graveyard outside your bedroom window?’
‘I grew up in sight of those graves, mate. Played among them enough times, fetching back footballs that disappeared over the fence. There was never really anything to be scared of
there.’
‘Your Hulk underpants would tell a different story.’
‘But the House,’ he continued, ignoring my jibe, ‘that place reeks of bad news. It’s got more horror stories than Stephen King.’
He didn’t need to further explain what he meant. In our brief lifetimes a number of tragedies had taken place in or near the old red building. There’d been a suicide in the
surrounding woods – a bank manager who’d been a bit overzealous with other people’s money. And when we were both in primary school, a couple of senior lads had broken into the
House one Halloween as a dare. One had apparently fallen from the main staircase and died, while the other now resided in a mental hospital. How much of this was true was hard to say –
stories like that get added to over time – but even if they were just spooky folktales, they’d taken on mythical proportions throughout the school.
‘Do you believe any of those stories?’ I asked.
‘Dunno,’ Dougie bravely replied. ‘But if
anywhere
is haunted, then it has to be the House.’
‘Oi oi! Humpty Dumpty!’
We both turned, looking back down the road to where Vinnie Savage and his mates were following us, or more specifically, following Dougie. Vinnie Savage: he was Lucy Carpenter’s boyfriend,
or had been. I found myself wondering whether he ever got wind of the kiss I’d stolen from her. Either way, it didn’t presently matter. That kiss was unconnected to this encounter. This
was just Vinnie’s regular name-calling, and not for the first time Dougie was the target. That was one thing I didn’t miss: the bullying.
It had been Vinnie who had shouted, his gang joining in, shouting other obscenities Dougie’s way. With dismay, my friend realised his hood had fallen down when he’d tumbled into the
bushes. Grabbing the fur-trimmed flap of green khaki, he tugged it back over his head, covering his bare scalp once more. I sensed Dougie pick up his pace, trying to put some distance between
himself and the mob of morons.
‘Don’t cover it up, baldy!’ shouted another of Vinnie’s mates.
‘Is he running away?’ called a third. ‘Oi, Egghead! Come back!’
My heart ached for Dougie as he now began to jog, the pursuing pack of idiots laughing and jeering as they gave chase.
‘I never tire of this,’ I grumbled as my friend decided to run the remaining distance to school.
‘You’re the lucky one,’ he replied breathlessly. ‘You’re spared it now.’
He was only half right. As Dougie ran through the school gates, I was dragged along by his side, that familiar feeling of being the prey returning, hunted by a bunch of relentless twits. Just as
with Bloody Mary, as his heart rate quickened, his fear crossed over to me. The connection was there, our feelings entwined inextricably. If scumbags like this had us both scared, though, then what
on earth were we going to be like in the House?
TWELVE
Father and Son
‘Good afternoon, boys,’ called Rev. Singer with a wave of a gloved hand. ‘I hope you’ve brought enough chips for everyone?’
The garden behind St Mary’s church looked like there’d been an explosion in a confetti factory. Tiny petals of every colour of the rainbow littered the grass, remnants from the
weekend wedding that Rev. Singer had officiated over. He was a busy man. Until we’d interrupted him, he’d been busy raking the nuisance litter into a giant pile. In addition to being
the parish vicar, Rev. Singer was also effectively the caretaker of the church, as well as gardener. As Dougie and I followed Stu across the lawn toward his father, the vicar bit a finger of his
gardening glove and gave it a tug, shaking it loose. He whipped the other free and shoved them in the loop of belt on his
‘I grew up in sight of those graves, mate. Played among them enough times, fetching back footballs that disappeared over the fence. There was never really anything to be scared of
there.’
‘Your Hulk underpants would tell a different story.’
‘But the House,’ he continued, ignoring my jibe, ‘that place reeks of bad news. It’s got more horror stories than Stephen King.’
He didn’t need to further explain what he meant. In our brief lifetimes a number of tragedies had taken place in or near the old red building. There’d been a suicide in the
surrounding woods – a bank manager who’d been a bit overzealous with other people’s money. And when we were both in primary school, a couple of senior lads had broken into the
House one Halloween as a dare. One had apparently fallen from the main staircase and died, while the other now resided in a mental hospital. How much of this was true was hard to say –
stories like that get added to over time – but even if they were just spooky folktales, they’d taken on mythical proportions throughout the school.
‘Do you believe any of those stories?’ I asked.
‘Dunno,’ Dougie bravely replied. ‘But if
anywhere
is haunted, then it has to be the House.’
‘Oi oi! Humpty Dumpty!’
We both turned, looking back down the road to where Vinnie Savage and his mates were following us, or more specifically, following Dougie. Vinnie Savage: he was Lucy Carpenter’s boyfriend,
or had been. I found myself wondering whether he ever got wind of the kiss I’d stolen from her. Either way, it didn’t presently matter. That kiss was unconnected to this encounter. This
was just Vinnie’s regular name-calling, and not for the first time Dougie was the target. That was one thing I didn’t miss: the bullying.
It had been Vinnie who had shouted, his gang joining in, shouting other obscenities Dougie’s way. With dismay, my friend realised his hood had fallen down when he’d tumbled into the
bushes. Grabbing the fur-trimmed flap of green khaki, he tugged it back over his head, covering his bare scalp once more. I sensed Dougie pick up his pace, trying to put some distance between
himself and the mob of morons.
‘Don’t cover it up, baldy!’ shouted another of Vinnie’s mates.
‘Is he running away?’ called a third. ‘Oi, Egghead! Come back!’
My heart ached for Dougie as he now began to jog, the pursuing pack of idiots laughing and jeering as they gave chase.
‘I never tire of this,’ I grumbled as my friend decided to run the remaining distance to school.
‘You’re the lucky one,’ he replied breathlessly. ‘You’re spared it now.’
He was only half right. As Dougie ran through the school gates, I was dragged along by his side, that familiar feeling of being the prey returning, hunted by a bunch of relentless twits. Just as
with Bloody Mary, as his heart rate quickened, his fear crossed over to me. The connection was there, our feelings entwined inextricably. If scumbags like this had us both scared, though, then what
on earth were we going to be like in the House?
TWELVE
Father and Son
‘Good afternoon, boys,’ called Rev. Singer with a wave of a gloved hand. ‘I hope you’ve brought enough chips for everyone?’
The garden behind St Mary’s church looked like there’d been an explosion in a confetti factory. Tiny petals of every colour of the rainbow littered the grass, remnants from the
weekend wedding that Rev. Singer had officiated over. He was a busy man. Until we’d interrupted him, he’d been busy raking the nuisance litter into a giant pile. In addition to being
the parish vicar, Rev. Singer was also effectively the caretaker of the church, as well as gardener. As Dougie and I followed Stu across the lawn toward his father, the vicar bit a finger of his
gardening glove and gave it a tug, shaking it loose. He whipped the other free and shoved them in the loop of belt on his
Similar Books
