The Ghost of Longthorn Manor and Other Stories Read online

She still doesn't seem sure. “Have you taken your pills for this morning?”

  “Just before breakfast.”

  “Your father told me to make sure you take them while he's away.”

  “I can take them in front of you, if you'd prefer,” I reply, before realizing that maybe I'm sounding a little confrontational. “I'm taking them, I promise. They won't do anything, but they're going down the hatch.”

  She forces another smile, even though it's clear she's not entirely convinced. I think she knows I'm lying.

  “Okay, then,” she says finally, wiping her hands on her apron before heading toward the hallway. “Time to get ready, I suppose. The village looked rather quaint, like something from Midsomer Murders. I quite like quaint, though. Quaint and quiet.”

  Now I'm sitting here with just Johnny for company. I want to go up to my room, but I know he'll watch me as I go. At least sitting here like this, I look reasonably normal. I mean, people sit and write all the time. It's when I walk around and write, that's when I start looking weird. Even now, I can tell that Johnny's watching me, and I'm sure he's already trying to come up with some hilarious comment, or some dumb-ass question. Maybe I should bite the bullet and go with Rebecca after all. Then again, I could wait until Johnny goes to the toilet, and then I can head upstairs without being observed.

  “I'll see you later!” Rebecca calls out, and a moment later I hear her heading out the front door.

  Damn it, I should have gone with her.

  “Watcha doing there?” Johnny asks.

  “Writing,” I mutter, looking back down at the page.

  “Does it run in the family?”

  “Does what run in the family?”

  “This condition you've got. Is it, like, hereditary?”

  “There are some suggestions that it might be,” I tell him.

  “So your dad might get it too?”

  I shake my head. “Dad's too...”

  “Normal?”

  “Something like that.”

  “Do you ever read them back?” he asks. “Like, to see what you were doing on a random day last year?”

  “I don't have time.”

  “Too busy writing about today, huh?”

  “Something like that.”

  “So do you ever let other people read your old notebooks?”

  “Never.” I turn and glare at him. “Ever.”

  “Then what's the point of them?”

  “I don't know,” I reply, turning to another page and wishing he'd shut up so that I don't have to keep writing down everything he says. I'd rather be making another list. “What's the point of anything?”

  “Bum flaps.”

  “What?”

  He giggles. “You had to write it. I said bum flaps, and you had to write it down.”

  I can't help sighing.

  “Willy worms.”

  “Johnny...”

  “I love Johnny,” he continues, leaning back in his chair. “Johnny is the coolest. Johnny's so hot and sexy, I honestly believe, I swear to God, that he's the most amazing guy in the world.”

  “I'm going to my room,” I reply, getting up as soon as I've finished writing the last of those words.

  “Johnny's so dreamy,” he says as I head out of the room, and then he raises his voice so I can still hear him even as I'm hurrying up the stairs. “Johnny's a hunk. And he's smart, too. He's so intelligent, I wish I was like him. Instead, I just have to look up to him and adore him and -”

  I don't hear the rest, because now I'm in my room and I quickly swing the door shut. I hate it when people do stuff like that, and for a moment I'm tempted to scribble lines through everything he just said. I can't do that, though, because it would be against the rules. My heart is really thudding hard, and for a moment I don't know exactly what I'm going to do now that I'm in my room, but I guess I can work on some lists. Lists are always a great way to pass the time, so I head over to the bed and flop down, and then I almost put some music on before remembering that music is too much of a complication. I always end up noting down the lyrics.

  I really miss the days when I could just listen to music without any complications.

  Okay, so instead I'm going to write a list of my one hundred favorite book series, and my favorite character in each of them. That should calm my nerves.

  First, there's His Dark Materials. I just need to decide who's my favorite in that.

  ***

  How did I forget Narnia? Okay, number eighty-one can be The Chronicles of Narnia, and I immediately know who's my favorite character in that. It's Susan, partly because she's so often overlooked, and partly because of the really weird way the whole story ends for her. I mean, it's kind of horrific. In fact, I think I'm going to write a sub-list right now, covering ten key things about Susan and about her personality.

  One, there's the fact that she's supposed to be in charge. I guess that's a kind of burden.

  Great, I just heard Johnny coming up the stairs. I stop and listen to his pounding, way-too-loud footsteps, but fortunately he goes straight past my door and along to his own room. I don't know how much longer Rebecca is going to be at the village, but I hope she comes back soon so that Johnny can't keep bugging me. Even now, as I'm about to go back to my Susan sub-list, I can hear him bumping about in his room, and I'm certain he's making all this noise specifically so he can annoy me. Now he's heading back out of his room, and a moment later he knocks loudly on my door before pushing it open.

  “Get out!” I hiss.

  “Do you seriously not hear that?”

  “What?”

  He comes over and stops next to my bed.

  “Listen, Polly.”

  I keep writing, but at the same time I listen out for any hint that there's a noise in the house.

  Johnny just snatched my pen, and I had to damn near strangle him to get it back. My heart was pounding and I felt myself breaking into a cold sweat, but at least I have it now. I should write a list of the one hundred things that happen to me whenever I lose my pen, but that can wait. Right now, Johnny is still next to the bed, and he still wants me to listen to the sound that's far off in the house, and I've got to admit that I do hear something.

  It's that scratching sound again.

  “What do you think it is?” he asks. “And don't say mice, 'cause it's not mice.”

  “It could be anything.”

  “Mum got her face scratched yesterday.”

  “That was an accident.”

  “So you're not remotely curious?”

  “I'm curious, Johnny, but I don't know what you want me to do.”

  “Fine. Sit there and be like that. Spend all your time scribbling in that stupid notebook, see if I care. But I'm going to go and find whatever's making that noise.”

  “Be my guest,” I mutter as he stomps off and heads out to the hallway.

  “It's in the attic,” he says a moment later.

  “Great.”

  I can't help sighing, but a moment later I hear a clanking sound outside my door and I realize Johnny is starting to lower the steps that lead up into the attic.

  “You're not allowed to do that!” I call out to him. “Dad said it's not safe up there. You don't know where it's safe to tread!”

  “So?”

  I hear the steps rattling down, followed by the sound of Johnny starting to make his way up. Realizing that there's no way he's going to listen to me, I clamber off the bed and keep writing these words as I make my way toward the door. I'm so focused on writing, I bump against the edge of the door, stubbing my toe, but then I reach the landing just in time to see Johnny disappearing up into the attic.

  “Come down!” I call out.

  “Make me! It's louder up here!”

  “Johnny, come down right now. I'm older, so I'm in charge while our parents are out. I'll get the blame if something happens to you!”

  “Yeah, but you can barely look up from your stupid diary, so there's that.”

  “Johnny, com
e down!”

  “Suck it! The scratching thing's up here somewhere. It sounds so much closer. Get me a flashlight or something.”

  I wait for him to admit defeat and come down, but I can hear him shuffling about up there and I'm worried that at any moment he's going to come crashing through the ceiling. He's muttering about something, but I can't make out a word, although I think I can tell that the scratching sound seems louder now. Stepping closer to the steps, I look up into the darkness and realize that he might be right about the source of the sound. It's as if something up there in the attic is furiously scratching against wood. I should write another list later, of one hundred things that could be responsible.

  I wait, but now I don't hear Johnny at all.

  Just the scratching sound, and the sound of my pen as I continue to write.

  “Johnny?” I call out. “Can you come down now?”

  He doesn't reply.

  “Johnny!”

  I wait again, but there's still no sign of him. I know he's probably trying to trick me, but I can't exactly leave him up there. These metal steps are pretty rickety, and there's not much to hold onto, so I'm not even sure how I can climb up while still writing. I try a couple of different ways to balance my notebook, but none of them work. If I can't keep writing, I can't climb, it's as simple as that. Even taking a break from writing for a few seconds would be too much to deal with. I just can't. It's lame, but it's true.

  “Johnny, get your ass down here!” I yell. “You're being a dick!”

  I wait, but all I hear is the continued scratching sound. If anything, the sound might be slightly louder now.

  Finally, figuring that I have to find a way to get up there, I balance my notebook on my left arm and start climbing slowly and carefully. This is completely awkward, and I swear I feel like I'm going to drop the notebook at any moment, but I guess I'm managing. I'm halfway up now, so I might as well keep going, although I'm moving at a total snail's pace. Eventually I feel the cold air of the attic, and I set my notebook on the edge of the hatch so that I can write a little better, although I can't go any further if there's no light. I need light so I can keep writing.

  A moment later, I spot some kind of fine gray dust all around the sides of the hatch. Reaching out with my left hand, I wipe a fingertip through the dust and take a closer look. Whatever it is, it seems to have been ground into tiny granules. This is what I imagine moon-dust must feel like. I almost give it a lick, to see what it tastes like, but at the last moment I decide that might not be too smart.

  “Do you hear that?” Johnny asks suddenly.

  I almost jump out of my skin. Somehow managing not to fall down the ladder, I turn and see that he's behind me, and he's looking toward the pitch-black far end of the attic.

  “Yeah, I hear it,” I reply, unable to deny that the scratching seems to be coming from up here. “Have you been to take a look yet?”

  “There are no lights up here. What do you think it is?”

  Turning to look into the darkness, I have to admit that the scratching is definitely creepy. It's not one constant, ongoing sound. Instead, it's as if something is digging away at the wood, changing speed and direction every so often, sometimes even pausing for a fraction of a second. I mean, it definitely sounds like someone's up here, but I hardly think we've got some kind of stowaway in the house. I feel stupid even writing these words.

  “I don't think it's, like, an animal,” Johnny whispers. “I think it's something else.”

  “Like what?”

  “I don't know! If I knew...”

  His voice trails off for a moment, as the scratching continues.

  “Whatever it is,” he adds finally, “it cut Mum's face.”

  “You don't know that.”

  “Something cut her. Just because she didn't see it, that doesn't mean it wasn't real. Unless you think she's in the habit of randomly scratching her own cheek. She's nuts, but she's not insane.”

  “So you think there's this thing living in the attic,” I reply cautiously, “and it came down yesterday and cut your mother's face, and now it's back up here?”

  “I think I can hear it scratching right now,” he mutters, “so unless you've got any better ideas, I think speculating is pretty difficult at this point.”

  “Have you tried scaring it away?”

  “It must have heard me coming up. It must be able to hear us now. It doesn't seem to have stopped. Maybe it's not scared of us. Maybe it can see us right now, even though we can't see it.”

  Sighing, I realize that he's right. Still, I don't think there's anything we can do about whatever's going on here, so I guess we just have to wait until Dad comes home in a few days' time, and then he'll know the best approach. There's probably just some kind of infestation up here, maybe a nest of bats or something like that, and I don't particularly want to go crawling through the darkness only to end up with the damn things attacking me. I'd probably end up with rabies.

  “Unless you're going to go and poke it with a stick,” I say finally, turning to Johnny, “I don't see the point of staying up here. Let's just go back down, make sure the hatch is sealed, and let our respective parents deal with the problem. They're the ones who wanted to move us to this rundown old place. They can fix whatever's wrong with it.”

  “I guess,” he mutters. “Wait, do you have a flashlight on your phone?”

  “No. You can download one onto yours, if that's something you want to bother doing.”

  “My phone's broken. I'm waiting to get a new one. Can I borrow yours?”

  “No.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because this whole thing is ridiculous,” I reply, starting to figure out how I'm going to keep writing while I climb down. “I'm out of here. Have fun crawling around in the attic. If you fall through, don't expect me to come running up to save your ass.”

  “Wait!” he hisses. “Did you hear that?”

  I turn and look into the darkness, and suddenly I realize that the scratching seems to have moved toward one of the other walls. Whatever's up here, apparently it had enough of digging at the wood in one spot, and it moved over to where the old brick chimney rises up through the house. In fact, the scratching now sounds like it's rubbing against the bricks, rather than against the wood.

  I glance at Johnny, and I can see fear in his eyes. I want to tell him to stop being so easily freaked out, but I've got to admit that I'm feeling a little unsettled too. Slowly, I look back into the darkness, and I flinch slightly as the scratching continues.

  “Hello?” Johnny whispers, his voice trembling with fear.

  We both wait as the scratching goes on and on.

  “Hello?” Johnny says again, although the words seem to be catching in his throat.

  “This is dumb,” I point out. “You're being dumb.”

  “Hello?” he calls out, louder than before.

  Instantly, the scratching stops.

  “Okay, let's get out of here,” Johnny stammers, turning and trying to push me back down the ladder. “Move! Polly, seriously!”

  “Hang on!” I reply, struggling to write while backing down to the landing. “Give me a moment!”

  “Stop messing about with that stupid notebook and move!” he yells, climbing down so fast that soon his stinking feet are pressed against my face. “I want to get out of here! Right now!”

  “Wait!”

  I barely manage to keep hold of the ladder, and Johnny seems to be trying to climb over me in his desperation. Finally I get down to the landing, and Johnny immediately starts pushing the ladder up and closing the hatch. He's really panicking, and I can't help smiling as I realize that he's managed to talk himself into a total lather.

  “What the hell is up there?” he stammers, turning to me. “What's going on in this place?”

  Chapter Five

  “What do you know about this house?” he asks, looking past the end of the breakfast table and toward the back door, clearly still waiting for Rebecca t
o get home. “I mean, it's obviously creepy and old and out in the middle of nowhere, but what do you actually know about it?”

  “Just what Dad told me,” I reply. “It's been in the family for years, but it's been empty for a while.”

  “Why's it been empty?”

  “I don't know.”

  “Because there's a goddamn monster in the attic? Or a ghost?”

  “I'm pretty sure it was legal stuff,” I continue, amused by his sense of panic. “It's been left unoccupied for years. Like, a decade or more, since Dad's uncle died. That's more than enough time for badgers or something to take up residence. I admit it's kind of weird, but you've got to remember that there'll end up being a proper explanation for it. Dad'll just get an exterminator in, and that'll be the end of it.”

  “But you admit there's something here, right?”

  “I guess.” I take a moment to make a couple of corrections in my notebook. “Did you see the dust up there?”

  “What dust?”

  “It was, like, gray and very fine. It was all around the hatch.”

  “Who cares about dust?” He looks at my notebook for a moment. “Can I see?”

  “See what?”

  “What you wrote while we were up there.”

  “I only wrote what happened.”

  “Yeah, but I want to see!”

  He reaches over to grab the notebook, but this time I'm prepared and I push him away.

  “What's the point of writing all that crap down,” he hisses through gritted teeth, “if you can't ever go back and read it over? Are you just completely insane?”

  “It makes me feel better.”

  “It's pissing me off!”

  “I'm not doing it for you.”

  “This is nuts,” he adds with a sigh, leaning back in his chair. “Everything about this place is insane. I'm living in a creepy house that's apparently occupied by some kind of monster, and my new step-sister is some kind of lunatic with a serious mental problem.”

  “Go screw yourself,” I mutter, getting to my feet and carrying my notebook to the door.

  “I'm sorry, I didn't mean that.”

  Hearing the fear in his voice, I turn back to look at him. At the same time, I've set the notebook against the wall and I'm still writing.