The Hunting Ground by Cliff McNish Read Free Book Online Page A

otherwise. He was only getting ready to do so in case one slipped into the room, giving him no choice.
    A child wanting to play, Elliott thought, a small shiver running through him. The innocent way Ben said it, nothing could have sounded more natural. But if a
dead
little girl wanted to play, what did it mean? The same as with a living child? Or would a ghost child want to play in other ways? In dead ways? With dead things?
    Elliott traced the lines of the decorative bow around Old Albert’s neck. Only smaller fingers than Ben’s could have tied it so neatly.
    ‘Come on, we’re getting out of here,’ he said. ‘Let’s find Dad.’
    He was about to lead the way when Ben grabbed his shirt. ‘Wait,’ he said. ‘What’s that?’
    Elliott saw it now: a sheet of paper fluttering through the part-open door.
    When it landed near them both boys, breathing hard, stood looking at each other for a moment. Then Ben tiptoed across to pick the sheet up.
    In thick, red-pencilled letters, a child’s non-joined-up style, someone had left them a message:
    To my friends
     
    Ben unfolded the note and brought it across to Elliott.
    The message inside was simple.
    Do you want to play?
     
    Ben threw the note down, backing away. ‘It
is
a child!’ he whispered. ‘It might already be in the room with us.Somewhere we can’t see …’ He kicked the bed.
    Elliott didn’t know what to think, but the only sensible thing to do was to get them both out of the room.
    ‘It’s OK,’ he told Ben, gritting his teeth. ‘I don’t know what’s outside, but we’re going to leave together. Whatever’s out there, we’ll walk straight past it. Are you ready?’
    Ben swallowed and nodded, and Elliott had just taken hold of his arm when they heard a scrishing noise.
    ‘Get behind me,’ Elliott ordered.
    As Ben retreated, Elliott watched the doorway. Excited scrambling had started up outside, scurrying feet taking less than a second to run the whole length of the corridor and back. Elliott checked the window behind him. Dad was out there, a faraway dot in the southern grounds. Heading towards the glass, Elliott was getting ready to open the window when the bedroom doorway creaked a little wider.
    Ben gasped as a shadow edged across the room. ‘Shut the door!’ he yelled. ‘Elliott, don’t just stand there! Shut it!’
    But before Elliott could move another object was thrown inside the bedroom. It entered half way up the door this time, bouncing lightly across the carpet,
bump, bump
, before coming to rest near Ben’s feet.
    Elliott nearly collapsed with relief when he saw that it was only a scrunched-up ball of paper.
    He opened it. Inside was a sketch. It was in Eve’s style, as described in the diary, but different as well. Blockier. Darker. Done in pencil but so heavily that it looked more like charcoal.
    It showed a boy asleep in bed, the stars visible through his bedroom window.
    ‘It
is
Eve!’ Ben hissed. He stared at the sketch, then gave Elliott an amazed look. ‘It’s a picture of … that’s me, isn’t it? It’s me sleeping in the new bed.
She’s been watching us.’
    Sweat trickled down Elliott’s neck as he gazed at the sketch. Then he looked up at the door, preparing himself for Eve to enter. ‘Is it really you, Eve?’ he whispered. No answer. Only swift, eager panting from the corridor outside.
    Eyes wide with fear, Ben picked up a cup from the bedside table and threw it at the door.
    Readying himself, Elliott said loudly, ‘Whoever you are, I’m coming out.’
    ‘Elliott, no!’ Ben yelled. ‘Stay here! Don’t go out!’
    A new noise from the corridor stopped Elliott in mid-stride:
scribbling
. Seconds later another tight wad of paper was thrown into the room.
    ‘Don’t touch it!’ Ben said.
    But Elliott had already walked into the centre of theroom and picked up the sheet of paper. It was another note.
    Can I come in?
     
    Such a simple question. Such a disarmingly simple question. But what reply to