Hollow Pike (20 page)

‘Hold that thought,’ Lis told him, reaching for the device.

The display read INCOMING CALL. NUMBER WITHELD. REJECT? ANSWER?

It was probably Sarah calling from the landline or something. ‘Hello?’

‘Hello, Lis.’ The voice sounded distant, but vaguely familiar.

‘Hello? Who is this?’

‘It’s Mrs Gillespie, dear. From the shop.’

Danny, seeing Lis’s confused expression, frowned. Lis wanted to be far away from him; she didn’t want him to hear this conversation.

‘How did you get my—’

‘Never you mind,’ Mrs Gillespie interrupted. Then she paused. There was a moment’s silence. ‘I know what you and your little friends have done . . .’

The Legend of Hollow Pike

Lis pounded on the door so hard it rattled in its frame. Even if she put the glass through, she wasn’t going to stop knocking. She must have looked ridiculous – a
fifteen-year-old girl in school uniform so eager to get into a charity shop. Why was the bloody door locked anyway?

Peering through the filthy window, Lis tried a different approach. ‘Mrs Gillespie, it’s me, Lis London!’ she called.

She pressed her ear to the grimy glass and listened closely. Sure enough, after a few seconds she heard unsteady stilettos totter towards the entrance. Red fingernails drew aside the net curtain
and Mrs Gillespie glanced out before unlocking the door. ‘That was quick,’ she said.

‘I came straight from school,’ Lis replied. She was reminded of how hideous the old woman was. This time she was wearing some sort of oriental robe with a turban perched on top of
her nasty wig. It must have been the height of glamour in the thirties, but now it looked like a Halloween costume. The aroma of gin and cigarettes drifting from her was equally repulsive.

‘You’d better come on in then. You can’t stand in the street all afternoon.’

Stepping aside, Mrs Gillespie let her into the dank shop. Lis hugged her arms to her body, not sure of what to do or say.

‘Don’t just stand there, girlie, come and sit down!’

In the front section of the shop was a sort of tea party setup: a dainty round table with three antique looking chairs. A stained, yellow lace tablecloth hung over the table.

‘This is where we take our afternoon tea. Would you like a cup, deary?’

Lis tentatively sat on one of the chairs. She couldn’t imagine who the ‘we’ referred to, as the shop was entirely empty.

‘No, thank you,’ she said quietly.

Mrs Gillespie poured herself some tea from a Charles and Di teapot and held the cup to her withered mouth. ‘Now, are you going to own up?’

‘I don’t know what you mean,’ Lis stared down at the tea set, unable to look at the strange woman.

‘I think you know exactly what I mean.’

Lis shook her head, sensing the onset of panic. Should she confess the whole sorry prank? The murder game? ‘I . . . I—’

‘You stole my book,’ Mrs Gillespie snapped.

What? Lis blinked hard to check she wasn’t imagining things. ‘What book?’

Mrs Gillespie slapped her thin, veined hand on the table. ‘You jolly well know which book –
An Occult History of Hollow Pike
!’

So this was nothing to do with the prank? Lis felt an overwhelming sense of relief. Her mouth formed a small circle. ‘Oh, I didn’t take it!’

‘Well, it was one of your rotten friends then.’

‘I . . . I don’t know. If they did take it, they didn’t tell me.’
Could they have stolen it?
Lis wondered. Then again, why would they want a book about witchcraft?
And they’d have mentioned it that morning when she brought the subject up, surely.

‘I want that book back. It’s not for sale.’

‘It was on the shelf, though,’ Lis pointed out. ‘What’s so special about it anyway?’ She felt much more relaxed now that she knew this was a) nothing to do with
Laura and b) nothing to do with her at all.

Mrs Gillespie watched her like a hawk, beady eyes glaring over her china teacup. ‘Don’t tell me you haven’t heard the stories. I saw you looking at the book.’

Lis remembered her dream for a second, but pushed it away, clinging to Kitty’s certainty that the killer was just your everyday, run-of-the-mill murderer with no supernatural connections.
‘I’ve heard
fairy tales
.’

Mrs Gillespie’s thin red lips parted to reveal her yellow teeth. ‘Ha! How old are you?’

‘Nearly sixteen.’

‘So naturally you know everything there is to know? It’s interesting that the young are gifted with such certainty. I find myself becoming a more
un
certain woman, the older I
get!’ She cackled at her own joke.

Lis frowned. This was a waste of time. ‘I don’t get it.’

‘Of course you don’t! How could you?’ Mrs Gillespie was suddenly more serious. ‘There’s more than you could ever know in the woods, Lis. A town full of
ghosts.’

‘What? Are you saying Hollow Pike is haunted?’

Mrs Gillespie seemed to consider this. ‘In a way, haunted by the past. Its own past. Bad things happened here. Very bad things. People were hunted down, tortured and killed: drowned or
burned. Hollow Pike is a mass grave.’

Lis could tell that she wasn’t joking. This, to her at least, was real. ‘Who was killed?’

‘The witches. A long time ago, people would come to Hollow Pike with their sick, with the infirm or barren. The families that lived in the forests and hills would help with remedies and
potions. People said they were powerful healers. But then a couple of children vanished. People fell ill and cattle died. Coincidences. Bad luck. But everybody wanted someone to blame.’

‘So what happened?’ Lis asked curiously, wondering if the story could be true.

‘They were burned. In the early seventeenth century the witch-finders rode into town, calling themselves the Righteous Protectors. They came from the church. Not just God-fearing folk, but
fanatics. It was like they had a fever of hate. They thought witches would bring about a return to the dark times, the fall of God. The women were taken from their homes and the Protectors tortured
them for hours until they confessed. Some of them were drowned in the river, some were burned in the village.’

‘That’s awful.’ Lis could almost hear their screams.

‘Yes, it is. All those people who died – their blood is at the roots of the trees. Some people say the town is cursed but, of course, you said it yourself: curses are the stuff of
fairy tales.’

Lis did think that, didn’t she? But, ridiculous as it sounded, the moment her mum had driven into Pike Copse, Lis
had
sensed something strange. The air had felt heavier, the sky had
darkened, the wood had seemed frighteningly
alive
, and the magpie had stared at her as if it knew who she was. Admitting these things seemed a step too far, though. Things like that belonged
to books and films, not the humdrum life of Lis London. ‘There’s no such thing as magic or curses.’ She stood to leave, swinging her bag onto her shoulder. ‘Look, when I see
them I’ll ask my friends about the book. If they’ve got it, we’ll bring it back.’

Someone had taken the book. Interesting. Laura’s had been a
ritual-style
killing, or so the papers said. Maybe the killer had needed the book for tips or something.

Mrs Gillespie rose and slid over to Lis, brushing a stray curl out of her eyes. ‘Lis, you look tired. How are you sleeping?’

Lis flinched and moved to the door. ‘I’m sleeping fine,’ she said reflexively. It was becoming her mantra. She looked into Mrs Gillespie’s face, trying to find the kind
old lady behind the make-up.

‘Really? Some people are privy to special dreams, you know.’

‘Yeah, well not me.’

‘Are you sure?’

‘I’m nothing special, seriously – ask anyone.’

Mrs Gillespie smiled. Lis thought it was probably her version of a sweet smile; it was unsettling to say the least.

‘Before you leave, I’d love for you to meet the children.’

‘OK,’ Lis said reluctantly, but wanting to be polite, ‘although I’d better be getting home soon.’

‘It’ll only take a minute, dear. We live right above the shop.’

Lis followed Mrs Gillespie through a narrow side door and up some perilously steep stairs.

‘The children will be so pleased to meet you, Lis.’

The smell hit Lis the second Mrs Gillespie opened the creaking door to her flat. Her hand flew to her mouth as she fought the urge to gag; she’d never smelled anything like it.

Stepping into the dingy room, the cause of the odour was immediately apparent: budgies. Dozens of the brightly coloured birds covered every spare inch of the grimy flat. At first Lis was
mesmerised by the spectrum of colour: blues, greens, vivid canary yellows, deep magentas. It was beautiful. Lis counted twenty birds lined up along the curtain rail. More were in the sink, pecking
at the tap for drops of water. But bird seed was spilling from every surface. And, looking down, Lis saw her feet sinking into a faeces-encrusted carpet. Her stomach reflexively kicked, vomit
spilling into her mouth.

‘Babies! Look who it is! It’s that nice little girl, Lis, I was telling you about.’ Mrs Gillespie had the broadest grin on her face as an incredible green specimen landed on
top of her wig.

The room was filled with chirps and whistles. So many birds chirruping together sounded like screaming. But then, one by one, the little creatures ceased their song and a thick silence fell.
They regarded Lis with fierce curiosity. One brave individual fluttered over to her to get a better look. Lis backed towards the door as another attempted to land on her shoulder. She didn’t
understand – why had the birds stopped singing? Had she upset them?

She reached the exit, almost falling backwards down the long wooden stairs.

‘Now isn’t that interesting?’ Mrs Gillespie said with a smile. ‘You passed the test.’

‘What?’ Lis gasped. ‘What test?’

‘“Nothing special”, you said, but there’s more to you than meets the eye, isn’t there?’

‘I don’t know what you mean!’ Lis replied, desperate to leave.

‘You will – soon enough.’

The birds started singing again and Lis’s vision swam. She needed to get away from the noise and the smell. ‘I’m sorry! I have to leave,’ she murmured. ‘Thanks for
everything.’

Taking the stairs two at a time, she reached the shop and then the cool, fresh street in seconds. She drew clean, sweet air deep into her lungs, expelling the stench of the squalid flat.

The old woman was mad – worse than mad. Kitty was right, she shouldn’t listen to a word Mrs Gillespie said. Lis ran down the cobbled street, putting the hideous woman and her
mysterious words as far behind her as she could.

The Watcher

That evening, Lis found herself alone in the lounge. Shattered parents, Sarah and Max had retired to bed early, leaving Lis alone in front of the widescreen TV. She aimlessly
channel-hopped, trying to avoid news coverage of the ongoing investigation into Laura’s murder. According to today’s bulletin, the internet was to blame.

Lis had soaked in the bathtub for over an hour, but she was sure the odour of Mrs Gillespie’s flat still lingered on her skin. She felt dirty, and it wasn’t just the flat. Facts and
fiction were starting to blur. Fact: Laura was dead; someone had nicked a book from Mrs Gillespie; Lis had had a few bad dreams. Fiction: there were once witches in Hollow Pike; Laura’s
murder was connected to the witchcraft; Lis’s dreams were a message from the great beyond. She needed to ditch the fiction, it was threatening to drive her as mad as Mrs Gillespie.

Lis swung her legs off the leather sofa and wandered to the sliding doors that led onto the front balcony. The chill night air was biting, but she embraced it, hoping it would help clear her
head. Frustration crackled through her body.

When did everything get so confusing? Just a few short years ago, Lis’s life had been nothing more than ballet lessons and prize guinea pigs at the Bangor fair. Hollow Pike was supposed to
be her fresh start, and although she had met some of the coolest people in town, she’d never felt this sort of fear before. Every time she closed her eyes she saw that silver hand on the tree
in the copse.

Everything that had happened in Bangor, the daily feeling of dread she’d experienced on her way to school, it all suddenly seemed lightweight and inconsequential. It was just regular high
school bullying: teasing, name-calling, people spitting at her. She almost longed to return. Sure, she hated everyone at school, but at least there she could pretend that none of this had happened.
No one in Wales had been murdered.

A flicker of movement far below on the street drew her attention. A figure ducked down the gravelled alleyway on the opposite side of the road. It was a private, narrow lane that led to the old
cottage where the neighbours lived.

The silhouette seemed to pause, looking up at the balcony. Lis waved jovially, guessing it was just Mr Carruthers, the old man from the cottage, putting the recycling out or something. But the
shape didn’t wave back. Instead it lingered in the shadows away from the street lights, motionless, watching.

Lis leaned over the rail, squinting to get a better look. The observer was so shrouded in darkness, it was impossible to even determine whether it was a man or a woman. Whoever it was stood
mannequin-still, head slightly tipped to one side, as if they were sizing her up. Watching her. Watching her like the figure in the copse.

Something brushed against her skin and she shrieked, turning to find that Sasha had squeezed out through the gap she’d left in the door.

‘Jesus!’ she yelped, grabbing the dog’s collar with one hand. ‘You scared me to death!’

She turned back to the night. The crooked lane was empty now. The watcher was gone.

Before retreating to bed, Lis checked that every window and door in the house was securely locked.