The Secret of Crickley Hall

never to let that happen again. Not after last time.

Yet there were still the other children to consider, the orphans Eve Caleigh said had drowned in Crickley Hall all those years ago. It was no wonder that the old house exuded such a negative aura, such a dreadful gloom. It was obvious to Lili that the children were bound to the house by something awful that had happened to them there. That is, of course, if what Eve Caleigh had told her was true. Not that she would have lied—what would be the point?—but if she was still so distressed over the loss of her son—overwrought and close to hysteria, it seemed to Lili—then what might be going on in her imagination?

But… Lili bit into the corner of her lower lip. But alive or dead, there was a child involved. And just maybe other children too, young orphans who, according to Eve Caleigh, were haunting the house. Something must be preventing them from passing over. Something about Crickley Hall was stopping them from resting in peace.

When she had paused to look at the big house across the river two years ago she had sensed a conflict within its solid walls, for something seemed to reach out and touch her, something indefinable that called without voice but whose beckoning left her shaking with fear. She had watched Crickley Hall—yes, watched it as if it would suddenly disclose the dark secrets she knew it held—and the tension that gripped her stayed with her for days.

Now Eve Caleigh wanted her to go back there, to return to a place that had made her tremble. But could she deny the woman her help? And if she did help her, would Lili be inviting back the horror that had manifested during her last seance? The psychic never wanted that to happen again.

33: FIFTH NIGHT

It had been a good day for Loren.

Now she was tucked up in bed reading her new Philip Pullman, Cally fast asleep in the bed next to her. Loren laid the book down on her lap for a moment and smiled to herself.

The news was all around school. The new girl had bopped Seraphina Blaney on the nose. Loren had become something of a celebrity, because nobody in their year, all eleven- and twelve-year-olds, had ever had the courage to stand up to the bully before, and certainly no one had ever punched her! A lot of the girls had chatted to Loren today, plying her with questions about the incident on the bus, which Tessa Windle had duly reported to her classmates, who had spread the word so that by the end of breaktime most years knew about it. At lunch, some of the older girls and boys even said 'Hi' to Loren. In truth, she had been nervous of coming in to school today, because she'd had a whole night to think about what she had done. What if Seraphina intended to get her own back? What if she were waiting for Loren on the bus when it picked her up on the way to Merrybridge? Loren wasn't kidding herself that it was anything more than a lucky punch yesterday; Seraphina would be well over her shock by now and might be looking for revenge. Loren wasn't sure she had the nerve to do the same thing again.

Fortunately, something good had happened: Seraphina hadn't turned up for school that morning. Loren had been so relieved that she'd felt light-headed for most of the day. Perhaps she'd broken the big girl's nose. If so, would her parents complain to Mr Horkins, the headmaster, or go straight to Crickley Hall and make a fuss? Even worse, they might have gone to the police and made a complaint. Loren had half-expected a policeman to turn up at school to arrest her! As the day went by though, nothing had happened and Loren's nerves had begun to settle. Everyone had been so nice to her, with Tessa being particularly friendly, and Loren thought she might start to like Merrymiddle.

Yawning, Loren closed her book, first marking her page with a Post-it, then putting it aside on the bedside cabinet. Eyelids already drooping, she reached up and switched off the lamp Dad had put there, and lay flat on her back. She pulled the duvet up over her chin and around her ears, and stared at the ceiling, the only illumination coming through the half-open door from the dull landing light.

Her weary eyes remained open for a short while as she wondered why she always felt so tired in the evenings nowadays. She even woke up tired, but was okay once she got to school and mixed with the other pupils. And she'd be fine for the rest of the day; it was only when she got home that she began to feel worn out.

It was this house. This house made her tired, with its chill and its draughts, and its weirdness. Just thinking about how tired she was caused her to yawn once more.

Rain lightly struck the window. She liked hearing the rain when she was all snuggled up in a warm bed. Why was Crickley Hall always cold despite the radiators and the fires Dad lit in different rooms?

Loren turned onto her side and shut her eyes. She could hear Cally's gentle snores.

As she fell asleep she was thinking of Chester. She hoped he wasn't out in the rain somewhere. She hoped someone had found him and taken him into their nice warm home. Don't worry about Chester, Dad had said. He's a smart cookie, he'll have found somewhere cosy… Loren slept.

•

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.