Shiver Page 12

  Sebastian peered out from the mouth of the cave. “It’s stopped snowing,” he announced, unnecessarily. The blizzard had worn itself out or gone elsewhere, leaving behind a transformed landscape.

  “What now?” Samuel asked.

  Sebastian shrugged. “Start heading for home?”

  They peered all around them: endless white in all directions, with no sign of Dunadd House.

  “I suppose if we just keep heading downwards, we can’t go wrong,” Sebastian murmured. “What d’you think?”

  Samuel shrugged. They were reluctant to leave the relative warmth and shelter of their cave. It had been a long night, fearing the worst, facing whatever demons had confronted them. They had needed all their strength and bravery to survive it. Emerging into the open, they began their walk as the light grew brighter in the sky.

  It was hard-going. They weren’t really sure which direction they were heading in. They might have missed Dunadd altogether and be heading for a different part of Sheriffmuir entirely. They had no way of knowing. Nothing looked familiar. There was no sign of the little ruined chapel, nor its huddle of neglected graves. The hills were a confusing place, especially when covered in snow. You could end up going in circles for hours, never getting to where you needed to be.

  But the boys kept going. The wind had whipped across the surface of the snow all night, drifting, so that their own footprints had disappeared, as well as any others that might have been of help. They struggled on in the direction they hoped Dunadd House lay, using the position of the sun as a vague guide.

  Finally, halfway through the morning, after what seemed like an eternity of wading through endless white, Samuel stopped and pointed. He could see the rise of Dunadd Wood below them, and beyond that, a familiar tower peeping above the trees. Dunadd House sat like a ship on an ocean, indomitable … waiting for them.

  They began to run in their relief, leaping over the drifts and dunes of snow. At the same moment they heard a helicopter circling in the sky above them. They stood still and waved their arms above their heads.

  In the sky above, the helicopter banked and swung round, returning the way it had come. The pilot and one of his companions pointed to where they could see two tiny dark figures stumbling through the snow, laughing and crying with relief. The boys had been spotted. The rescue was called off.

  The whole family were at the breakfast table when they heard the commotion outside. No one had any appetite. Granny had insisted on putting down some toast and cereal, but the children toyed with it, and both Isabel and Chris had point-blank refused to eat. The helicopter was making a terrific din overhead, whipping up the snow into sparkling spirals on the ground outside. Then they heard other noises – shouts, laughter and whooping.

  Fiona leapt up and ran to the window, where she saw her brother and her best friend, running and stumbling towards the house, almost falling over in their haste and exhaustion.

  “They’re here,” she screamed, shouting over her shoulder to the rest of them. “It’s Samuel and Seb. They’ve come home.” She flung open the door and ran across the snow towards them, with the helicopter circling like an eagle above them.

  The household erupted. Everyone was talking at once. Isabel almost fainted with relief, and Granny had to revive her with old-fashioned, but still effective, smelling salts. Isabel spluttered and coughed.

  “Are you trying to kill me?”

  Charles laughed, patting Granny on the shoulder.

  The news was put out that the boys had turned up, safe and sound, and a wave of relief swept through the entire household, extending to the local community beyond. At the inn they received the news with a cheer, for the worst had been feared and everyone had been dreading the morning and what they might find. The nightmare was over.

  Almost …

  “I couldn’t believe it when I saw you walking towards the house,” Fiona cried. “I wasn’t sure if it was really you.”

  “How on earth did you manage?” Chris murmured, administering hot cups of tea and blankets. Samuel and Sebastian didn’t think they’d ever been more delighted to see a lit stove in their lives before. Granny threw the metal door open, and they sat before the Aga, pulling their chairs up close to benefit from the glowing heat within.

  “We found a cave,” Samuel said. “We didn’t think we’d last the night.”

  “We tried to build a small fire, but it didn’t last long, so we kept close for warmth.”

  “And tried not to fall asleep.”

  “And did you?” Fiona asked.

  “I don’t remember.”

  “Leave the boys alone, Fiona,” her mother urged. “They must be tired.”

  Although explanations would be required later.

  “Whatever possessed you Sebastian?” his mother demanded at last, her temper getting the better of her finally. “Wandering off like that in this weather?”

  “We were looking for something.”

  “So your brother said. Looking for a graveyard or some such nonsense …”

  Isabel was gazing at Samuel as if she thought he might melt away before her very eyes. All those long hours spent in her studio, partially neglecting him while she worked away at her art, and now she felt as if she never wanted to lose sight of him again.

  “I’m such a bad parent,” she sobbed, in relief and gratitude.

  “Don’t be silly, Isabel,” Chris scolded her gently. “You’re not a bad parent. We all do our best. It’s all we can do.”

  “Tch!” Granny said. “Don’t take on so. The boys are safely home now and let’s be thankful for that. It could have all turned out very differently.”

  “Yes, yes, Granny,” Chris Morton said, trying to change the subject. “Well, I must say you were very sensible in taking shelter like that. You did the right thing in the circumstances.”

  Questions would have to be asked … and answered, but one thing was certain … whatever else the children told their parents in explanation, there was one piece of information they still weren’t ready to impart … the appearance of Eliza Morton and her timid little brother. Despite everything, they didn’t want to give Mrs Morton any reason to leave Dunadd. The recent crisis itself was enough to be going on with.

  Samuel was bundled up in blankets and Isabel was determined to sweep him off back to the cottage as soon as possible, but he refused.

  “I want to stay here,” he said, “for now.”

  “Maybe it’s for the best,” Chris suggested. “I’ll make up a bed for you in a spare room,” she told Isabel. “You can stay here too, obviously.” For it was clear that there was absolutely no way that Isabel was leaving the house without her son.

  “Questions can wait until the morning,” Chris Morton said.

  Fiona and Charles were not prepared to wait that long before finding out what had happened to the boys.

  “Where were you?” Fiona asked him, once they were alone.

  Samuel shook his head. “I haven’t a clue. We were so lost. At first it was fine … we found the ruined chapel.”

  “And their graves too,” Sebastian cut in.

  “You did?” Fiona and Charles listened in amazement, as the boys described scraping the snow off the sandstone to reveal the names of John and Eliza Morton.

  “It gave the dates of their births and deaths,” Samuel said. “But nothing else.”

  “Nothing?” Fiona repeated, in disappointment. “There was nothing about how they might have died … no affectionate message from their loving relatives …?”

  Samuel shook his head. “No. Just the bare brutal facts. But it’s a plague graveyard, alright. There are skull and crossbones on most stones.”

  “How do we explain any of this to our mothers?” Fiona sighed.

  “We don’t,” Charles said. “Not yet.”

  The others silently agreed.

  A Taste for Mischief

  All was quiet in the house. After the excitement of the past few hours, everyone was at last sleeping. Eliza
paused at the head of the staircase and surveyed the gloom beneath her. She loved the chaos she created, the fear she inspired.

  The blizzard had left a completely white moor behind. Eliza could see it all shining beyond the window, where the house cast its great black shadow against the snow. The boys had settled down to their cosy comfortable lives again, after their adventure. Eliza envied them. Their life was so simple compared with her lonely fate. She had only her brother for company and he cried most of the time. He still missed their mother, although their mother was long since dead. Nothing could bring her back. Not the way they had come back … she and John.

  If they opened those graves where our names are carved, Eliza thought – and had said as much to Fiona – they would find no bodies. Just empty graves. Our bodies were flung into a plague pit, a communal grave where no one knew our identities. Rich and poor alike were flung there; tossed without care or ceremony. These were her terrible thoughts, her terrible memories, as she drifted from floor to floor, claiming the house as her own.

  The little girl was learning to entertain herself. She was playing tricks, having some fun.

  When she heard someone approach on the staircase beneath, she melted back into the shadows, ethereal and weightless. She managed to blend softly with the air around her. It was quite a skill and she was getting rather good at it.

  Chris Morton was climbing the stairs back to her room, her tread heavy with fatigue. She had been downstairs to fetch a glass of milk, after being woken by a nightmare of some kind. The little girl watched in silence.

  She was fascinated by mothers and the idea of mothers, especially since she and her brother had been without one for so long. She had had occasion to observe that the children who lived in this house seemed to be well cared for. They didn’t have to cry themselves to sleep at night, nor comfort a little brother who wouldn’t stop wailing.

  Making herself invisible, Eliza drifted as close as she dared to Chris Morton and stared right through her. For a moment Mrs Morton felt a cold chill pass through her body. She dropped her cup by mistake and it smashed against the floor.

  “Oh,” she cried, and began to dab at her dressing-gown with a tissue. “How clumsy.”

  She cleared up the mess as best she could and retreated to her room, but as she closed the door behind her, she was almost sure she saw a child’s shadow slip sideways across the hall. Pausing for a moment, she shook her head. She must be imagining things, she decided, and went wearily towards her bed.

  However, she spent a restless night, her thoughts returning to the past. How strange that they should have found a secret staircase in that very room: the library which she had always feared. Since her husband’s untimely death, she had brought up her three children all alone in this great house, determined to stay put for posterity’s sake, despite the loneliness and isolation. She loved it, in a way … she did … but it had its drawbacks.

  One of those drawbacks was hovering outside the door right now, although Chris Morton did not know it. Eliza floated, bodiless almost, across the hall to Fiona’s room. She would not wake them this time. No, the house was all hers. This family might think they owned it: they slept in its beds, occupied its rooms, ate from its tables, warmed themselves before its fires … but it really belonged to her and her little brother, John. They possessed the house in a way that no living being could ever understand. They knew the way that every stair creaked, the worn tread on a polished board, the touch and feel of a solid doorknob beneath the hand. They had memorized it all, feeling it now through their papery bodies, as if they were books full of information, containing every nuance and domestic detail of Dunadd House. Her brother John was reluctant to join her on these jaunts of hers, but he would … in time. She would encourage him slowly.

  She looked up to see a familiar figure standing at the end of the corridor, staring at her.

  John.

  She floated towards him, lightly taking his hand. “We are here to stay,” she whispered to her brother. “This is our house, John. No one else’s. It belongs to thee and me.”

  John gazed at her. He relied on Eliza. She was his mentor, his only friend. The only person he could turn to when he was sad. And he was sad … all the time.

  “What will we do now?” he asked, his voice so small and fragile in the silence.

  Eliza looked at him and laughed. “That which we have always done. We wait. We watch and we wait …”

  Below them, the grandfather clock marked the passage of time, its notes filling the void.

  Nightmare

  Charles woke up in a sweat. He had dreamt that Dunadd was a burnt-out ruin. He could see right inside the house as if he was hovering above it. All of the rooms had been destroyed and smoke coiled from the charred remains. The spiralling staircase was open to the sky and snow drifted in, sweeping up against the large stone fireplaces, which had survived the fire. Flames had swept through the edifice, gobbling it up like a hungry monster, until there was almost nothing left: just an empty, smoking shell.

  He sat up and looked around him, half expecting to see flames licking the walls and the oak panelling … and breathed a sigh of relief. Only a dream, he told himself.

  The next day dawned bright and clear. No more snow was forecast and Granny Hughes even began to entertain thoughts of making another attempt to return to her centrally-heated flat in the village. The adults were dying to ask Samuel and Sebastian some questions. No one knew what to make of their foolhardy expedition, but for now they were simply glad that the boys were safe and well.

  Patrick MacFarlane stood looking up at the gleaming windows of Dunadd, broken blinds hanging askew in the library. The place was getting more and more neglected by the day. He could see at a glance that Chris Morton was struggling to maintain the place since her husband died.

  He shook his head and approached the house.

  The dogs barked at his arrival, but wagged their tails sheepishly when they saw him.

  Granny Hughes came into the passageway and ushered him in.

  “I was beginning to wonder if you were still alive,” Granny remarked, as he followed her into the kitchen.

  “Aye, just about,” he muttered. “I heard the reports on my wee transistor.” He paused and cleared his throat. “I was concerned an’ all. Are they back?”

  Fiona leapt up from the table, and put her arms round the old man. Chris Morton encouraged him to take a seat.

  “No, no. I’ll not stop. You’ll have enough trouble to be dealing with.”

  “For goodness sake, man. Stay an’ have a cuppa with us. You’ll be needing it after your walk from the house,” Granny scolded.

  “Aye, well … I’ll not say no.” He ruffled Samuel’s hair.

  “Glad to see you’re safely back, lads. You’ve had us all fairly worried, so you have.”

  Samuel blushed.

  “They still have a few questions to answer, mind,” Granny added.

  “Now, Granny,” Chris Morton cut in. “Leave them be. They’ve been through enough. We’re just glad to have them home, aren’t we, Isabel?”

  Isabel nodded her relief, dropping a kiss on the top of her son’s head.

  “Mum!” he protested. “Not in public.”

  Mr MacFarlane laughed, as he sat down to drink his tea.

  “Men don’t like a fuss, do we boys?” he said. “When will women learn, eh?”

  Ignoring this comment, Fiona leapt up and grabbed the old man by the arm. “I nearly forgot. We’ve got something to show you.”

  “Let the man drink his tea,” Granny scolded.

  “It’s alright … the tea can wait,” Mr MacFarlane responded, allowing himself to be led out of the kitchen and up the spiralling staircase to the rooms above. Isabel, Granny Hughes and Chris Morton stayed behind in the kitchen.

  After they’d left the room, Granny shot a furtive glance across at Mrs Morton. “He’s a lovely man, so he is.”

  Chris nodded. “I suppose you’re right.”


  “The kids love him, anyway.” Granny banged a saucepan of cabbage down on the draining board with a thud. “Wonder if he wants to stay for lunch?”

  “We’ll ask him when he comes down,” Mrs Morton said.

  Granny, pleased with herself, allowed a rare smile to play around her lips but kept her back to the rest of the room so the others couldn’t tell. She didn’t hold with open displays of emotion and there had been far too many of those recently.

  Up in the library, Fiona, Samuel and the two older boys led Mr MacFarlane towards the great stone fireplace set into the wall of the narrow room. They pressed the servant’s bell so that he could watch the huge stone slide sideways, revealing the hidden staircase behind it. He was suitably impressed.

  “So, what else has been happening?” he asked them quietly. “Other than your recent capers on the moor, of course. What were you doing out there, by the way?” he asked.

  No one could avoid giving Mr MacFarlane a straight answer.

  “We were looking for their graves,” Samuel admitted. “We had this sleepover and Eliza appeared to me while the others were asleep. She pointed me in that direction, but didn’t seem sure if they were really buried there.”

  “I remembered a little ruined chapel from a long time ago,” Sebastian added, “and we thought it might be the place Eliza meant … so …”

  “So you ended up forgetting the time, wandering off and being caught out in a blizzard?”

  The boys nodded.

  “Well, at least you’re safe,” the old man murmured. “You had me worried sick when I heard the news.”

  “We haven’t told Mum about it yet … not all of it.” Fiona looked at Mr MacFarlane. “What do you think?” she asked him then. “About Eliza and her little brother?”