Shiverton Hall, the Creeper (23 page)

‘Managed to get a story published in a national newspaper but doesn’t know how to follow simple instructions.’ George tutted.

Earlier that week Chuk had sent a copy of
The Whisper
to his father, and he had run the story of Cornwall and Strack’s fall from grace on the front page, crediting Chuk, Penny and Xanthe and offering them all summer jobs at his most prestigious title,
The Daily Journal
. George had been teasing Penny about it as much as he could ‘to keep her feet on the ground’.

‘Come on,’ Arthur said to Penny, ‘I’ll help you.’

Soon they were all sitting around the campfire, giggling and toasting marshmallows. Even the Forge triplets had relaxed a bit, and were busy painting commando stripes on themselves with mud.

Arthur closed his eyes and felt the warmth of the fire on his face, but nothing could quite warm the cold in his blood.

Arthur lay awake in their tent, listening to the rustlings and hootings of the woods. They’d spent the evening around the campfire, laughing and telling stories, and had all gone to bed late. Arthur felt sure he was the only person awake. George was snoring next to him, and he could hear Xanthe mumbling in her sleep a few metres away.

The moonlight cast the shadow of the trees over the thin fabric of the tent. He buried his head in his sleeping bag and tried not to think about what might be outside.

A fingernail on nylon makes a very distinctive sound, a nauseating, snagging scrape. It was not the sound that Arthur wanted to hear coming from the outside of his tent in the middle of the night.

He peered out from beneath his sleeping bag.

He could see the shadow of a hand with long, tapered fingers. It was slowly circling the tent, running a sharp talon across the fabric as it did so, brushing it, stroking it, then . . . ripping it.

Arthur reached inside his sleeping bag for his phone: no reception. He sat up, careful not to wake George. He was paralysed with indecision. If he shouted, would he put the others in danger? He couldn’t be sure.

He thought it over. If he ran as fast as he could, he might make Grimstone high street in five minutes. There was a phone box there. He could call Toynbee, and maybe the creature wouldn’t follow him out of the woods.

The scratching began again.

Arthur couldn’t think straight, his mind was addled with exhaustion and fear. All he knew was he had an overwhelming urge to run.

Arthur unzipped his sleeping bag, tooth by tooth, praying that the creature would not hear him. When he saw that the shadow was at the head of the tent, Arthur ripped open the flap and bolted towards Grimstone.

The woods were silent as Arthur rushed through them, stones tearing at the soles of his feet and branches striking his face. He could hardly breathe with terror, but he ran on, holding his phone ahead of him to provide some light.

Suddenly he could hear the faint sound of footsteps running behind him, but he didn’t dare turn back and slow himself down. It sounded like two sets of footsteps at least, but he couldn’t be sure. And was that someone calling his name? He could barely hear anything over the sound of his heart pounding and his laboured breathing. The mobile slipped from his sweaty grip and fell to the ground. Arthur hesitated for a moment, then ran on: he didn’t dare stop to pick it up.

He could feel the distance closing, and, seizing his chance, Arthur swerved suddenly and sharply to the left. The footsteps seemed to stumble. Arthur swerved again, and he heard the footsteps falter and stop. Was he alone? Had he done it?

He saw a light in the distance through the trees, and ran towards it. He didn’t care what it was. Light meant people, and if he could get there he might have a chance. The trees cleared and when he saw where the light was coming from he nearly sobbed with relief.

It was Rose Cottage.

He sprinted down the path and hammered at the door.

‘Who is it?’ Mrs Todd’s voice called through the door. ‘I’ll call the police.’

‘It’s Arthur,’ Arthur said, trying to keep his voice down, conscious that at any moment he might be caught. ‘Please let me in.’

Mrs Todd opened the door and Arthur nearly knocked her over in his haste to get inside.

‘Lock the door,’ Arthur panted. ‘Please.’

Mrs Todd did so.

‘What on earth are you doing here, Arthur?’ Mrs Todd asked. ‘It’s nearly two o’clock in the morning!’

‘Please,’ Arthur gasped. ‘Call Doctor Toynbee.’

‘Doctor Toynbee?’ Mrs Todd asked. ‘Why?’

‘Please,’ Arthur repeated. ‘I’ll explain everything later on.’

Mrs Todd went into the other room. He heard her speaking on the telephone. ‘Yes,’ he heard her say. ‘Arthur . . . I don’t know . . . he insisted you come right away.’

Arthur sank down on to the sofa as Mrs Todd returned.

‘He’s on his way,’ she said. ‘What on earth has happened?’

Arthur explained, as briefly as he could, the extraordinary circumstances that had brought him to her door. Mrs Todd listened with astonishment. When he had finished, she took a deep breath.

‘It sounds as though you’re in trouble, Arthur,’ she said, apprehensively. ‘Once Scracchenshodderen has your scent, there is little any of us can do.’

Arthur felt his heart falter.

He had not mentioned that name.

In fact, he had taken great care not to.

‘When will Toynbee be here?’ Arthur asked with a calmness he didn’t feel.

‘Soon,’ Mrs Todd replied.

He studied Mrs Todd. Why had she been awake and dressed at two in the morning? Her hands were folded in her lap; he had never really noticed them before, but they were skeletal, long-fingered and there was dust between the blue ridges of her veins.

How old was she?

Arthur felt the panic clutch at him.

‘I’m lucky you were up,’ Arthur said steadily. ‘Why are you awake so late?’

‘I’m waiting for my children,’ Mrs Todd replied, with a smile.

‘Your children?’ Arthur asked hoarsely.

‘Yes,’ she said. ‘I think you may know them.’

Arthur stood up.

‘Don’t bother, Arthur,’ Mrs Todd said. ‘You’re locked in. And even if you weren’t, I have plenty of ways to make you stay.’

‘Who are you?’ Arthur said.

‘Who am I?’ she laughed. ‘That’s a good question, Arthur Shiverton.’

Arthur felt like he might be sick. ‘How did you know?’ he asked faintly.

‘I knew the moment you arrived last term.’ She sniffed the air. ‘The Shiverton blood is quite . . . pungent, you know.’

‘Let me go, please,’ Arthur begged.

‘Ha!’ Mrs Todd spat. ‘I’m sure those were the very words my daughter used before your ancestor murdered her.’

‘Daughter . . . ?’ Arthur repeated, all the stories that George had told him suddenly rushing back to him. He looked at Mrs Todd with horror.

‘There it is!’ Mrs Todd laughed.

‘Rose Cottage,’ Arthur whispered. For the first time he noticed the pink, velvet ribbon, tied in a bow around a candlestick on the mantelpiece.

‘Named after my dear, departed daughter,’ Mrs Todd replied.

‘But how can you . . . ? That was centuries ago,’ Arthur said.

‘And I am centuries older than that still,’ Mrs Todd said.

‘Mrs Todd,’ Arthur began.

‘Arthur, come now,’ she said coyly. ‘I think we know each other well enough that you can call me by my real name.’

‘Ma Watkins,’ Arthur whispered.

‘Oh, that was one of my names, certainly. But not my first,’ she said. ‘Ma was short for Mary. My first name was Mary. Although I was known for some time as Grey Mary.’

Arthur shook his head. ‘It’s impossible!’ he said.

‘Is it?’ she replied. ‘I would have thought that you of all people would no longer question the impossible.’

‘How did nobody notice you?’ Arthur asked.

‘No one ever notices a sweet, old lady. A few name changes, a few lies . . . Dear old Mrs Todd had to go, of course, so that I could borrow her house. I knew how to blend in – unlike my sister.’

‘Your sister?’ Arthur asked.

‘Ann,’ Ma Watkins replied. ‘She couldn’t resist showing off, though I begged her not to.’

‘The witch in the well,’ Arthur said. ‘The poisoner.’

‘Indeed. She took after our poor mother. Mother was burned at the stake. The smell of burning still hangs around me to this day.’

For the first time, Arthur noticed the cloying perfume, which didn’t wholly mask the stench of burning hair.

‘I’m sorry they burned your mother,’ Arthur said carefully.

‘Are you?’ Ma Watkins laughed. ‘You wouldn’t be sorry if you’d known her. She would have plucked out your eyes and swallowed them whole.’

‘Toynbee will be here soon,’ Arthur said.

Ma Watkins shouted with laughter, revealing rows of rotting teeth. Her appearance was becoming more repulsive by the minute. Her orange wig had slipped to one side, revealing a bald, scabbed scalp.

‘You are rather slow, Arthur Shiverton, like the rest of your accursed line. Do you really think that I would call Toynbee here?’

Arthur slumped down on to the sofa. ‘What do you want from me?’ he asked.

‘I don’t want anything from you. Although, my son may feel differently,’ she said slyly.

‘Your son? But I thought Rose was your only –’

‘She was my only blood child, yes. But I have had many children, stolen from the village in the night.’ Ma Watkins listed them on her bony hands: ‘Dear Zezia and Violetta and Malvolio and Skinless Tom, and of course, the two who became Husband and Wife. There were others, too, who didn’t last so long.’

Arthur struggled to understand what she was saying.

‘The stories . . .’ he said. ‘The stories you’ve been telling me are about the children that Grey Mary took?’

‘
My
children!’ Ma Watkins shouted, her pupils dilating into angry points. ‘My own family was taken from me.’

She steadied herself, taking a deep breath.

‘Everyone deserves a family, Arthur,’ she said. ‘Unfortunately, human children die awfully easily, as you are soon to find out.’

Arthur cast around the room for anything he might be able to use as a weapon, while Ma Watkins began to tell the story of her children.

‘I realised that if I wanted my family to stay with me, I needed to find some way to free them from their human bodies. It was a very complicated procedure, some of the greatest magic this country has ever seen.’

‘How did you do it?’ Arthur said, hoping to buy himself some time. There was a poker by the fire, if he could only . . .

‘I freed them from their bodily form, and gave each child an object to possess. Something they could hibernate in, if you will. They had to be attractive objects, items that people would covet. Zezia had her typewriter; poor Tom, who lost his skin, had a mirror; Husband and Wife had their cane filled with dice; and my circus children used those marvellous magic boxes.’

Suddenly, Arthur noticed the dusty typewriter on Ma Watkins’s desk and the enamelled hand-mirror on her side table . . . and the poker leaning up against the fireplace was not a poker at all, but a walking cane with a pewter top.

‘They use the objects to possess people,’ Arthur said, dragging his eyes away from the typewriter.

‘That was the darkest magic of all, a very complicated spell indeed, a spell that let them pass into the bodies of others.’

‘Where are they now?’ Arthur whispered.

‘The human spirit is a delicate thing,’ Ma Watkins said bitterly. ‘Many of my children became restless, and tired of their constant search for bodies. They begged me to free them from their purgatory.’

‘And did you?’ Arthur asked.

‘I am their mother,’ Ma Watkins snapped. ‘I would do anything for my children. The ones who asked were freed. Only two remain. My most beloved children. The twins.’

‘The twins . . .’ Arthur repeated faintly.

‘Do you think you can guess who they might be?’ Ma Watkins asked with a twisted smile.

‘The Creeper . . .’ Arthur realised.

‘Finally,’ Ma Watkins said, ‘you get something right. The first is the Creeper, although I always called him Farrus.’

Arthur heard a creak from the floorboards above them.

Ma Watkins looked up. ‘Ah,’ she said, ‘we’ve woken him.’

Arthur heard footsteps on the stairs.

A shadow appeared in the doorway.

‘Come in, my dear,’ Ma Watkins said.

When Arthur saw who it was, he wanted to scream.

‘Jake!’ Arthur cried, jumping up. ‘What’s going on?’

Ma Watkins laughed. ‘That isn’t Jake,’ she said. ‘That is Farrus.’

‘But Jake’s at home. He’s in London,’ Arthur whispered.

‘Is he?’ Ma Watkins asked. ‘I must say it’s astonishing that all it took was a letter stating that Jake was staying at home until the end of the term. Handwriting is so easy to forge. But you would have thought that the school might have checked it out a bit more – given their appalling safety record.’