Secret of the Shadows

by Cathy MacPhail

  Of course I couldn’t tell him the truth. Couldn’t admit I was going to that infamous house in the middle of the night. So I gave him an address on the coast road. Somewhere he could drop me. But the address was close enough to impress him. ‘Wow! What do you think of that house on the shore, eh? Mille Failte? He was shaking his head. ‘What was going on in that house and not a soul knew about it. Not till that old lady comes along and gets suspicious, and finds out the truth. Better than Miss Marple, eh?’

  Yes, I thought, better than Miss Marple.

  ‘I’ll wait till you get into the house, hen,’ he said when he pulled up at the address I had given him. I couldn’t think of an excuse to send him away, so I opened the gate, walked up the drive and pretended to ring the bell. I turned and waved at him, but still he stayed, his pleasant face still smiling. I wished he would go, though I knew he was only anxious for my safety. Then he pointed upstairs and I looked up and my heart sank. A light had come on in an upstairs room. Panic must have shown on my face, because he gave me the thumbs-up and winked. ‘Remember. Tell the truth.’

  I sighed with relief when I heard another call coming in to him on his radio. He threw me another wave, and then he was gone.

  I have never moved so fast. I was down that path and out of the gate seconds after he sped away. I saw his tail lights disappearing round the bend in the road. Only then did I cross the street and head for the house.

  It lay still and silent, and though I held my breath and listened hard there was no sound, no feeling of a malevolent presence. Yet, I knew she was here, waiting for me. Her next victim. Her final victim. And I knew where I would find her.

  I opened the door and walked into the hall. My step was steady and firm as I made my way to that room, the room where she died.

  The green chair still sat in that corner and the bed was bare now, with only a mattress, but otherwise there was no other furniture here, just some boxes piled up by the door. Tomorrow, the removal men would come and clear the house of everything before it was obliterated from the face of the earth.

  What I had to do must be done tonight.

  I lay on the bed on my back and stared at the ceiling. The door of the room swung slowly shut.

  The room grew darker. The only sound was the beating of my heart.

  Gran, I prayed to her. Gran, give me strength. For tonight. Give me all your strength.

  And the shadow in the chair began to stir.

  Chapter 37

  I saw it move, a shadow without shape – stirring into some kind of life from that spot where she had died. I turned my head for a moment, dared to look at the way that shadow seemed to sway and flow and, though I could make out no face, I knew a face was there.

  And now it was coming for me.

  I snapped my eyes away, turned them to the ceiling, and lay there, my arms crossed in front of me, like a corpse myself, rigid with terror. But there was something else stronger in me than fear. Determination. I closed my eyes tight shut. Sewed them closed with invisible thread, so they would stay shut no matter what. I felt that dark shape close in. I imagined it swirling like smoke towards the bed, willing me to look. And I knew if I did, it would be watching me, triumphant.

  It was beside the bed now. If I dared reach out my hand, I would be able to touch it. Sink my hand into its evil. But still I didn’t move.

  It shifted again. I felt the cold of it rising above me, hovering over me. I could feel the black coldness of it weigh heavy on me, envelop me. And still I did not look.

  Closer it came, lowering itself on top of me, until I could feel its dead, icy breath against my face, smell the rotting evil of it in my nostrils. I held my breath and it came closer. So close now, urging me to open my eyes and see. Daring me to look.

  My heart was racing, and now there was no way I could stop myself. My eyes slowly opened.

  And I was looking into the face of evil.

  The eyes burning, the mouth wide. And that face broke into the mockery of a smile. A smile of triumph because she had forced me to look into her face.

  She roared and I heard again that sound. A sound that seemed to rise from the depths. Her shadow covered me. She thought she’d won.

  Think again, Sister Kelly.

  I stared back into those eyes. I did not flinch. I opened my mouth as wide as hers. And with every bit of strength I had, I roared back at her. My eyes as wild as hers – wild because she had killed my grandmother.

  At my roar she shrank back, and I knelt up on the bed and roared again and she moved away and now I followed her, and my roar became a yell, a yell of triumph.

  ‘Do your worst, Sister Kelly. I live. You died.’ And I roared again, and the black shadow moved back against the door.

  She was building her strength. Getting ready to come at me again, and I was so afraid I had no strength left to fight her. I watched the power in her grow. But I knelt on the bed, my back straight, waiting for her. Afraid as I was, I would not let my gran down.

  At that moment the whole house seemed to shake. The floor trembled. My eyes never left her and it seemed she had felt that movement too for those eyes left me. I followed her gaze then, and it was as if the floor was coming alive. Something was rising through the floorboards, something black and menacing. And now I saw that it wasn’t me who was afraid.

  It was her.

  Those eyes were wild with terror. The blackness rising from the floor became shapes, malevolent shapes, and they surrounded her. She had nowhere to go. Something more evil, something stronger than her was here. She tried to struggle. I could see how she struggled but they held her fast. She could not escape. And I knew in that instant what they were and why they had come for her.

  ‘Take her!’ I screamed it. ‘Take her. I win, Sister Kelly. Can you hear me? I. Win.’

  And her roar became a whimper as they pulled her down. Inch by inch she oozed down through the floor, and I had no pity for her who had been pitiless to so many.

  With one final cry of terror she was gone. And the cold of the room went with her.

  I sat back on my heels and looked around me.

  She was gone.

  The house was free of her.

  And so was I.

  Chapter 38

  Crowds came to see the demolition. It was a media event and a real tourist attraction. Television cameras were there, and reporters from all the national newspapers. My friends and I watched it all safely behind the yellow police tape there to hold the crowds back.

  I watched Aunt Belle. She had already been interviewed by several television reporters. She was in her element, glowing with pride for her sister. She had bought a new wig especially for the event.

  ‘I’m glad I’m back for this,’ Jazz said. ‘I wouldn’t have missed it for the world.’

  Aisha giggled. ‘Nor me. How often are we in the middle of a murder mystery?’

  More often than you think, Aisha, I could have told her, but she would never know. None of them would. This gift I had would also be my secret.

  ‘I feel bad we’ve been off on holiday and you’ve been stuck here,’ Jazz said. ‘You must have been so bored, just packing up an old house.’

  ‘Yes,’ I said, holding back a smile. ‘Really bored.’

  It was then I saw Paul Forbes pushing his way through the crowd. I stared at him. Couldn’t help it.

  ‘Do you know him?’ Mac said, his gaze following mine. There was a hint of jealousy in his tone, and I liked that.

  ‘Who is he? He’s kind of dishy?’ Jazz said. Paul was. I could appreciate his good looks now – his soft brown hair and those brown eyes. It was hard to forget that the last time I had seen him he’d had a look of stark terror on his face.

  ‘Dishy, but a bit rude.’ Aisha tapped him on the shoulder. ‘Excuse me, you’re blocking our view.’

  Paul turned, and he looked straight at me for just a second. I smiled, because he had been kind enough to stay with my aunt. He had helped me. He smiled back at me, but there was no
recognition on his face at all. ‘Sorry,’ he said, and he moved aside.

  ‘Are you sure you don’t know him?’ Mac asked again.

  ‘Don’t get your boxers in a twist. You’re still her boyfriend. That right, Tyler?’ Jazz said.

  I laughed, and Mac smiled at me.

  ‘Though I am getting her checked out to see if there is any insanity in her family,’ Jazz said. And we all laughed.

  Aisha squeezed my arm. ‘Are you all right about watching this?’

  ‘Me? I’m fine.’

  Better than fine, I was thinking. I had learned a lot about myself these past few weeks. I could change the past. And I would again. There were others out there. The people I saw in my dreams. The unlawfully dead. Asking for my help. And I would help them, though I would be afraid, even terrified. If I had a gift, this was it.

  I could not turn away.

  I would not turn away.

  And at that moment the bulldozers moved in.

  And the house fell down.

  Meet Cathy MacPhail

  Cathy MacPhail was born and brought up in Greenock, Scotland, where she still lives. Before becoming a children’s author, she wrote short stories for magazines and comedy programmes for radio. Cathy was inspired to write her first children’s book after her daughter was bullied at school.

  Cathy writes spooky thrillers for younger readers as well as teen novels. She has won the Royal Mail Book Award twice, along with lots of other awards. She loves to give her readers a ‘rattling good read’ and has been called the Scottish Jacqueline Wilson.

  One of Cathy’s greatest fears would be to meet another version of herself, similar to the young girl in her bestselling novel Another Me. She is a big fan of Doctor Who and would love to write a scary monster episode for the series.

  Cathy loves to hear from her fans, so visit www.cathymacphail.com and email her your thoughts.

  Questions from Cathy’s fans!

  I love reading your books but what do you love reading?

  There are so many fantastic books out there that I read all kinds of things. Have you read anything by Robert Swindells? I love his work. He writes the kind of books I like to read. Room 13 is genuinely spooky!

  Where do you get the ideas for your characters?

  I get my ideas from real life – watching, listening, observing. I met a teacher who said that if he could take a group of boys out on the mountains for a few days, they would come back different people. He became Mr Marks in Underworld; I saw an item in a newspaper about a gangland boss who ruled with fear and he became Armour in Grass; I was at a school event, signing books, and a girl walked to the front of the queue. Everyone complained, and all she said was, ‘The line starts behind me.’ And it did. Fiona from Underworld was born. A spark of someone can inspire a great character.

  And, of course, I met a girl at a school in Falkirk, called Tyler Lawless! There’s no need to tell you which character she inspired.

  If you could be a character in one of your books, who would you be, and why?

  Ooh! Two answers here, I think. I loved Ram in the Nemesis series. I think he was brave and adventurous and good-hearted. I’d like to be any of those. Also, Fiona out of Underworld is my alter ego. I love how she always says the right thing at the right time. I never do that. It’s always after someone’s insulted me that I think up a good retort.

  Do you plan each story before you begin writing or does the story take shape as you write?

  Most of the time, the story takes shape in my head! When I get the idea, I can’t stop thinking about it. That’s what happened with Secret of the Shadows. I passed an isolated little bungalow on the coastal road near where I live, and straight away I imagined it was haunted by something evil. But what? I knew I wanted Tyler Lawless to help solve that mystery, so over the next few days I kept writing down all the spooky things that could happen to her in that house. Once I had a lot of the content, I wrote the outline for the story and developed it into a more detailed synopsis of the plot. The way I work out all my books is to then divide the synopsis into exciting, creepy chapters. I think of it like going on a trip. I usually know where I am going to end up, but I might take some thrilling detours along the way.

  If you weren’t a writer, what would you be?

  I love anything weird and mysterious. So, if I was brave enough, I would love to have been an adventurer who explores myths and legends, stories about ghosts and strange creatures, and unsolved mysteries. But I probably wouldn’t be brave enough!

  These questions have been provided by Cathy’s readers. If you would like to ask Cathy a question to feature in her forthcoming books, or you just want to let Cathy know what you think of her stories, please email your questions and thoughts to childrensmarketing@bloomsbury.com.

  Read on for a spine-tingling taster of another story

  featuring Tyler Lawless, a brave and feisty sleuth with a very special gift

  I saw my teacher in the queue at the supermarket last Christmas. Miss Baxter. I was surprised to see her. She’d been dead for six months.

  She saw me. I know she saw me. In fact, I could swear her eyes were searching me out. As if she was watching for me.

  As if she’d been waiting for me.

  I hurried towards her, pushing people aside, but you know what it’s like at Christmas. Queues at all the checkouts, crowds with trolleys piled high with shopping, everything and everyone blocking your way. By the time I got to where I’d seen her, she was gone. No sign of her anywhere.

  And when I told them at school no one would believe me. ‘Typical Tyler Lawless,’ they all said. ‘You’re always making up stories.’

  Even my best friend, Annabelle, agreed with them. She’d sounded annoyed at me. Wanted me to be just an ordinary, run-of-the-mill best friend who didn’t cause her any embarrassment.

  I had let my imagination run away with me, everyone said. It was just another of my stories. It’s true I want to be a writer, and I do look for stories everywhere. You’re supposed to do that. But this time I wasn’t making it up. I really did see her.

  Miss Baxter had died abroad during the summer holidays. A tragic accident, they said. An accident that should never have happened. Her body had been brought back and she was buried somewhere in England.

  But I had seen her!

  I couldn’t stop thinking about her. Trying to find an explanation for the unexplainable. And I began to think . . . what if she hadn’t died at all? What if someone else’s body had been identified as hers? What if it was all a scam to get the life insurance?

  Or what if she was in the witness protection programme and had had to change her identity?

  ‘She’d hardly be likely to pop into the local supermarket then, would she?’ Annabelle scoffed at me. And if she couldn’t believe me, what chance did I have with anyone else?

  I had also seen Miss Baxter making furtive calls. At least to me they looked furtive. Snapping her phone shut when she had seen I was watching her. And I thought, what if she had a secret life, was an undercover agent, and she’d come to the school for some dark purpose? And then had to fake her own death so she could move on to her next assignment.

  It was those ‘what-ifs’ that were always getting me into trouble. My imagination had caused me a mountain of problems at my last school.

  I saw the French assistant, Mademoiselle Carlier, and the new science teacher going home together in her car one night after school. I had noticed them before, sharing a look, a smile when they thought no one was watching. But the science teacher was married.

  ‘What if they’re having an affair?’ I whispered.

  I whispered it to the wrong person. She passed it on and I was pulled into the head’s office and warned about spreading rumours. That had been my first warning. The first of many.

  But it was this story, this one in particular, my insistence that I had seen Miss Baxter, that had caused the most trouble. I wouldn’t let it go. I wouldn’t let them say I was making it up. I
had seen her. It hadn’t been a mistake. I began to get angry when people ridiculed me. And that just got me into more trouble.

  My parents finally decided it would be best to take me out of that school and find somewhere else. It was a case of leaving before I was pushed. I was already on my final warning by this time. Unfair, in my opinion. I never caused real trouble. I wasn’t a bully. I was never disruptive . . . I just noticed things other people missed. And, in the end, I had been right about Mademoiselle Carlier. Her and the science teacher had run off together, causing no end of scandal. But, of course, no one remembered that! Oh no. In fact, it only seemed to make things worse. As if by telling people about my suspicions I had actually made it happen. As if I’d done something wrong.

  Sleekit, one of the teachers called me.

  Sleekit. A great Scottish word – it means sly and underhand and untrustworthy. A great word, but not when it was applied to me. It hurt. I wasn’t sleekit at all.

  I had promised myself that here, in this new school, St Anthony’s College, things were going to be different . . .

  Also by Cathy MacPhail

  Run, Zan, Run

  Missing

  Bad Company

  Dark Waters

  Fighting Back

  Another Me

  Underworld

  Roxy’s Baby

  Worse Than Boys

  Grass

  Out of the Depths

  The Nemesis Series

  Into the Shadows

  The Beast Within

  Sinister Intent

  Ride of Death