The Whispering House

THE

WHISPERING
HOUSE

REBECCA WADE

Dedication

FOR TORI

Contents

 

 

“W
OULD YOU LIKE ME
to read you a story, Angelina? Then sit up straight, like a good girl—don’t slouch. There . . . that’s better. Now I shall begin.

“There was once a little brother who took his sister by the hand and said, ‘Since our own dear mother’s death we have not had one happy hour; our stepmother beats us every day and, when we come near her, kicks us away with her foot. Come, let us wander forth into the wide world.’ So all day long they traveled over meadows, fields, and stony roads. By the evening they came into a large forest, and laid themselves down in a hollow tree, and went to sleep.

“When they awoke the next morning, the sun had already risen high in the heavens, and its beams made the tree so hot that the little boy said to his sister, ‘I am so very thirsty that if I knew where there was a brook, I would go and drink. Ah! I think I hear one running.’ And so saying, he got up and took his sister’s hand, and they went to look for the brook. The wicked stepmother, however, was a witch, and had witnessed the departure of the two children; so, sneaking after them secretly, as is the habit of witches, she had enchanted all the springs in the forest.

“I think I shall stop reading now, Angelina, for the sun is making my head ache. I wish the trees did not crowd so close. But if I shut my eyes, I cannot see them. That is better. I will sleep now. You may sleep too if you like.”

“Angelina? Are you awake? Please pay attention, for I cannot speak too loudly in case someone hears. Now listen. I have no idea why we have been brought to this wood, but I fear we have been left alone, like those poor children in the other story whose evil stepmother turned them out of their father’s house to wander until they lost their way and fell asleep beneath a great tree and were covered with leaves so that they were not found until the spring and they were both quite dead! Or perhaps I am wrong, and soon we shall see a little cottage made of delicious things to eat, but you know, we must not touch anything in case the wicked witch comes out and captures us, for that is what witches do. And we shall know her because she will be most dreadfully ugly—that is another thing about witches, they are always dreadfully ugly—but we must be very quiet, like little mice, and make no sound; then perhaps she will not notice us.”

“Angelina, listen to me. This is very serious. We must have fallen asleep again, and while we slept, someone has lit a fire. I can hear it crackling. I expect it was a poor woodcutter who saw us here and took pity on us. He will have made the fire to warm us so that we will not die of cold. But he has lit it altogether too near the trees, which is odd, because a woodcutter should know better than to do such a foolish thing. However, I daresay he will be along presently and see the danger. Then he will draw water from the well and put the fire out and take us to his humble cottage, where his wife will be kind to us and give us bread and milk for supper and put us to bed. Then she will run as fast as her legs can carry her to tell Mama that we are here, and Mama will be very angry with the people who brought us to this forest, and she will rescue us and take us home and hold us close and tell us that never, ever again will she let us out of her sight.

“But hush now. Do you hear a rustling noise? And I believe there is a shape moving in the trees. I cannot see it clearly, but I feel sure that someone is there. It must be the woodcutter, come to rescue us. Yes! I see him now, only it is not the woodcutter, for this person is wearing a long skirt, so perhaps it is the woodcutter’s wife. Yes, that must be it. See, she comes nearer, and she is holding a cup. What can be in it, do you suppose? Soon we shall know . . . she is close now. . . .

“Oh! Oh, Angelina! What is happening? The story is all wrong! It is not the woodcutter’s wife. . . . It is . . . it is the wicked witch, who has found us after all!”

Chapter One

Misguided Missile

I
T WAS THREE O'CLOCK
on a Thursday afternoon, and Hannah Price was sitting in the school library wishing there had been no such person as Napoleon Bonaparte. This wasn't because she had anything particularly against the French emperor himself—Hannah was a fair-minded girl—but she couldn't help thinking that it would have been nice if he hadn't chosen to lead quite such a busy, complicated life.

Besides, there were three things getting in the way of her trying to memorize exactly when Napoleon had done what and to whom. The first was that Emily Rhodes, sitting next to her, seemed to have lost something and was searching the table agitatedly; the second, that her friend Sam Fallon was busy perfecting his design for a paper fighter jet and shooting the results in her direction; and the third reason was that it was the last period in the afternoon. She was tired and wanted to go home.

“Must you?” she muttered as the latest model described a graceful arc before glancing off her left ear.

“Sorry,” said Sam, in a whisper that could be heard all over the library. “It shouldn't have done that.” He picked up the plane and examined it critically, tweaking one of the tail fins before sending it off on a second trial. This time it flew in a more or less straight line past her nose and came to rest behind a radiator. He got up to retrieve it just as the bell rang for the end of school.

“Has either of you seen my notes on the death of Napoleon?” demanded Emily, now that talking was officially allowed.

“Mmm . . . ? Don't think so.” Sam made a small adjustment to the fuselage.

Hannah shook her head. “What do they look like?”

“Just a page of typed notes. It must be here somewhere. I had it five minutes ago.” Emily sifted once more through the neat pile of notebooks in front of her, looking bewildered. “I just don't understand it. I never lose things!”

“Wait a moment. I may have picked it up by mistake.” Hannah began searching her own slightly disordered notes. “No. Sorry, it's not here. Why d'you need it, anyway? Napoleon died in exile, didn't he? We're never going to get asked a question on that.”

“Of course not.” Emily looked superior. “I was just reading around the subject. I downloaded that page from the internet because it was so interesting.”

“Oh?” Hannah began packing away her books, hoping Emily wasn't going to delay her going home by explaining exactly why it was so interesting.

“Fascinating, in fact.”

“Okay.” Hannah sighed, since Emily was clearly about to tell her anyway. “How
did
Napoleon die?”

“Well, he was in exile, of course, like you said, in a small room in a house on the island of Saint Helena, and he was convinced there was a plot to poison him, you see, but nobody was ever accused at the time. Then, years later, it turned out that a lock of his hair had been kept, and by that time it was possible to analyze it, and it was found to contain traces of arsenic. Except that now they don't think it was the cause of his death, but it could have hastened it by—” She broke off as the jet fighter hurtled toward her from the other end of the library, swiftly followed by its proudly cheering inventor.

Emily glared at it, then at him. “There's no point in continuing this now,” she said to Hannah. “I'll tell you later.” With a small toss of her gleaming blond head, she strode off.

“What's the matter with her?” inquired Sam, bending to pick up the aircraft and tossing it onto the table while Hannah hurriedly tried to finish packing her own things before they got mixed up with his.

“I think it's just knowing that you two share the same planet upsets her sometimes.” She shook her head sadly.

“What was she going on about, anyway?”

“Napoleon. Apparently, toward the end of his life, he thought someone was trying to poison him.”

“It's a pity nobody thought of that twenty years earlier. It'd have saved everyone a lot of trouble. Including us.”

“Then something else would have happened, and we'd have had a whole lot of different stuff to learn. You never know, it could have been worse.”

“Even more boring, you mean? Impossible! History's just a bunch of dead people making stupid mistakes. What's the point in learning about that?”

“So that people who are still alive can avoid making even more stupid mistakes?”

“Huh! You think it's worked?”

“Maybe not yet,” she admitted. “I suppose people are still hoping.”

If visitors had happened to walk into the library just then and glanced toward Hannah and Sam, they would have seen two perfectly ordinary fourteen-year-olds getting ready to go home from school. They might have noticed that the boy was thin, red haired, with a freckled face and restless, inquisitive eyes. Looking at the girl, they would have seen that she had dry, light-brown hair, a figure prone to puppy fat, and a plumpish face that, though quite pretty when she smiled, when she was anxious (which she frequently was when Sam was around) had the look of a nervous hamster. Rather an unlikely companion for a boy like that, the visitors might have thought. A bit dull, even.

But if those same visitors had happened to see the girl with a pencil in her hand and a sketchbook in front of her, they would have had a surprise. Because as soon as Hannah Price began to draw, she turned into a quite different person. Quick, confident, scarily accurate, she could draw people in a way that made you see things about them you hadn't noticed before.

Sometimes it got her into trouble. Like the time a year and a half ago when it had led to both her and Sam being drawn into a tense search for a tiny wooden statue that had gone missing from the cathedral. By the time it was discovered and returned, a surprising number of people had become involved, including several teachers, an old lady on the school visiting list, two bewildered policemen, and a bishop.

But that had been an exception. Mostly it was Sam who got into trouble, while Hannah did her best to avoid it. And not surprising, most people would say, seeing that Sam's father had, until eighteen months ago, made a dodgy living as a small-time housebreaker specializing in petty theft, whereas Hannah's was a highly respected lecturer in history at the city university. Much more surprising was that they should ever have become best friends in the first place. It was a puzzle.

But if it was a mystery to everyone else, it was one that neither Sam nor Hannah had ever bothered to analyze. They just knew it worked. Even if he did insist on pelting her with wastepaper while she was trying to concentrate on the Battle of Waterloo.

The weather was warm, the sky hazy as they strolled across the playground, out of the school gates, and into Tanners' Lane. From here it was only a short walk to the cathedral square, where they had to go off in different directions, and their pace slowed as they chatted. Then Hannah stopped suddenly and looked overhead.

“What's the matter?” he asked.

“Nothing.” She shook her head and started walking again, faster this time.

Sam quickened his stride to keep up. After a few minutes he glanced sideways at her. “Are you okay?”

“I suppose so.”

“Only I can't help noticing you've stopped talking to me.”

“What? Sorry. It's just exams coming up. That always makes me edgy.”

“Also, it's Friday tomorrow and you still haven't invited me to see your new house.”

“Was that a subtle hint that you want to come over?”

“Maybe.”

“Okay.” They had reached the end of the lane now. She smiled at him. “How about Saturday morning? I'll give you a guided tour.”

“Good. About time, too!”

She watched him go. But as soon as he was out of sight, the smile faded. Because it wasn't exams that were making her anxious just then. It was something else. Something she'd seen a moment ago, when she'd happened to look up.