Katy Parker and the House that Cried (3 page)

“What just happened?” gasped Lizzie, trying to catch her breath.

Katy shook her head, her eyes wide with fear. “I have no idea. But I'd better get Patrick home. He doesn't look too well.”

Katy hailed an oncoming bus and with one last worried look at her friend she jumped on board, dragging an ashen-faced Patrick behind her.

Once they arrived home, Patrick refused to discuss the incident, putting on a brave face and retreating to the front room to watch TV.

Katy left Patrick and snuck off to ring Lizzie. “Brilliant. You even had me fooled for a minute or two! I wasn't expecting you to play the crying child when you did. Awesome acting too, by the way. You looked totally terrified! The door slamming when it did was great timing.”

A deathly silence followed at the other end of the phone. Then, finally, Lizzie spoke in a strange, small voice. “Stop it Katy, you're scaring me. You know I didn't make the crying sound. My phone went dead. I couldn't get it to work. Stop messing about. I thought it was you!”

For a moment, Katy felt sick with fear. Had it really been the ghost? Or was someone playing a trick on them? She took a deep breath and decided there and then that they had to go back to Willow Dene and find out for sure.

 

Chapter 2

History Mystery

The following week flew by, as May half term approached. Both Katy and Lizzie reluctantly decided to put all thoughts of Willow Dene aside for the next few days. Their exams were coming up and Katy felt the pressure mounting. They agreed to go back and investigate as soon as possible. Katy still felt a little scared. At night, lying in bed, she relived the experience over and over. The tiny hairs on her arms stood on end and her heart beat faster as she remembered the door slamming and the haunting cries of the child. In the morning, she woke up tired
and found it harder than ever to concentrate in class, her every waking minute consumed by thoughts of her dream and the crying child.

Finally, the moment Katy had been longing for arrived. The last lesson of the last day of school: History, with Mr Oakley. They spent the lesson preparing questions for their project on the Home Front, which was due in after the holiday.

“When shall we start our interviews?” asked Katy.

“Mum thinks Sunday afternoon, just after lunch, would be best. She reckons people will be relaxing in their gardens with time to talk,” answered Lizzie.

“OK. We'll start with some general questions about rationing and evacuees, then move onto questions about Willow Dene.”

The bell rang and the class cheered – finally the holidays had arrived.

“At last,” sighed Lizzie, “I thought we'd never break up.”

“I know,” grinned Katy, “a full week off. Mum said the heatwave is meant to last all next week, too.”

“Brilliant! Once we've started on our project, let's go to the lido and sunbathe and swim all day.”

“Definitely,” Katy agreed. “I need a break – every morning I wake up feeling exhausted. My dream is getting worse, not better.”

As the girls walked to the bus stop, they finalised the plans for their project.

“Remember, we're meeting on Sunday at the bus stop at two o'clock. Don't forget your dad's video camera for filming the interviews. Are you sure we can borrow it?”

“I'm sure it'll be fine but Patrick better be careful with it. Is he still doing the filming for us?”

“Yeah, my mum will be at work and Dad has to go away again so I've got to bring him with me,” replied Katy.

Katy wasn't sure she had forgiven Patrick just yet but realised he would be useful to have around. He seemed to have a way with older people. They liked him and that would be useful if they were going to get some good interviews.

“I hope we find out some more about Willow Dene. I can't stop thinking about what happened there,” said Katy.

“Someone's bound to know,” answered Lizzie, breezily, “and before you start, there's no such thing as ghosts. So stop worrying about it, silly!”

“I suppose you're right,” mumbled Katy, secretly not so sure.

* * * *

Sunday morning dawned bright and sunny. Katy had suffered another fitful night's sleep. Her dream had now become so vivid, that when she awoke it was hard to distinguish it from reality. Sitting up in bed, Katy felt a stab of pain in her leg and reached down to rub it. She felt both puzzled and alarmed to see nasty, red grazes all down her left shin and arm. Katy had absolutely no recollection as to where or when she had hurt herself. Neither injury was there when she went to sleep the previous night. Starting to panic, she noticed that the deep graze in her leg even appeared to have bits of gravel in it and her sheet was marked with flecks of dried blood where she must have rubbed against it in her sleep. What was going on? Could it be possible that her dream was somehow real? It certainly felt that way. Leaning over and trying to not to touch her sore arm on the bed, she picked up her glass of water from the bedside table. Katy took a long drink, desperate to sooth her parched and scratchy throat and rid it of the lingering taste
of smoke. Cuts on her arm and leg and tasting smoke in the morning – there was something seriously wrong here. Feeling dazed and confused, Katy climbed gingerly out of bed and made her way to the bathroom, limping slightly.

“What's the matter, Katy?” asked her mum, appearing out of nowhere at the top of the stairs.

Katy had no idea what was going on – how was she going to explain where the cuts had come from? Not wanting to worry her mum before she knew what was happening, she muttered, “It's nothing,” and tried to move past her.

“Come here, let me look,” insisted her mum, grabbing Katy by the sore arm and making her cry out loud in pain. “How on earth did you do this?” she asked in concern.

Katy blurted out the first thing that came into her mind. “I fell off my bike.” As she spoke, she realised she was describing her dream but not reality.

“You need to be more careful,” her mum cautioned. “There's some antiseptic cream in the bathroom cabinet, make sure you give it a good clean.”

“Yes, Mum,” Katy moaned in reply.

“Don't forget I've got work today so you need to take Patrick with you when you go out.”

“Yeah, I know, he's going to do the filming for us,” replied Katy.

“Good. Make sure you're back for tea at five and don't get into any trouble.”

* * * *

Katy and Patrick got the bus to meet Lizzie. Patrick rang the bell, they stumbled down the stairs from the top deck and hopped off to find Lizzie waiting patiently for them. She gave Katy a big smile and Patrick a friendly thump.

“Come on, you two, thought you'd never get here. Got the questions, Katy?”

Feeling pleased with herself, Katy pulled out a folder with the questions typed up. “How professional am I?” she said, giving Lizzie her questions with a flourish.

“Have you got the video camera?” asked Patrick, eager to get his hands on it.

“Yeah, here it is,” said Lizzie, taking it out of her bag. “Be careful with it or my dad will kill me.”

“Come on then, let's get started,” said Katy, striding off purposefully ahead of the others, already halfway up someone's drive.

They spent the next hour knocking on doors and getting the low-down on life during the war. Some of it was quite interesting, especially the stuff about nettle soup and dried eggs. It sounded horrible but, funnily enough, people seemed to remember those days fondly. Most had moved to Knutsburry long after the war and so had no knowledge of Willow Dene except to say it had always been empty and what a shame that was as it was such a pretty family house.

“Right that's it, I give up,” moaned Katy grumpily, sitting down on the pavement and flinging her notepad aside. “No one seems to know anything about Willow Dene. It's hopeless!”

“Why don't we try number 32?” asked Patrick, attempting to sound brave.

Katy and Lizzie both stared at him, momentarily speechless.

“Are you mad?” asked Lizzie, shaking her head in disbelief.

“You do know who lives there, don't you?” asked Katy.

“Yeah,” answered Patrick, “just some weird old lady. It's not like she's a real witch,” he smirked. “Unless, of course, you two actually believe in witches?”

Katy and Lizzie looked at each other uncertainly. Local children feared the old woman who lived at number 32. They hurried past her house, too scared to walk slowly in case she magically appeared and cast some unspeakable spell on them. Sinister myths had sprung up surrounding this shadowy, rarely seen figure and were now woven into the fabric of local folklore.

“What do you think?” asked Lizzie, twisting her hair around her finger nervously. “Isn't she meant to be connected to Willow Dene in some way?”

“I've never seen her,” said Katy. “They say when Willow Dene was abandoned she went mad and disappeared into her house, only coming out under the cover of night.”

Patrick rolled his eyes in ridicule and laughed. “You two are such big babies! If you really want to find out about Willow Dene, I reckon she's just the person you need to speak to. Are you coming or not?”

Reluctantly, Katy and Lizzie followed him up the drive to number 32. Patrick picked up the heavy brass knocker and banged firmly on the door twice, then quickly retreated behind the girls. Not a sound could be heard.

“No one's in,” sighed Katy in relief. “Look, all the curtains are shut. Let's go.”

“Wait a minute, look there,” instructed Lizzie, pointing to an upstairs bedroom window.

Katy looked up, just in time to see a pair of dark eyes peering out from behind the curtain. Summoning up all her courage, she knocked one more time. All three waited with bated breath to see what would happen next. Footsteps could be heard approaching the door, followed by the sound of the latch being lifted, then finally the door began to creak open and a small, dark, bent figure came into view.

Lizzie gave a shrill scream, jumping backwards into a startled Katy, who then, spooked by Lizzie, also screamed, clutching onto her in terror.

“How can I help you, children?” asked a gentle voice.

Katy turned back to the dark figure. There, on the doorstep, stood a tiny, old lady, stooped and twisted with age. She wore an old fashioned, sombre black dress, as if she were in mourning for those long dead. It was easy to see why she had a reputation for being a witch.

Undaunted, Patrick spoke up. “Hello. We're doing a project on life during the Second World War for school and we're interviewing locals about their experiences.”

“We wondered if you could help us?” asked Lizzie, smiling nervously and looking embarrassed by her scream.

“Did you live here during the War?” asked Katy, taking out her questionnaire.

The years seemed to melt away on the old woman's face, as she broke into an unexpectedly warm smile. “I'm Hillary and yes I've lived here all my life. I can remember the War being declared. Lovely sunny afternoon it was too. Just like today.”

She proceeded to tell them all sorts of interesting stories about rationing and the blackout.

“Can you tell us anything about Willow Dene,” asked Katy, innocently. “Do you know why it was abandoned? Or anything about the rumours of the crying child?”

Storm clouds seemed to gather overhead and the air turned cold as Hillary's smile vanished, replaced by a look of such profound sadness that Katy had to look away. Hillary visibly shrank backwards, whispered a hoarse goodbye and swiftly shut the door.

They stared at one another in surprise, until Katy spoke. “What just happened?”

“That was strange. She chatted happily until you asked about Willow Dene. Something terrible must have happened there and she must be tied up with it to react like that,” suggested Patrick.

“But what?” mused Lizzie.

“Well, I'm going to find out. Come on, let's carry on with our research. Why don't we go back to number 83? It's the only house left we haven't been to. They were out earlier but someone might be in now who can fill us in with the full story,” said Katy, filled with determination.

Number 83 was called Cedar Cottage, presumably due to the huge cedar tree in the front garden. It was a pretty, white cottage, with blue shutters, a yellow front door and a red climbing rose growing up the side of the house.

“Come on,” said Katy, opening the garden gate and walking up the path to the front door. She gave the bell a long hard ring. They waited and waited for someone to answer.

“There's still no one in,” huffed Katy, grumpily. “Come on let's go.”

Just as they were heading off back down the path, the door suddenly opened and there, to
Katy's amazement, stood Tom Austin. Katy gulped, struggling to speak, as Tom stood there, staring expectantly at them.

“I assume you rang the bell because you wanted to speak to someone?” he asked.

Silence followed.

Lizzie came to Katy's rescue. “We're interviewing locals for our history project; we really want to find out about Willow Dene. It's been empty since the War but no one seems to know why.”

“Well, you've come to the right house. My granddad is in the garden and he's lived in Knutsburry all his life. He looks after Willow Dene for the owners, so if he can't tell you what happened there, no one can. Follow me.”

He led them down a winding path that ran along the side of the house and into the large back garden. They passed by flowerbeds bursting full of colourful flowers and rows of fruit trees. Tom's granddad, Charlie, was sitting on an old stripy deckchair, drinking a mug of tea at the back of the garden. He looked up, giving them a welcoming smile.

“Hello there, what an honour! No one under eighty calls for me these days!”

Patrick took a step forward and spoke up. “Hello sir. My sister and her friend are interviewing local people for a history project about life during the Second World War. We'd really like to find out about Willow Dene but no one seems to know anything and we wondered if you could help.”