The Haunting of Tabitha Grey (10 page)

There’s a tiny path leading to the left so I walk down it only to come to a dead end blocked by a curved granite bench, so I come back and wander around the newer part of the graveyard on
the other side of the church.

The stones here are grander, made out of blocks and spires of stone, some with crosses looming up high and others with angels standing in silent concrete prayer with their hands folded and their
stone wings immobile against the bright sky.

The sun is so bright now that I have to shield my eyes in order to look over at them.

It takes a moment for them to adjust to the light and then several things happen that I don’t properly register until seconds later because I’m too busy straining my eyes.

The organ music in the church stops.

The birds seem to have gone away.

The buzzing noise surges up for a moment like it’s in my ears and then it too just stops.

I steady myself on a stone next to me and then I become aware that two people are standing about twenty feet in front of me.

‘Oh it’s them,’ I say to myself.

Phew!

It’s all right. I’ve seen these two nice old ladies before. It takes me a moment to work out where, and then I remember.

Standing by the fireplace in Weston Manor.

Well, they must be local because here they are again, chatting away to one another and standing either side of a tall gravestone.

My feet make a crunch on some twigs and one of the women stops her conversation and looks over to where I’m standing.

‘Hi,’ I say. ‘Are you visiting the manor again? I saw you the other day in the hall. I think Dawn let you in early by mistake?’

The white-haired woman smiles in my direction in a vague sort of way, as if she’s not sure who I am, and then returns to her conversation.

‘Oh well,’ I mutter to myself. ‘Suppose I shouldn’t interrupt.’

I turn away to head out of the churchyard but before I do, something kind of nags and worries at my brain and I realise what it is. The two old ladies are not only wearing exactly the same dark
suits and patent heels that they were the other day, but they are standing in the same position, as if they were still stood either side of a fireplace rather than a tombstone.

My ears are ringing. I shake my head and walk out of the churchyard.

‘Must stop listening to music so loud,’ I say to myself.

As soon as I say ‘music’ I become aware that the organ tape has started up again and the birds are twittering away all around me.

I turn back towards the churchyard but the two old ladies must have already left.

As I re-enter the back grounds of the manor I see the flower lady from inside the church come out and get on her bicycle. She gives me a friendly wave as she passes by.

OK. So I’ve met three nice ladies. Nothing to worry about.

I turn back to the manor and realise that I’ve never explored the walled garden opposite the old church.

I trot down a flight of steps which end in two ornate stone urns overflowing with trailing orange and red flowers and I wander up and down the straight paths and study the old sundial in the
middle of the little garden.

It’s very peaceful in here.

I come across a dark little corner studded with tiny arched gravestones up against the brick wall and I stop.

This must be the pet cemetery that Dad told me about.

The inscriptions are so faded with weathering and age that I can’t make out many of the names, but one of the little stones seems easier to read so I stop and say the words out loud:

‘Here lies Tatters. Not that it matters.’

I smile.

So the Victorians did have a sense of humour then. Even Lady Thomas-Fulford must have had one, or else why would she allow one of her beloved dogs to be buried with this funny little rhyme on
his tombstone?

I wonder if ‘Tatters’ is a dog in one of the oil portraits that hangs on the dark staircase and I shudder again.

‘You’re better off out here, mate, I reckon,’ I say to Tatters before I head back off round to the front of the house.

Odd.

The entrance door is wide open and there’s no sign of life.

My heart starts to thud hard in my chest.

The door is always either firm shut or else a security guard like Sid stands by the open door, making sure that no unwanted visitors come in from the gardens and steal silver from the entrance
hall.

There’s no Sid to be seen.

Dawn must be covering for him, I decide. Perhaps he’s gone off to help Dad.

‘He– hello?’ I say in a wobbly voice quite unlike my own as I climb the steps, pass the shoe-scraper and the old umbrella stand, and enter the large entrance hall of Weston
Manor.

Dawn isn’t there. She must have gone home early.

Her desk isn’t there either. There’s a huge oak dresser in its place. Somebody from the council must be experimenting with the furniture.

And somebody’s lit the fire in the hall.

Weird. I’ve never seen it working before. Orange flames leap and crackle in the grate.

All I can hear is the ticking of the old grandfather clock at the far end of the hall.

The rest of the house is quiet. Dead quiet.

It doesn’t last long.

As I stand by the door wondering what on earth I should do about closing it, something bashes against my legs and runs straight past me into the hallway.

A small black dog.

‘Hello,’ I say, smiling.

The dog yaps and belts through the hallway and out of sight.

And then it starts.

Bells.

One after another after another.

The noise is coming from the basements below.

I wonder whether it’s some sort of fire alarm and whether I should go and get Mum. This seems like the safest thing to do so I’m heading along the downstairs corridor and past the
closed door of the big dining room when there’s an almighty shout from inside that room.

‘You!
Here!
’ shouts a male voice.

The bells intensify in volume until I’m forced to press my hands over my ears whilst with my leg I’m kicking at the door of our flat and yelling for Mum.

And then I see.

It’s not the door of our flat.

It’s a thin green door and this time when I push with my foot, the whole thing swings open and I can see it’s not our flat inside, either.

Our kitchen isn’t there any more. All I can see are more doors.

‘You.
Here!
’ comes the voice again. I think it’s coming from the dining room but I can’t be sure and I’m not going to stick my head in there.

I race back down the corridor with my arms pressed over my ears to block out the bell chorus and the sound of the man, and I run out, the heavy front door slamming behind me. I bolt into the
fresh air, down the drive and away from the manor as fast as I can possibly run.

I run until I reach the bus stop and then I throw myself down on to the orange plastic seat and try to catch my breath.

I sit with my back to the manor and I wait.

I must have fallen into a bit of a trance because I jolt awake to the sound of my name being called and there’s Dad in the car screeching to a halt outside the bus stop
and I leap up from my seat like I’ve been electrocuted. I’m in the car before you can say ‘weird afternoon’ and Dad’s giving me a big hug.

‘We were worried about you!’ he says. ‘Your Mum said you never came home after school. She’s been beside herself, she really has.’

A dark cloud passes over the sun and casts a shadow on to the front of the car. Dad indicates and turns into the manor’s drive.

‘What do you mean?’ I say. ‘I came home. The front door was wide open and there was nobody there at all. And Mum wasn’t in the flat either. The flat wasn’t even
there!’

Dad groans and rubs his arm across his eyes when I say this.

‘You’re talking rubbish,’ he says. ‘I’m wondering if you’ve got sunstroke or something.’

We walk up the steps to the manor and Dad greets the security guard standing in the open doorway and ushers me inside.

‘I’m just finishing up,’ says Dawn from the reception desk. She piles up some guidebooks and locks them in the cupboard behind her. ‘There are a couple of visitors about
to come up from the basements but that’s it for today.’

I stare at her without blinking.

‘You . . .’ I say, but I can’t find the words.

‘Are you all right, Tabitha?’ she says with a worried look at Dad.

Dad shepherds me past the reception desk.

‘I think she’s just under exam stress,’ he says.

Haha. That’s a joke. I haven’t even started my revision yet.

I let Dad guide me down the hall and towards our flat with its brown door and gold plate outside, and Mum tells me off, yells at me and then bursts into tears and flings her arms around me.

I eat dinner like a robot and even though Jake has texted me and asked me out and I do really, really want to see his nice normal face, it doesn’t seem important compared to the whirl
inside my head. So I go and lie on my bed and try to sort out the mass of thoughts that are spinning around in my brain but I can’t sleep, so I get up again and go back into the kitchen.

Dad is doing some accounts at the table. He’s got his black specs on and he looks so normal and Dad-like that I get the urge to cry.

I don’t cry much though. Crying is for babies. Ben used to cry a lot when he was little. I never did.

But I want to know why all these strange things are happening to me so I make a hot chocolate, all casual, and I wait until Dad looks up and gives me his twinkling smile, and then I say:
‘Dad, does anybody ever ring the bells here? Like for a fire alarm or anything.’

Dad stretches his arms behind his head and removes his glasses. He rubs at the furrow between his eyes like it’s hurting him and then he looks at me in a tired sort of way.

‘Tabs, you’ve got to stop all this right now,’ he says. ‘The manor is a perfectly nice, safe place to live and the sooner we all get on with things, the
better.’

‘But DO they, Dad?’ I persist. ‘Please – it’s important.’

Dad picks up his keys and his torch and passes me my slippers and a coat.

‘Come on,’ he says. ‘If you’re that interested, I’ll show you.’ Despite himself he’s getting excited again. Dad just can’t help loving his
job.

He checks that Mum is sleeping first.

‘She’s had one of her pills,’ he says. ‘She won’t wake up until tomorrow.’

I check in on Ben and then we head off outside into the dark corridors of Weston Manor.

I hold Dad’s arm as tight as I dare.

Dad leads me down a rickety flight of steps into the basements.

‘It’s a bit damp down here,’ he says. ‘Imagine what the poor servants had to put up with. No heating or electric lighting in those days.’

I shudder.

We walk halfway down a corridor with cold stones underfoot and then Dad stops.

He points his torch upwards towards the ceiling and my heart gives a little jolt.

There’s a line of old black bells hanging side by side. Each one is attached to a cord, which seems to disappear off into the ceiling.

‘They used to be attached to the bell pulls in all the rooms upstairs,’ says Dad. ‘But in the thirties the family installed a new electric system and they stopped using these
ones.’

I stare up at the bells.

‘So – so, these don’t work any more?’ I say.

Dad laughs and walks along to the back door. He pulls a piece of wire next to it and the largest bell clangs above me and makes me jump.

‘That’s the only one that’s still connected,’ he says. ‘Tradesman’s entrance. The others have had their wires to the rooms cut a long time ago.’

I try to recall what I heard this afternoon. There’s no way that all that noise could have come from one bell.

I lose my balance a bit and clutch at the wall.

‘Steady on,’ says Dad. His voice is concerned now. ‘I’m not sure you’re one hundred per cent recovered from your fall the other day. Let’s go back up
now.’

I want to ask him about the shouting that I heard this afternoon but one look at Dad’s stern face and I know that if I risk it he’ll get so concerned that I’ll probably find
myself whisked off to a mental hospital or something, so I keep it buttoned.

Sid, I reckon to myself as we go back upstairs to the flat. Sid said that there were things he could tell me.

I make a mental note to go and find him after school tomorrow and ask him some questions.

Then I go to bed and fall into a black sleep almost straight away.

I wake in a sudden cold sweat in the middle of the night. The bells are ringing again, fainter than they were earlier but still loud enough that I can hear at least six separate tones all going
at once.

I pull the duvet up over my head, stick in my earplugs and drift into a restless sleep.

M
um keeps me off school the next day.

‘You don’t look well,’ she says.

I’m too tired to protest.

Besides, I’ve got a plan.

I’m going to ring Gran. And I’m going to talk to Sid.

Dad goes off whistling, to get on with his job, and Mum insists that I’m tucked up on the sofa with a pillow and a soft pink blanket.

‘I’m popping to the shops,’ she says. ‘I won’t be long.’

I wait until she’s gone and Ben is busy playing with Lego on the floor. Then I grab the phone.

It rings three times and then Gran’s thin voice answers.

‘Hi Gran,’ I say. ‘It’s Tabs. I want to ask your advice.’

‘Tabs!’ says Gran. I can tell she’s pleased to hear from me. We can only call her when Dad isn’t around cos he thinks she’s a batty old witch. ‘What’s
it like living in the manor? Have you settled in?’

I lie back on the sofa with the phone tucked under my chin and I tell Gran everything that has happened. She won’t laugh at me, Gran. She takes these things seriously.

When I’ve finished she draws in her breath and then lets out a wavery sigh.

‘I tell you what I think, girl,’ she says. ‘I think . . .’

There’s a crackling on the line like somebody rustling a crisp packet.