The Secret of Crickley Hall

Loren was equally frank. 'If he was alive the police would have found him by now. No one could've hidden him all this time.'

This was the reality but, mostly for Eve's sake, Gabe would not admit it, even to himself.

'Could someone have stolen him because they didn't have a little boy of their own? Perhaps they were lonely. They took him from the park because he looked so nice. Cam was always smiley, even with strangers.'

He blessed Loren for her innocence. A kidnapping was what Eve wanted to believe even now. She'd been in denial from the first day Cam had vanished. Something deep within her refused to accept the worst and it was this faulty reasoning that kept her from complete breakdown. And, in truth, maybe the same unrealistic hope lay within himself—why else had he not wept for his own son?

They had reached the town and the main street was busy with people, among them, in groups of three or four, the blue uniforms of Merrybridge Middle School pupils. Loren watched them apprehensively, hoping they wouldn't treat her as an outsider, praying she wouldn't make a fool of herself on her first day.

Soon the uniforms—navy-blue trousers or skirts, electric-blue jumpers and blazers over white shirts worn with blue-and-grey-striped ties—began to multiply, then mass, so that it seemed the world's predominant colour was blue. Gabe hung a right into the wide side street and there it was, Merrybridge Middle School—or Merrymiddle as it was known—a concrete congestion of two-storey plain stone-and-glass buildings so beloved by misguided architects and cost-conscious town-planners in the Sixties. If the town itself still had a modicum of charm left, it was lost on the solid but drab interjoined buildings.

Gabe pulled up behind another 4x4 whose passengers were being disgorged and set the handbrake. Some of the children passing by gawped in the passenger window at Loren as if already sniffing a stranger in their midst, and she studiously ignored them. She reached over to the back seat for her school bag. Perhaps in a few days, when she herself wore the Merrybridge uniform, she would not be so visible.

'All right,' Gabe smiled reassuringly: he understood her nervousness. 'You want me to come in with you?'

'No, Dad!' She looked alarmed at the very idea.

'Sure?'

She nodded her head vigorously.

'Okay. So just go inside and ask someone where you can find Mr Horkins. He'll see you right.'

They leaned towards each other and Loren gave her father a peck on the cheek. She grabbed her school bag from the back, then pushed the passenger door open. Gabe saw the apprehension on her face and his heart nearly melted.

'Bye, Daddy,' she said, before slamming the door after her.

'See you tonight.' He watched her go through the gate following two uniformed girls, and he pressed the switch to lower the passenger side window.

'Hey, Slim!' he called, stretching across the seat.

Loren turned and looked back at him.

'Don't talk to boys!' He gave her a broad smile.

She rolled her eyes heavenwards and the two girls in front looked over their shoulders and giggled.

Then Loren was gone and Gabe felt a heel.

20: THE SPINNING TOP

Eve snatched another look out of the kitchen window, checking on Chester who lay forlornly on the grass, roped to the tall oak tree from whose lowest branch the swing hung. His head was down, muzzle resting between his front paws, and he was looking forlornly towards the house.

She was relieved to see it wasn't raining this morning, although the dark clouds looked threatening, otherwise she would be forced to bring him inside, and the thought of dragging him all the way across the lawn while he fretted and resisted was unappealing.

That morning there had been too much frantic bustle to reflect on the events of the previous night because the whole family had overslept. Hasty breakfasts, Chester taken out on his lead to do his stuff, quick kisses goodbye for Gabe and Loren, Eve especially twitchy for Loren, who was starting her first day at the new school, finally waving to them as they crossed the short bridge, and then the panic was over. Peace returned. Eve helped her youngest wash and dress, then came back down for a second cup of coffee at the kitchen table, while Cally played with her toys upstairs until it was time for her reading lesson.

The house seemed different today, not so dispiriting, not so—not so joyless. Perhaps it was because the sun kept breaking through the rainclouds, cheering the air itself as it flooded through the hall's tall window, brightening even the gloomiest corners, its warmth stirring the air so the dust floated in its beams. Still in her white waffle dressing gown, Eve sipped from the mug, holding it to her lips with both hands, the coffee's heat reviving her, yet a calmness seeping through her limbs, her back, her neck. It had been a long time— almost a year—since she had felt this level of relaxation, this lessening of tension, and it was good. No, it was wonderful.

But why? she asked herself. Then she remembered, although it had not truly been forgotten, just temporarily laid aside as life around her continued with its flow. Yesterday, in the sitting room, on the couch. The dream. The bad dream. Something—someone—horrible, leering over her. The foul smell; then the other smell underlying it: the stinging scent of harsh soap. And the paralysing fear that had gripped her while she dozed.

Then its easing. She had felt—she knew she had felt—Cam's presence. She had not seen his face, but then never in her dreams had his features been clearly defined. And with most of those dreams had come a terrible sadness. But not so yesterday. Yesterday there had only been a calmness and a sense of loving. Cam, somehow, had reached out to her.

She had been under threat, she remembered that; threat from something wretched in this house; something horrid; something hidden inside Crickley Hall itself. But then the relief: Cam touching her, unseen fingers soothing her brow and cheek. It hit her then: was it his spirit that had come to her?

No! No, it couldn't be! If that were true, if it was his spirit, then Cameron must be dead! And that just could not be! She could not allow it to be!

Besides, there was another conclusion, she told herself, almost slyly, for she could not—would not!—accept the death of her little boy.

It wasn't Cam's spirit that appeared to her, not his soul. No, it was his mind. There had always been a telepathic link between them, between mother and child, but it had never been anything to wonder at, nothing so strong that it demanded anything more than casual interest. Neither was it particularly odd: many mothers had intuitions about their offspring, knew instinctively when their child was in pain or disturbed in some way when they were in different rooms, or even miles apart. Mothers could understand their baby's incoherent cry, mothers could sense their child's moods and ills. But her psychic connection with Cam was stronger than just that. Three out of the five clairvoyants she had interviewed some years ago had virtually convinced her of supernatural power, but she had never followed through, had lost interest once the feature had been written. Yet afterwards, she could never again deny there was something more than mere physical existence.

Hadn't she, herself, sensed the strangely sombre ambience of Crickley Hall? She had felt it even before she set foot inside, when she had studied it from across the bridge. Was it haunted, then? No, she couldn't quite buy that. But it seemed susceptible to paranormal activity. Was that the same as being haunted? Eve had no idea, although she was vaguely aware that paranormal didn't always mean supernatural. She needed guidance.

Leaning against the counter and putting her mug down, Eve brought her hands to her face and pressed the fingertips against her closed eyelids.

What did it mean? Had Cam subconsciously contacted her from another place? Was it possible? Was it really possible?

She lowered her hands again and turned from the window, intending to finish her half-drunk coffee, when something caught her eye.

The old-fashioned tin spinning top that Cally had found in the upstairs storeroom last night was standing nearby on the work surface where she had left it. Attractive colours gleamed from the section Gabe had wiped with