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

a teenage girl coming out of the bedroom behind me, carrying a heavy-looking coal scuttle.
    She’s wearing the long black dress and the white apron and cap of a servant. She’s small and scrawny and doesn’t look strong enough to be carrying anything so bulky as that scuttle.
    But here’s the most important thing about her: she can’t be real. I mean, there was no one and
nothing
in that room just now – except for the whisperings in the walls.
    Or maybe it’s
me
who isn’t real…
    The girl’s just passed so close to me that our shoulders nearly touched, and yet it’s as if I’m invisible. She doesn’t react to me at all – she only pauses long enough to tuck a stray sweaty curl of brown hair behind her ear and sigh unhappily.
    And now I watch with breath-held, numb curiosity as the servant girl tugs desperately at the handle of a stiff door in the wall just along from me. It’s one of those I thought must lead to old storage cupboards when I walked past them earlier. The muscles in her jaw clench as the door handle resists her grip, or maybe it’s the high-pitched, bad-tempered squalling of the child back in the bedroom that’s causing her stress.
    â€œ
Ahhhhhhhhhhhhh!
”
    â€œShush that shouting, Master Archibald!” a stern voice now pipes up from the direction of the staircase I hurried up only a few minutes ago.
    Frozen as a chill marble statue, I watch horrified as a young woman appears at the top of the stairwell and shuffles daintily along the landing at high speed towards me, only the tips of her black shoes visible under her long grey skirt. She is looking in my direction. I am clearly here.
    But it’s clear she can’t see me either.
    And now the grumbling servant girl gives the reluctant door a final, frantic tug and it opens outwards. She hurriedly goes inside, pulling the door closed behind her, brass scuttle clanking.
    With the screeching of the child – the
boy
– continuing, the young woman lifts her skirts and breaks into as much of a run as her clothing will allow her.
    â€œStop that noise this instant, Master Archibald – you’ll disturb your mamma!” she calls out.
    She is so close that I can see the cameo brooch at the high neck of her stiff blouse, the pale silhouette of a girl’s face on a terracotta background.
    As the woman rustles by me and into the bedroom, I gasp at the small brush of air, the proof of her living, breathing real self.
    And as she disappears into the room, the scent of a flowery perfume lingers in her wake.
    â€œBut Miss Matilda!” I hear the boy in the bedroom whine. “Flora banged into me and—”
    â€œAnd you’re tittle-tattling on the girl again, Master Archibald. Now let her get on with her work and we’ll get on with ours. I would like to hear you recite the alphabet again, please.”
    As the boy continues to moan and protest, I feel prickles of pins and needles in my hands and feet, as if I’ve been suspended in ice-cold water and I’m now warming my way back to life.
    With a sudden surge of urgency and sureness, I know I need to get through to the servants’ quarters. I wrap my tingling fingers around the shiny brass doorknob and feel stupidly grateful as I hear and feel the clunk of the mechanism turn in my hand.
    But in the split second before I step through to the other side, something makes me look left, up the long length of the landing. And I see the servant girl, peeking out of the tiniest crack in the cupboard door. Flora, the boy called her.
    She is poised at the gap, listening to the griping and grizzling of the spoilt, troublesome little boy, and the telling off he’s getting from the woman, who must be his governess.
    But Flora isn’t just listening; with eyes wide, she’s watching too. Watching
me
…

I flatten myself, pressing my whole weight against the connecting door to keep the weirdness