The Whispering House Read online

  “Ha!” He smiled proudly, and she noticed for the first time that just to the left of the door was a strip of board, about six feet high and a couple of feet wide, screwed to the wall and painted over in the same cream color as the rest of the landing, which was presumably why she hadn’t noticed it before.

  “Can there be another locked room behind there?” She didn’t know whether to be scared or excited.

  “Doubt it. It must be covering up something, though. Oh, well.” He grinned cheerfully. “Only one way to find out!” And before Hannah could stop him, he had run back to the toolbox and returned with another screwdriver—bigger this time—and set to work.

  Remembering his father’s previous occupation, she found herself wondering if Mr. Fallon had taught his son to see all barred entrances as a challenge, or if he was just biologically programmed that way.

  Even once the screws were out, the board was difficult to dislodge, and in the end Sam had to run the blade of a knife around it before it eventually came unstuck, slightly damaging the paintwork as it did so.

  “I hope they don’t take that off the deposit,” she said dubiously.

  “No problem. There’s a can of this paint in that room you’re not supposed to use. Down on the floor by the door. You can touch it up later.”

  Hannah wasn’t sure if her mother would necessarily feel that redecorating the house was a small price to pay for possible extra storage space, but now Sam had eased the board away from the wall to reveal a proper door behind it. It was painted a dark brown, was very dirty, and had a couple of small holes in the woodwork where the lock and handle had been removed.

  “Got a coat hanger?” asked Sam.

  Since they’d come as far as this, there seemed little point in stopping now, so Hannah reluctantly fetched the already-bent wire hanger she’d used to fish for the book of fairy tales. “Just remember this wasn’t my idea. Okay?” she muttered.

  But Sam wasn’t listening. He’d inserted the end of the wire hook into the keyhole and was tugging like mad. Suddenly the door shot open, knocking him backward with such force that he cannoned into Hannah and they both landed on the floor in a shower of dust.

  “Sorry about that. You okay?” He coughed.

  “Just a couple of broken bones and a dislocated shoulder. Nothing serious.” She rubbed her arm and stood up, brushing the dust out of her hair. “Seems like you got the door open, at any rate.”

  They were looking at a flight of uncarpeted stairs that led straight upward to the left, and to what looked like another door at the top.

  Sam turned to her, his eyes alight with triumph. “What did I tell you? Every house has an attic!”

  He hadn’t told her anything of the kind, but she ignored this, as now he was making his way up the steps at as fast a pace as the absence of light would allow, and she seemed to have no choice but to follow. She couldn’t help remembering the time, a year and a half ago, when they had discovered another staircase—one that had led down, not up. She had followed him then too. She tried to banish this thought from her mind.

  The door at the top of the stairs didn’t have a handle either, and it was already slightly ajar. Sam pushed it open, and they walked into a long, narrow room with a sloping ceiling and a grubby casement window with a pane of glass missing. In one corner of the windowsill were half a dozen dead flies. It was hard to see what else was in the room, as everything was covered in a thick, greasy coating of black dust and cobwebs, which concealed its identity as effectively as snow.

  When Sam put out a hand to brush away the mess, they discovered a couple of old fire grates, a rusty, tub-shaped object, and a small bathtub lying on its side, displaying clawed feet. The only other contents of the room lay just inside the door or propped against the wall, and seemed to be odds and ends of timber and pieces of broken masonry.

  “Doesn’t look like anyone’s been up here for years,” said Sam. “All this junk’s ancient.”

  “There’s some space, though. It could be used for storage, I suppose, but I’m not sure Mom will want to.” Hannah wrinkled her nose and sneezed. “This dust’s getting to me. Let’s go down.”

  “Wait a minute. There’s something here. . . .” Sam bent down and reached into the pile of timber. When he straightened up, she saw that he was holding a shallow wooden box.

  “What’s that?”

  “Not sure. Can’t see how it opens. Oh. I get it.” Applying slight pressure to the lid of the box, Sam slid it fractionally aside. “It’s stuck,” he muttered. “There are grooves on the inside for the lid to run on, but they’re clogged with dirt.”

  “Can’t you get it out?”

  “Maybe.” Grunting with the effort, he pushed hard on the lid, and it suddenly slid out of its grooves altogether, almost scattering about a dozen colored tablets. “What are they?” he asked, mystified. “Soap?”

  Hannah peered closely, running her finger over one of the tablets. “They’re paints! Watercolors. This box is wooden, though, not metal or plastic, so they must be old.”

  “They’re also probably useless. Shall I leave it here?”

  “I suppose so.” But she continued to look at the little tablets thoughtfully. “That’s odd. Whoever used these paints must have had a liking for gloomy subjects.”

  “Why?”

  “Because the bright colors haven’t been touched. But the dark blue, the black, and the indigo are almost completely used up.”

  Sam shrugged. “Since whoever used them probably died years ago, I don’t see it matters much.” He put the box down on the floor and moved toward the staircase. Hannah was about to follow, giving a final glance around the room, when she spotted something lying in the dust beneath the window.

  It was a very small hand. And it was attached to a very small body.

  For a moment she stood there, frozen in horror. She couldn’t even scream. Then, slowly, she breathed out, as she realized that what she was looking at wasn’t the mummified corpse of a baby, but a doll.

  Chapter Five

  The Doll

  IT LAY FACEDOWN ON the floor as if someone had tossed it there casually. One arm was underneath it, the other outstretched, palm upward. It had long dark hair, stiff with dirt, a dress that had once been white, and the ragged remains of a blue ribbon round its waist. Hannah picked it up and it hung limply, the head and feet seeming too heavy for the soft cloth body.

  “Poor old thing,” she murmured. “I wonder how long you’ve been lying here, all forgotten.”

  “As long as all the rest of this junk, by the look of it,” said Sam briskly. “Come on. Are you going to leave it there or bring it with you?”

  “I can’t just leave her here. Not after we’ve found her. Maybe I could clean her up somehow.”

  Back in the kitchen, Hannah laid the doll next to the sink and, moistening a paper towel under the tap, carefully rubbed at the sooty stains until a face emerged from the grime. A pale porcelain face with a chipped nose, a smiling rosebud of a mouth, and odd brown eyes that stared wildly, as if the owner were not quite sane. She stopped rubbing for a moment, her heart beating fast. Because, for some reason, that odd smile reminded her of something. Then she frowned and shook her head. It was just her imagination. Of course. It had to be.

  Even so, it occurred to her that, like the paint box, this doll was old. Very old.

  “I think I know who this might have belonged to,” she said suddenly.

  “What, you mean you can tell just by washing its face?” Sam looked disbelieving, as if she’d claimed to make a genie appear by rubbing a magic lamp.

  “I mean I found a book in my bedroom last night. A book of fairy tales. It had the owner’s name written inside—Maisie Holt, and the date. Christmas 1876. I think this must have been Maisie’s doll.”

  “Yeah?” Sam was trying to look interested, but he was stifling a yawn and looking pointedly at the refrigerator. “Is it lunchtime yet?”

  “Sure. Wait a minute while I fix it.” She mo
ved the doll to one side and washed her hands under the kitchen tap, and within ten minutes they were both comfortably settled in front of a video, a plate of sandwiches between them—and Maisie Holt, with her faded, dusty past, temporarily forgotten.

  It was only after Sam had gone that Hannah returned to the forlorn figure still lying on the drainboard. She shivered suddenly. It was only a doll, but there was something disturbing about those mad, staring eyes.

  Hannah’s mother wasn’t impressed when she saw the damaged paintwork on the landing, and she was even less impressed by the state of the attic.

  “I’m certainly not storing anything in there!” she said, shuddering. “Whatever made you think of unblocking that door?”

  “We thought you needed space. It might have been useful. And Sam says there’s more of that paint in the other room.”

  “Which shouldn’t have been opened in the first place,” replied Mom severely, walking back down the uncovered stairs. “It’s a shame we can’t use it, though. It would have been the obvious room for us. It’s bigger than the other one and gets the light from both windows.” She sighed.

  “We found something interesting in the attic,” said Hannah, hoping to distract her. She led the way downstairs and brought the doll from the kitchen.

  “Good heavens!” said Mom. “Whatever’s wrong with her?” She looked carefully at the pale china face, then laughed suddenly. “Oh, I see. Someone’s tried to change the color of the eyes—using a paintbrush, by the look of it. You can just see a bit of the original blue where the new paint hasn’t quite covered it. Only there’s too much of this brown on her left eye. That’s why she looks slightly crazy.” She peered closer, lifting the matted hair. “And here’s something else. She used to have blond curls—see? They’re still underneath. This dark stuff has been stuck on over the top.” She rubbed a few strands between her fingers. “What’s more, this is real hair. Human hair. Most dolls had hair made of wool in those days. Looks like some little girl had a haircut and then decided to give her doll a makeover with the trimmings!”

  “Do you think we could wash her dress?”

  “Maybe.” Mom sounded doubtful. “Sometimes these things are sewn onto the body.” She turned it over. “This isn’t, though. Look, it’s got a row of buttons at the back. They’ll be hard to undo, after all this time.” She peered at the tiny buttons and frowned. “Maybe not, after all. Look, these holes are way too big for the buttons. That’s unusual. Victorian sewing is usually so neat.”

  The blue ribbon was a problem, however, and it took a lot of coaxing before the tight little knot yielded at last. Then Mom unfastened the dress and gently pulled it over the doll’s head.

  “Oh!”

  The exclamation came from both Hannah and her mother at once. They stared at the cloth body, naked save for the black boots.

  “What’s happened to her?” asked Hannah.

  “Don’t ask me!”

  All over the back, stomach, arms, and legs were dark yellowish-brown stains. Each was roughly the size of a small coin, and they were evenly spaced.

  “These have been done on purpose, haven’t they?” Hannah said in astonishment.

  “Looks like it.”

  “But why?”

  Her mother smiled sadly. “I’ve no idea. Maybe it was some kind of game the child was playing with her friends. Perhaps she thought the marks would wash out and realized too late that they were there to stay. Whatever it was, we’re never going to find out now.” She put the doll down and looked at her watch. “It’s getting late. Do you want to come and help me make dinner?”

  “Okay.”

  Her mother left the room, but Hannah remained looking thoughtfully at the doll. There was something slightly shocking about those pathetic bruised limbs. Because that was just how the marks looked. Like neat, evenly spaced bruises. Gently she ran her finger over one of the marks and noticed that in the center was a tiny hole, the size of a pin. She ran her finger over another and noticed the same thing.

  Then she examined the doll carefully. In the center of each stain was a pinhole. Every one. She stared in bewilderment. What kind of game would make a little girl want to stick pins into her doll? And then to disfigure her like this? Would she have gotten into trouble over it? Or did she simply cover it with the dress and hope no one would notice? Suddenly Hannah put the doll down. Her hands were shaking, and she was very cold. The sensation lasted only a few seconds, but it left her feeling sick, as if she had handled something tainted. Something that had gone bad.

  Quickly she left the room, closing the door behind her.

  Chapter Six

  A Grave Discovery

  THE DRIZZLE PERSISTED THROUGH Sunday morning, and Hannah got down to more studying, reading through her notes and memorizing facts, dates, and figures until her brain felt as saturated as the atmosphere outside. But in the afternoon the weather cleared slightly, and she decided to take her sketch pad and go for a walk. Her mother was asleep in a chair, and Hannah closed the front door softly so as not to wake her.

  There were few people about. The streets here seemed quieter than those in her own neighborhood, the front gardens free from bikes and swing sets. If children lived here, they must be playing in parks or out for the day. The only sounds were from distant lawn mowers. Otherwise, houses dozed behind half-drawn blinds in the torpid sleepiness of an early-summer Sunday afternoon. She walked for about half a mile before coming to a largish redbrick church, with a gate set in a low wall and a signboard showing times of services. The church itself didn’t look very interesting, being Victorian like the houses it served, but it was surrounded by a neatly kept graveyard with flowering shrubs, a path, and one or two wooden seats.

  Having found in the past that churchyards sometimes made good drawing subjects, Hannah pushed open the gate and walked slowly along the path, glancing at the gravestones. Those nearest the church were the most recent, with sharp-edged lettering and fresh flowers in small wired pots. Farther back, the stones were older and the inscriptions harder to read. Soon Hannah found she had left the path and was wandering from grave to grave, reading names and dates and wondering how Maria Elizabeth Coombes—who had survived her husband, Albert Samuel Coombes, by more than thirty years—had coped with the rest of her life without him. Had she lovingly cherished his memory, bringing flowers to his grave each Sunday, waiting at last to join him? Or had she dried her eyes, shrugged her shoulders, and gone on with bringing up their seven children, all of whom were now buried nearby?

  Then there was Grace Amelia Mason, who didn’t appear to have had a husband at all and had died in 1903 at the age of forty-eight. Had she chosen not to marry, or had there been a fiancé who had died in a tragic accident, and Grace Amelia had sworn never to love another?

  And there were the tiny graves belonging to the very young children and the babies, some of whom had survived only a few days. Hannah’s thoughts went to her brother, Tom, born two years before her, who had lived for only six hours. Her mother had at last come to terms with his death, but she would never entirely get over it. Parents didn’t, it seemed. Looking at these small, overgrown mounds, she felt the terrible weight of sadness that was now buried and forgotten.

  At last she straightened up and looked at her watch, feeling slightly ridiculous for getting emotional over all these unknown, long-dead people. She wandered back in the direction of the path, and as she did so, her eye caught a name she recognized.

  MAISIE HOLT

  For a moment, Hannah felt a sense of shock, as though reading about the death of an acquaintance. Then she recovered. Of course. Maisie had lived here, and it was reasonable to suppose she had died here as well. Hannah moved closer and peered at the writing. There wasn’t much—just Maisie’s name and, underneath, the dates.

  BORN MARCH 4, 1866

  DIED JUNE 23, 1877

  She stared. Could that be right? But the lettering, though worn, was clear enough. Maisie Holt had died at the age of eleven.

/>   Hannah stayed there for perhaps ten minutes, looking at the grave, as if looking closely would somehow reveal more. But there was no more.

  At last she moved away. Somehow she didn’t feel like sketching anymore.

  When she got back, her mother was awake, but she still looked tired, and Hannah decided not to tell her about what she had found in the churchyard. A child’s grave was too close to home. But because it occupied her thoughts, she found it hard to talk about anything else, and after an evening meal during which neither of them said much, she cleared the table, stacked the dishwasher, and decided to go to bed, hoping to get to sleep before it got quite dark.

  After an hour or so of tossing and turning, she switched on the bedside lamp. If she couldn’t sleep, she might as well read. The trouble was, her novel was in her schoolbag, which she had left downstairs, and to fetch it would mean turning on the landing light, which would probably wake Mom. A box of her own books was in the corner, still taped and waiting to be unpacked, but she didn’t want to start anything new. Glancing around the room, she noticed the book of fairy tales on the mantelpiece where she had left it two nights ago. The stories were bound to be ones she’d read years ago and would be far too young for her now, but at least they might send her to sleep. She got up, fetched the faded volume, and sat back against her pillow.

  A quick glance down the table of contents told her that she’d been right about the stories being familiar. All the old favorites were there—“Sleeping Beauty,” “Snow White,” “Little Red Riding Hood,” “Hansel and Gretel”—as well as one or two she didn’t know so well. In spite of herself, she was soon absorbed in the tales of wicked stepmothers, evil queens, cunning witches, and predatory wolves.

  It might have been that she was already too wound up by the events of the weekend to let herself relax, but soon Hannah found that, far from sending her to sleep, the stories were making her more jittery. For the first time it struck her how threatening they all were. These were nothing like the stuff written for modern kids, whose characters’ problems tended to center around who would be picked for the football team or how to deal with an annoying little sister. They were, literally, stories of life and death. Particularly death. The colored illustrations were beautiful, and of a very high quality, but they were almost too real—too explicit. It was as if the artist and storyteller had colluded in creating a nightmarish world where no one could ever feel quite safe.