Sleepless

by Lou Morgan

  He didn’t remember.

  He couldn’t remember.

  One story. When there’s only one story, it becomes the truth.

  He doesn’t need to remember.

  My story. My ending.

  She’d made bad choices before. Wrong choices. Choices made because she was afraid and because she wanted to win, and choices that did more damage than they did good. Not this time.

  She wasn’t afraid any more. It made everything so much easier. So much clearer.

  She could choose again, and she could choose right.

  She rolled on to her side and slid her back up the wall. She felt like she’d been hit by a truck, and then reversed over. Twice.

  “Nothing, Grey. You’re OK – you didn’t do anything.”

  “But … I…” He held up his hands, unable to bring himself to say any more.

  “You were standing by the lift shaft, and it scared me. I … kind of tackled you out of the way.”

  “You did?”

  “Yeah. Sorry about that.” She thought she’d try getting up from the floor. It didn’t go so well. She sat down again.

  “Then what?”

  “Then nothing. We fell, you landed on me, you moved. Ta-da.” She waved her hands weakly.

  Grey narrowed his eyes and looked her up and down, but what could he say?

  Izzy had made her choice.

  Grey rolled on to his back, groaning. “You know,” he said, reaching a hand out towards her, “maybe you and me … us… Maybe we should go out sometime.”

  “What makes you say that?”

  “Because how could any first date be worse than this?”

  Izzy looked at his hand. The hand that had been around her throat, cutting off her oxygen. He could have killed her. He almost had.

  But had that been Grey, or was it the version of Grey that the pills had created. And what if, deep down, the two weren’t all that different?

  Had it been Mia, the real Mia, who had killed the others, or had that been down to the pills, too? Had they pushed her so far over the edge that she was prepared to kill all of them, even her own brother, just for the sake of being the best… Or was she so desperate to be the favourite, to be better than Dom, that she would do whatever it took to keep her method a secret?

  It couldn’t possibly have been the real Izzy who had smashed up all those cars.

  You shouldn’t be here, dearie…

  After all, it wasn’t like she’d done anything like that before – was it?

  Not that anyone could prove, anyway; never mind what her old teacher had said. That was what saved her. Not from getting expelled, obviously, or from the hours and hours of therapy designed to “get her back to a good place, emotionally”. But it had saved her from the police or social services and … the rest of it. Besides, she was a good student, wasn’t she? A dedicated student, even if she maybe wasn’t the smartest in the class. And that’s why she’d cracked under the pressure – she’d simply wanted it more.

  Two grade points. That’s all she’d asked for. The difference between a pass and a fail. She’d asked for a re-mark, she’d begged. And the teacher had folded her arms and turned her down flat. Izzy had never felt anger like that before – sheer rage at the injustice of it. It wasn’t even like her answer on the paper had been wrong. Just not clear enough. It wasn’t fair. She’d worked so hard and done her best and then… Then someone was telling her that her best simply wasn’t good enough.

  “You shouldn’t be here, dearie…” A teacher’s concern for a teenage girl all alone in a deserted car park after dark.

  A teacher who didn’t spot the metal bar in Izzy’s hand as she walked away and who, when she turned the corner to her parking space, could barely believe that anyone – let alone Izzy – could do that to her car…

  Izzy looked over at Grey’s outstretched hand. He blinked at her. “You and me,” he said again, and tried to sit up, before groaning and flopping back down on to the floor.

  “I guess I’m staying here for a while.” He rubbed his hands through his hair. “How’d the lift doors get like that, anyway?”

  “Maintenance must have left them at the end of their shift, I suppose. Not exactly safe,” Izzy said, kicking the screwdriver he’d used to prise open the doors out of the way. He didn’t need to know, did he?

  “And my shoes? What’s that about?”

  She forced a smile. “I didn’t want to bring it up. I thought it was some kind of hippy statement,” she said weakly, and held up a hand. It was scratched and bruised, and still stained red. “I’m thinking … hospital?”

  “You’re sure you want to do that?”

  “They’re dead, Grey. All our friends are gone. Sooner or later, it’s all going to come out – everything that’s happened. But we’re still here, and we need to be OK.”

  “We’re going to be OK, Iz. I promise.” He smiled at her, and his face lit up in a way she’d never seen before – or at least never noticed. He reached out for her hand again.

  “I hope so,” she said, smiling back. And as her fingers twined through his, the backs of their hands brushed the carpet – and something cold lying there in the middle of the floor. Something metal. Something sharp.

  Izzy felt Grey’s fingers tighten around hers – or was it hers tightening around his? One of them was holding the other so tightly that the bones in her hand were starting to ache, but it was impossible to tell who. Her eyes locked with Grey’s and as one, they turned their gazes towards the object lying on the floor between them.

  We can’t just leave it there, can we? Anything could happen to it.

  Izzy’s scar throbbed painfully as the scalpel glittered in the light – and as the smile on Grey’s face faded, Izzy found herself starting to giggle…

  Frozen Charlotte

  Alex Bell

  Following the sudden death of her best friend, Sophie hopes that spending the summer with family on a remote Scottish island will be just what she needs. But the old schoolhouse, with its tragic history, is anything but an escape. History is about to repeat itself. And Sophie is in terrible danger…

  Flesh and Blood

  Simon Cheshire

  When Sam hears screams coming from a nearby house, he sets out to investigate. But the secrets hidden behind the locked doors of Bierce Priory are worse than he could ever have imagined. Uncovering the horror is one thing, escaping is another.

  Bad Bones

  Graham Marks

  Gabe makes a discovery that could be the answer to all his problems. But taking the Aztec gold disturbs the spirit of an evil Spanish priest hell-bent on revenge. Can Gabe escape the demon he’s unleashed?

  Read on for the opening

  chapter of Frozen Charlotte…

  An extract from Frozen Charlotte

  by Alex Bell

  Chapter One

  When Jay said he’d downloaded a Ouija-board app on to his phone, I wasn’t surprised. It sounded like the kind of daft thing he’d do. It was Thursday night and we were sitting in our favourite greasy spoon café, eating baskets of curly fries, like always.

  “Do we have to do this?” I asked.

  “Yes. Don’t be a spoilsport,” Jay said.

  He put his phone on the table and loaded the app. A Ouija board filled the screen. The words YES and NO were written in flowing script in the top two corners, and beneath them were the letters of the alphabet in that same curling text, in two arches. Beneath that was a straight row of numbers from zero to nine, and underneath was printed GOODBYE.

  “Isn’t there some kind of law against Ouija boards or something? I thought they were supposed to be dangerous.”

  “Dangerous how? It’s only a board with some letters and numbers written on it.”

  “I heard they were banned in England.”

  “Couldn’t be, or they wouldn’t have made the app. You’re not scared, are you? It’s only a bit of fun.”

  “I am definitely not scared,” I said.

&nbs
p; “Hold your hand over the screen then.”

  So I held out my hand, and Jay did the same, our fingertips just touching.

  “The planchette thing is supposed to spell out the answers to our questions,” Jay said, indicating the little pointed disc hovering at one corner of the screen.

  “Without us even touching it?”

  “The ghost will move it,” he declared.

  “A ghost that understands mobile phones? And doesn’t mind crowds?” I glanced around the packed café. “I thought you were supposed to play with Ouija boards in haunted houses and abandoned train stations.”

  “That would be pretty awesome, Sophie, but since we don’t have any boarded-up lunatic asylums or whatever around here, we’ll just have to make do with what we’ve got. Who shall we try to contact?” Jay asked. “Jack the Ripper? Mad King George? The Birdman of Alcatraz?”

  “Rebecca Craig,” I said. The name came out without my really meaning it to.

  “Never heard of her. Who did she kill?”

  “No one. She’s my dead cousin.”

  Jay raised an eyebrow. “Your what?”

  “My uncle who lives in Scotland, he used to have another daughter, but she died when she was seven.”

  “How?”

  I shrugged. “I don’t know. No one really talks about it. It was some kind of accident.”

  “How well did you know her?”

  “Not that well. I only met her once. It must have been right before she died. But I always wondered how it happened. And I guess I’ve just been thinking about them again, now that I’m going to stay in the holidays.”

  “OK, let’s ask her how she died. Rebecca Craig,” Jay said. “We invite you to speak with us.”

  Nothing happened.

  “Rebecca Craig,” Jay said again. “Are you there?”

  “It’s not going to work,” I said. “I told you we should have gone to a haunted house.”

  “Why don’t you try calling her?” Jay said. “Perhaps she’ll respond to you better. You’re family, after all.”

  I looked down at the Ouija board and the motionless planchette. “Rebecca Craig—”

  I didn’t even finish the sentence before the disc started to move. It glided smoothly once around the board before coming back to hover where it had been before.

  “Is that how spirits say hello, or just the app having a glitch-flip?” I asked.

  “Shh! You’re going to upset the board with your negativity. Rebecca Craig,” Jay said again. “Is that you? Your cousin would like to speak with you.”

  “We’re not technically—” I began, but the planchette was already moving. Slowly it slid over to YES, and then quickly returned to the corner of the board.

  “It’s obviously got voice-activation software,” I said. With my free hand I reached across the table to pinch one of Jay’s fries.

  He tutted at me, then said, “Spirit, how did you die?”

  The planchette hovered a little longer this time before sliding over towards the letters and spelling out: B-L-A-C-K

  “What’s that supposed to mean?” I asked.

  “It’s not finished,” Jay replied.

  The planchette went on to spell: S-A-N-D

  “Black sand?” I said. “That’s a new one. Maybe she meant to say quicksand? Do they have quicksand in Scotland?”

  “Spirit,” Jay began, but the planchette was already moving again. One by one, it spelled out seven words:

  D-A-D-D-Y

  S-A-Y-S

  N-E-V-E-R

  E-V-E-R

  O-P-E-N

  T-H-E

  G-A-T-E

  “It’s like a Magic Eight ball,” I said. “It just comes out with something random each time.”

  “Shh! It’s not random, we’re speaking with the dead,” Jay said, somehow managing to keep a straight face, even when I stuck my tongue out at him. “Is that why you died, spirit?” he asked. “Because you opened the gate?”

  The planchette started to move again, gliding smoothly around the lighted screen:

  C-H-A-R-L-O-T-T-E

  I-S

  C-O-L-D

  “Charlotte?” I said. “I thought we were speaking to Rebecca?”

  “Is your name Charlotte?” Jay asked.

  The planchette moved straight to NO.

  “Are you Rebecca Craig?” I asked.

  The planchette did a little jump before whizzing over to YES. And then:

  C-H-A-R-L-O-T-T-E

  I-S

  C-O-L-D

  C-O-L-D

  C-H-A-R-L-O-T-T-E

  I-S

  C-O-L-D

  C-H-A-R-L-O-T-T-E

  I-S

  C-O-L-D

  “This ghost has a pretty one-track mind,” I said with a yawn. “I hope you didn’t pay a lot of money for this rubbish? Aren’t you supposed to be saving up for a new bike?”

  “Yes, but I hate saving money – it’s so boring. Maybe I’ll get a unicycle instead. Do you think that would make me more popular at school?”

  I laughed. “Only if you went to clown school. You’d fit right in there. Probably make Head Boy.”

  “Head Boy, wouldn’t that be something? My mum would die of pride.” Jay looked down at the board and said, “You know, some people think that spirits can see into the future. Let’s give it a little test. Rebecca, am I ever going to grow another couple of inches taller?”

  I giggled as the planchette whizzed around, apparently at random.

  N-E-V-E-R

  E-V-E-R

  O-P-E-N

  T-H-E

  G-A-T-E

  D-A-D-D-Y

  S-A-Y-S

  D-A-D-D-Y

  S-A-Y-S

  T-H-E

  G-A-T-E

  N-E-V-E-R

  E-V-E-R

  “Do you think I should take that as a ‘no’?” Jay asked me.

  “Absolutely. Titch for life.”

  Jay pretended to recoil. “Geez, you don’t have to be vicious about it.” He looked back down at the board. “Spirit, am I going to pass that maths quiz tomorrow?”

  B-L-A-C-K

  S-A-N-D

  F-R-O-Z-E-N

  C-H-A-R-L-O-T-T-E

  F-R-O-Z-E-N

  S-A-N-D

  B-L-A-C-K

  C-H-A-R-L-O-T-T-E

  C-O-L-D

  H-E-R-E

  D-A-D-D-Y

  Jay and I were both giggling now, like little kids, but his next, and final, question made the laugh stick in my throat. “When will I die?”

  This time the planchette gave a different answer. It whizzed around the board aimlessly once again before clearly spelling out seven letters:

  T-O-N-I-G-H-T

  “I don’t think this ghost likes me very much,” Jay said, lifting his eyes to mine. “What do you think?”

  But before I could respond, we both jumped as a tinkly, music-box style tune started to play from Jay’s phone.

  “Is that your new ringtone?” I asked.

  “I’ve never heard it before,” Jay replied.

  “Now you’re just messing with me.”

  He shook his head and gave me his best innocent look. “It must be part of the app. To make it more spooky.”

  A girl’s voice started to sing – plaintive and childish, high-pitched and wobbly. It was a simple, lilting melody full of melancholy, a song made for quiet campfires, lonely hills and cold nights:

  Now Charlotte lived on the mountainside,

  In a bleak and dreary spot.

  There was no house for miles around,

  Except her father’s cot.

  “You are such a wind-up,” I said, smiling and giving Jay’s arm a shove. The sing-song voice was starting to get us dirty looks from the other customers in the café. “You put that on there yourself!”

  “I swear I didn’t,” Jay replied. “It’s just a really cool app.”

  “Such a dreadful night I never saw,

  The reins I scarce can hold.”

 
Fair Charlotte shivering faintly said,

  “I am exceedingly cold.”

  Jay tapped the screen to turn it off but, though the voice stopped singing, the Ouija-board screen wouldn’t close. The planchette started spinning around the board manically.

  “Dude, I think that app has broken your phone,” I said.

  It was only a joke. I didn’t really think there was anything wrong with the phone that turning it off and on again wouldn’t fix, but then the screen light started to flicker, and all the lights in the café flickered with it.

  Jay and I looked at each other and I saw the first glimmer of uncertainty pass over his face.

  And then every light in the café went out, leaving us in total darkness.

  There were grumblings and mutterings from the other customers around us and, somewhere in the room, a small child started to cry. We heard the loud crash of something being dropped in the kitchen.

  The only light in the room came from the glow of Jay’s mobile phone, still on the table between us. I looked at it and saw the planchette fly over to number nine and then start counting down through the numbers. When it got to zero, someone in the café screamed, a high, piercing screech that went on and on.

  Cold clammy fingers curled around mine as Jay took my hand in the darkness and squeezed it tight. I could hear chairs scraping on the floor as people stood up, demanding to know what was happening. More children started to cry, and I could hear glasses and things breaking as people tried to move around in the dark and ended up bumping into tables. And above it all was the piercing sound of a woman crying hysterically, as if something really awful was happening to her.

  I let go of Jay’s hand and twisted round in my seat, straining my eyes into the darkness, desperately trying to make sense of what was happening. Now that my eyes had adjusted, I could just make out the silhouettes of some of the other people in the café with us – plain black shapes, like shadow puppets dancing on a wall.

  But one of them was taller than all the others, impossibly tall, and I realized that whoever it was must be standing on one of the tables. They weren’t moving, not at all. Everyone else in the café was moving, even if only turning their heads this way and that, but this person stood completely stock-still. I couldn’t even tell if I was looking at their back or their front – they were just staring straight ahead, arms by their sides.