Hunted (5 page)

Neither the dog nor the boy moved. They were both staring at Callum. He took a shaking breath. No ghost had ever looked directly at him before. Callum had thought he was invisible to them, just as ghosts were invisible to most people. But these two—whatever they were—seemed to be able to see him.

“He went into the graveyard!”

Baz's voice broke the spell, jerking Callum back to himself. He glanced over his shoulder, but the church's low, solid bulk hid the path he had taken, so he couldn't tell how close his pursuers were.

Callum's mind raced. He had only two options—to try to go forwards, past the strange boy and his hellhound, or to fall back into the hands of Ed and his gang. He hesitated, his eyes flicking back to the dark pair. Slowly, the boy's bloodless mouth gave a twisted smile, as if mocking Callum's dilemma. The dog's lip curled upwards too, revealing a gleaming set of fangs.

Callum bolted. Turning on his heel, he tore back the way he had come, unable to bear the sight of the ghost-boy and his demon dog a moment longer. But before he had taken more than half a dozen steps, Ed and his gang came hurtling around the corner of the church, blocking his way.

Callum tried to gasp out a warning. “Don't go on—”

“Don't worry,” Ed snarled. “We're not going anywhere. And neither are you.”

As Ed stepped towards him, Callum saw the telltale gleam of a blade in the bully's right hand.

Then, behind Callum, the pale boy spoke a single, quiet word.

“Doom.”

And the dog at his side lifted up its head and howled.

It was a noise beyond belief, like the shriek of steel on steel, thunderous and piercing—a sound so hideous that for one terrible second Ed literally cowered, riveted to the spot with his hands clapped over his ears. Then, as the howl slowly died away, he turned tail and fled. His gang followed him.

For a moment, Callum stood dumbstruck. Then he ran too.

Callum didn't have any of the control he'd had last night. He didn't think logically about whether or not he should run from wild animals. He ran in blind terror. Out of the churchyard, down the lane, and onto the road home. With each jarring step, Callum imagined his ankles gripped from behind in those gleaming white fangs. Would the beast's breath feel hot against the back of his neck, or cold, like the icy wind that drifted around it? Could those bright, razor-sharp fangs tear human flesh, or do they sink into your heart and freeze you to death without even drawing blood? Callum drew another ragged breath and drove himself faster.

He tripped and fell, tearing open both knees and both palms, but he scrambled to his feet again and ran on, skidding in the fallen leaves that gathered in piles along the road. He never looked behind him, expecting any second to feel the black monster leap onto his back.

The lit window of the lonely cottage beckoned, and Callum sprinted towards it. Hurdling the low garden wall, he caught his anorak on one of Gran's rose bushes, and had to rip it free. With a final effort, he threw himself inside and slammed the door behind him.

He closed his eyes and leaned against the door, panting and gasping as he slid to the floor.

“What in the world?!”

Callum opened his eyes as Gran raced out of the kitchen. In his mind's eye, he saw what she saw—her teenage grandson collapsed on the doorstep, covered with mud and dead leaves, his knees and hands bloody, his hair probably standing on end. It was the second night in a row he'd come bursting into the cottage with his teeth chattering.

“What happened?” Gran demanded.

“I got chased by that dog,” Callum gasped, not stopping to think about what he should say.

“What, again? Was it one of Warren's? A farmer ought to be able to keep his dogs under control—”

“No, Gran,” Callum interrupted, still panting. “It wasn't a farm dog. Warren's got border collies. This one was completely black, no white anywhere, and it was—”

He stopped himself from blurting out,
It was as big as a horse
. He didn't want to sound like an idiot. Or a baby.

“It was much bigger than a sheepdog.” A horrible thought struck him. “Gran, Cadbury's not outside, is he?”

“He was asleep in your laundry basket last time I looked.” Gran strode to the front window and pressed her face to the leaded glass. “Where did you see it?”

“The cat?” Callum asked in confusion.

“The
dog
, of course,” Gran said sharply. “Where did it come from? How far did it chase you?”

“From the church,” Callum replied, although actually, now his mind wasn't paralyzed with terror, he realized that he wasn't absolutely sure it
had
chased him. He had been too terrified to look back. Surely a creature that size could have caught him easily, if it had tried. And if it hadn't chased him, was that because it was busy with Ed and his mates? What was going on in the churchyard
now
?

“A big dog? Size of a Shetland pony? Completely black, from nose to tail?”

“Yeah, except for its teeth!” Callum peeled leaves away from his shins and glanced up at Gran suspiciously. Her Sherlock Holmes-type questions were out of character. He had expected her to dismiss the whole thing as fear of the dark and then start fussing over his skinned knees, but she was still staring keenly out the window. Her next question was even more unexpected.

“Was there a boy with it?”

Callum's breath caught in his throat. How could Gran possibly know about the boy? When he didn't reply, Gran spun around and repeated the question more forcefully.

“Did you see its owner too?”

“Why does it matter?” Callum demanded. “I was chased by a dog, not a person!”

“It's the owner who's responsible,” Gran answered.

“But what makes you think the owner is a boy?”

Something wasn't right. Callum could tell that Gran was holding back. Did she know something about what was going on? That morning she'd seemed overly worried about him walking home in the dark, now she was asking these unsettlingly precise questions. It was like she was fishing for information but not wanting to give anything away herself.

“Have you seen it?” he pressed. “This black dog. Do you know who owns it?”

“No, Callum, I haven't seen it.”

Gran stared into his eyes for a long moment. Callum met her gaze steadily. He wanted to tell her that there
had
been a boy with the dog, but why should he, if she wasn't being open with him? Finally, Gran sighed. “Well, I'll have a word with Warren tomorrow. Maybe he's got a new dog. Why don't you go and get yourself cleaned up. Fish pie tonight.”

That was that. Gran crossed the room and went back out to the kitchen. It was about as close to a brush-off as she was capable of. She hadn't even bothered to complain about the mud he'd tracked across the sitting room.

Frustrated, frightened, and rattled, Callum tidied up the mess and unpacked his rucksack. He and his grandmother didn't talk much over supper, but she didn't seem angry. Callum glanced up from beneath his tangled hair, still wet after his bath. Gran was staring at the fire as she ate, her look distant.

Callum spread his homework over the table while Gran washed up. She didn't turn on the radio like she usually did. Callum found himself wondering if she was avoiding another ugly news report. Whatever the reason, Gran's strange behavior gave him the feeling that something was definitely wrong.

That night, he lay awake for what seemed like hours again. The rowan tree scratched at the window and the frame rattled as usual. Callum strained his ears, listening for howling. He was going to be a mess by the end of the week if he couldn't get more sleep. And then there was Ed to face again tomorrow, assuming he hadn't been eaten alive. Ed, who'd pulled a knife on him. Callum took a long, deep breath. It was bad enough he had ghosts trying to kill him, without his classmates joining in …

“I wish I knew what was going on, Cad,” murmured Callum. Cadbury was unresponsive, a sleeping heap of fur in his favorite spot at Callum's feet. The cat gave a little sigh when he heard Callum's voice, but didn't raise his head.

Callum stared up at the low ceiling. He could hear Gran still pottering about downstairs. Was she getting the table out again? Maybe she was setting up her easel. Whatever she was doing, the sound of her dragging furniture around wasn't helping him get to sleep.

“Okay,” he said finally. “A hot drink, that's what I need.”

His mum always used to make him hot milk when he couldn't sleep. If he got it quietly himself, maybe Gran wouldn't make a fuss.

Callum slipped out of bed. God, it was
freezing.
He reached for a sweater and shrugged it on over his pajamas before heading to the door. He didn't bother to switch on the light—the stairs were dimly illuminated by the light coming up from the sitting room. He made his way slowly down the small spiral staircase, hugging the wall where the steps were widest, feeling the way with his bare feet on the uneven treads.

As he turned the corner at the bottom of the spiral, Callum opened his mouth to speak, but stopped. Gran was standing on a chair by the window, her back to Callum, busy with something on the highest of the bookshelves—the one that ran above the window and the door. You couldn't even see that shelf unless you stood practically beneath it, because one of the ancient timber beams holding up the ceiling ran in front of it. What was she doing?

Quietly, Callum took another step down the stairs.

As he watched, Gran pulled down several books, stacking them carefully on the edge of one of the lower shelves. Callum stared, intrigued. What were the books? Gardening or painting manuals by the look of it; flowers and jugs and landscapes on the covers. Callum didn't pay much attention to the books Gran kept on the inaccessible shelves—they were mostly ones that even
she
never bothered to read. Maybe she'd decided to get rid of them. But it seemed a very strange time of day for a clear-out.

Gran stopped her work suddenly. She stood with her hands on her hips, scanning the shelf in front of her. After a moment she reached back—far back—and pulled out another book. Callum realized that the shelf was deeper than he had first thought. The book Gran had pulled out had been behind the books at the front of the shelf.

Gran blew a layer of dust off the top edge of the book and examined the spine. It was bound in black leather and stitched with silver; the fine tooling glimmered in the firelight as she opened the cover and studied the first page. Finally, she set this book aside, wiped her dusty hands on the back of her trousers, and put back all the gardening books in their original places. Then she climbed down from her chair.

Callum quietly retreated a couple of steps into the shadows. He listened while she moved the chair back into its place under the table. Silence fell. After a minute or two, Callum dared to steal a glance around the stair wall.

Gran was sitting in her armchair by the fire with the decaying black and silver book open in her lap. The reflection of the fire's orange flames danced in her reading glasses. She was so absorbed she did not look up.

What on earth was she doing?

For several long minutes, Callum waited, growing steadily colder as he watched for any clue as to what his grandmother was reading, but she gave no sign. Finally, with a deep sigh, she closed the cover. Callum ducked back into the shadows. His teeth were chattering, but his blood burned with frustrated curiosity. What was that book? And why had Gran been hiding it? There was no way of knowing—it wasn't as if he could just pop down and ask her, and it was too cold to hang around hoping she would give something away. Reluctantly, Callum turned to make his way quietly back to bed. With every step up the narrow staircase, the draught danced around his feet, like icy fangs snapping at his heels.

Callum barely made it to his first class on time. He had spent so long skulking in the backstreets of Marlock trying to avoid Ed and his mates that he had to duck into his English lesson without even having taken off his coat and rucksack. He dodged out of class the instant the bell rang and raced to his locker. But his plan backfired. Mrs. Higgins stopped him to give him a telling-off for running, and Ed slouched past slowly, enjoying the spectacle. He caught Callum's eye and mouthed,
You're dead
.

Ed had disappeared by the time Mrs. Higgins was finished with Callum, and he was late for his next class as well.

The talk in the cafeteria at lunch was still all about yesterday's murdered teen. One of the tabloids had managed to sneak a photographer into the alley where the body was discovered, and now the bloody message Callum had seen scrawled on the wall in his dream was plastered all over the front page. The accompanying article was as stuffed with unanswered questions as Callum's own head.

Although it seemed like he had seen ghosts every day of his life, Callum knew almost nothing about the supernatural. Now that he felt he needed to know more, he didn't know where to begin. He'd never read a ghost story, or watched a horror film. Who needed stories about ghosts when you saw real ones on every corner?

I bet Melissa Roper reads ghost stories, though,
Callum thought. She was into alternative stuff like healing crystals and dream catchers, and she was always clutching the latest fat fantasy novel. Maybe she could help him.

As if on cue, he spotted her, sitting on her own as usual, on the far side of the room. Well, there was no time like the present….

Melissa looked up in surprise as Callum set down his lunch tray next to her.

“Hey, Callum!”

“Hi,” Callum replied sheepishly. “Do you mind if I sit here?”

“Go ahead.” Melissa smiled. Callum sat. “Thanks again for yesterday, by the way. Guess it got you in trouble with Ed Bolton, though.”

“You've no idea.” Callum forced a laugh. There wasn't any point in dragging Melissa into
that
mess. “Listen, I wanted to ask you something…. You know about the supernatural, right?”

“Well, I know some stuff,” Melissa answered eagerly. “You know, like traditional charms, how to protect your cows from curses and your babies from being kidnapped by goblins. Stuff like that.”

Callum must have looked blank, because Melissa rolled her eyes and went on.

“Everybody knows about how vampires hate garlic, right? Well, there are charms like that for all kinds of things. Iron keeps away the fairies. Rowan works against witches and demons.”

“Really?” It had never occurred to Callum that he might be able to treat ghosts like a medical condition—take two rowanberries and get rid of your haunting, like taking paracetamol for a headache. “That's pretty interesting.”

“It
is
interesting,” said Melissa, nodding furiously. Then she stopped. “You're not kidding, are you?”

“No, no, I mean it,” said Callum quickly. Melissa probably had every reason to be defensive. She got teased a lot—even if she did bring some of it on herself. “How about
local
legends?” he added tentatively. “Do you know anything about local ghosts?”

“Well, not personally,” Melissa laughed. “I haven't met any. There's a haunted cinema in Altrincham where the projectors turn themselves on and off, and the seats are always snapping up and down. I've been there,” she added proudly. “And at Knutsford there's a ghost pig that runs around the lanes with six lighted candles on its back. Every place has local ghosts. Some of them mean special things. If you see a banshee washing clothes in a river, that means you're going to die.”

Callum looked sideways at Melissa. “How about black dogs? What does it mean if you see the ghost of a black dog?”

“They mean a lot of things.” Melissa frowned and blew her flyaway curly fringe out of her eyes. “There are black dogs in folklore all over Britain. They've got about a million different names—Black Shuck, Striker, Trash. Also Wist Wolves and Yell Hounds, Churchyard Grims—”

“Wait!” Callum exclaimed, holding up a hand to stop Melissa mid-flow. “Churchyard Grims. Tell me about those.”

“The Grim is a portent of death.” Melissa's eyes went very wide. “They're big black dogs that haunt burial grounds. They're supposed to be the ghosts of animals that have been sacrificed to the devil—the devil takes the animal's soul in place of the human souls buried there, you see. Or else the Grim is supposed to protect the human souls buried there from the devil. I forget which. Maybe both.”

Callum's mind raced. There was a name for the black dog he'd seen. It was a Churchyard Grim. He hadn't made it up. It was a portent of death, a sacrifice to hell. No wonder Gran had been spooked when Callum asked about a black dog.

But since when did Gran know anything about the super-natural? She was practical and down-to-earth, with her gardening books and her DIY battles with the immersion heater. So why had she reacted so strangely? It didn't make sense.

“Is that helpful?” Melissa prompted. Callum jumped out of his reverie and realized he'd been staring straight at her during the lull in the conversation. He looked away quickly and fixed his gaze on his chips.

“Yeah, thanks.”

“Why did you want to know anyway?”

“I live near an old churchyard,” Callum said. “You know, Nether Marlock. I just wondered if it had any stories connected with it.”

Melissa gave him a sharp look. “Black dogs especially?”

Callum sighed. “Yeah.”

“Have you
seen
it?” Melissa asked softly.

Callum put his elbows on the table and his head in his hands, pulling at his hair. He couldn't decide what to tell her. He didn't know her very well, after all, and the truth would make him sound like a crazy freak.

“You've seen something, haven't you?” Melissa's voice was eager. She didn't sound like she thought he was crazy; she just sounded curious. “What was it?”

“I don't know.”

“If I came along home with you after school sometime you could show me where you saw it. I love that old church. All those medieval gravestones with the skulls on them, and that yew tree that's supposed to be a thousand years old! I could come and take a look, see if I know what it is, the thing you saw—if we see it again, I mean.”

“I don't know,” Callum repeated reluctantly. “Maybe I was just imagining it.”

“Maybe you weren't,” said Melissa. “And maybe I can help.”

Callum let out a long breath. It had taken Melissa less than ten minutes to prove that she knew more about the supernatural than he ever would.

He smiled at her again.

“Maybe you can.”

There was a double period of science after lunch, a lab class on elements and compounds. Callum liked the chemistry teacher, who made a real effort to keep her students interested, but in spite of Dr. MacKenzie's best efforts, Callum was having trouble focusing. His mind was still in Marlock Wood.

Dr. MacKenzie was exploding bubbles. She had spread a mess of apparently harmless froth on the fireproof lab table and was setting the bubbles alight with a gas jet tube attached to a Bunsen burner. Each bubble that she lit made a sudden explosion of flame, big as a bunch of balloons.

“Melissa, come and have a go.”

“You must be joking,” called Ed Bolton from the back of the class. “She'll burn the whole school down.”

The class laughed and Melissa flushed.

“Come on, Melissa, it's perfectly safe.” Dr. MacKenzie handed over the gas jet. Melissa took it tentatively.

“Okay, now just touch one of the bubbles with the flame.”

Melissa stretched out her arm, holding the flame as far from her body as possible, and went for the smallest of the bubbles. The gas compound inside it exploded with a little burst of fire, and then was gone. Ed cheered sarcastically.

“Callum?”

Callum jumped. He hadn't been paying attention. He looked up guiltily.

“You're missing a great effect. Have a go.”

Dr. MacKenzie walked around the table towards him.

“No thanks, Dr. MacKenzie,” Callum said. “I'll do it wrong.”

“Nonsense. There's nothing to it. When you've seen how the experiment works, we'll run through the formula again.”

“Have a go, Scott, show Roper the right way to do it,” said Hugh Mayes.

Callum sighed inwardly. He'd have to do it now. He reached for the flaming pipe, his fingertips feeling numb. He shook his hand, trying to wake them up, but the tingling was getting worse. Tingling …

MOVE!

Without stopping to question the urge, Callum leaped sideways, almost falling into the lap of the girl in the next seat. At the same instant, Dr. MacKenzie caught her foot on a large book bag carelessly left jutting out from under the table. Grabbing at the ledge of the worktop to catch her balance, the flame-tipped hosepipe flew from her hand. Spewing its jet of burning gas, the pipe landed in the chair where Callum had been sitting less than a second earlier. Before Dr. MacKenzie could straighten herself up and turn off the gas tap, the blue flame had burned a sizeable hole into the back of Callum's chair.

If he had still been sitting there, the flame would have bored the same hole straight through his chest.

Chaos erupted in the classroom. Several of the girls screamed.

“Callum! Are you okay?” Dr. MacKenzie gasped. “My God, how did you ever get out of the way in time?”

For a moment Callum was speechless. Finally, he managed to murmur numbly, “I … I saw you lose your balance. I just moved.”

“Thank goodness! I'm so sorry. Katie, how many times have I told you not to bring that bag into my classroom….”

The teacher's voice faded away as Callum tuned out her angry words. His mind was already miles away. Because he knew full well that he hadn't seen her lose her balance. He'd been moving
before
she had tripped, without any idea why he was doing it.

His Luck had saved him again.

What's happening to me?

The visions, his tingling fingertips, the strange hauntings%—and if all this weren't enough, there was Ed to deal with too. After the final bell went off, Callum was out of the school building ahead of almost everybody, but not Ed. He was already heading down the High Street with Baz and Craig, no doubt planning to lie in wait for Callum again.

Callum stood still and watched them go; there was no point in hurrying now. Better to take the scenic route, down Back Lane and along the footpath through the fields behind Warren's farm. Ed and his foot soldiers would never think of going all the way out there.

The other advantage of the long walk was that the last stretch along the lower edge of Marlock Wood avoided the church. He still had to pass the shell of the old mill, with its two spectral mutilated young apprentices who'd had the bad luck to fall under the water wheel, but there weren't as many ghosts as on the road.

It was dusk when Callum finally trudged along the row of ruined alms cottages, their broken windows dark and their empty rooms open to the sky. For a moment, he was surprised to see that there was no light beckoning from the window of Gran's cottage. Then he remembered—it was Thursday, the evening she taught a watercolor class in the church hall up in the village. He was supposed to get tea ready for them both. Cheese toasties again, probably.

As he reached down to unhook the gate, Callum realized that this was the first time in three days that he'd actually bothered to go through the gate rather than jumping over the wall in blind terror. Letting out a short, mirthless laugh, Callum walked up the garden path towards the front door, reaching for his key.

And stopped.

Something had happened to the door. Dark splatters stained its green paint. They looked almost wet, but it hadn't been raining. Besides, the shapes reminded him of something….