Holly’s top. Was it moving?
Was it growing?
Filling out?
‘Oh my God,’ Rachel said. ‘Oh my God, she’s coming.’
‘Something’s not right,’ Joyce said again.
Bob was on his feet.
She stared at the material. Even if it was a breeze, where was the breeze coming from? And what if it wasn’t? What if it was Holly rising up through the ground with a cracked neck and blue lips. Ready to slip her cold little hand in Rachel’s, so they might play in the concrete cracks down here for ever.
She shouted it out, so that her voice echoed at the far end of the vault. ‘Holly, what do you need me to—’
Something scraped in the corner of the room.
Her head snapped hard to the left. Bob’s did too
‘What was that?’ she whispered.
‘Rachel, whatever you do, do not let go of Joyce’s hand.’
She stared into the corner, the corner nearest to her, trembling. But when she looked over it was silent and pitch-black. The camping light they were using was far too insipid to pick out any—
Click.
‘Oh, God,’ Rachel said. ‘Something’s here.’
‘It’s starting,’ Joyce said. ‘Don’t let go.’
Rachel called out to the shadows, ‘Holly?’
And what came back was, click, click.
Things prickled across her skin, then she realised that she couldn’t see Bob’s other hand. Was he making that sound, in the darkness? Scraping something on the floor to scare her?
Click. Scratch, scratch. Click.
‘Bob?’ she said. ‘Are you doing that?’
He shook his head. She couldn’t understand his expression. The candlelight made his eyes look mad.
‘Bob?’
‘It’s not me, I swear to—’
Scratch, scratch.
Less gaps now. Growing more constant. The scrape of all those pencils on the paper the other night in Barley Street.
Scratch, scratch, scratch. Click.
No … that wasn’t pencils …
It was the echo of those children, locked down here and trying to escape the staff. From all those true Halloween tales this town loved to tell one other. Of traumatised little kids scraping their fingernails against the metal to get out of this grave. Like Holly may well have had to have done.
Jesus, she thought.
This really sounded like that.
That sound was fingernails, scrabbling against metal. Quick and desperate. Like Holly was bringing out all her new friends. The long-dead vault kids, who were the only ones who let her play.
Bob looked at Joyce. ‘Petal, are you okay?’
Scratch, scratch. Scratch, scratch.
‘Holly?’ Rachel called out into the dark. ‘What do you want? What should we do?’
Click. Scratch, scratch. Click.
Then a simple thought: not fingernails.
Claws.
Joyce flicked her eyes open, and she let out a shrill, heart-stopping screech that filled the vault with sound.
Bob gasped. ‘I’ll check it. Okay, love?’
‘Where are you going?’ Rachel said. A desperate hiss of a whisper.
‘I need to check what it is.’ He lifted his EMF meter-reader like the world’s most feeble pistol and started walking toward the darkness, vanishing into it.
‘Joyce?’ Rachel said. ‘Is it Holly? Is she here? What is she saying?’
‘She’s screaming. She’s screaming your name.’ Joyce’s eyes closed again and her silent lips were moving now at a frantic, crazy pace. All Rachel could do was close her eyes too and think of being in Marrakesh with Debbie and holding her arm and hearing her heartbeat in the hotel room. Hearing all those sounds of happy chatter and bells and goats and music and banter and wishing to God she could stay in that moment for the rest of her entire life because—
Thud, thud, thud, thud.
The sound of footsteps forced her eyes open and she saw something that finally made sense. That finally locked the shifting sands of belief back into something that was at least understandable. As dreadful as it was. At least now she knew.
Under the stone arched ceiling of the vault, the black rabbit stood, swaying. Tall on its hind legs. Like a man. One black arm held out toward her as it gathered pace. Shimmering from the shadows and pounding toward her.
She tried to scream, but even sound, her oldest friend, had abandoned her now.
CHAPTER FIFTY
‘Sir?’
Larry felt his belt buzz and he quickly jerked to grab his radio from it. He could instantly tell that Butterfield was out of breath.
‘What’s going on?’
‘Sir. You need to get in there, quick. We just saw a man climb over the back wall.’
Larry sprang off the bonnet of the car, his eyes frantically scanning 29 Barley Street.
‘He’s in the back garden.’
He kicked the gate open and ran up the path toward the house, radio pressed against his lips as the garden flowers danced. ‘You get after him, Butterfield. Do you hear me?’
‘Climbing the wall, as we speak,’ he was gasping.
He was halfway up the path when something filled the air. Something that made him stumble. He slowed and turned to see a group of men, about ten of them. They were walking down the street, with candles in their hands and they were singing ‘How Great Thou Art’.
He craned his neck to see them. They weren’t teenagers. They weren’t kidding around. What the hell?
No time.
Larry turned and ran toward the house. He clenched his fist and hammered it against the door three times. ‘Mrs Wasson? Bob?’
Bang, bang, bang.
His radio crackled. ‘Suspect’s trying to get in the back door, sir.’
He cupped his hand around his mouth and shouted up to Holly’s window. ‘Rachel!’
No answer.
‘Rachel, this is the police. Open this door up now!’
Bang, bang.
Male voices grew louder. They were singing ‘How Great Thou Art’.
‘Rachel!’
Movement.
A click of the lock, a slide of a bolt. Mary Wasson’s gaunt-looking face peeked out from the crack in the door looking like she was about to complain ‘What’s going—’ The sound of singing quickly reached into her ears. Her face lit up with a child’s smile. ‘What’s that? What’s that beautiful—’
He slammed his hand into the door, almost toppling her as he blundered into the house. He looked at the hallway, and the closed door to the kitchen out to the back. There was no man coming in.
Yet.
He grabbed Mary’s hand and dragged her up with him. ‘You need to get upstairs.’
Mary Wasson dangled like a
