“The sheep probably died of something else, and the bodies were mutilated afterwards,” Mrs Seymour told them. “Foxes most likely. Couldn’t have been wolves anyway. Now, does anyone want pudding? Coffee?”
The talk turned to the dessert menu as Carys finished clearing away. She smiled at Peter when she took his plate. Not much of a smile, but a proper smile nonetheless. Peter hardly noticed. He was thinking about what the girl’s mother had said.
Why had she said that? No one else had even mentioned wolves.
Peter slept fitfully, waking to the sound of the wind, which sighed and growled round the windows like an animal out in the cold of the night.
He skipped breakfast, meeting Dad in the car park. Abby and Mike were already in the Range Rover and Professor Crichton was loading a rucksack full of equipment into the back.
“Sure you don’t want anything?”
“Sure,” Peter told him, grateful that Dad wouldn’t make a thing of it. Unlike Mum – for her, skipping breakfast was tantamount to high treason.
“Carys asked where you were.”
“Course she did.” He didn’t believe it for a moment.
A low mist hugged the ground. The stones of the circle poked up through it like a giant’s broken teeth. The granite glistened where the mist had coalesced.
It always amazed Peter how boring so much of archaeology was. Painstaking, or meticulous, was how his father would describe it. But after a couple of hours Peter had had enough of measuring every possible aspect of the circle and each stone within it.
“Aren’t you going to do any real archaeology?” he asked Mike, taking care the others didn’t overhear.
Mike laughed. “If you mean digging holes and stuff , then yes. But not yet. We need to map out the site first, and do some geophysics – examine satellite images, read up on the previous expeditions – anything that will clue us in to where’s best to dig. When we do start it will take a while with just the four of us.”
“It’ll take too long and it’ll be just the three of you,” Peter warned him. “Though maybe Sebastian Forrest will let you borrow a digger from the building site. Save a bit of time.”
“Good idea,” Mike agreed. “Tell your dad – he’ll like that.” He cupped his hand round a cigarette, swearing as the wind blew out the flame from his lighter.
After a sandwich lunch, Peter left them to it. Things didn’t look like they were about to get any more exciting at the non-digging “dig”, so he set off to find the remains of Wolfstone Manor.
Peter headed back to the gates he had seen the day before. The ancient driveway was overgrown but its path was still visible as a shadow across the fields. He followed it round the edge of the wood, and as he made his way up a slight incline, the house was revealed in front of him.
From a distance it was impressive – a large country house set in its own grounds. Square and imposing, it dominated the landscape.
But the gardens were overgrown and unruly. As he got closer Peter saw that the house too was neglected and in disrepair. Grass grew through the forecourt and moss clung to the walls. The heavy wooden front door was rotted and cracked. The stone walls and boarded windows were pitted and flaking, leprous with age.
A matted tunnel of vegetation clung to one side of the house. Looking up, Peter shielded his eyes from the sun and saw that the tunnel had once been an avenue of laburnum running alongside a paved terrace that was now broken and uneven. The vestiges of yesterday’s rain dripped onto the blistered paving, dribbled out by a weathered gargoyle. Even from three storeys below, Peter could see the gargoyle’s head was the face of a wolf.
A similar wolf’s head stared out from above the shield over the front door – just as weathered and scarred. Wolves” heads were worked into the stone tracery round the windows and door frame, but they were indistinct and had lost their detail.
The ground floor was almost entirely boarded up. Peter peered through a crack in the wood, but could see very little – an imposing stairway rising from a large hall; pictures hanging on the walls behind the bannisters… A new lock gleamed incongruously on the front door, probably put there by Forrest’s workmen.
Not that Peter was intending to go inside. The exterior looked decrepit enough. Chimney stacks leaned at dangerous angles. In several places shattered stones lay where they had fallen at the foot of the walls, surrounded by starbursts of dust and chippings thrown out by the impact. A huff and a puff from the big bad wolf and the walls would come tumbling down.
There was a high tower at the back of the house. Making his way towards it, Peter was distracted by the landscape. Down from another terrace was what looked like the remains of a maze. From his raised vantage point, Peter could see how the straggly hedges met and intersected. If he screwed up his eyes and squinted, he could make out the shape of the green avenues, though most were now overgrown.
The entrance was still obvious – an arch of box over a rusted metal framework. Peter pushed his way through a mass of ivy that had woven through the box hedge. Inside was a claustrophobic green. But he could see that someone else had been here. Ivy and bindweed were pulled away where they had passed. Several branches were recently broken, exposing pale, new wood.
In places the walls of the maze were so overgrown they blocked the path. In others, they had become so thin that new openings gave into the next section.
The centre of the maze was obvious. It was overgrown, but still a recognisable square. In the middle stood a statue on a stone plinth. The features of the upright figure were washed away along with any inscription. But there was enough detail remaining for Peter to be sure of one thing.
It was a wolf.
Upright, snarling, and holding the stub of what might have been a sword or a cudgel in one paw. The other was curled into a fist.
“Bizarre,” Peter said out loud. In fact it was creepy. The wind gusting through the tight-knit hedges sounded almost like an answering voice.
Tiny flowers were growing up through the cracks between the paving slabs at the base of the plinth. Peter smiled at the contrast between the muted savagery of the weathered statue, and the delicate beauty of the perfectly defined flowers as they shivered in the breeze and the bright sunlight. They were closed up, like snowdrops before they open, though Peter could see that the petals inside the hanging buds were a bright purple. They were supported by impossibly thin, pale green stems surrounded by equally slender green leaves.
The breeze rippled through the hedges again. This time Peter could hear clearly the voice that it carried.
“Help me – please…”
Yet it was so faint he felt he must have imagined it. Unless there was someone here in the maze with him? Peter whirled round, staring into the foliage. Nothing. He took a deep breath, suddenly desperate to get as far away from the place as possible.
The voice came again, fragmented by the wind.
Peter pushed through the hedges as fast as he could. The tiny leaves were still damp with yesterday’s rain. Branches clawed at his clothes and his hands and face.
He tumbled out of the maze dishevelled, scratched and wet, and found himself at the foot of the terrace outside the house. He didn’t know if he was running towards the voice or trying to get away from it. His heart pounded as the cry came again.
“Can you hear me? Please, help!”
Clearer now. Was it a child? The voice was coming from the end of the house – from the tower. Peter ran towards it. He slipped on a patch of moss, tripped on a broken flagstone, but kept running towards the voice.
It was a girl. He could hear her clearly now. But where was she? Was it Carys teasing him maybe?
Peter looked up as the voice called out again – and skidded to a halt as he saw the girl.
She was leaning out of a window near the top of the tower. Too far away to see her clearly, but it certainly wasn’t Carys. He had to shield his eyes from the sun, but Peter guessed she was just a little younger than he was – seventeen maybe. He
r long, fair hair hung down below the windowsill as she leaned out towards him. One hand stretched down.
“Please help me. Get me out of here.”
He couldn’t see her clearly, but Peter could tell that she wasn’t mucking about. She was desperate. Crying. Beautiful.
“Hang on,” he shouted. “I’ll find a way in.”
His mind was churning as much as his stomach. Who was she? What was she doing in the house? How had she got trapped in there? He ran back towards the front door, imagining the girl exploring the decaying ruin. In his mind’s eye he saw her walking through empty, dusty rooms. A trickle of plaster dust in her long hair. Then the roof collapsing and a beam crushing down on her legs, trapping her. He caught his breath at the thought. No, she’s probably just got locked in. She didn’t seem in pain. He hadn’t seen any blood…
He rounded the corner, sprinting for the front of the house, checking his phone – no signal. Typical.
A sound came from inside the house. The crash of something heavy falling. The girl? Peter stopped, but his breath was the loudest thing he could hear for a moment. He stood by one of the boarded-up windows, straining to hear. Were those footsteps on the inside? Had she managed to get out of the tower? He leaned closer.
The board shuddered, then suddenly cracked as something heavy slammed into the other side. The wood splintered, a split appearing down the middle of the board. Peter leaped back, crying out in surprise and fear. His heart lurched and he felt suddenly sick.
“Are you all right?” he called, his voice tight with nerves. “What’s happening in there? Just… hang on!”
The front door looked old and rotten. But it resisted Peter’s attempts to shoulder it open.
He should just run and get help. But with no phone signal, it could take a while. Peter checked, just in case – one bar, thank God. But it was gone again before he could even think who to call.
He hurried back to the tower to tell the girl he was going for help. She’d have to wait. He tried to blot out the memory of the sounds from the house. They were inside and he was outside. Whatever it was, it couldn’t hurt him.
Only this time, the noise came from right behind him. A pattering like a dog’s paws scrabbling on the paving. He spun round – nothing. Imagination. Even so, his throat felt tight. He ran, fast as he could, glancing over his shoulder every few paces. He turned the corner of the house.
And slammed straight into something. Peter yelled in fright as hands grabbed his shoulders. A dark silhouetted figure held him tight.
“Hey, hey, hey!”
Peter pulled away. It took him a few seconds to recognise David Forrest.
“Bloody hell! You scared the life out of me.”
“I could tell. You look well spooked.”
His heart was still racing and he felt cold with fear. “Spooked is right. Did you…” Peter hardly dared ask. “Did you hear something behind me? Or in the house?”
David shook his head. “It’s old. Always creaking and making noises.”
“And there’s a girl.”
David frowned. “What?”
“Come on – we have to help her. I think she’s trapped inside.”
“Inside?” David ran after him. “There’s no one inside. They’d be mad – the place is ready to fall down.”
“That’s why we have to help her. Come on!”
“Who?”
They were back where Peter had first seen the girl. The sun was in his eyes again, and the tower was a dark shadow against the sky, devoid of any detail. He shielded his eyes as he pointed.
“Up there.”
“Can’t see anyone.”
“At the window.”
David laughed. “Probably a ghost. I bet this place is haunted big time.”
“But I saw her,” Peter repeated. Even as he said it he was less certain. The sun had been in his eyes. What had he really seen – shadows? What had he really heard – the wind? As if to make the point, a breeze whipped though his hair and sighed in the nearby trees.
“This place would give anyone the creeps,” David said. “What are you doing here anyway?” He walked slowly back along the terrace.
Reluctantly, Peter followed. “Just looking. Then I heard… thought I heard a voice.”
“Probably the wind. You thought it sounded like a voice, and your imagination filled in the blanks.”
“I guess.” Could it have been? But he was sure he’d seen the girl. He gave David a puzzled look. “Why are you here?”
David turned. “I came looking for you. Went up to the circle, guessed you’d be bored silly by now. Thought I’dshow you the local sights. Well,” he added apologetically, “there’s the church and some half-built houses. That’s about it.”
“And this place.”
“Yeah, well, I’dkeep away from Haunted Manor. Even Scooby Doo wouldn’t be seen dead here.”
They retraced the route down the drive towards the ruined gates. “I was so sure,” Peter said. But now it all just seemed silly. “Sorry.”
“No problem,” David assured him. “So what was she like, your spooky woman? Grey lady or screaming banshee?”
“Nothing like either of those. She was just a girl. Really pretty.” He didn’t like to say beautiful. “With long, fair hair. I just wanted to help her… What?”
David had stopped dead. He was staring open-mouthed at Peter.
“What is it?” Peter asked again.
“Nothing. It’s nothing.” David shook his head and smiled. “Really. I just thought I felt a splash of rain. Hey – let’s see if they”ve found any buried treasure yet.”
Most people wouldn’t think of it as treasure, but Peter knew that to an archaeologist, finding a body was the next best thing. Maybe better.
Professor Crichton, Mike and Abby were hunched over an iPad sheltered in the open back of the Range Rover.
“The value of proper research,” Crichton explained gleefully.
“Exactly where the 1920s expedition recorded it,” Abby agreed.
Peter and David exchanged ‘what are they on about’ looks.
“A shallow grave,” Mike explained.
He angled the iPad so they could see. To Peter this was just a jumble of different-coloured splodges and lines. He could see that David was just as nonplussed.
“Here, let me.” Mike took the iPad and adjusted the settings. The colours and lines resolved themselves into a shape. The outline of a figure, hunched over. Broken and distorted, but obviously human.
“See that?” Abby pointed to a stab of orange at the back of the figure. The image enlarged in response to her touch. The orange blob was a discernable triangular shape.
“Arrow head,” she explained. “Metal, but we’re getting some strange feedback from it.”
“Could be silver,” Crichton said.
“Silver?” David echoed in surprise.
“Unusual, but not unheard of.”
“So this guy was murdered?” Peter asked.
“You see it all in this job. Medieval murder victim,” Mike said. “Shot in the back with a silver arrow while running away from a Bronze-Age stone circle.”
“I doubt if they just buried him where he fell,” Crichton said. “The body’s been arranged. Positioned. Possibly ceremonially, so close to a site like this.”
“And you’re going to dig him up?” David asked.
“I wouldn’t normally describe the delicate and sensitive operation of exhuming a burial site quite like that,” Crichton said. “But yes, if you want to put it like that, we’re going to dig him up.”
David grinned. “Cool.”
Professor Crichton and the others looked set to talk archaeology all evening, so Peter and David took themselves off to the far end of the bar. Carys brought them drinks and food, and seemed slightly less standoffish than she had the night before. She even smiled at Peter a couple of times, though most of her attention seemed to be reserved for David.
Peter didn’t mind. Well, act
ually he did mind, but that was her choice of course. David was obviously better looking – and richer – than he was.
David told Peter that he was working in his father’s business, but hoping to take time out next year to start a degree in business studies.
“You got any other family?” Peter asked.
“No,” David said at once, a little sharply. He shrugged. “Sorry. There’s just me and Dad now. What about you?”
“Mum’s off lecturing round America. History of art. Boston this week, I think.” He should probably call her while David waited for his father to return and Peter’s own dad was deep ‘in conference’ with Mike and Abby. Or text her maybe, in case she was busy.
“You leaving us?” Carys asked as he headed out.
“Just trying to find a decent phone signal,” he told her.
“It’s crazy in here, the building’s so old the walls are really thick. Try across the car park. There’s some maiden’s tears…”
“Some what?”
“Little purple flowers. They’re also called wolf’s blight.”
“Like snowdrops?” He remembered the flowers he’d seen in the maze.
“A bit. Stand close to them and you should get a signal.”
“Thanks.”
“That’s all right. See you later.”
She obviously didn’t mean that. But he could hope. And this was the longest conversation he’d had with her so far.
Peter found the flowers growing in a clump against the hedge. These were fully open, not like the tight buds he’d seen before. They looked just as delicate, swaying in the moonlight. He sent Mum a text asking how she was and telling her archaeology was really boring. Though she knew that already. After that he texted a couple of friends, then he walked slowly along the road that turned off the main street by the pub.
“See you later,” probably just meant she’d see him around the pub. It didn’t mean she’d be looking for him. Of course it didn’t. Maybe he’d tell Carys about the “ghost” girl he’d seen at Wolfstone Manor. Ghost or imagination? But he’d been so sure. Maybe he wouldn’t mention it.
The Wolfstone Curse Page 4