before the doctor gets here. Will you give me a hand?’
Ash didn’t want to. He was still trembling. He wanted to retreat into his room, like Dad, and play computer games and loud music until his brain fried.
But that would have to wait.
They crept passed the door to Dad’s room and went downstairs. They fetched the vacuum cleaner, a dustpan and brush, a couple of cloths from the cupboard under the stairs. Then they went into the living room.
Ash’s gaze went straight to the black feather. But the feather was gone. He looked around for it on the floor. Nothing.
Where the hell was it?
He searched again. No sign of it.
No one had been in here except Dad. Dad, who’d been staring at the feather, terror written on his face.
Ash’s thoughts raced. Another black feather in the house was more than just a coincidence. It was a message, a warning with some sort of supernatural force. And Dad had understood that too, felt its power. But how had the second feather got into the house? Someone must have brought it and left it in the room with Dad.
Someone else had been here. Who?
His mind was spinning. Dad must know, must have seen someone, but he couldn’t ask him, not right now.
Who’d been here? Who would do this?
None of it made sense.
‘Come on, Ash,’ said Mum. ‘Snap out of it. I thought you were supposed to be helping.’
‘Yeah,’ said Ash. ‘I am going to help. Sorry.’
He picked up the vase and mopped up the spilled water soaking the carpet. Then he looked up.
There was blood on the window, a smeary handprint where Dad must have pressed against it after he’d punched the mirror. Ash wiped a cloth over it, but the blood wouldn’t come off. He stared at it, puzzled, still too much in a daze about Dad and the black feather to think straight.
Then it hit him.
The bloody print was on the outside of the window.
Someone had stood out there, watching Dad. Someone with blood on his hands.
He looked past the handprint, across the lawn to the line of trees beyond. Something stared sightlessly back at him. A sheep skull, wedged in the fork of a branch.
Mark, he thought. The black feather, the bloody handprint, the skull. All this was Mark’s work. Had to be.
Mum was picking up pieces of the broken mirror. ‘I need another cloth,’ said Ash. ‘Back in a minute.’ He stumbled past her with the wet cloth still in his hand. Out into the hallway, out through the front door into sunlight. He stood outside the living-room window, wiped away the blood on the glass while Mum still crouched indoors, with her back to him. Then he yanked the skull from the tree and shoved it deep under the hedge.
He closed his eyes, raised his face to the sun. Let sunlight sear through his eyelids, blinding white blankness.
After a few seconds, he opened his eyes. Blinked away the sun glare.
Mark had been here, freaking out Dad, playing mind games.
Why? A warning, perhaps. A threat. Mark had told him not to run in the Stag Chase and Ash had refused to pull out. Now this.
‘Go to hell, Mark Cullen,’ said Ash, under his breath. ‘Leave my family alone and go to hell.’
THIRTEEN
The doctor came, spent five minutes with Dad, five with Mum, left a small brown bottle of pills on the kitchen table. ‘Call me if things don’t improve,’ he said. Cheery voice, a smile and wave, then his car grinding down the gravel drive and away.
Ash stayed in his room all afternoon, all evening. Mum knocked but he didn’t respond and she didn’t come in. ‘I’ve left some supper for you on the landing,’ she said.
He waited until he heard her go downstairs before he opened the door. A plate piled with sandwiches. He wanted to leave them there, some sort of protest against … what? Dad. Mum. Everything. But hunger got the better of him.
While he was eating, he tried to remember exactly what Mark had said to him in the woods that night. About the Stag Chase, Bone Jack, the old ways.
He went online and searched for ‘Bone
Ash didn’t want to. He was still trembling. He wanted to retreat into his room, like Dad, and play computer games and loud music until his brain fried.
But that would have to wait.
They crept passed the door to Dad’s room and went downstairs. They fetched the vacuum cleaner, a dustpan and brush, a couple of cloths from the cupboard under the stairs. Then they went into the living room.
Ash’s gaze went straight to the black feather. But the feather was gone. He looked around for it on the floor. Nothing.
Where the hell was it?
He searched again. No sign of it.
No one had been in here except Dad. Dad, who’d been staring at the feather, terror written on his face.
Ash’s thoughts raced. Another black feather in the house was more than just a coincidence. It was a message, a warning with some sort of supernatural force. And Dad had understood that too, felt its power. But how had the second feather got into the house? Someone must have brought it and left it in the room with Dad.
Someone else had been here. Who?
His mind was spinning. Dad must know, must have seen someone, but he couldn’t ask him, not right now.
Who’d been here? Who would do this?
None of it made sense.
‘Come on, Ash,’ said Mum. ‘Snap out of it. I thought you were supposed to be helping.’
‘Yeah,’ said Ash. ‘I am going to help. Sorry.’
He picked up the vase and mopped up the spilled water soaking the carpet. Then he looked up.
There was blood on the window, a smeary handprint where Dad must have pressed against it after he’d punched the mirror. Ash wiped a cloth over it, but the blood wouldn’t come off. He stared at it, puzzled, still too much in a daze about Dad and the black feather to think straight.
Then it hit him.
The bloody print was on the outside of the window.
Someone had stood out there, watching Dad. Someone with blood on his hands.
He looked past the handprint, across the lawn to the line of trees beyond. Something stared sightlessly back at him. A sheep skull, wedged in the fork of a branch.
Mark, he thought. The black feather, the bloody handprint, the skull. All this was Mark’s work. Had to be.
Mum was picking up pieces of the broken mirror. ‘I need another cloth,’ said Ash. ‘Back in a minute.’ He stumbled past her with the wet cloth still in his hand. Out into the hallway, out through the front door into sunlight. He stood outside the living-room window, wiped away the blood on the glass while Mum still crouched indoors, with her back to him. Then he yanked the skull from the tree and shoved it deep under the hedge.
He closed his eyes, raised his face to the sun. Let sunlight sear through his eyelids, blinding white blankness.
After a few seconds, he opened his eyes. Blinked away the sun glare.
Mark had been here, freaking out Dad, playing mind games.
Why? A warning, perhaps. A threat. Mark had told him not to run in the Stag Chase and Ash had refused to pull out. Now this.
‘Go to hell, Mark Cullen,’ said Ash, under his breath. ‘Leave my family alone and go to hell.’
THIRTEEN
The doctor came, spent five minutes with Dad, five with Mum, left a small brown bottle of pills on the kitchen table. ‘Call me if things don’t improve,’ he said. Cheery voice, a smile and wave, then his car grinding down the gravel drive and away.
Ash stayed in his room all afternoon, all evening. Mum knocked but he didn’t respond and she didn’t come in. ‘I’ve left some supper for you on the landing,’ she said.
He waited until he heard her go downstairs before he opened the door. A plate piled with sandwiches. He wanted to leave them there, some sort of protest against … what? Dad. Mum. Everything. But hunger got the better of him.
While he was eating, he tried to remember exactly what Mark had said to him in the woods that night. About the Stag Chase, Bone Jack, the old ways.
He went online and searched for ‘Bone
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