by Adam Slater
Though it wasn’t exactly dark yet, the day was so overcast that twilight seemed to fall an hour earlier than usual. Marlock High Street was jammed with slow-moving traffic as commuters made their way home, and the shops were beginning to shut. The town’s pavements were thick with the spirits of the dead.
Callum didn’t think he’d ever seen so many ghosts in one place. Forgotten villagers from Marlock’s thousand years of history lurked in doorways like gossiping smokers. Although he’d seen a few of them before, there seemed to be dozens of new ones—new to Callum, at least. As he waited to cross the road, the ghost of a wartime pilot, still in his smart blue uniform, stepped out in front of him. The spectral figure climbed up into an invisible bus and disappeared. A dead woman lay facedown in the middle of the pavement, her long skirts flapping in a chill breeze only Callum seemed to feel. Another slumped against a post box, staring blankly at the sky and beckoning to someone invisible. It was like walking through a war zone that only he could see—normal passersby hurried among the ghosts, oblivious to their presence.
Callum hunched his shoulders against the cold. Weren’t ghosts supposed to haunt the places where they died? How could so many people have died on Marlock High Street? Or were they coming from somewhere else?
And how come, thought Callum bitterly as he reached the estate at the edge of town and turned on to the road that led down to Marlock Wood, how come with all these ghosts, I don’t just once see my own mum?
“Hey, it’s Scott! Look, it’s Callum Scott! Been rolling in mud again, Scott?”
Ed and his gang were crouched under the wooden fort in the toddlers’ play park at the edge of the estate, trying to keep their cigarettes out of the wind. Callum cursed himself. He’d been so distracted by the hordes of ghosts in town he’d forgotten that Ed lived around here.
He’d been lying in wait for him.
In a few seconds, the gang had Callum surrounded: Baz, Harry, George, Craig, and Ed.
“Look at him, he must have been playing in a pigsty!”
That was Baz, Ed’s best mate, always eager to please the boss.
“Nah, he just lives in one,” sneered Ed. “Don’t you, gyppo? You and your crazy gran.”
Callum gritted his teeth at the usual insult. “Better than playing in a baby’s sandpit,” he fired back.
He picked the biggest gap between Ed’s buddies and set off at a fast walk. Maybe they wouldn’t follow him into the woods. It was nearly dark now, and the ruined church didn’t need a ghostly congregation to make it eerie.
But they did follow him. They kept up with him, walking as a group on his shoulder. Safety in numbers.
“You calling us babies, Scott?” Ed’s voice dripped with sarcasm. “So why are you running away from a bunch of babies?”
Callum didn’t reply.
“Hey! I asked you a question.”
“I didn’t call you anything,” Callum said evasively.
“Yeah, but you shouted my name fast enough when you thought you could get Gower after me, didn’t you?”
“Leave me alone,” Callum said, struggling to keep his voice level. They were well into the woods now, and the light was almost gone.
Someone laughed. “He’s running to tell his gran. Watch out, Ed—she’ll turn you into a frog!”
“Frightened, Scott?” Ed gave him a shove that sent Callum stumbling forwards. “You should be.”
Callum clenched his fists, ground his teeth together, and kept walking.
“Oi, Scott, you’ve got my hands dirty now.”
Callum spun around. “Keep them to yourself, then!”
“Here, you can have your muck back,” said Ed, flicking his muddy hand towards Callum’s face.
Callum reacted instinctively. He’d only really intended to deflect Ed’s blow, but instead his fist connected with the bully’s leering face with a dull, wet crunch. An unexpected fountain of blood burst from Ed’s nose, almost black in the twilight. Ed staggered backwards into his mates. It took the gang a moment to reorganize. It took Callum a briefer moment to realize what he’d done.
God, how stupid!
He ran.
Callum could hear the noise of ten trainered feet pelting down the road only a few seconds behind him. There was no way he could outrun them. Through the trees, he saw the squat black ruin of the old church tower, and instinctively swerved up the lane towards it. Maybe there would be somewhere to hide.
Nettles and brambles whipping at his shins, Callum dodged through the rusted iron gate. The churchyard was overgrown and filled with shadows. Callum was sure he’d be able to lose his pursuers among the worn tombstones.
He raced along the north side of the church, stumbling over graves. Stone angels stared down at him with blank eyes, their hands open in useless gestures of comfort. Where were the sword-wielding guardian angels when you needed them?
And where were the ghosts?
The sudden thought made Callum feel sick. Specters had been crowding him off the pavement on Marlock High Street. Where the hell were they now? They were always here in the churchyard—except for today … and last night.
Callum veered round the northeast corner of the church and stopped dead. Standing no more than ten meters away, beneath the black and tossing branches of an ancient yew tree, was a boy. For an instant, Callum thought that one of Ed’s gang had somehow cut him off. Then he looked closer, and his blood froze.
The boy seemed to be about Callum’s age, but his melancholy eyes made him look older. He stood straight and alert. His clothes were old-fashioned—his long, high-necked jacket was so dark it seemed to blend into the falling night, while his deathly white face glowed with its own light. Mute at his side stood a dog the size of a lion, black as the inside of a well. One of the boy’s pale hands was buried in the shadow-fur of the beast’s neck.
With chilling certainty, Callum knew that the pale figure wasn’t a living human. And the strange familiarity between the boy and the dog made Callum sure that the creature wasn’t mortal either. Its eyes glowed red, floating in the darkness of its head. Callum recognized their fiery gleam, and the waves of icy air that drifted from the beast towards him, tugging at his ankles. This monster was, without a doubt, the thing that had hunted him through the woods last night.
Neither the dog nor the boy moved. They were both staring at Callum. He took a shaking breath. No ghost had ever looked directly at him before. Callum had thought he was invisible to them, just as ghosts were invisible to most people. But these two—whatever they were—seemed to be able to see him.
“He went into the graveyard!”
Baz’s voice broke the spell, jerking Callum back to himself. He glanced over his shoulder, but the church’s low, solid bulk hid the path he had taken, so he couldn’t tell how close his pursuers were.
Callum’s mind raced. He had only two options—to try to go forwards, past the strange boy and his hellhound, or to fall back into the hands of Ed and his gang. He hesitated, his eyes flicking back to the dark pair. Slowly, the boy’s bloodless mouth gave a twisted smile, as if mocking Callum’s dilemma. The dog’s lip curled upwards too, revealing a gleaming set of fangs.
Callum bolted. Turning on his heel, he tore back the way he had come, unable to bear the sight of the ghost-boy and his demon dog a moment longer. But before he had taken more than half a dozen steps, Ed and his gang came hurtling around the corner of the church, blocking his way.
Callum tried to gasp out a warning. “Don’t go on—”
“Don’t worry,” Ed snarled. “We’re not going anywhere. And neither are you.”
As Ed stepped towards him, Callum saw the telltale gleam of a blade in the bully’s right hand.
Then, behind Callum, the pale boy spoke a single, quiet word.
“Doom.”
And the dog at his side lifted up its head and howled.
It was a noise beyond belief, like the shriek of steel on steel, thunderous and piercing—a sound so hideous that for one terrible
second Ed literally cowered, riveted to the spot with his hands clapped over his ears. Then, as the howl slowly died away, he turned tail and fled. His gang followed him.
For a moment, Callum stood dumbstruck. Then he ran too.
Chapter Seven
Callum didn’t have any of the control he’d had last night. He didn’t think logically about whether or not he should run from wild animals. He ran in blind terror. Out of the churchyard, down the lane, and onto the road home. With each jarring step, Callum imagined his ankles gripped from behind in those gleaming white fangs. Would the beast’s breath feel hot against the back of his neck, or cold, like the icy wind that drifted around it? Could those bright, razor-sharp fangs tear human flesh, or do they sink into your heart and freeze you to death without even drawing blood? Callum drew another ragged breath and drove himself faster.
He tripped and fell, tearing open both knees and both palms, but he scrambled to his feet again and ran on, skidding in the fallen leaves that gathered in piles along the road. He never looked behind him, expecting any second to feel the black monster leap onto his back.
The lit window of the lonely cottage beckoned, and Callum sprinted towards it. Hurdling the low garden wall, he caught his anorak on one of Gran’s rose bushes, and had to rip it free. With a final effort, he threw himself inside and slammed the door behind him.
He closed his eyes and leaned against the door, panting and gasping as he slid to the floor.
“What in the world?!”
Callum opened his eyes as Gran raced out of the kitchen. In his mind’s eye, he saw what she saw—her teenage grandson collapsed on the doorstep, covered with mud and dead leaves, his knees and hands bloody, his hair probably standing on end. It was the second night in a row he’d come bursting into the cottage with his teeth chattering.
“What happened?” Gran demanded.
“I got chased by that dog,” Callum gasped, not stopping to think about what he should say.
“What, again? Was it one of Warren’s? A farmer ought to be able to keep his dogs under control—”
“No, Gran,” Callum interrupted, still panting. “It wasn’t a farm dog. Warren’s got border collies. This one was completely black, no white anywhere, and it was—”
He stopped himself from blurting out, It was as big as a horse. He didn’t want to sound like an idiot. Or a baby.
“It was much bigger than a sheepdog.” A horrible thought struck him. “Gran, Cadbury’s not outside, is he?”
“He was asleep in your laundry basket last time I looked.” Gran strode to the front window and pressed her face to the leaded glass. “Where did you see it?”
“The cat?” Callum asked in confusion.
“The dog, of course,” Gran said sharply. “Where did it come from? How far did it chase you?”
“From the church,” Callum replied, although actually, now his mind wasn’t paralyzed with terror, he realized that he wasn’t absolutely sure it had chased him. He had been too terrified to look back. Surely a creature that size could have caught him easily, if it had tried. And if it hadn’t chased him, was that because it was busy with Ed and his mates? What was going on in the churchyard now?
“A big dog? Size of a Shetland pony? Completely black, from nose to tail?”
“Yeah, except for its teeth!” Callum peeled leaves away from his shins and glanced up at Gran suspiciously. Her Sherlock Holmes-type questions were out of character. He had expected her to dismiss the whole thing as fear of the dark and then start fussing over his skinned knees, but she was still staring keenly out the window. Her next question was even more unexpected.
“Was there a boy with it?”
Callum’s breath caught in his throat. How could Gran possibly know about the boy? When he didn’t reply, Gran spun around and repeated the question more forcefully.
“Did you see its owner too?”
“Why does it matter?” Callum demanded. “I was chased by a dog, not a person!”
“It’s the owner who’s responsible,” Gran answered.
“But what makes you think the owner is a boy?”
Something wasn’t right. Callum could tell that Gran was holding back. Did she know something about what was going on? That morning she’d seemed overly worried about him walking home in the dark, now she was asking these unsettlingly precise questions. It was like she was fishing for information but not wanting to give anything away herself.
“Have you seen it?” he pressed. “This black dog. Do you know who owns it?”
“No, Callum, I haven’t seen it.”
Gran stared into his eyes for a long moment. Callum met her gaze steadily. He wanted to tell her that there had been a boy with the dog, but why should he, if she wasn’t being open with him? Finally, Gran sighed. “Well, I’ll have a word with Warren tomorrow. Maybe he’s got a new dog. Why don’t you go and get yourself cleaned up. Fish pie tonight.”
That was that. Gran crossed the room and went back out to the kitchen. It was about as close to a brush-off as she was capable of. She hadn’t even bothered to complain about the mud he’d tracked across the sitting room.
Frustrated, frightened, and rattled, Callum tidied up the mess and unpacked his rucksack. He and his grandmother didn’t talk much over supper, but she didn’t seem angry. Callum glanced up from beneath his tangled hair, still wet after his bath. Gran was staring at the fire as she ate, her look distant.
Callum spread his homework over the table while Gran washed up. She didn’t turn on the radio like she usually did. Callum found himself wondering if she was avoiding another ugly news report. Whatever the reason, Gran’s strange behavior gave him the feeling that something was definitely wrong.
That night, he lay awake for what seemed like hours again. The rowan tree scratched at the window and the frame rattled as usual. Callum strained his ears, listening for howling. He was going to be a mess by the end of the week if he couldn’t get more sleep. And then there was Ed to face again tomorrow, assuming he hadn’t been eaten alive. Ed, who’d pulled a knife on him. Callum took a long, deep breath. It was bad enough he had ghosts trying to kill him, without his classmates joining in …
“I wish I knew what was going on, Cad,” murmured Callum. Cadbury was unresponsive, a sleeping heap of fur in his favorite spot at Callum’s feet. The cat gave a little sigh when he heard Callum’s voice, but didn’t raise his head.
Callum stared up at the low ceiling. He could hear Gran still pottering about downstairs. Was she getting the table out again? Maybe she was setting up her easel. Whatever she was doing, the sound of her dragging furniture around wasn’t helping him get to sleep.
“Okay,” he said finally. “A hot drink, that’s what I need.”
His mum always used to make him hot milk when he couldn’t sleep. If he got it quietly himself, maybe Gran wouldn’t make a fuss.
Callum slipped out of bed. God, it was freezing. He reached for a sweater and shrugged it on over his pajamas before heading to the door. He didn’t bother to switch on the light—the stairs were dimly illuminated by the light coming up from the sitting room. He made his way slowly down the small spiral staircase, hugging the wall where the steps were widest, feeling the way with his bare feet on the uneven treads.
As he turned the corner at the bottom of the spiral, Callum opened his mouth to speak, but stopped. Gran was standing on a chair by the window, her back to Callum, busy with something on the highest of the bookshelves—the one that ran above the window and the door. You couldn’t even see that shelf unless you stood practically beneath it, because one of the ancient timber beams holding up the ceiling ran in front of it. What was she doing?
Quietly, Callum took another step down the stairs.
As he watched, Gran pulled down several books, stacking them carefully on the edge of one of the lower shelves. Callum stared, intrigued. What were the books? Gardening or painting manuals by the look of it; flowers and jugs and landscapes on the covers. Callum didn’t pay muc
h attention to the books Gran kept on the inaccessible shelves—they were mostly ones that even she never bothered to read. Maybe she’d decided to get rid of them. But it seemed a very strange time of day for a clear-out.
Gran stopped her work suddenly. She stood with her hands on her hips, scanning the shelf in front of her. After a moment she reached back—far back—and pulled out another book. Callum realized that the shelf was deeper than he had first thought. The book Gran had pulled out had been behind the books at the front of the shelf.
Gran blew a layer of dust off the top edge of the book and examined the spine. It was bound in black leather and stitched with silver; the fine tooling glimmered in the firelight as she opened the cover and studied the first page. Finally, she set this book aside, wiped her dusty hands on the back of her trousers, and put back all the gardening books in their original places. Then she climbed down from her chair.
Callum quietly retreated a couple of steps into the shadows. He listened while she moved the chair back into its place under the table. Silence fell. After a minute or two, Callum dared to steal a glance around the stair wall.
Gran was sitting in her armchair by the fire with the decaying black and silver book open in her lap. The reflection of the fire’s orange flames danced in her reading glasses. She was so absorbed she did not look up.
What on earth was she doing?
For several long minutes, Callum waited, growing steadily colder as he watched for any clue as to what his grandmother was reading, but she gave no sign. Finally, with a deep sigh, she closed the cover. Callum ducked back into the shadows. His teeth were chattering, but his blood burned with frustrated curiosity. What was that book? And why had Gran been hiding it? There was no way of knowing—it wasn’t as if he could just pop down and ask her, and it was too cold to hang around hoping she would give something away. Reluctantly, Callum turned to make his way quietly back to bed. With every step up the narrow staircase, the draught danced around his feet, like icy fangs snapping at his heels.