The Whispers of Wilderwood Hall by Karen McCombie Read Free Book Online

than I did when I heard the sounds that weren’t there. With waves suddenly rushing in, I back off and run, running from the rising anxiety and running from Mum.
    As I hurtle up the swoop of the main stairs, I listen out for her coming after me, or at least shouting her sorries. But she doesn’t come, she doesn’t call out.
    Now on the first floor of Wilderwood Hall, I hurry past the blank and beat-up “grand” bedrooms, aiming for the panelled door near the far end of the landing that’ll take me through to the East Wing, back to the servants’ quarters and the sanctuary of my new bedroom.
    But before I get there, I see brightness beaming from the furthest-away “grand” bedroom. Its doorway faces the panelled one I’m headed for. My heart rate slows, and instead of turning left into the servants’ quarters, as I’d planned, I turn right, drawn into the sunbeam room.
    Because it’s positioned at the corner of the building, it has these big, wide windows on two sides. I drift to the closest and see that it has views of the rooftops of nearby Glenmill – same as my room. The second overlooks the gardens, the driveway, the rusted, wedged-open iron gates, as well as the woods and the snow-capped mountains beyond.
    Even with my head filled with muddle and misery, I can’t help wondering who might have slept in this room, in the long-ago days when Wilderwood was alive with some fancy rich family and their hard-working staff.
    Leaning against a wall that’s powdery with old paint, I gaze around for clues, though there’s nothing much to see apart from debris on the floor and a hole in the wall where a fireplace must’ve once stood.
    Was this the master bedroom, for Mr Richards – the original landowner – and his wife? Probably not … it’s too close to the servants’ quarters for that. Then perhaps it was a guest room? Or a child’s bedroom, or the nursery, maybe?
    Then I hear something. A sound, a noise, that’s enough to make my rambling thoughts grind to a halt. The noise isn’t loud, but in the quiet of this empty room it stands out like a black crow in a snowstorm. It’s a noise like the hissing of escaping gas or air. Or some distant, hazy voice that flits by on the radio, when you’re trying to find the right station.
    OK, OK, I
know
it’s only the rush and fizz of my own pounding blood, but – dumbly – I try and listen in to the murmuring hiss, as if I’ll somehow be able to decipher it.
    Hold still. My breath still too. Tuning in. And then my stomach lurches. I just made out a word in the whisperings.
    â€œ
Leave
…”
    It’s a small voice. A child’s.
    â€œ
Leave, leave, leave
…” I hear the ever-so-faint, scratchy voice repeat over and over again.
    (Whirl, tilt, shift.)

Lurching unsteadily, I make it out of the room and on to the landing – and stop dead.
    Directly in front of me is the connecting door to the servants’ quarters. Two minutes ago, it was propped open with one of our packing boxes … but now it’s closed.
    The cream-coloured paint of the door; it’s glossy and new, I realize as I walk over to touch it in wonder. It’s as new as the ivory wallpaper all the way down the landing, with its pretty pattern of something I think might be honeysuckle. And my feet … my scruffy trainers are standing on something that shouldn’t be there.
    With my breath caught in my throat, I stare down at an ornately patterned long runner of carpet that covers the landing’s highly polished dark floorboards.
    â€œ
LEAVE!
” I hear a child’s voice screech this time.
    The voice is coming from behind me in the room, and – completely rigid with shock – I don’t know what to do or what to think.
    â€œAll right, I’m leaving, I’m leaving…” another voice grumbles in a Scottish accent, and I turn to see