Hunted (3 page)

The Hunter has left the boy behind; the one who tried to fight, even when his weak body was already dying. It was an exciting chase, briefly, but now the boy lies dead, and another victim awaits.

The Hunter begins to lay its path. It cannot smell, but it does not need to. Its victims leave trails stronger than any scent. Their own power is their undoing, calling the Hunter to them.

But something is different this time. The trail is confused. It flickers, coming and going too swiftly to follow. Something is hiding this one. Maybe this boy-child is even trying to hide himself.

Ah …

The Hunter cannot smile without borrowing a human face, but it feels the pleasure that goes with a smile. A challenge! It is time for the real chase to begin.

It is still hungry.

It didn't seem possible that this was just another school day, as ordinary as any other. Same old steam on the cottage window-panes, same old open fire in the grate, same old Gran frying eggs on the gas ring. Callum cupped one hand around his mug of tea, slowly stirring sugar into it with the other, and listened to the bored tones of the radio announcer relaying the morning's news.

Callum dropped the sugar spoon and slurped his tea, trying not to listen. Another hideous news story. Just what he needed after a night of dark dreams and insomnia.

With a snort of outrage, Gran banged two plates of fried eggs and toast down onto the drop-leaf table.

“Good God!” Gran rounded on the radio with an explosive gasp of anger. “What makes you think we want to hear all this?”

The radio went instantly quiet, as though scolded into silence. Nether Marlock was in a small valley and occasionally lost reception, but instead of fiddling with the antenna as she usually did, Gran snapped off the radio.

“Why do they broadcast this stuff at eight o'clock in the morning! Why do they broadcast it at all? Copycats, indeed! What would they have to copy if they didn't get the gory details of every crime handed to them on a platter by the media?”

Callum sat frozen, hardly hearing his grandmother's words. The calm, unfeeling tones of the radio announcer played in a relentless loop in his head:

Callum's spine tingled, and his heart thumped so loudly he wondered if Gran could hear it. How could he have known? Last night's events—last night's
real
events—seemed to match his dream
exactly
. A dead boy behind a row of houses. And the message in blood—the exact same words on the wall. How could he
possibly
have known? Was it some sort of premonition?

Callum subdued a shiver as another uncomfortable thought hit him. Last night in the woods, he had seen a new sort of ghost—or whatever it was. Maybe his dream was another new kind of supernatural ability that he hadn't known he possessed. Maybe this was just the beginning….

He slowly picked up his teaspoon and gave himself another generous spoonful of sugar as Gran made a triumphant finish to her rant.

“Now you see why I won't get a television! It's bad enough having to
listen
to such stuff first thing in the morning without having to
look
at it too.”

“Gran,” Callum asked casually, “did you hear a dog howling in the night?”

Gran frowned. “Did I hear what?”

“Howling last night. Outside.”

She shrugged, still frowning. “I don't think so, Callum. What makes you ask that?”

“You talking about hearing things without seeing them.”

Gran turned away and busied herself at the sink.

“Well, I didn't hear anything odd. There was a howling gale, certainly. And when the wind gets in under the eaves it makes some strange noises. It plays up in the empty cottages too. It's like living in a set of panpipes sometimes. It was probably your imagination.”

Callum sighed and turned back to his egg, but he'd lost his appetite. After the announcement on the radio, the morning didn't feel so ordinary anymore. Pushing back his chair, he pulled on his coat.

“I'd better get going or I'll be late,” he said.

“Don't forget to put a flashlight in your rucksack,” Gran reminded him.

“Yeah.”

“And stay on the road.”

“Okay, okay!” Callum looked up, surprised at this sudden shower of advice. “Why wouldn't I stay on the road? I'm not going to go off into those woods in the dark, that's for sure!”

“Best be home before it gets dark,” Gran finished firmly. “Then you won't need to worry.”

“Howling dogs can wander about in daylight too, you know,” replied Callum. “And on roads!”

Gran gave a little shrug. “Whatever you say, Callum. Have a good day, dear.”

Callum headed back up the hill through Marlock Wood. Whatever had followed him through the trees last night wasn't there this morning. He didn't hear or feel anything—no soft padding of feet, no icy breath of wind, and above all, no howling. Still no ghosts around Nether Marlock church either, but in daylight that didn't seem so worrying.

Callum paused for a moment to watch a pair of chaffinches hopping about fearlessly in the briars at the bottom of the lane.

“You're not scared of anything, are you?” he said under his breath. “I guess I shouldn't be either.”

Up in the town, the high street was going about its everyday morning business. Callum passed the kids in front of the post office, stocking up on sweets and crisps before the long, grinding day of schoolwork ahead. The shopkeeper only allowed two schoolchildren in at a time and kept a strict watch at the door, like a bouncer at a nightclub. There were about twenty kids standing in the queue outside, messing around and texting their friends while they waited to be allowed in. Callum nodded at a couple of kids from his class as he passed, and they nodded back.

He got along with most of his classmates just fine, even if he didn't mix with them much. He had to keep normal kids at a distance. He'd learned that the hard way at primary school. Callum had a few friends back then, but it hadn't been easy to hold on to them when they kept catching him staring at things they couldn't see. One day, whispers started going around the play-ground and Callum found himself spending break time alone.

In the hallways of Marlock High School, all the talk was about the latest teenage murder victim. Callum shoved his rugby boots into his locker and pulled out his math books as the gossip echoed around him.

“It's got to be something to do with vampires!” said one girl.

Someone laughed. “Don't be stupid. We're not in a movie!”

“Honest. They said there was writing in
blood
.”

“Or maybe it's gangsters,” said another voice. “A drug ring, taking revenge …”

The laughing girl put on a ghoulish voice: “Where will they strike next?” Her friends broke into nervous giggles.

Callum banged his locker shut.

Hugh Mayes from Callum's class, standing next to him, gave his own locker door a sympathetic slam. “Girls, eh?”

“Too daft,” Callum agreed. Gran was right about the media stirring up rumors and panic.

The morning passed even more slowly than usual. Callum almost dozed off in math and geography after the horror-filled race in his dream and the sleepless night that had followed, but Hugh and his mate Andrew kept giving him helpful pokes in the ribs with their pencils. He managed not to fall asleep over his books, but he was feeling pretty exhausted by lunchtime.

Callum dumped his books in his locker again after his final class of the morning and headed to lunch. The stairwell outside the cafeteria was crowded as usual. One girl, coming down the stairs towards Callum, was dressed in flowing Victorian mourning, her long black skirt glittering with sequins.

Callum had just stepped aside to let the ghost float past when he realized that it wasn't a ghost at all, just that ridiculous New Age girl, Melissa Roper, her black school uniform accessorized with tasseled Indian silk scarves and assorted healing crystals. Other girls wore foundation and eye shadow; Melissa tattooed the backs of her hands with henna. Today she had on a jingling collection of shiny crucifixes on a silver chain. Protection against Dracula?

Callum grinned in spite of himself. Of course—it was her voice he'd heard that morning by his locker, suggesting that the serial murders were done by vampires. Trust Melissa. His grin faded, though, as she met his eye and smiled back shyly. Melissa, with her alternative dress sense and her goofy ideas, hadn't learned the art of keeping her head down. She attracted attention—the sort of attention Callum worked hard to avoid. He felt a bit sorry for her, but not enough to want to talk to her. With a half-hearted wave, he turned to head into the cafeteria.

“Hey, wait, Callum!”

Callum groaned inwardly. It didn't look like he had much choice now.

“You were there when Chloe was going on about those murders being done by a drug ring, weren't you?” Melissa asked, stopping halfway down the stairs as a boy pushed his way past her. “What do you think?”

“I don't know,” Callum answered shortly. He didn't have time for Melissa's latest conspiracy theory. He was hungry, and the tips of his fingers were tingling annoyingly, as though his hands had fallen asleep.

“It's scary, though,” Melissa said.

“They're telling people not to panic.”

Melissa looked down at Callum and rolled her eyes. “Of course that's what they tell you!”

The rush of kids finally stopped. There were just a few people still queuing for lunch, and now Melissa was the only person on the stairs. Except for that idiot Ed Bolton, crouched behind the railing at the top …

Callum looked up. From where he was standing, his view of the landing was obscured. What made him think Ed was there?

The tingling in his hands was worse now, real pins and needles, and suddenly he could see Ed quite clearly, as if he were standing right next to him. The older boy
was
crouched behind the railing at the top of the stairs, with a squeezy dispenser of ketchup from the cafeteria. He was dripping ketchup in a steady stream over the railing, waiting for Melissa to walk beneath it.

Callum looked back at Melissa, but she was no longer standing on the stairs. She was stepping towards him … Stepping into a puddle of ketchup on one of the stairs. Slipping … Her foot sliding out from under her … Falling … Her head cracking against a concrete stair … Sliding … Until her body lay at the bottom of the stairwell in a limp tangle of silk, her head twisted at an unnatural angle, her eyes glassy and dead … And a dark pool of blood spreading out from her shattered skull …

Then, as quickly as it had come, the tingling in his hands was gone.

Callum blinked, and there was Melissa, perfectly upright and unhurt, coming down the stairs. He shook his head. What he had seen hadn't been real. It couldn't have been.

But the red puddle at Melissa's feet
was
.

She was stepping towards it.

It was ketchup.

A blob of sauce hit Melissa on the cheek and she looked up, frowning, one foot hovering over the treacherous bottom step where the slippery pool waited.

Callum didn't hesitate. Leaping forwards, he grabbed Melissa by the arm and yanked her towards him so that she fell forwards instead of backwards.

Melissa fell hard and took Callum down with her. They both collapsed in a heap at the bottom of the stairs in the sloppy mess of spilled ketchup. One of the boys in the lunch line gave a whoop of delight.

“Roper and Scott! Woo-hoo!”

A couple of other boys laughed as Melissa untangled herself from Callum and wiped ketchup from her face, blinking and confused.

But she was alive. Callum closed his eyes. For a split second he saw the vision again, the same vision—Melissa lying on the stairs with her skull split wide open. When he opened his eyes, the scene vanished.

Callum's head reeled. But it wasn't just the thought of what had almost taken place that sent his heart racing; it was what he had done.

He had seen it coming.

He had stopped it from happening.