Hunted (6 page)

As Callum took a step back for a clearer view, the shapes came into focus and his stomach plummeted into his trainers.

It was a message written in blood.

There was just enough light in the sky for him to make out the glistening letters, shining black against the faded green paint. Although some of the writing had run, the letters dripping clotting tails down the door, the ghastly message was still clear enough to read.

BEWARE THE DARK REFLECTION

Callum stared at the meaningless words. He had no doubt that the message was for him—and written by the same person as the writing found beside the murdered boy in London. Whoever they were, they had found him.

Fear rising, Callum fumbled in his pocket for the key. His fingers were trembling. No, not trembling—
tingling
…

Callum whirled around.

Standing at the gate, less than a dozen paces away, were the ghostly white-faced boy and his demonic black dog.

The Grim's teeth flashed in its pitch-black muzzle. Callum took one terrified step backwards down the garden path, then another, waiting for the creature to pounce.

But the strange dog remained still, a low growl rumbling in its throat. Instead, its pale master began to walk slowly towards Callum, his right hand held out as if to touch him, and in the last of the fading daylight, Callum saw that the boy's thin white fingers were dripping with glistening blood.

His hand clutched tightly around the cold metal key in his pocket, Callum took another slow step backwards.

Don't run! Don't run!

Another step. Callum swallowed, preparing himself. His only chance was to get into the cottage. To put ten centimeters of solid door between him and this terror. The dead boy was at the open gate, still walking steadily towards him, his depthless eyes fixed on Callum.

BEWARE THE DARK REFLECTION

Was that what the message was warning against—the dark reflection of this boy's eyes? Another step. How many more before he reached the cottage? The boy was on the path now, the huge dog prowling at his heel. Callum didn't imagine that the door would hold the Grim for long.

They were too close. He wasn't going to make it….

Callum felt his heel bump against the doorstep. Moving like lightning, he half-twisted around, slamming his body against the door as he twisted the key in the lock.

For once, the latch turned on the first time.

The door flew open under the force of Callum's impact. Caught off balance, he fell over the threshold and tumbled into the dark sitting room. He scrambled backwards, trying to kick the door shut, but the hem of his anorak, ragged where he'd torn it on the rose bush the previous night, caught beneath the door and jammed it open.

Nearly weeping with terror and frustration, Callum tried to tear his coat loose. With sheer brute force he ripped it out from under the door. He was free now, but with the torn part of his anorak bunched up against the carpet, the door still wouldn't shut.

The figure of the pale boy seemed to fill the doorway. One more step and he'd be in the house, and Callum would be alone in the darkness with him and the black dog.

“Stop!”
Callum yelled desperately, his voice cracking with fear.
“Stay out!”

The spectral boy flinched as if Callum had struck him. He actually took a step backwards and teetered on the edge of the doorstep.

For half a second, Callum was too surprised to move. Then, pulling himself up onto his knees on the worn carpet, he cried out wildly,
“Get away! Stay out of this house! You can't come in!”

The phantom stumbled. He was off the doorstep now. He lifted one foot to try to bring it forwards, but it was as if an unseen hand was preventing it. His eyes flashed with anger. Beside him, the black dog gave a chilling growl of frustration.

Callum took a deep breath and tried to get a grip.

“Just. Stay. Out.” Callum glared at the spirit as fiercely as he could as he tugged at the shredded nylon wedging the door open.

Astonishingly—unbelievably—the ghost answered.

“I can't come in.”

Callum froze. The ghost was talking to him. The boy's voice was hollow and echoing, as though he were speaking from the bottom of a well. Just the sound of it was enough to raise goose bumps on Callum's exposed arms.

“What's stopping you?” Callum demanded.

“You are.”

Callum straightened up slowly. His heart was still thundering in his ears. Surely it couldn't be that simple. Was he really safe, or was the ghost-boy playing some trick?

“What about your dog?” he said. He could see the enormous beast behind its master, crouching on the brick path like a great black shadow.

“Doom cannot enter either.” The pale boy shrugged. “Few creatures of the Netherworld can cross your threshold unless invited. And certainly not if you have expressly forbidden it.”

The specter waved a hand at the tree overhead. “Rowan at the door, and holly growing under all the windows. They too are barriers.” The boy's bell-like voice was compelling. Callum found himself paying close attention to each word.

“I hardly dare venture one step off this path into your grandmother's garden, for her beds and borders are rife with such old wards,” the boy continued. “Ash, hazel, garlic.” The boy gave a twisted smile, revealing sharp white teeth. “She keeps you well guarded.”

“Garlic?” Callum tensed. “Are you some sort of vampire?”

“Nothing so mundane. My name is Jacob.”

Even in the dark, Callum could see cold amusement on the ghost's face. It glowed with a pale light of its own, faint, but enough to illuminate the bloody letters on the door.

“Did you write that?”

The ghost gave a single nod.

“Whose blood is it?” Callum asked.

“Mine,” replied Jacob, holding up his emaciated right hand. Liquid trickled down the slender fingers, crimson against the bone-white skin. “As was the blood I used in my last warning. You are in danger. Mortal danger.”

Callum leaped to his feet.

“Don't threaten me!” he shouted, flicking the switch for the outside light. Callum thought that ghosts were supposed to prefer the dark, but the electric lamp had no effect on the specter at the door. If anything, the contrast made his black hair darker, his eyes more depthless. The dog behind him was hidden in shadow.

“You are being hunted,” said Jacob, narrowing his eyes. “Surely you have seen it—boys and girls like you, murdered.”

Callum flinched at the brutal words, his mind flying back to the alley in his dream. The broken body of the boy, his eyes torn out. The idea that he might have some sort of connection to the mutilated corpses found across the country made him feel sick, as though
he
were somehow responsible for the killings, instead of this
thing
on his doorstep.

“Listen,” snarled Callum, renewing his efforts to free the door. “You may have killed those others, but I'm different. I can
see
you.”

The ghost's expression did not change.

“The others could see me too. But they did not heed my warnings. Now they are dead.”

“I'm not afraid of you,” said Callum, finally tugging the door loose.

The ghost-boy saw what was coming. He reached out to prevent Callum from closing the door, but he couldn't even put his gleaming hands over the doorstep. Whether it was Gran's rowan tree or Callum's command, something was holding him back.

“You can't hide what you are,” said the ghost furiously. “You can't change it. You must fight. Or you will die like the others.”

“Well, I'm not like them,” Callum said furiously.

“But you are,” retorted Jacob. “You are just like them—only stronger. This is your destiny. One of you must fight back if you want to save the others.”

“What others? It's nothing to do with me!”

“The others like you,” replied the ghost. “All those born between the chimes. The dead ones were all born in the chime hours.”

Callum shook his head, confusion raging in his mind.

“I don't have any idea what you're talking about!”

For the first time, a flicker of doubt passed over the white face.

“Can it be? Can you truly not know the truth about our kind?”

“Our kind? What do you think I am?” Callum cried in frustration.

Jacob gave a smile that almost froze his blood.

“You are a chime child. Like me.”

Callum slammed the door.

It has come a long way. Distance and effort mean nothing to the Hunter; time does not age it. But the time between kills makes it hungry. It understands time.

Instinct has brought it to a place of tangled trees. It can sense the leaf mold of long centuries at rest here. This has never been a place for flesh and blood to live, though at the old wood's heart is one of their flimsy sacred piles of stone, and down where the wood thins stands a row of ruined, empty dwellings.

The next human victim is close. The Hunter can sense its presence. Hunger draws them together. But the Hunter cannot tell precisely where the victim waits.

It pauses in the woods, straining to follow the tantalizing glimmer of the victim's energy, that power that makes this victim worth the chase. The Hunter's hunger grows piercing.

Then, suddenly, as though a door has been slammed, the energy is gone.

There is nothing. No clue, no guide.

This has never happened before.

The Hunter is furious. It is happy to be challenged, but it will not be mocked.

With lithe, supernatural stealth, it moves swiftly through the trees. It cannot sense its victim anymore, but it remembers the row of ruined dwelling places.

Perhaps not all of them are empty.

The Hunter must feed.

Callum leaned against the door, breathing hard. His heart was beating wildly. After a moment, he threw the bolt across and double-locked the door. Then he ran through the cottage, pulling all the curtains closed, determined to shut out the horrors beyond them.

Back in the sitting room, he looked around. The jar of rowanberries and hazel leaves still stood on the table. Melissa had told him about their powers of protection against the supernatural—now he had seen it at first hand. Was it just a coincidence that the cottage was filled with them?

Yes, of course it was. Gran was an artist. The leaves and berries were pretty. She was probably planning to use them in one of her paintings.

Still, even surrounded by their protective power, Callum wished he wasn't going to be in the house alone for the next hour and a half. What were you supposed to do when a demonic specter defaces your door with his own dripping blood? Call the cops? Yeah, right.

Two bloody messages in two days,
Callum thought, shuddering. He had tried to convince himself that the first one wasn't meant for him, even though he couldn't see any possible way he could have known about it before the news was made public. But the message on the door—there could be no denying who that was intended for. Was Jacob telling the truth when he claimed they were warnings? And what did they have to do with Callum being a … what had the boy called him?

A chime child.

“‘Born in the chime hours …,'” Callum murmured. That didn't make any sense either. How could the time he was born make a difference?

And all the other murder victims—even if they had been born at the same time, why would that make someone want to kill them all?

Callum stormed around the little cottage trying to convince himself that everything was normal. Table, pulled out. Jar of rowan (pretty berries, no more than that), on the mantelpiece. Homework, on the table. Kettle, on the gas ring.

The front door shook. Someone was rapping smartly on the round brass knocker.

Callum froze. Had the ghost-boy been standing out there all this time, waiting? Did he think Callum was likely to respond to a polite knock by opening the door again and inviting him in?

“Go away!” he shouted.

“Oh, I'm sorry,” replied a muffled voice from the other side of the door. It was a girl's voice, a human voice. It sounded apologetic and surprised, and other than that, normal.

Callum stepped closer to the door. After a moment's hesitation he demanded, “Who's there?”

“It's Melissa. Melissa Roper, you know, from school?”

Callum's heart sank. If it
was
Melissa, he couldn't leave her standing there on the same side of the door where Jacob and his demonic dog were lurking. But what if it wasn't Melissa? What if it was a trick? Callum bit his lip.

“What do you want?” The question came out more rudely than he'd intended. But he hoped her answer might give him a clue about whether it really was Melissa.

“I didn't mean to disturb you. I've brought you my …”

Melissa's voice carried on, even more muffled than before, so Callum couldn't make out what she was saying. Carefully, he undid the lock and the bolt and opened the door a crack, wedging his body behind it so he could slam it shut if he had to. He peered through the gap.

It was Melissa all right, standing beneath the porch light. She'd changed out of her school clothes and wore a long velvet skirt and a leaf-green cape. Over her shoulder was an obviously heavy bag decorated with tiny mirrors.

“You've brought me your Pictish Fiction of the Actual?” he said dubiously.

Melissa laughed. For all her airy-fairy gear she looked solidly alive and normal. “
British Dictionary of the Supernatural
,” she said. “It's got your black dog in it. I thought you might like to have a look. And I said I'd help.”

“How'd you know where to find me?”

“Everybody knows where you live, Callum.”

Callum was not reassured. Melissa laughed again. “Your gran's address is in the post office window, you know. Pet portraits and watercolors for sale. Can I come in, or do you really want me to go away?”

Callum scanned the garden behind her but could see no sign of Jacob or Doom. He opened the door a bit wider so Melissa wouldn't think he was a paranoid lunatic, and Cadbury came streaking into the house, his tail bristling like a toilet brush. Melissa giggled, and Callum felt himself relax slightly.

“No, no. You can come in,” said Callum, glad to have human company. He pulled the door fully open. “Sorry about the graffiti.”

“Graffiti?” Melissa replied.

Callum looked down at the door's faded green paint. The dripping, bloody letters were gone.

“Nothing. Forget it.”

Callum chewed his bottom lip. Maybe ghost blood was as insubstantial as a ghost itself.

Melissa stepped easily over the threshold, frowning a little. As she put her bag down on the floor with a thump, it fell open, revealing a bundle of books. She straightened up, stretching, and looked around the room as Callum shut the door behind her and double-locked it.

“Wow,” Melissa said. “Bringing you a bag full of books is sort of like carrying coals to Newcastle, isn't it!”

“They're Gran's,” said Callum.

“What, haven't you read
any
of them?”

“Gran's taste is pretty dire,” Callum answered. “Modern romance and nineteenth-century novels. And gardening and painting.”

“Bet you'd find something if you looked.”

“D'you want a hot chocolate?” Callum asked. “I was just getting ready to do my homework.”

“I'm sorry. You don't like being interrupted, do you?” Melissa said. “You sounded pretty angry when you answered the door. I could come back another time.”

“No, it's fine. To tell the truth—”

Callum stopped himself. He
couldn't
tell her the truth.

Instead he told her something close to the truth, something believable. “I thought you were Ed Bolton. He's been out for revenge since that run-in with Gower yesterday. Look, let me get the fire going and boil the kettle and I'll take a look at your book.”

“You do the fire, I'll make the hot chocolate,” said Melissa.

“Okay.”

Callum stirred up the embers as Melissa headed into the kitchen. She was quick but very messy. She managed to get milk all over the worktop, which Cadbury gladly attempted to clean up, and left rings of chocolate everywhere. She was finished in no time.

“So,” she said, thumping herself down on the hearthrug with two steaming mugs, the breeze of her skirt stirring the flames in the grate. “Wow, cozy. I love this place. Okay. Look, this is my
Dictionary of the Supernatural
. Here's the entry on the Churchyard Grim.”

Callum sat down beside her while she read aloud.

“‘A Churchyard Grim is the spirit of a dog buried alive in a graveyard to act as a guardian for those laid to rest there.'” She paused and made a face. “Ew, I'd forgotten about the buried alive bit. So in theory it's not really dead, I guess—an immortal dog. But a
good
dog, since it's supposed to be protecting people!”

“Who'd expect loyalty and protection from something they'd buried alive?” Callum replied, half laughing and half appalled.

“Dunno,” Melissa said, and took a gulp of hot chocolate, liberally sprinkling her long skirt with drips as she put the mug back on the hearthrug. “I don't think the people who buried dogs in graveyards were very logical. It says that in Wales they used pigs instead of dogs!”

“You're really making a mess,” Callum said as Melissa slopped yet more chocolate on herself.

“I know. I can't help it. Pretend it's holy water—protection against evil spirits.” Melissa shook her flyaway curly hair out of her face and turned the page of the book. “‘A Grim loves the sound of church bells and can be pacified by their ringing.' Look, there's a picture.”

Callum peered over her shoulder. The illustration showed a seventeenth-century engraving of a shaggy black beast as big as a bear. The size was about right, he reckoned, but it didn't look much like a dog. Callum shivered. The creature from the woods hadn't looked much like a dog either when he'd first seen it. But at least the book proved that the monster wasn't just a product of his own imagination. Maybe it could be helpful in other areas …

“Hey,” Callum said. “Does this book say anything about chime children?”

“Chime children?”

“Yeah. Does it say what a chime child is?”

Melissa picked up the book and propped it against her knees as she found the entry and began to read out loud.

“‘Chime child. Born beneath the light of a full moon in the chime hours between midnight on Friday and cockcrow on Saturday, a chime child is gifted with unnatural luck, an uncanny ability to foresee future events, and the power to see ghosts. A chime child may also be able to sense the presence of evil spirits or of living beings of evil intent.'” Melissa paused. “Wow, that could be helpful.”

“Helpful!” Callum echoed in disbelief. “Seeing ghosts could be helpful?”

“No, knowing the future. Knowing about evil intent. Like guessing Ed Bolton's plans for you.”

Melissa looked up at Callum suddenly, her eyes wide.

“That's how you knew!”

Callum shook his head. “Knew what?”

“Knew that Ed was up there at the top of the stairs yesterday, even though you couldn't see him. You knew something was going to happen to me, and you stopped it from happening.”

“I—”

Melissa wouldn't let him interrupt. “And again today in science. You knew something was going to happen there too! You jumped out of your chair for no reason, and you didn't get hurt!”

Melissa slapped the book facedown on the hearthrug. Her mug wobbled, cocoa splashing down the sides. Callum grabbed it before it could fall over.

“It doesn't mean anything,” he protested. “I was lucky.”

“
Unnaturally
lucky! Premonitions of the future, unnaturally lucky, and you can see ghosts, can't you? That's why you asked about the Churchyard Grims. You've seen one, haven't you?”

Callum shook his head, his lips pressed together. He couldn't answer. All his life he'd avoided talking about his strange abilities, as if keeping silent about them made them less real. But now that didn't seem to be working anymore. His abilities were pushing their way into his life, whether he liked it or not.

“Say no if the answer's no!” Melissa commanded, her big eyes wide. Callum stared back at her, trying to gauge her mood. She wasn't angry and she wasn't skeptical. She was … well, the only word for it was
excited
. She thought this was an adventure. Maybe even fun.

Callum looked away. It didn't feel fun or exciting to him.

“Go on—say no! Tell me you can't see ghosts!”

“I can,” Callum said fiercely. “All right? I can. I see ghosts
everywhere
.”

It was an embarrassment and a huge relief, all at the same time, to say it aloud to another person—to a human, not a bird or a cat. Or a ghost.

“Wow,” Melissa breathed, and fell silent.

Callum couldn't bring himself to say anything more. He stared at the fire, sipping at his own mug of hot chocolate, his knees drawn up close to his chest.

After a moment, Melissa stirred.

“Can you see them here? Now?” she asked softly.

Callum shook his head slowly. “No. Inside this house is the only place I feel safe.”

“Wow,” Melissa repeated with feeling.

Callum was a little perplexed at her eagerness to believe him. “How come you don't think I'm crazy? It doesn't make any sense—seeing ghosts, seeing the future. And you've only got my word for it.”

“You proved it to me yourself. You stopped me from being hurt.”

A glimpse of Melissa lying at the foot of the stairs, her skull shattered, a bloody mess, flashed across Callum's mind. He tried not to react, but she must have read something in his face, because she suddenly went very still.

“Oh my God, it was more than that, wasn't it? You saved my life. You saw that something terrible was going to happen to me and you stopped it from happening.”

Callum gritted his teeth and said nothing.

“Didn't you?”

He didn't have the energy to argue with her. His shoulders slumped forwards in defeat.

“You don't want to believe it yourself, do you?” Melissa said suddenly. “That's why you're so miserable about it. You don't
want
it to be true.”

“I don't understand why you believe it,” Callum said. “You've got no proof at all. You don't see the ghosts, you don't have the visions, your hands don't start to tingle when something terrible's about to happen.”

“Do they really?” Melissa asked with intense interest. “So you can tell if a vision's coming on?”

“I think so.”

“Can you feel it now?” she asked.

“I—”

Callum had never seen Melissa look so determined. She was concentrating on something.

“Are your hands tingling now?” she asked fiercely.

“Yes.” Callum stared at Melissa. His fingers were electric with pins and needles. “Yes, they are.
What are you doing?
”

Then another vision seared into his brain. Melissa's hand in the fire, her head back, screaming in agony, the skin of her fist charred with bubbling blisters …

Callum shook his head, trying to shake the horrific image away. But beside him, Melissa was already reaching out towards the hearth. Pushing her hand towards the burning coals.

Without thinking, Callum rolled over onto his side, knocking her off balance. Then he grabbed her hand and held it down.