The Room Beyond by Stephanie Elmas Read Free Book Online Page A

though.’
    She looked up.
    ‘Tell me about it.’
    ‘OK then. It’s a silly thing really, probably not half as impressive
as your stories at home.’
    ‘That doesn’t matter.’
    ‘Well, when I was a little girl, probably about seven or eight years
old, I went for a sleepover at my friend’s house. Her name was Sally, Sally
Davies. She lived on a farm in a big old squeaky house that I was a little bit
scared of. That night we stayed awake in her bedroom talking for ages until we
got really tired and closed our eyes to go to sleep. Suddenly I heard
whispering, so quiet that I couldn’t understand the words. “What did you say?”
I asked Sally, but when I listened to her breathing I knew she was fast asleep.
I heard the whispering again and again. It scared me so much that eventually I
pulled my covers over my head to block it out. The next day I told Sally about
it, thinking she’d probably laugh at me. “Oh don’t worry,” she said instead,
“that was just the ghost.” I never stayed at Sally’s house again after that.’
    Beth brushed her fingers through the long spears of grass around her
feet. Her forehead had wrinkled up. She’d clearly taken my story quite
seriously, maybe I should have kept it to myself.
    ‘It’s a bit of a rubbish ghost story.’ I stroked her shoulder. ‘And
it was such a long time ago I don’t really remember it properly.’
    ‘I liked it.’ A cloud had momentarily obscured the sun and her eyes
darkened.
    ‘I hear voices all the time,’ she murmured.
    A flurry of cool air rose up my arms, like a flock of birds swooping
over the horizon.
    ‘Where do you hear them?’
    ‘In my room.’
    I pictured the scruffy walls of Beth’s room and its endless piles of
collected artefacts.
    ‘Are you sure you’re not imagining things?’
    ‘Oh yes. I hear this one woman crying mostly. She just cries and
cries and cries and cries.’
    I shuddered inside. I couldn’t help myself, even though it felt so
foolish to be freaked out by a young child’s colourful imagination.
    ‘And when do you hear her?’
    ‘Usually during the day when I play there on my own. I just tell her
to stop crying; sometimes she does, sometimes she doesn’t.’
    ‘I think you’re making things up.’
    ‘Think it if you like, but it’s true.’
    Her face looked open, sincere. She wasn’t challenging me or trying
to get a reaction of some sort. That was the problem.
    ‘Come on Beth, you must be hungry by now. Let’s go home and find
ourselves something to eat.’
    She put her small hand in mine and together we prowled back through
the grass towards Marguerite Avenue.

 
    1892
     
    Lucinda planted herself firmly in the middle of the bench. It was in
a perfect spot: set back under a large shady tree and away from the throng of
the pathway. A ladybird landed on her knee, a droplet of blood against her violet
skirt.
    ‘Where did you come from?’
    It crawled onto her finger and then suddenly spread its wings and
hurled itself back into the sky.
    ‘Goodbye little man.’
    She closed her eyes against the world and let the orange sunlight
wash coaxingly against her lids. How long had it been since she’d last ventured
so far? A month or two perhaps, it was difficult to tell. Her senses gradually
softened, like taught strings being unhooked one at a time. The noises in the
park merged into a gentle hum and the glow of the sunlight spread about her.
    Tristan Whitestone .
    That name just kept coming back to her again and again and every
time her lips automatically curled into a smile. How on earth had that chinless
fidgety woman found such a husband for herself? Yet he was cruel enough; he’d
enjoyed her bad behaviour a little too much the other night.
    But gosh, those blue eyes of his... like fire and ice at war with
each other. She could recall them so easily; the way they’d laughed with hers. If
only she could open her eyes right now and find them watching her again.
    Suddenly she was falling. Bumping to