems ridiculous. Who could be scared living in such a beautiful place?

The floorboards creak outside my door, and I make out the padding of four huge paws. There’s silence for a moment, then the door bangs open and a great weight flings itself at me, pinning me to the bed.

“Morning, Brennan,” I say, wrinkling my nose at the meaty breath of our Rottweiler as he licks me full on the face.

The smell is overpowering, and I gag. I wriggle my way out from under him and land with a thump on the floor.

“Alright, alright, I’m up,” I say, lumbering to the bathroom to wipe all the slobber off. I love dogs, but being slobbered on is disgusting.

After I’ve scrubbed the thick, slimy film from my face, I head downstairs into the kitchen, tiptoeing around the huge mosaic on the floor mum’s spent the whole week cleaning up to perfection. Apparently, it’s been here since before World War Two, but until we moved in three weeks ago, it’d been covered with carpet for the past fifty years by Great Cousin Maggie.

The mosaic is a depiction of an enormous raven, perched on what looks like the gate leading up to our drive. It unnerves me, similar to the raven in my dream, and I can’t help but think it’s the same one.

“Why she covered it, I have no idea. Honestly, hiding such a beautiful piece is practically a crime!” mum declared yesterday, after scrubbing the last of the dirt and dust away.

She’s an artist, thus the desecration of anything even remotely creative ignites her temper instantly. Her speciality is painting, and recently she had an exhibition at The National Gallery in London called Always Two, featuring two sets of still life objects, with one appearing new, while the other would be worn from long use. I didn’t get the sentiment behind it, but they were interesting pieces to look at. I do remember she was nervous getting ready on opening night and forgot to put her shoes on, turning up in her paint splotched slippers instead. Most of the guests thought it was a fashion choice, and mum was only too happy to go along with the idea.

Dad paints too, but his work is more practical than creative. One of his first jobs after he finished his apprenticeship in painting and decorating was at a conservation zoo, painting the exterior of the gift shop to resemble a jungle. That was also where he met mum, who’d not long graduated from art school and was working in the café there trying to earn funds to rent a small studio. According to the story, they spent three whole days arguing over what brush should be used to create the effect of long grass. Dad wanted to use a thick brush with basic long strokes of uniform length to ensure it would be done as quickly as possible, but mum said using a thinner brush to create grass blades of different sizes would give a fuller, more convincing finish. In the end, mum won out, and six weeks later they had their first date.

Aside from having the mosaic carpeted over, Great Cousin Maggie apparently had a great love of the colour avocado. Everything in the kitchen, from the cupboards to the tiles behind the sink, is that sickly shade of green.

I actually met her once, when I was about five, and even then, my impression of her was she was completely off her rocker. Like Ru said last night, I know she had an accident when she was young that left her spouting nonsense about seeing ghosts in the garden and around the house, but I don’t think either of us expected her to be genuinely terrified of what she saw.

Yet now, after seeing the bee disappear in the garden and how frequent my dreams are becoming, I’m wondering if what she said really was just nonsense. Could there be something supernatural here? Or do I just want to prove to myself I’m not crazy? I just don’t know anymore.

Something rubs against my leg and I flinch, spilling the cereal I’m pouring into a bowl all over the table. But it’s just our cat, Tiddlywinks. Before I know it, his sister Hopscotch is there too, followed by Brennan and our two golden retrievers, Honey and Cheyenne.

“I get it,” I sigh, unable to keep a straight face as they all sit by my feet looking up expectantly. “Food time, huh?”

I open up the bottom cupboard and reach in for the bags of cat and dog food, filling their bowls and giving them fresh water. They eat without giving me a second look. No thanks for small favours, I guess. Suddenly I hear a bang against the window, and find Mrs. Swanson staring me out.

Light footsteps come down the stairs and dad appears, his dressing gown hanging off his narrow frame like a tent. “I see Mrs. Swanson’s on good form again. Did you let her out of her shelter?” he asks with a grin. I shake my head. “Must have been your mother, then. She darted out into her studio this morning before the birds were even awake.”

He heads over to the coffee machine and puts in a fresh filter, stifling a yawn with his hand. Mrs. Swanson’s gaze is now latched onto him intensely, and I’m afraid she might bore a hole through the glass. He laughs, pulling on his coat and wellies and resigning to go outside to feed her.

Just before he opens the back door, he turns. “By the way, I’m going to paint your room today.”

“Do you want me to help?” I ask.

He pulls a face. “Don’t be silly. You’ve been at school all week, relax for a change and enjoy the sunshine. And tell your brother to do the sa--”

Mrs. Swanson interrupts him by head butting the window again. “Alright, girl. I’m coming, I’m coming.”

As he steps outside, she runs away from him and heads straight for the shed where her feed is kept, waiting for him to catch up. He opens the wooden door, but before he can even get the bag of feed out, she grabs it and runs over to mum’s studio, knocking over two dustbins in the process. She stands there munching away at both bag and feed until mum comes out, with her overalls covered in paint and wondering what all the noise is about.

"I should have known it was you,” she says wryly, trying to heave the bag away from her before it splits completely. Mrs. Swanson clamps down on it with her jaw. “Stubborn old girl. I hope you appreciate the only reason you get the posh feed this week is because of the paintings I sold.”

Dad chuckles. “You do spoil her, you know,” he says. Mum scowls at him.

“Remind me again who brought her home two years ago, when that nasty client of yours threatened to have her put to sleep just because she was a runt? Honestly, you and your soft heartedness are completely responsible for all this.”

“Are you saying you would have let him do it?” dad asks smugly, knowing full well what her answer will be.

Her face falls. “Of course not. I’m merely pointing out that our extended family is of your doing, not mine. That’s all,” she says huffily. Dad chuckles again, and she storms back into her studio and slams the door.

She’s right, actually. Mrs. Swanson, the dogs and our cats all live with us because of dad, who brought them home from clients of his who either couldn’t, or wouldn’t, look after them.

Only the Grand Vizier is the exception. Ru and I found him one day while we were walking the dogs. He’d fallen out of his nest, but it was so high up, we couldn’t reach it to put him back. Not wanting him to die, we had no choice but to bring him home and trust he survived the night. We all took turns feeding him every few hours, hoping he’d make it. Now it’s hard to get him to leave us alone.

CHAPTER2

My stomach growls. I’ve been sitting under the oak tree in the garden for four hours attempting to finish my science homework, but now the smell of dad’s cooking is drifting from the kitchen, there’s no way I can concentrate.

Apparently, the smell has wafted into mum’s studio too, because she sticks her head out of the door, a dreamy look on her face.

“Your father’s cooking a nut roast, isn’t he?” she asks, wiping the blue paint covering her fingertips onto her overalls.

“That’s my guess,” I say, watching as Mrs. Swanson sneaks through the door behind her. A clatter sounds from inside and mum turns in dismay.

“No, not again! This is the third time this week, you silly goat. Em, will you get in here and take her away, please?” she says, trying to shunt her back out of the door.

“You know that never works,” I reply, dashing over to her.

I croon softly and Mrs. Swanson trots back out, sniffing my hands for food. Dad calls us in for lunch. Somehow, she recognises the word and rushes over to the kitchen before I can even move.

I manage to catch up to her as she’s trying to squeeze through the back door. She’s strong, and I have to wrestle with her to get her to move back even an inch. Dad sees me struggling and picks up a cob of corn to give to her. She snatches it from his hands and runs off.

“Put her in her shelter for a while. Just while we eat though,” he sighs, turning away to dish up.

I chase after her and find her lurking under the oak tree, just about to bite into my textbook. I seize it and then lead her to her shelter. She’s almost in when she stops suddenly. Her eyes grow large and wild, staring off into the woods, and her whole body shakes.

I follow her gaze, but there’s nothing there. Then I sense it. Like someone lightly touching my forehead, but stabbing me there at the same time.

The sensation passes as quickly as it’s come. Did I imagine it?

Mrs. Swanson shakes herself and calmly walks into her shelter. I shut the door behind her and head back to the house.

As I reach it, the Grand Vizier flies out to me and lands on my shoulder. “Welcome, Emily Renzi,” he says, in a heavy voice I’ve never heard before.

I stare at him, goose pimples rising all over my body, but he does nothing apart from rub his head affectionately against mine.

I brush the damp stone wall with my hand, feeling the net of cobwebs hanging from the lanterns jutting out from it. There’s a door ahead of me, the light from within shining through the gaps in the frame. Whispers explode in my head as I reach it, loud but incomprehensible. I’m pushed against the door, my eyes pressed to the gap. In the room beyond, a man wearing a white lab coat observes a machine full of cogs, dials and blinking lights, and a large raven sits on his shoulder. His mouth is moving, but there’s no sound coming out, nor anyone for him to be talking to.

The pressure pushing against me restricts my lungs, forcing me to cough. The man turns sharply to look my way. Suddenly, the pressure evaporates, and I fall to the ground. The door swings open in front of me and the man looks out from within, smiling as he sees me. He extends his hand out for me to take hold of, but from behind him emerges a great, swirling mass of leathery wings. They swoop down and hit me in the chest. My vision goes black.

Pain seers up my arm from my birthmark. This time it must be bleeding. The covers are wet. I open my eyes to look, but I can’t move.

Brennan is lying on top of me, dribbling all over my sheets. My panic eases and I breathe deeply. It’s not blood, it’s just dog slobber.

Unfortunately, his weight really is putting pressure on my chest, and I nudge him gently to make him move. His eyes open lazily to gaze at me for a few seconds, and then he slowly rolls off.

“Thanks,” I say wryly, swinging my legs out of bed and trudging over to the window.

I open it, letting the night breeze wash over my arm, cooling the still-present sting. It dulls to a prickle, and I relax my head against the wall, thinking about the dream.

Everything happened differently this time. I had been forced up against the door and could see the man working on the machine inside, and the bats attacked instead of just chasing me. Of course, that could have just been the effect of Brennan jumping on the bed, but it sure hadn’t felt like that.

And why does my birthmark always hurt when I wake up? It was never like that in our old house. Sure, it used to tingle, but never to the point of actually causing me pain.

I sigh and glance down into the garden. By the sound of it, Mrs. Swanson’s trying to escape her shelter again. Fat chance she’ll have, dad reinforced the door again just the other day. Evidently, she remembers too, for after another three good thumps, the loud banging she’s making stops, replaced by the sound of her munching hay.

My eyes stray to the old war bunker just to the right of the oak tree. The entrance has long since caved in, it’s impossible to go down there. Not that Ru hasn’t tried. I squint, trying to make out the rubble at the entrance, but then one of the security lights flickers on.

A blurred shape appears in front of the bunker, almost like a heat haze coming up from the ground, but the night air is far too cold for that. The longer I look, the more it seems to take shape. It’s almost as big as the bunker itself now, and it’s moving.

Brennan’s snores stop abruptly. He lumbers off the bed and pads over to me, his ears up and his eyes wide. Without warning, he jumps up onto his hind legs, barking out of the window at full volume, his lips curled back in a snarl.

The blur in front of the bunker shimmers and disappears. Brennan growls for a moment and then drops back down to all fours. He jumps back onto the bed and promptly falls asleep again.

Whatever that thing was, he didn’t like it one bit.

Ru’s in the kitchen when I get down there a few hours later. I’m not really surprised; it’s the Easter holidays, prime time for bug hunting.

“You know, most boys your age sleep in until late afternoon during the holidays,” I say, grinning at him. “But I suppose you plan on catching those super rare beetles you’ve been on about before they scurry away for the day.”

He shuts the insect encyclopaedia sitting in front of him and looks away sheepishly.

Mum breezes through the room a moment later, her face hidden behind an enormous statue of a bat. “Ah, I’m glad you’re both up early,” she says, turning enough for the details of the bat’s face to hit me full on. Ru grabs me quickly as I fall sideways off my chair. “I don’t suppose you want to take the dogs for a walk, do you?” she carries on, oblivious to my terror. “I found this glorious sculpture in the attic, and it’s in urgent need of some restoration.”

“Sure, we’ll take them,” Ru replies as she drifts out the door. “Here,” he says, as soon as mum’s out of earshot. “Drink some orange juice, you’ll feel better.”

I nod mutely, taking the glass he offers me and gulping it down. It helps, but I’m still shaking.

Dad rushes into the room, takes one look at me and curses. “I was hoping you wouldn’t see her carrying that thing around. I told her to be careful with it, but you know what she’s like.”

“It’s alright, dad. I’m okay now.”

“Good. And don’t worry, I’m not having her display that thing anywhere near you when she’s finished.” He checks the clock. “I’ve got to go out now, I’ve got a new client who wants an estimate. I’ll be back this afternoon to finish your room.”

Ru and I set off a while later, with Brennan, Honey and Cheyenne in tow. As an afterthought, we take Mrs. Swanson too. With mum busy and dad out, it’s not wise to leave her roaming around the garden on her own. Last time we did that, she ate part of the shed.

“Shall we take them through the woods?” Ru asks, as I tie a rope around Mrs. Swanson’s neck collar in the hope I can guide her along with it.

My insides go cold. “The woods?”

Just the sight makes me shiver. It’s not because of the bee I saw disappear, or even how Mrs. Swanson looked at them yesterday and the strange sensation I felt. It’s more like there’s something in there wanting to draw me in.

“You don’t want to?” Ru says, noticing my hesitation. “We can go to the park if you prefer, I know the way.”

“No, it’s fine,” I say, taking a breath. “The dogs will love it in there.”

We pass the bunker on our way down, and the strange blur I saw in the night suddenly comes back to me. I stare at the bunker hard, taking in every inch of crumbled, moss covered stone, but there’s definitely nothing there now. As the dogs sniff around it curiously and Mrs. Swanson makes to eat a weed growing near the entrance, I notice the ground is completely undisturbed. There’s no sign anything has been there at all.

I can’t have imagined it. Brennan reacted to it, so it must have been real…mustn’t it?

“Em? Are you sure you’re alright?”

“I’m fine, just a bit tired. I didn’t sleep well again last night,” I reply, gently tugging at Mrs. Swanson’s rope to lead her over to where Ru’s waiting by the gate leading into the woods.

He nods and carries on through, with Brennan, Cheyenne and Honey close on his heels. “We’ll go slow, okay?” he calls back over his shoulder, already sliding his magnifying glass out of his pocket. I can’t help but grin as he automatically tunes in to the scurrying of insects around him.

My smile fades as I approach the gate myself. The feeling of being lured in, of something seeking my attention, is even stronger now, but every one of my senses is tingling, telling me to go back, to leave this place.

Mrs. Swanson has other ideas. She’s spotted a particularly leafy bush several feet behind the gate, and pulls hard, giving me no choice but to go through with her.

Goose pimples rise on my skin the moment I step through, but they vanish again not even a second later. It’s as though a spray of ice passed right over me, washing away the feeling of dread I had about entering. My senses are calm now. I’m not even the slightest bit afraid.

“Em, quick!” Ru whispers in front of me. He’s by an old tree stump, long overgrown with ivy. On it is a tiny beetle with chestnut-brown wing casings. I suppose it’s pretty in that buggish kind of way.

“What’s this one called?” I ask, more to humour him than out of my own interest.

“It’s a Garden Chafer. They’re not usually seen until around June. Can you watch the dogs a moment while I make a quick sketch of it?”

“Sure,” I grin, heading on with Mrs. Swanson.

It’s cool under the ancient trees. There’s giant elms and oaks, ash and hazel, and even a few willows. The paths are overgrown, making me trip over loose roots. My clothes snag on brambles every other step.

The dogs disappear in and out of the foliage either side of me, and by the time Ru catches up with us, Mrs. Swanson must have devoured at least a dozen fern tendrils. Eventually, we both have to tug her along to avoid her making herself ill. It requires such effort, we have to stop and rest every five minutes.

“What’s that?” I ask Ru as we take yet another breather. He’s standing on something, an old piece of metal covered in mud. It’s hard to tell what it is. He picks it up gingerly, wiping away some of the grime.

“Hold on a moment,” he says, his eyes narrowing as he scrutinises it. “Looks like a sign for the village green. A mile and a half West of here, apparently.”

“Then we can get to the village this way?”

“I suppose so. Let me look at my compass, I think I’ve got it with me.” He roots around in his pocket for a moment before pulling out a round brass fob. He presses the button on its side and it flicks open, revealing the compass face. “That’s bizarre. The needle won’t settle. It keeps pointing in different directions.”

“Maybe we’re near a magnet or something,” I say, scanning the floor to in case someone’s dropped one.

“It’d have to be a big one to interfere with it like this.” He closes it and puts it away. “Let’s walk a bit further and try again.”

We walk on, but the path forks out suddenly. Ru tries his compass once more. “It’s this one,” he says, pointing to the fork on the left.

“Is it working now, then?”

“No, there’s another sign hidden in those bushes. This one’s got an arrow on it.”

We emerge from the trees right next to the bus stop where we catch the coach to school. A few people stare at us, eyeing up Mrs. Swanson as I drag her out onto the pavement, wrestling a string of ivy leaves from her mouth. One by one, they drift away from us as though we’re carrying something contagious.

“What’s the matter with them?” Ru whispers to me.

“Maybe they think we’re crazy like Great Cousin Maggie was?” I suggest. “Mum told me she used to come here every day and tell anyone who would listen about what she saw.”

“But the kids we catch the school coach with have never reacted this way,” he points out.

“Well, they can’t exactly get away from us when we’re on a coach, can they? Besides, they do stare at us, and twice I’ve caught two of the boys in your class trying to put gum in your hair.”

“Really?” he says. “What did you say to them?”

“Nothing, but they both had bruised feet the next day.”

We pass through the village, eager to get home now that our presence is clearly unwanted. As we pass the bakers, where the dogs and Mrs. Swanson sniff hungrily at the aromatic smell of fresh cakes emanating from the open door, an old woman totters out in front of us, tripping over her walking stick. Juggling the dogs’ leads and Mrs. Swanson’s rope, Ru and I each grab one of her arms just in time to stop her from falling.

“Oh, goodness me, thank you,” she says, her voice soft and trim. Then she takes a good look at us and gasps. “You’re the Renzi children, are you not? Your family moved into Ravenswell House three weeks ago?”

“Er, yes, that’s us,” I say. “How did you know?”

“I didn’t recognise you, so you could only be new to the village. A grand house, Ravenswell, though I’m sure it has its fair share of secrets like any other place,” she says, flashing her dentures at me. Her strong gaze compels me to look away.

Ru coughs. “I suppose it does…”

“Forgive me,” she says. “I’m Mrs. Wrenshaw. The village doesn’t have a public library, but I operate one from my home, over there.” She points to an equally trim house on the opposite side of the road. The front door is painted bluebell, and ornate tubs of flowers line the short path leading up to it from the gate. “You’re very welcome to come and look around whenever you want. Except for Sundays, I’m never open then. Day of rest, you know.”

“Thank you,” I manage, her gaze still penetrating my face. “We’ll come around and have a look when we have time.”

“Splendid, splendid. I hope to see you again, then.”

She totters off to her house. Ru and I watch her silently, neither of us quite sure what to think. “We should get going,” Ru says eventually. “The water I brought for the dogs has already run out. They’ll be thirsty again soon.”

The pavement curves around onto the main road leading past our house. The woods we came through extend right out next to it. Once again, we find ourselves brushing up against tree branches and brambles. Ru and the dogs walk calmly ahead, but Mrs. Swanson hangs back, munching away at every leaf and root we pass.

Then, in mid-chew, her body tenses and her eyes glaze over. The hairs on the back of my neck rise.

Barely an inch away from her, stretching to at least two feet above my head, is the strange blur I saw in the night.

My skin tingles and blood flushes around my body as my heart pumps faster and faster. This isn’t real. It isn’t possible.

“Em? Em, what is it?”

The blur shudders and disappears as Ru runs back to me, with Brennan, Honey and Cheyenne snarling as they pull on their leads.

“I don’t know what it was,” I gasp, sinking to my knees. I scan the pavement in case it’s lurking somewhere else, but I can’t see it. “It looked like a…blur in the air, but I could feel it watching me.”

“A blur? Like a heat haze?”

“Similar. But it wasn’t that. Mrs. Swanson saw it too, and she stopped eating when it appeared,” I say, still unable to get enough air into my lungs. “It’s not the first time I’ve seen it. It appeared last night, in front of the old bunker.”

“Take it easy, Em,” he says, sitting next to me. Awkwardly, he puts his arm around my shoulders in an effort to calm me down. It’s working. As my breathing relaxes, my heart rate slows. The dogs flop at our feet, and Mrs. Swanson, back to normal now, chews on a berry bush above his head.

“Do you believe me, Ru?” I ask after a moment

“Of course I do. I know you’d never lie to me. Anyway, I’ve never seen you in such a panic before.” He grins, rubbing Brennan’s head as he flops his muzzle on his lap. “Besides, these three certainly knew something was there. Alright, it doesn’t take much to set Brennan off, but it’s rare for Honey and Cheyenne to do the same.”

“Mm,” I say with a nod. “Thanks, Ru. I just hope I can find out what it is.”

“You and me both,” he replies. “It could be some other kind of natural phenomena we just haven’t heard of. The old woman we met in the village, Mrs. Wrenshaw. She might have something about it in her library. She must keep records of old newspapers in there, if someone’s written an article about it before, then perhaps she’s got it.”

Maybe he’s right. Still, I’m sure whatever it was, it was watching me.

“It’s time to go, Em,” mum shouts from downstairs. I mutter darkly under my breath, laying my English homework down on my bed. Ru and I have barely been back an hour.

Our school recently announced a change to their uniform, and it’s much stricter than the current one. We’d been lucky our old school had the same colours. Until now, we’ve gotten away with wearing those uniforms. Now we can’t avoid buying a whole new lot.

We received the letter a few days ago and have all Easter to get it. I told mum that Ru and I would catch a bus into town to buy it ourselves, but one of the PTA super mums phoned and told her the approved shops couldn’t handle the sudden demand and were going to bump up their prices. If we went immediately, we’d get them for the original price. Ru was supposed to come with us, but he just reminded mum the Grand Vizier was due a check-up at the vets. He escaped five minutes ago, wishing me luck and handing me strict notes on his clothing size. Dad’s still out, too. I don’t even have him for moral support.

I drag myself down to the front door, where mum’s waiting. I smirk at the flecks of paint in her hair, but she doesn’t notice. I suppose she’s done well to get out of her overalls and put on normal clothes--if normal counts as dungarees and flip flops.

“You said Ru’s printed off directions to those two shops I told you about?” she says as we step outside, fumbling with her keys to lock the door. As the dogs get a last glimpse of us, they whine, but she shushes them without sympathy.

“We’ll be back soon, don’t worry,” I croon through the letter box. Brennan’s enthusiastic tongue finds my fingertips where I’m holding it open. I pull them back, shaking the slime onto the gravel, then reach into the pocket of my jeans and pull out the map Ru gave me. I hand it to mum.

She takes it gingerly, avoiding the areas where I’ve left damp finger marks. “They’re right next to each other,” she murmurs. “And there’s an art shop across the road. Even better. I can nip in there while you get what you need.”

We hop in the car, silent as she takes us down the drive and out onto the main road. The route leads us past the school. A series of blocky, grey buildings which could easily pass for a prison with only a short stretch of imagination. No matter what it looks like or where it is, the students talk about the same things they did at our old one, and the teachers plan their lessons identically, too. I would say I miss my friends, but though I’ve never been short on them, they’re not deep friendships. A message here and there is enough to keep us going. Ru’s the only one I’ve ever had decent conversations with, and he doesn’t count.

Even if my relationship with them wasn’t like that, I still wouldn’t tell them what’s been going on here. It’s all I can do to stop myself from thinking I’m nuts. Since we got back, the blur has been the only thing on my mind. If I don’t research what it might be, I’ll be a nervous wreck for the rest of my life.

CHAPTER3

“Come in, come in,” Mrs. Wrenshaw says, beckoning Ru and I through the door, closing it behind us with a click.

It’s been three days since the incident, and neither of us have breathed a word to mum and dad. Mum would only send us both to the doctor, and dad would panic and consult every book on supernatural occurrences ever written.

“The library is right this way, my dears,” Mrs. Wrenshaw calls, already halfway down the hall. The walls are covered with black and white photographs, barely leaving an inch of visible paint between them. Curiosity overtaking me, I examine one closely, showing a tall man standing in front of a plane. There’s a date written on it: 3rd August, 1945.

“That’s my father,” she says, right behind me. I flinch, not expecting her closeness.

“Sorry, I--that picture was taken during the war, wasn’t it?”