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

safely on the other side.
    To stop it following me through to the reassuringly tatty, twenty-first-century servants’ quarters.
    Because in the here and now, still-unpacked boxes line the corridor – and the normality of that makes me almost giddy with relief.
    Just so I’m absolutely sure that I’m definitely, positively, safely back in the present day, I turn my head left and get a glimpse inside the dusty, drab room where our old futon is plonked. At the sight of it, I get a flash of memory, an image of the moment I spilt blackcurrant juice on it, when I’d jumped at a “scary” moment in
Scooby-Doo
years ago.
    More normality, I realize, picturing the faded stain that’s still there, usually hidden by an artfully placed cushion. And if I turn my head to the right, I’m looking directly into “my” room. From this position – still star-shaped against the door through to the main house – I can’t see much of it except for one plastic black bag of my belongings, which has been hastily dumped on the floor by the removal men and torn at the side. Some familiar pink, polka-dot fabric is poking through the tear, as if my pyjama bottoms are trying to make a run for it…
    I can’t believe I’m actually giggling, considering I’m quietly losing my mind. Though maybe getting hysterical is a symptom of going completely—
    THUD!
    The door thumps against my back and my heart practically gives out.
    â€œEllis? Ellis, are you there?” Mum’s muffled voice calls out.
    I let go of my breath like a deflating balloon.
    â€œYes – hold on!” I yelp, whipping myself around and pulling the door open.
    The first-floor landing of the main house is – thankfully – just as it should be: scruffy, unloved and empty of everyone except my mother.
    â€œWhat did you close the door for?” Mum asks.
    â€œI didn’t! It was—” I hesitate, noticing that Mum looks worried and tense. She’s biting the inside of her mouth the way she always does when she’s stressed. Usually that’s to do with bills and rent and lack of money, but it’s not as if Mum has to worry about stuff like that any more.
    â€œWhat’s wrong?” I ask her.
    â€œNothing,” Mum says too quickly, too sharply. “Nothing’s wrong. Look, I’m sorry about being short with you downstairs just now – there’s just … just a lot to organize.”
    I don’t get it. Everything about the house is an organizational nightmare, but Mum’s been totally up for it. She was up for it when she strolled around the house with Mr Fraser just now, happily examining every crack, fault and disaster. It was all “exciting” first steps in the Shiny New Project.
    What’s happened in the last few minutes to change that?
    â€œWho were you talking to on the phone?” I ask her, since that might hold the clue.
    â€œ It was … it was the internet provider. Boring stuff. Forget it.”
    We studied body language in Citizenship at school last term. Apparently, people can’t look you in the eye when they’re lying. Apparently, Mum is lying.
    Why would she do that? She tells me everything. We tell each
other
everything. “Secrets aren’t good for people,” I remember Mum always saying. Has she conveniently forgotten that?
    â€œYou know, you don’t look so well again, Ellis,” says Mum, stepping away from her fib and closer to me. She puts her small, cool hand on my hot forehead. “You feel a bit clammy.”
    OK, now is the time to tell her what I saw –
who
I saw – out on the landing.
    â€œI’m OK, I’m not sick,” I insist. “It’s this house; it’s making me feel crazy. Just now I—”
    Mum’s phone begins to ring and her already pale face goes chalk white.
    â€œOh, I have to get this, Ellis…” she says, and walks hurriedly