found some old dusters and polish and went back to the study. I polished the desk, the bookshelves, and the mahogany walls. I shook the dust from the curtains and opened the large windows to let in some fresh air. When my back had started to ache and my throat and nose were full of dust, I stood back and admired my handiwork. I positioned the chair slightly behind the desk, then sat in it. I wondered if anyone would come — I wondered if anyone else realised that they had been
I closed the door to the study, put the dusters and polish back where I had found them, then left the manor to walk the grounds, needing to clear the dust that was stuck in the back of my throat. The rain had eased and looked more like a fine mist than a drizzle. The only sound was the regular squawk of the crows that flapped their giant wings overhead. I looked up at them and wondered where Potter was and what he was doing. I missed him, but I understood why he had needed to get away.
The trees towered on either side of me as I made my way through the wood and my feet crunched over the fallen branches and twigs. I hadn’t intended to head for the graveyard hidden by the weeping willows, or so I told myself, but it wasn’t long before I found myself parting their stooped branches with my hands and stepping into that secret place. Although the area surrounded by the forlorn trees held so much death, it was tranquil. It had that feeling of stepping off a busy street into a church. The silence, the mystery of the place — I was drawn to it.
I made my way through the headstones of all those half-breeds that, unlike me and Isidor, hadn’t lived past the age of sixteen. And as I looked down at some of the graves, I could see that some of them hadn’t even lived as long as that. Snuffed out too early, like a candle before dawn that hadn’t had a chance to break and shower the world with light.
There were several graves that didn’t have headstones like the rest, but makeshift crosses made from the branches of the nearby trees, like the one I had seen Potter make for Murphy. Passing amongst them, I noticed that one had been inscribed with the name Nessa and the other Meren and I knew that these were the graves of Murphy’s daughters. I could remember him saying their names as Potter had argued with Murphy before going to the Fountain of Souls in search of the Lycanthrope.
I bent over and peered at their names.
“Your father was a good man,” I whispered, “and I know he loved you so very much. He loved you so much that it blinded him. He wanted revenge for your murders so greatly that he put his own life in danger and took us on a journey where he was tricked and betrayed, where he ended up losing his own life.” Then straightening up, and with tears standing in my eyes, I added, “But I guess he has told you everything himself by now. I hope you are all happy together. And one last thing before I go, can you tell your Dad that although Potter would never admit this, he really misses him? We all do.”
Then, turning my back on the makeshift crosses, I headed back through the graveyard, passing Murphy’s cross as I went. And it was then that I saw it, or rather I didn’t. I had hung Murphy’s crucifix on the cross that Potter had made, but now it was gone. I searched the earth and grass that surrounded the foot of the cross, wondering if perhaps the crucifix had fallen off, but it wasn’t there. I stood up and wondered if perhaps Potter had taken it before we had left the graveyard that day. I made my way back through the woods.
The wind had started to pick up again, and the rain became heavier. With my hair beginning to look like a series of black-coloured rat tails as it clung to my face, I sped up as I headed back towards the manor. Following the route that Potter had previously led me, I headed towards the summerhouse, knowing that to avoid the downpour that the swollen clouds were threatening, I could always shelter in there.
I ran from beneath the trees and into the circular area where the summerhouse stood. Just before it stood the statue that I had seen the day before. But there was something different about it. And as I ran towards it, I was sure that before it had been facing the summerhouse, but now had its back turned towards it, as if the stone girl had turned around somehow. As I drew nearer, I could see that it wasn’t just the position of the girl that had changed, there was something different about her hands.
I reached the statue, and with rain running down my face, I looked at Murphy’s crucifix as it hung from the statue’s cold, stone fist. The crucifix glistened wetly, and I reached out for it. I pulled on it, but it was like the statue of the girl didn’t want to give it up. The crucifix wouldn’t come free of her grasp, so I left her to hold onto it. Then, looking into her featureless stone face, I whispered, “What are you? Who are you? I know you can hear me.”
And as I stood in the driving rain and secretly hoped for a reply, it was me who screeched as a hand suddenly gripped my shoulder.
Chapter Eleven
“That wasn’t a baby in that pram,” I gasped. “It was a doll! Why would she be pushing that thing around?”
“Freaky, huh?” Isidor said, stepping from the doorway and watching the woman with the pram retreat up the road. “And did you notice how the doll’s eyes had been removed?”
“Isidor, I don’t want to state the freaking obvious, but this place is like, really screwed up,” I said, standing in the rain next to him. “Maybe we should just head back to the manor.”
“Not before putting some of these adverts around town,” he said, taking them from within his coat.
“You’re not serious!” I said to him.
“If anyone has been pushed, as Kiera describes it,” Isidor replied thoughtfully, “the people of this town must have. Someone has got to respond to these adverts.”
I followed Isidor up the rain-drenched streets, as water raced along the gutter and sloshed into the storm drains. We hadn’t gone far when we came to a small newsagent, the shop where Isidor had bought the papers from on previous visits to Wood Hill.
With his hand pressed against the door, he looked back at me and said, “Ready?”
“Ready for what?” I asked him, my eyes wide.
“Anything, I guess,” he said, pushing open the door and stepping inside.
A bell chimed above our heads as the door swung shut behind us. The shop was dimly lit and dust motes hovered in the air. Two narrow racks ran the length of the shop, and these were filled with groceries, which looked to be covered with as much dust as the air about us. Some of the shelves were littered with magazines, which looked dog-eared, their covers yellowed with age. The shop smelt of sweat, stale cigar smoke, and beer. At the end of one of the aisles was one of those tall displays that turned. It was full of postcards, and just like the magazines had, they looked creased up and old. I turned the display round, and as I did, it made a creaking sound and toppled over. I tried to grab hold of it, but it slipped through my fingers and toppled over onto the floor. The postcards scattered, some of them disappearing beneath the shelves and racks.
“What’s going on back there?” a deep voice boomed, and it almost seemed to shake the whole shop.
Together, Isidor and I peered around the edge of the nearest shelf and could see a counter at the back of the shop. Someone was sitting behind it, but I couldn’t see who as that part of the shop was covered in shadows. The voice spoke again and said, “What do you want?”
Isidor glanced at me, then, with the adverts in his hand, he made his way towards the counter. I followed him, and as we drew near, I could hear heavy breathing. It sounded out of breath. And as I drew nearer still, I could hear the heartbeat. It was weak sounding as it struggled to push the blood around this person’s body. As we stepped towards the counter and through the shadows, I understood why the breathing had sounded like a clapped-out old engine and the heart like a weak drum beat.
The man who sat behind the counter was huge — a giant. His head was the size of a basketball, round with cheeks that glowed red as if it had just been pulled from a fire. Sweat rolled from his brow and down the side of his face and he mopped it away with one of his meaty hands. The fingers looked like overstuffed sausages, and the fingernails were yellow with a black rind of dirt under each one. He wore a vest which was stained yellow with sweat and old food, his belly sat on his lap like a stuffed cushion.
“What do you want?’ he asked again, his eyes looking bloodshot. A fat cigar hung from the corner of his mouth, and the end of it was black with spit.
