thought that we could be friends. Ask no questions, get no answers â thatâs what we both seemed to want from each other. But I couldnât help but wonder again what Nate might possibly have to hide; obviously he felt the same way about me as it hadnât stopped him from asking. There was no way we could be friends â I didnât need that kind of complication in my life. I convinced myself Iâd be happy to never see him again. He probably thought I was insane and I hated the fact that I cared. It was easier to pretend he didnât exist than entertain the thought of explaining myself and apologising to him.
Friday came around soon enough, and a new batch of murder mystery guests was due to arrive in the afternoon. The sun shone down on Dudley Hall all morning, and I sat outside beneath the old weeping willow tree on the side of the stream as I wrote
The Ghost of Dudley Hall
. I found it hard to concentrate on my story that morning; I was easily distracted by the sunlight bouncing off the water, the smell of the flowing brook and the reflections in the stream. I stared for what felt like hours at the weeping willowâs leaves as they swayed in the water, collecting the weeds and rotten petals that carried on the stream. I daydreamed about Ophelia from
Hamlet
, whoâd drowned herself in a river, and the Lady of Shalott who had died as she floated downstream. Whether I was staring at the stream and daydreaming, or writing down the words of a ghost story on a page, my mind kept bringing me back to thoughts of death.
The sun began to sink in the sky, it was getting colder and I knew that the guests would soon be arriving. I pressed my palm against the willowâs tree trunk to steady myself as I stood up, and felt deep grooves in the wood beneath my fingertips. I moved my hand and looked at the tree bark. There was a scar on the side of the tree; it had been covered by moss but was still partially visible. I picked off the moss to reveal deep etchings into the tree trunk. It was a five-pointed star â a pentagram â with five letters around it, one at each of the points: A, M, S, L and T. I stroked the carving thoughtfully, wondering what it meant and who had put it there.
The wind blew and a shiver gripped hold of me. It was time to go inside, get warm and prepare for the evening ahead. I heard the first of the guestsâ cars pull up into the gravel driveway as I came in through the kitchen door. I quickly rushed upstairs to my room to shower and change before anyone could catch me in my regular clothes. That weekendâs theme was the swinging sixties. Aunt Meredith had let me read through the premise of the party the night before. A sixties rock star, Graham McGroove, had invited a bunch of artists, models and musicians to spend the weekend at his country pad. But an aspiring model â once again to be played by me â is murdered on the first night of their stay. I had a black and white miniskirt and a black polo-neck vest to wear. I smiled as I looked at myself in the mirror â it was certainly an improvement on the scullery-maid costume.
I left my bedroom and made my way to the grand, winding staircase. Something stopped me suddenly, a noise coming from the floor above. It sounded like muffled crying. I was sure Aunt Meredith had told me that the attic floor hadnât yet been renovated, and that guests werenât allowed up there. But I could definitely hear someone â it sounded like a child. âToby?â I called out. There was no answer. I moved to the foot of the attic staircase and looked up towards the gloomy landing above me. My foot hovered over the bottom step. Part of me was desperate to investigate, to see where the crying was coming from. But I was running late for the beginning of the party, and I didnât have time. Turning away from the sound, I ran down the stairs towards the library.
My eyes fell on Toby as soon as I pushed the
Friday came around soon enough, and a new batch of murder mystery guests was due to arrive in the afternoon. The sun shone down on Dudley Hall all morning, and I sat outside beneath the old weeping willow tree on the side of the stream as I wrote
The Ghost of Dudley Hall
. I found it hard to concentrate on my story that morning; I was easily distracted by the sunlight bouncing off the water, the smell of the flowing brook and the reflections in the stream. I stared for what felt like hours at the weeping willowâs leaves as they swayed in the water, collecting the weeds and rotten petals that carried on the stream. I daydreamed about Ophelia from
Hamlet
, whoâd drowned herself in a river, and the Lady of Shalott who had died as she floated downstream. Whether I was staring at the stream and daydreaming, or writing down the words of a ghost story on a page, my mind kept bringing me back to thoughts of death.
The sun began to sink in the sky, it was getting colder and I knew that the guests would soon be arriving. I pressed my palm against the willowâs tree trunk to steady myself as I stood up, and felt deep grooves in the wood beneath my fingertips. I moved my hand and looked at the tree bark. There was a scar on the side of the tree; it had been covered by moss but was still partially visible. I picked off the moss to reveal deep etchings into the tree trunk. It was a five-pointed star â a pentagram â with five letters around it, one at each of the points: A, M, S, L and T. I stroked the carving thoughtfully, wondering what it meant and who had put it there.
The wind blew and a shiver gripped hold of me. It was time to go inside, get warm and prepare for the evening ahead. I heard the first of the guestsâ cars pull up into the gravel driveway as I came in through the kitchen door. I quickly rushed upstairs to my room to shower and change before anyone could catch me in my regular clothes. That weekendâs theme was the swinging sixties. Aunt Meredith had let me read through the premise of the party the night before. A sixties rock star, Graham McGroove, had invited a bunch of artists, models and musicians to spend the weekend at his country pad. But an aspiring model â once again to be played by me â is murdered on the first night of their stay. I had a black and white miniskirt and a black polo-neck vest to wear. I smiled as I looked at myself in the mirror â it was certainly an improvement on the scullery-maid costume.
I left my bedroom and made my way to the grand, winding staircase. Something stopped me suddenly, a noise coming from the floor above. It sounded like muffled crying. I was sure Aunt Meredith had told me that the attic floor hadnât yet been renovated, and that guests werenât allowed up there. But I could definitely hear someone â it sounded like a child. âToby?â I called out. There was no answer. I moved to the foot of the attic staircase and looked up towards the gloomy landing above me. My foot hovered over the bottom step. Part of me was desperate to investigate, to see where the crying was coming from. But I was running late for the beginning of the party, and I didnât have time. Turning away from the sound, I ran down the stairs towards the library.
My eyes fell on Toby as soon as I pushed the
Similar Books
