Prologue
Monday, 31st October 1994
Blackhall Manor
I remember the day I died quite clearly. It began as a nothing day, just like many nothing days before it. Back then, I didn’t understand the important things in life. It wasn’t about pop stars, or clothes, or boys, or any of that stuff I thought I couldn’t live without. It was about family. But you don’t appreciate the people who matter until they’re gone.
I didn’t know what dread was until we moved into Blackhall Manor. Sometimes I’d wake in the middle of the night, my sheets damp from sweat as apprehension swallowed me whole. What frightened me the most was not being able to put a name to these feelings, or explain them away. I think my grandmother sensed something was wrong because she took my brother and me out as much as she could. It was her idea to take us trick-or-treating, and I remember being jolted in my seat that night as she swerved to avoid a pothole in the road. I hated that pothole because it meant we were almost home.
The comforting glow of the street lights was behind us, and I winced at the sound of the brambles clawing the side of the car as we drove down the winding dirt track. Dead fingernails clawing for attention. I was nothing if not imaginative. I glanced back at my younger brother as we passed through the wrought iron gates, wondering if he, too, was consumed by a similar sense of dread. But Robin was too busy calling out ‘Black Jacks! Fruit salads!’ and ‘Flying saucers!’ like some sweet-obsessed four-year-old with Tourette’s. ‘Swap you a white mouse for a cola bottle,’ he said, extending his chubby hand.
I peered through the gloom at the blob of white chocolate melting on his palm. ‘No thanks,’ I said, turning back to draw a sad face on the condensation-streaked glass with my finger.
There were ten years between my brother and I, who had been deemed a ‘happy accident’ when he arrived in the world. I adored everything about him, but since hitting my teenage years I preferred to spend time with my friends.
Trick-or-treating was for babies, I decided, and this would be the last year Robin and I would go. I was far too grown up to suffer the indignities of traipsing from house to house with a less than spooky grandmother and a mini Batman in tow. I remembered when we lived in town, Mummy and Daddy had a party and invited the whole street. Daddy dressed up as Dracula, and everyone said how brilliant he was.
My spirits sank as Blackhall Manor came into view. The dilapidated building was perched in solitude on its hilltop, surrounded by a thick white mist which rolled in off the fields. It wasn’t the lifeless trees standing sentry that gave me the creeps as we navigated the winding path. Nor was it the ravens perched on the barbed wire fence. It wasn’t the sound of the wind howling through the galvanised outbuildings, or the creatures scurrying in the thick undergrowth. All those things would have frightened me once, but they paled in comparison to the tall brick building looming ahead. It came with a history fit for any ghost story. None of my friends visited. Neither would I, given a choice. In Blackhall Manor, it was Halloween all year long. Daddy said that living with Granny and Grandad would be fun. But after five long years of helping them with the farm, even he didn’t believe that anymore.
We parked up next to Uncle John’s BMW, which was facing out on the gravel drive.Ready for a quick getaway,I thought. Mummy once described him as a mediator, and by the look on his face as he exited the house, his visit had not gone well. Clutching my bag of sweets, I took slow, reluctant steps through the open front door, leaving Granny to exchange words with Uncle John.
A cold wind chased me as I walked inside. The air was thick with negativity and it was clear by the look on Mum’s face that an argument had taken place. Grandad stood at the base of the wide stairwell; his bushy brows knitted in a frown as he helped Robin with his wellington boots. ‘Look, Mummy!’ Robin squeaked, showing off his bag of sweets as she approached. ‘I got loads!’ Robin did not notice that Mummy’s eyes were red-rimmed from crying, but I did, and my heart sank even more. I followed them into the kitchen. ‘Where’s Daddy?’ I asked, undoing the button of my witch’s cloak. At least it was warm in the kitchen. Grandad kept the Aga fed with timber cut from our private woodlands, and the sweet smell of moss-covered cedar hung in the air.
‘Come along, young man,’ Grandad said as Robin downed a glass of milk. ‘Up to bed with you.’
I always found it strange how Grandad idolised my little brother, yet fought with Daddy all the time.
‘Brush your teeth,’ Mummy said. ‘I’ll be up in a minute to read you a story.’ But her words were hollow, her smile forced.
I walked towards the doorway, lingering as Mummy and Granny spoke. ‘Did you sort anything out?’ Granny said, her voice low.
But Mummy shook her head.
‘Give it time,’ Granny replied with a sigh.
Rarely a day passed without an argument of some kind. There were kids in my school whose parents were divorced. I didn’t want that happening to us.
‘Where is he now?’ Granny said.
‘In his study.’
I straightened as Mummy caught me standing at the door. ‘What are you doing there? Up to bed.’ The sadness I sensed in her took my breath away. I ran towards her like a little child, inhaling the scent of lavender as I wrapped my arms around her.
‘Love you,’ I said, feeling her relax in my embrace.
‘And we love you too,’ she said, too swept up in her own concerns to see mine. ‘Now go on, bed.’
I turned left on the landing, to Daddy’s study, instead. Peeping through the crack in the door, I watched him clean his shotgun. Methodically, he inspected each piece, a throwback to his army days before he gave it all up to help Grandad with the farm. His face was vacant, his eyes flicking towards the door as a floorboard creaked beneath my foot. Tentatively, I pushed it open, gauging his reaction as I stepped inside.
‘Hey wicked witch, what are you doing up?’ He lay the barrel of the gun on the mahogany desk before turning to face me. He looked tired but raised his arm to draw me in for a hug. ‘It’s late; you should be in bed,’ he said, his short beard tickling my forehead as he kissed me goodnight.
The sparse light of the moon only added to the coldness of my bedroom as I lay awake in bed that night. No number of posters or fairy lights could cheer the space up. Pulling my blanket to my chin, I squeezed my eyes shut and prayed for sleep.
At first, I thought the sudden boom was thunder. Rubbing my eyes, I tried to focus as I sat up in bed.What time is it?I flicked on my bedside light, but the room remained in darkness. The electricity had gone again. But why hadn’t the generator kicked in? I squinted at the digital clock as it ticked the seconds past midnight on my dresser. The air was too chilled for thunder tonight.Fireworks?I wondered, half asleep as I slid out of bed. The floorboards felt like ice beneath my feet as I tiptoed towards my bedroom door. I froze as I heard my mother’s footsteps rapidly hitting each stair. I wanted to call out for her, but the words locked in my throat as she screamed Robin’s name. My hands rushed to my mouth as I heard my mother’s guttural howls. Grandad called out from downstairs. Where was Daddy? Nothing made sense. Heavy footsteps thumped across the landing towards my bedroom door.
‘Nigel!’ Mummy’s voice echoed throughout the house, but no response came. ‘Not her. Please, not my little girl!’
Why was she calling Daddy?I thought, feeling weak and confused. Jumping into bed, I pulled the blanket to my chest as a struggle took place outside my door. As Mummy’s screams evolved into bargaining, my thoughts went to my brother.Where’s Robin?I watched in horror as my door-knob twisted, left, then right, before finally engaging in the mechanism. It opened with a click. I drew my knees to my chest. My heart was hammering hard, a rush of blood pulsating in my ears.
