Brought to you by KeVkRaY

Contents

Cover

Title Page

Dedication

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

About the Author

Also by Robert Swindells

Inside the Worm

Copyright

To:

Robert Bates

Edward Benson

James Bentham

Andrea Boyes

Simon Carney

Clair Feltwell

Mark Hall

Craig Hobson

Elizabeth Holland

Louise Horsley

Andrew Howard

David Jenkinson

Samantha Lee

Gavin Ridealgh

John Robinson

Rachael Rowley

Amanda Whiteley

Victoria Winterburn

Who were there too.

Room 13 was inspired by a real school trip to Whitby by Year Two, from Mandale Middle School in Bradford, 1987.

THIS IS WHAT Fliss dreamed the night before the second year went to Whitby.

She was walking on a road high above the sea. It was dark. She was alone. Waves were breaking at the foot of cliffs to her left, and further out, the moonlight made a silver path on the water.

In front of her was a house. It was a tall house, looming blackly against the sky. There were many windows, all of them dark.

Fliss was afraid. She didn’t want to go inside the house. She didn’t even want to walk past but she had no control over her feet. They seemed to go by themselves, forcing her on.

She came to a gate. It was made of iron, worked into curly patterns. Near the top was a bit that was supposed to be a bird in flight – a seagull perhaps – but the gate had been painted black, and the paint had run and hardened into little stalactites along the bird’s wings, making it look like a bat.

The gate opened by itself, and as she went through Fliss heard a voice that whispered, ‘The Gate of Fate.’ She was drawn along a short pathway and up some stone steps to the front door, which also opened by itself. ‘The Keep of Sleep,’ whispered the voice.

The door closed silently behind her. Moonlight shone coldly through a stained-glass panel into a gloomy hallway. At the far end were stairs that went up into blackness. She didn’t want to climb that stairway but her feet drew her along the hallway and up.

She came to a landing with doors. The stairs took a turn and went on up. As Fliss climbed, it grew colder. There was another landing, more doors and another turn in the stair. Upward to a third landing, then a fourth, and then there were no more stairs. She was at the top of the house. There were four doors, each with a number. 10. 11. 12. 13. As she read the numbers, door thirteen swung inward with a squeal. ‘No!’ she whispered, but it was no use. Her feet carried her over the threshold and the voice hissed, ‘The Room of Doom.’

In the room was a table. On the table stood a long, pale box. Fliss thought she knew what it was. It filled her with horror, and she whimpered helplessly as her feet drew her towards it. When she was close she saw a shape in the box and there was a smell like damp earth. When she was very close the voice whispered, ‘The Bed of Dread,’ and then the shape sat up and reached out for her and she screamed. Her screams woke her and she lay damp and trembling in her bed.

Her mother came and switched on the light and looked down at her. ‘What is it, Felicity? I thought I heard you scream.’

Fliss nodded. ‘I had a dream, Mum. A nightmare.’

‘Poor Fliss.’ Her mother sat down on the bed and stroked her hair. ‘It’s all the excitement, I expect – thinking about going away tomorrow.’ She smiled. ‘Try to go back to sleep, dear. You’ve a long day ahead of you.’

Fliss clutched her mother’s arm. ‘I don’t want to go, Mum.’

‘What?’

‘I don’t want to go. I want to drop out of the trip.’

‘But why – not just because of a silly dream, surely?’

‘Well, yes, I suppose so, Mum. It was about Whitby, I think. A house by the sea.’

‘A house?’

‘Yes.’ She shivered, remembering. ‘I was in this house and something horrible was after me. Can I drop out, Mum?’

Her mother sighed. ‘I suppose you could, Felicity, if you’re as upset as all that. I could ring Mrs Evans first thing, tell her not to expect you, but you might feel differently in the morning.’ She smiled. ‘Daylight makes us forget our dreams, or else they seem funny – even the scary ones. Let’s decide in the morning, eh?’

Fliss smiled wanly. ‘OK.’ She knew she wouldn’t forget her dream, and that it would never seem funny. But it was all right. She was in control of her feet (she wiggled them under the covers to make sure), and they weren’t going to take her anywhere she didn’t want to go.

IF YOU WERE a second year there was a different feel about arriving at school that morning. Your friends were standing around in groups by the gate with bags and cases and no uniform, watching the other kids trail down the drive to begin another week of lessons.

You’d be going into school yourself, of course, but only for a few minutes. Only long enough to answer your name and listen to some final instructions from Mr Joyce. There was a coach at the bottom of the drive – a gleaming blue-and-white coach with tinted windows and brilliant chrome, waiting to whisk you beyond the reach of chairs and tables and bells and blackboards and all the sights and sounds and smells of school, to freedom, adventure and the sea. A week. A whole week, tingling with possibilities and bright with promise.

Fliss had changed her mind. Waking to the sun in her window and birds in the garden, she had thought about her friends, and the sea, and the things which were waiting there, and her dream of the night before had seemed misty and unreal, which of course it was. Her mother had been pleased, and had resisted the temptation to say ‘I told you so.’

She’d managed to persuade her parents not to come and see her off. Some parents always did, even when their kids were just off on a day trip. Fliss thought it was daft. Talking in loud voices so everyone could hear, saying stuff like ‘Wrap up warm and stay away from the water and don’t forget to phone so we’ll know you arrived in one piece.’ Plonkers.

Lisa Watmough was among the crowd by the gate. She was wearing jeans and talking to a girl called Ellie-May Sunderland. Fliss didn’t like Ellie-May much. Nobody did. She was sulky, spoilt and selfish. But never mind. They were off to the seaside, weren’t they? Fliss joined them, putting her suitcase on the ground next to Lisa’s. ‘Hi, you two. Nice morning.’

‘Yeah.’ They smiled at the sky. ‘I can’t wait to get on that beach,’ said Fliss.

‘I can’t wait to see the hotel,’ said Lisa. ‘Mr Hepworth says it’s called The Crow’s Nest. I hope we’re in the same room, Fliss.’

‘You won’t be,’ said Ellie-May. ‘Our Shelley went last year and she says Mrs Evans splits you up from your friends so you don’t play about at night.’

‘She might not this year. It’s a different hotel. And anyway, me and Fliss wouldn’t play about, would we, Fliss?’

Fliss shook her head and Ellie-May sniggered. ‘Try telling Mrs Evans that.’

Lisa looked at her watch. It was nearly ten to nine. ‘We’d better move,’ she said. ‘The sooner we get the boring bit over, the sooner we’ll be off.’ They picked up their luggage and set off down the drive.

Mr Hepworth was standing by the coach. As the girls approached he called out, ‘Come on you three – hurry up. Leave your cases by the back of the bus and go into the hall.’ The driver was stowing luggage in the boot, watched by a knot of parents. The three girls deposited their cases and hurried into school.

All the second-year kids were lined up in the hall, waiting for Mr Joyce. As Fliss got into line she felt somebody’s breath on her cheek and a voice whispered the word ‘Dracula’ in her ear. She turned round to find Gary Bazzard grinning at her. She scowled. ‘What you on about?’

‘I said Dracula.’

‘I know that, you div – what about him?’

‘Lives in Whitby, doesn’t he?’

‘Does he naff! He’s dead for a start, and when he was alive he lived in Transylvania.’

‘No.’ The boy shook his shaggy head. ‘Whitby. Old Hepworth told us. And he’s not dead neither. He’s undead. He sleeps in a coffin in the daytime and goes out at night.’

Fliss felt a flicker of unease as the boy’s words recalled her dream, but the headmaster appeared at that moment and began to address the assembly. He spoke of rambles, ruins and rock-pools as the sun streamed in through high windows and anticipation shone in the eyes of his listeners, but Fliss gazed at the floor, her lip caught between her teeth.

THEY WERE OFF by twenty-five past nine, growling slowly up the drive while Mr Joyce and a handful of parents stood in a haze of exhaust, waving.

Fliss and Lisa managed to get seats together. Lisa had the one by the window. As the coach turned on to the road she twisted round for a last glimpse of the school. ‘Goodbye, Bottomtop!’ she cried. ‘And good riddance.’

‘That’ll do, Lisa Watmough.’

Startled, she turned. Mrs Evans was sitting two rows behind, glaring at her through the space between headrests.

‘Yes, Miss.’ She faced the front, dug Fliss in the ribs and giggled. ‘I didn’t know she was sitting so close. Where’s Mrs Marriott?’

‘Back seat, so she can keep an eye on us all. And Mr Hepworth’s up there with the driver.’

‘Huh! Trust teachers to grab all the best seats. Who’s this in front of us?’ The tops of two heads showed above the headrests.

‘Gary Bazzard and David Trotter. I hope we’re nowhere near them in the hotel.’

‘You won’t be,’ said Ellie-May, who was sitting across the aisle from Fliss. ‘Our Shelley says they put girls on one floor and boys on another so you don’t see each other with nothing on.’

‘Our Shelley,’ sneered Fliss. ‘Our Shelley says this, our Shelley says that. I hope we’re not going to have a week of what our Shelley says, Ellie-May.’

‘Huh!’ Ellie-May tossed her head. ‘I was telling you how it’ll be, that’s all, misery-guts. Anyway, you can naff off if you want to know owt else – you won’t get it from me.’

‘Good!’ Fliss shuffled in her seat, turning as far from Ellie-May as she could, and sat scowling across Lisa at the passing scene.

Lisa looked at her. ‘What’s up with you?’ she hissed. ‘We’re supposed to be enjoying ourselves and you look like somebody with toothache going into double maths.’

‘It’s her.’ Fliss jerked her head in Ellie-May’s direction. ‘She gets on my nerves.’

‘She was only telling you. You wanted to know if we’d be anywhere near Baz and Trot and she said we won’t. What’s wrong with that?’

Fliss shrugged. ‘Nothing.’

‘Well then.’

‘I don’t feel too good, right? I had this dream last night – a nightmare, and I couldn’t sleep after it. And then this morning in the hall, Bazzard starts going on about Dracula. Saying he lives in Whitby, stuff like that, and I wasn’t in the mood.’

Lisa pulled a face. ‘No need to take it out on other people though, is there? You could go to sleep here, on the coach. Look – the seat tips back. Lie back and shut your eyes. There’s nothing to look at anyway, unless you like the middle of Leeds.’

So Fliss pressed the button on the armrest and tipped her seat back, but then the boy in the seat behind yelled out that she was crushing his knees and demanded that she return it to its upright position. When she refused, settling back and closing her eyes, the boy, Grant Cooper, began rhythmically kicking the back of the seat, like somebody beating on a drum. Fliss sighed but kept her eyes closed, saying nothing. As she had anticipated, Mrs Evans soon noticed what the boy was up to. A hand came snaking through the gap between the headrests and grabbed a fistful of his hair. ‘Ow!’ he yelped. Mrs Evans rose, so that the top part of her face appeared over the seat. She began speaking very quietly to Grant Cooper, punctuating her words by alternately tightening and relaxing her grip on his hair.

‘Grant Cooper.’ (Squeeze) ‘The upholstery on that seat cost a lot of money.’ (Squeeze) ‘It was fitted to make this coach both smart and comfortable.’ (Squeeze) ‘It was not provided so that horrible little so-and-sos like you could use it for football practice.’ (Squeeze) ‘How d’you think your mother would like it if somebody came into your house and started kicking the back of her three-piece suite, eh?’ (Squeeze) ‘Eh?’ (Squeeze) ‘Like it, would she?’ (Squeeze)

‘Please, Miss, no, Miss.’ Grant’s eyes were watering copiously and his mouth was twisted into a grimace which would not have been out of place in a medieval torture-chamber.

‘Well, then,’ (Squeeze) ‘kindly show the same respect for other people’s property that your mother would expect to be shown to hers. All right, Grant Cooper?’ (Squeeze)

‘Yes, Miss.’ The grip loosened. The hand withdrew. Grant slumped, like a man cut down from the whipping-post, and wiped his eyes with the back of his hand. Mrs Evans’ face sank from view. Fliss smiled faintly to herself, and drifted off to sleep.

FLISS OPENED HER eyes as the coach swung into a tight turn which nearly catapulted her into the aisle. ‘What’s happening – where are we?’

‘Pickering,’ said Lisa. ‘We’re stopping. You’ve been asleep ages.’

Fliss looked out. They were rolling on to a big car-park with a wall round it. As the coach stopped, Mr Hepworth stood up at the front. ‘This is Pickering,’ he said. ‘And we are making a toilet stop.’ His eyes swept along the coach and locked on to those of a boy near the back. ‘A toilet stop, Keith Halliday. Not a shopping stop. Not a sightseeing stop. Not a “let’s buy packets of greasy fish and chips, scoff the lot before Sir sees us and then throw up all over the coach” stop. Have I made myself quite clear?’

‘Sir.’

‘Right. The toilets,’ he pointed, ‘are down there at the bottom of this car-park. To get into them, you have to go out on to the pavement. It’s a very busy road, and I don’t want to see anyone trying to cross it. Neither do I want to see boys going into the ladies’ toilet, or girls into the gents’. Have I said something funny, Andrew Roberts?’

‘No, Sir.’

‘Right.’ He looked at his watch. ‘It’s ten past eleven. The coach will leave here at twenty-five past on the dot. Make sure you’re on it, because it’s a long walk back to Bradford.’

‘When we get back on,’ whispered Fliss to Lisa, ‘it’s my turn for the window seat, right?’

Lisa nodded. ‘You feeling better, then?’

‘Yes, thanks. I had a lovely sleep.’

‘I know. You missed a lot, though. There was this field – a sloping field with millions of poppies in it. The whole field was red. It was ace.’

When Fliss got back on the coach there was no sign of Lisa. She sat down and watched the kids straggling across the tarmac in the warm sunshine. Soon, everybody was back on board except her friend. The driver had started the engine and Mrs Marriott was counting heads when Lisa appeared from behind the toilet block and came hurrying to the coach. As she clambered aboard, Mr Hepworth looked at his watch. ‘What time did I say we’d be leaving, Lisa Watmough?’

Some of the children were sniggering and Lisa blushed. ‘Twenty-five past, Sir. I forgot the time, Sir.’

‘You forgot the time. Well, for your information it is now twenty-six minutes to twelve, and we’ll be lucky if we arrive at the hotel by midday, which is when we are expected. The meal which is being prepared for us might well be ruined, and it will be all your fault, Lisa Watmough.’ He bent forward suddenly, peering at her jeans. ‘What have you got there?’ Something was making a bulge in the pocket of Lisa’s jeans and she was trying to conceal it with her hand.

‘Nothing, Sir.’

‘Take it out and give it to me.’

‘It’s just this, Sir.’ She pulled out an object wrapped in tissue paper and handed it over. The teacher stripped away the wrapping to reveal a green plastic torch in the shape of a dragon. The bulb and its protective glass were in the dragon’s gaping mouth. Mr Hepworth held up the torch, using only his thumb and forefinger, and looked at it with an expression of extreme distaste.

‘Did you bring this – this thing with you from home, Lisa Watmough?’

‘No, Sir.’

‘Oh. Then I suppose there’s a little kiosk inside the ladies’ toilet where patrons can do a bit of shopping. Am I right?’

‘No, Sir.’

The teacher frowned. ‘Then I’m afraid I don’t understand. You didn’t bring it from home, and you didn’t get it in the ladies’. You haven’t been anywhere else, yet here it is. Perhaps you laid it, like a hen lays an egg. Did you?’

‘No, Sir.’

‘Then what did you do?’

‘I went in a shop, Sir.’

‘You did what?’

‘Went in a shop, Sir.’

‘And what had I said about shopping, Lisa Watmough, just before you got off the coach?’

‘We weren’t to do any, Sir.’

‘Right. Then why did you go into that shop?’

‘I don’t know, Sir.’

‘You don’t know, and neither do I, but here’s something I do know. This evening, when the rest of the group is listening to a story in the hotel lounge, you will be in your room writing two apologies – one to the children for having kept them waiting, and one to me for having disobeyed my instructions. When both apologies have been written to my satisfaction, this torch will be returned to you. In the meantime you can leave it with me. Go to your seat.’

‘What the heck did you do that for?’ whispered Fliss, as Lisa slid into her seat. Lisa was one of those girls who seldom step out of line and are rarely in trouble at school.

She shook her head miserably. ‘I don’t know, Fliss. I don’t even need a torch – I’ve got a better one at home. You’ll think I’m crazy, but I couldn’t help it – it was as though my feet were going by themselves.’

‘Oh, don’t you start,’ groaned Fliss.

‘What d’you mean?’

‘Nothing. Forget it.’ She looked out of the window. They passed a sign. North Yorkshire Moors National Park. The coach was climbing. Fliss gazed out as green pasture gave way to treeless desolation. She shivered.

‘HEY LOOK!’

A boy on the right-hand side near the front of the coach stood up and pointed. Everybody looked. Out of the bleak landscape rose three white, dome-shaped objects, like gigantic mushrooms breaking through the earth. As the coach carried them closer, they saw a scatter of low buildings and a fence. The great spheres, gleaming in the sunlight, looked like objects in a science-fiction movie.

‘Wow! What are they, Sir?’

Mr Hepworth got up. ‘That’s the Fylingdales early-warning station,’ he told them. ‘Inside those domes is radar equipment, operated by the British and American forces. It maintains a round-the-clock watch for incoming missiles. They say it would give us a three-minute warning.’ He smiled wryly. ‘Three minutes in which to do whatever we haven’t done yet and always wanted to.’

‘What would you do, Sir?’ asked a grinning Waseem Kader.

‘What would I do?’ The teacher thought for a moment. ‘I think I’d get a brick and throw it through the biggest window I could find.’ He smiled. ‘I’ve always fancied that.’

‘Oh, I wouldn’t, Sir – I’d run to the Chinese and get chicken chop-suey ten times and gobble it right quick.’

‘Yeah!’ cried Sarah-Jane Potts. ‘That’s what I’d do and all – we wouldn’t have to pay, would we, Sir?’

‘I’d get a big club and smash our Shelley’s head in,’ said Ellie-May. ‘I hate her.’

‘There’d be no point, fathead!’ sneered a boy behind her. ‘She’d be dead in three minutes anyway.’

The noise level rose. Excited voices called back and forth across the coach as everybody tried to outdo everybody else in what they’d do with their last three minutes. The fact that many of them would have needed several hours or even days to carry out their plans was disregarded, and the discussion continued till the vehicle topped the highest rise and Mrs Marriott raised her voice, drawing everybody’s attention to the ruins of Whitby Abbey, which were now visible in the hazy distance.

Gary Bazzard knelt, leering at Fliss over the back of his seat. ‘See – that’s where Dracula lives – in the ruins. Old Hepworth told us.’

‘Old Hepworth told you no such thing.’

The boy’s remark had coincided with a lull in conversation as everybody strained for a glimpse of the abbey, and Mr Hepworth had heard it. ‘Old Hepworth told you that Bram Stoker, who created the character of Dracula, was inspired to do so after having seen the ruined abbey. Dracula does not live there or anywhere else. He is a figment of Stoker’s imagination, Gary Bazzard, and sometimes I wish the same might be said of you.’

There was laughter at this. The boy’s cheeks reddened as he resumed his seat. Fliss smiled faintly, gazing out at the distant ruins and beyond them to the sea.

It was ten past twelve when the coach drew up outside The Crow’s Nest Hotel. Mr and Mrs Wilkinson, who ran it, were standing on the top step waiting for them. Lisa flushed, remembering what Mr Hepworth had said about it being all her fault. She hoped he wouldn’t point her out to the Wilkinsons as the culprit.

‘Check under your seats and on the luggage rack,’ warned Mrs Marriott, as everybody stood up. ‘Don’t leave any of your property in the coach.’ The children checked, then filed slowly along the aisle and down on to the pavement. It was sunny, but a breeze blew from the sea, making it cooler than it would now be in Bradford. The driver went round the back and started unloading bags and cases, which their owners quickly claimed.

Fliss looked at the hotel. There was something vaguely familiar about the steps. The porch. Even the breeze, and the distant sound of the sea.

When everybody had their luggage Mr Hepworth led them into the hotel. Fliss looked at the iron bird on the black gate. For a moment she thought it was meant to be a gull, but then she remembered the name of the place and decided it was probably a crow. Somebody had made a poor job of painting it. Drips had run down to the edges of its wings and hardened there, giving them a webbed, spiky appearance, so that it looked more like a bat than a bird.

‘RIGHT, LISTEN!’

Lunch over, they had crammed themselves into the lounge with all their baggage, squeezing into chairs and settees, perching on the edges of tables, sitting on bags and cases on the floor while the three teachers sorted out room allocations and other matters with the Wilkinsons in the hallway. They had taken in the view from the bay window, looked at the prints round the walls and were starting to get restless when Mr Hepworth stuck his head through the doorway.

‘I’m waiting, Andrew Roberts.’ The noise faded as Andrew Roberts stopped using the top of his suitcase as a drum and everybody looked towards the teacher. ‘There are bedrooms on four floors in this hotel, and two rooms to a floor. I’m going to give you your room numbers now, and tell you which floor your room is on. As soon as you know your floor and number, I want you to pick up your luggage and walk quietly up to your room. What do I want you to do, Gemma Carlisle?’

‘Sir, go up to our room, Sir.’

‘And how do I want you to go?’

‘Walking quietly, Sir.’

‘Right.’ Mr Hepworth glared about the crowded room from under dark, bushy eyebrows. ‘Walking quietly. Not charging up the stairs like a crazed rhinoceros, swinging your case, smashing vases and screaming at the top of your voice. And when you find your room, go in and wait. Don’t touch anything, and don’t start fighting about whose bed is which, or who’s going to have this wardrobe or that drawer. The teacher responsible for your floor will come and sort all that out as soon as possible.’ He put on his spectacles and began reading from a list.

‘Joanne O’Connor, Maureen O’Connor, Felicity Morgan and Marie Nero, top floor, room ten.’

‘Aw, Sir –’

‘Moaning already, Felicity?’

‘Me and Lisa wanted to be together, Sir.’

‘Well you’re not, are you? We’d be here all day if we started trying to put everybody with their best friend. Off you go.’ He scanned his list again. ‘Vicky Holmes, Samantha Storey and Lisa Watmough, top floor, room eleven.’

Fliss carried her case up the stairs. There were brown photographs in frames all the way up. Ships and boats with sails. Old-time fisherfolk in bulky clothes. A wave breaking over a jetty.

Room ten contained a pair of bunk-beds and a double bed. There were two wardrobes, a chest of drawers and a dressing-table. The carpet was green and thin. A small washbasin stood in one corner. A brown photograph on the wall showed two children playing with a toy boat in a rock-pool.

Maureen went to the window. ‘Hey! We’re ever so high. You can see the sea from here.’ Joanne and Marie went to look. Fliss put her case down and joined them. Beyond the road an expanse of close-mown grass, bisected by a footpath, stretched almost to the clifftop. There were wooden seats at intervals along the footpath. Away to the left was something which might be a crazy-golf course, while to the right stood a shelter with benches and large windows, and a telephone kiosk. In the shelter an old woman sat. She was dressed in black, and seemed to be looking straight at them. Beyond all this, glinting blue-grey under the sun, lay the sea.

‘Isn’t it lovely?’ breathed Marie.

‘Hmm.’ Maureen’s eyes followed a gull that swooped and soared along the line of the cliff. Joanne peered towards the horizon and thought she could make out the long, low shape of a ship – a tanker, perhaps.

Fliss gazed out to sea too, but she wasn’t looking for a ship. She was thinking, Marie’s right. It is lovely, but not nearly so beautiful as at night, when the moon makes a silver path across the water.

Behind them somebody knocked loudly on the door and flung it open. ‘Hey, Fliss!’ It was Lisa. ‘We’re right next door – come and see our room.’

Fliss was starting towards the door when Mrs Marriott’s voice sounded on the landing. ‘What are you doing there, Lisa Watmough? Didn’t you hear Mr Hepworth say you were to wait in your room?’

‘Yes, Miss.’ There was a scampering noise. Lisa’s face disappeared. Fliss waited a moment then looked out. There was nobody on the landing. The door of number eleven was half-open, and she heard Mrs Marriott asking Lisa if she didn’t think she’d caused enough trouble for one day.

There were two other doors. One had twelve on it, and Fliss guessed that was the bathroom. The other had no number, but she knew what number it would have if it had. She was gazing at it, wondering what sort of room it concealed when Mrs Marriott came out of number eleven.

‘Why are you standing there, Felicity Morgan?’ she enquired.

‘Please, Miss, I was just wondering what sort of room that is.’ She pointed to the numberless door.

The teacher glanced at it. ‘Linen cupboard, I should think.’

‘It’s big for a cupboard, Miss.’

The teacher nodded. ‘Hotels need big cupboards, Felicity. All those sheets. Or it could be a broom cupboard, I suppose. Anyway, let’s get your room organized.’

Felicity got the bottom bunk. She was glad. She hadn’t fancied sharing the double bed. Mrs Marriott put Joanne and Maureen in that. They were twins, so that was all right. Marie had the top bunk. They had half an hour to unpack, put their things away and tidy up, then everybody was going down to the seafront for a look around.

Excited, anxious to be off, Fliss’s three companions worked quickly. They chattered and giggled, but Fliss was silent. She was wondering when it was that she’d seen the sea under the moon, and noticing how broom rhymes with room, and also with doom.

IT WAS THREE o’clock when the children gathered on the pavement outside the hotel. There were thirty-one of them, and Mr Hepworth split them into two groups of ten and one of eleven, with girls and boys in each group. ‘Remember your group,’ he said, ‘because we’ll be in groups a lot of the time while we’re here.’ Fliss found herself in Mrs Evans’ group, and to her disgust Gary Bazzard was in it too. Gary was pretty disgusted himself, because his best friend David Trotter had ended up in Mrs Marriott’s group. Lisa was in that group too.

It was breezy, but sunny and quite warm. The groups set off at intervals, turning right and walking in twos down North Terrace towards Captain Cook’s monument and the whalebone arch. Fliss’s group went second. As they passed the shelter, Fliss saw that the old woman was still there. She was gazing towards the hotel and seemed to be talking to herself. The first group was looking at the monument, so Mrs Evans led them to the arch.

‘Now: can anybody tell me why there should be a whalebone arch at Whitby?’ she asked. ‘Yes, Roger?’

‘For people to walk through, Miss.’

‘Yes, Roger, I know it’s for people to walk through, but why should it be made from whalebone? Anybody?’

Tara Matejak raised her hand. She was Fliss’s partner. ‘Miss, because there were whaling ships at Whitby in the olden days.’

‘That’s right, Tara. And who knows why whales were valuable? Roger?’

‘Oil, Miss. They used whale-oil for margarine and lamps and that. And they used the bones for women’s dresses, Miss.’

‘That’s right.’ Mrs Evans shielded her eyes with her hand and squinted up at the arch. ‘What part of the whale’s skeleton is this arch made from, d’you think?’

‘Its jawbones, Miss,’ said Maureen.

‘Right. And they’ve put something on top, haven’t they – it looks like an arrow. Can anybody guess what it actually is?’

Everybody gazed up at the object but nobody answered. After a moment Mrs Evans said, ‘Well, I’m not absolutely sure, but it looks to me like the tip of a harpoon. An old-fashioned harpoon – the sort they threw by hand from the bows of a whaleboat. Who’s read Moby Dick?’

‘Miss, I’ve seen Jaws on the telly.’

‘What on earth has that got to do with it, Richard Varley?’

‘Miss, nothing, Miss.’

‘Then don’t be so stupid, you silly boy!’

Nobody had read Moby Dick.

Mr Hepworth’s group was now approaching, so Mrs Evans led Fliss and the others to Captain Cook’s monument. They surrounded it, looking at the lengthy inscriptions on its plinth.

‘Who can tell us something about Captain Cook?’

‘Miss, he had one eye and one arm.’

‘Rubbish, Michael Tostevin! That was Lord Nelson. Yes, Joanne?’

‘He had a peg leg, Miss, and a parrot on his shoulder.’

‘That was Long John Silver, dear – a fictitious character.’ Mrs Evans sounded tired.

When they’d finished with Captain Cook, they went down a flight of stone steps on to a road called the Khyber Pass, and from there to the sea-front. There, Mrs Evans turned them loose for a while to join their classmates on the sands, while she sank on to a bench which already supported her two colleagues.

Fliss found Lisa at the water’s edge. ‘What d’you think of it so far?’

Lisa pulled a face. ‘Dead captains. Dead whales. Dead boring.’

Fliss laughed. ‘It’s OK down here though, isn’t it?’

Lisa nodded. ‘You bet. Let’s find some flat pebbles and play at skimming.’

THEY PLAYED ON the sand for an hour or so, until Mr Hepworth called them together at the foot of the slipway which connected the promenade with the beach.

‘Right. What I thought we’d do between now and teatime is this: walk along the road here and have a look at the fish quay, then along the quayside to the swing-bridge and over into the old town. There are lots of interesting shops in the old town, including some specializing in Whitby jet. We could have a look in some of the windows, but I don’t think we should shop today – otherwise some of us might run out of pocket-money halfway through the week. At the end of the old town is a flight of steps leading up to the abbey and a church. There are a lot of steps, and I want you to count them as we go up and tell me how many there are. We’ll go in groups again – d’you know your group, Barry Tune?’

‘Sir.’

‘Good. Here we go, then.’

The three teachers moved apart and called their groups to them. The children got into twos, and this time Fliss had Gary for a partner. He grinned at her. ‘Holding hands, are we?’

‘No chance. I’ve to eat my tea with this hand when we get back.’

‘I’ll be using a knife and fork.’

‘Ha, ha, ha.’

They looked at the fish dock, but there were no boats in and the sheds with their stacks of fish-boxes were shut. They went along the quayside, threading their way between strolling holiday-makers, looking in shop windows or at the different kinds of boats in the harbour. There was that exciting smell in the air which you get at the seaside – that blend of salt and mud and fish and sweet rottenness which has you breathing deeply and makes you tingle.

They were taking their time – the evening meal was not until six-thirty – and Fliss was looking at a coble with her name, Felicity, painted on its prow when Gary grabbed her hand and cried, ‘Hey – look at this!’

‘What?’ She spoke irritably and jerked her hand away, but looked where he pointed and saw a narrow building with dark windows and a sign which said ‘The Dracula Experience’. A tall man with a pale face, dressed all in black, smiled from the doorway at the passing group. His teeth seemed quite ordinary.

Gary raised his hand and waved it at Mrs Evans. ‘Miss – can we go in here, Miss, please?’

Mrs Evans, who had been looking out over the harbour, turned. She saw the building, read the sign, smiled faintly and shook her head. ‘Not just now, Gary. On Thursday, everybody will be given some free time to shop for presents and spend what’s left of their money in whatever way they choose. You’ll be able to buy yourself some Dracula Experience then.’ She looked into the eyes of the smiling man and added, loudly, ‘If you must.’

They crossed the bridge and sauntered through the narrow streets of the old town till they came to the church steps. By the time they reached the top, Fliss was out of breath. She’d counted a hundred and ninety-seven steps but Mr Hepworth, whose group had got there first, said there were a hundred and ninety-nine and she believed him.

The top of the steps gave on to an old graveyard. Weathered stones leaned at various angles, so eroded you couldn’t read the epitaphs. Long grass rippled in the wind. There was a church, and a breathtaking view of Whitby and the sea.

They had a look inside the church. It was called St Mary’s. Mr Hepworth pointed out its special features. You could buy postcards and souvenirs by the door. Fliss bought a postcard of the ruined abbey to send home. When they were gathered outside she said, ‘Are we going to the ruins, Sir?’ She wasn’t sure whether she wanted to or not.

‘Not today, Felicity. We’ll be looking at them on Wednesday morning, before we set off to walk to Saltwick Bay.’

They poked about in the churchyard for a while and visited the toilets near the abbey. Then they descended the hundred and ninety-nine steps and began making their way back to The Crow’s Nest. The fresh air and exercise had sharpened everybody’s appetite, and most of the children spent the walk back wondering what was for tea. Fliss did not. She was thinking about the landing at the top of the house, and what it would be like in the dark. The funny thing was, she seemed to know.

THEY GOT BACK in plenty of time for tea, which was eggs, chips and sausages, with swiss-roll and ice-cream for pudding. Afterwards everybody went upstairs to put on tracksuits and trainers. Mrs Marriott was taking them for a game of rounders on the sands. Lisa would be missing out, because of the apologies she had to write.

Gary Bazzard’s room was one floor below Fliss’s. Number seven. When she came down the stairs he was standing in the doorway showing something to a group of his friends, who were making admiring noises. As Fliss passed he called out, ‘How about this, Fliss?’

She glanced in his direction. He was holding up the biggest stick of rock she’d ever seen. She didn’t like him much, and would have loved to walk on with her nose in the air, but the pink stick really was enormous: nearly a metre long and about four centimetres thick. She stopped. ‘Where the heck did you get that from?’ she asked, in what she hoped was a scornful voice.

‘Shop on the quay. One pound fifty. No one saw me ’cause I stuck it down my jeans’ leg.’ His friends gasped and chuckled at his daring.

Fliss pulled a face. ‘You’re nuts. One pound fifty? I wouldn’t give you fifty pence for it.’

‘You wouldn’t get chance.’

‘It’ll rot your teeth, so there.’

‘You’re only jealous.’

‘I’m not. I hope Mr Hepworth catches you and hits you on the head with it.’

It was a good game of rounders. It was more fun than it might have been, because the tide was coming in and the strip of sand they were playing on grew narrower and narrower. People kept hitting the ball into the sea, and some of the fielders had to play barefoot so that they could retrieve it. Finally the pitch became so restricted that play was impossible. They wrapped up the game, retreated to the top of one of the concrete buttresses which protected the foot of the cliff and sat, watching the tide come in.

Cocoa and biscuits were served in the lounge at half-past eight. The children sat sipping and munching while twilight fell outside and Mrs Evans read them a story. Lisa came down with her written apologies. Mr Hepworth read them, nodded, and gave her back her torch. It was nine o’clock. Bedtime.

Fliss was tired, but she couldn’t sleep. It was fun at first, lying in the dark, talking with Marie and the twins, but one by one they drifted off to sleep and she was left listening to the muffled noises that rose from the boys’ room below. After a while these too stopped, and then there was only the occasional creak, and the rhythmic shush of the sea.

She lay staring at the ceiling, waiting for her eyes to get tired. If the lids grew heavy enough they’d close, and then she’d drift off. She wouldn’t even know she was lying in the dark, and when she woke up it would be morning and the first night – the worst night – would be over.

Phantom lights swam across her field of vision, lazily, like shoals of tiny fish. She watched them, but they failed to lull her, and presently it came to her that she would have to go to the bathroom.

She listened. If somebody else was awake somewhere it would be easier. A boy on the floor below perhaps, or one of the teachers. She looked at her watch. 23.56. Four minutes to midnight. Surely somebody was still about – the Wilkinsons, locking up for the night, or Mr Hepworth making a final patrol.

Silence. In all the world, only Fliss was awake. She listened to the steady breathing of the other three girls. Why couldn’t one of them have been a snorer? If somebody had been snoring she could have given them a shake. A policeman going by outside would be better than nothing – his footsteps might make her feel safe. But there was no policeman. There wasn’t even a car.

The bed creaked as she sat up and swung her legs out. She listened. Nothing. The steady breathing continued. She hadn’t disturbed anybody. Perhaps she’d have to put the light on to find the door – that would wake them. But no. There was moonlight and the curtains were thin and she could see quite clearly. It would be most unfair to wake them with the light.

She stood up and crept towards the door. There was sand in the carpet. A floorboard creaked and she paused, hopefully. One of the twins stirred, mumbling, and Fliss whispered, ‘Maureen? Joanne?’ but there was no response.

She opened the door a crack and looked out. The only illumination came from a small window on the half-landing below. It was minimal. She could make out the dark shapes of the doors but not the pattern on the carpet. The air had a musty smell and felt cold.

As she hesitated for a moment in the doorway, peering into the gloom and listening, she became aware of a faint sound – the snuffling, grunting noise of somebody snoring beyond the door of room eleven. She found it oddly reassuring, and crossed the landing quickly in case it should stop.

Re-crossing a minute later with the hiss of the toilet cistern in her ears, she could still hear it. It seemed louder, and was accompanied now by a thin, whimpering noise, like crying. Fliss pulled a face. Somebody feeling homesick. Not Lisa, surely?

The idea that her friend might be in distress made her forget her fear for a moment. She took a couple of steps towards room eleven, unsure of what she intended to do. As she did so, she became aware that the noise was not coming from that room at all, but from the one next to it – the cupboard. Her eyes flicked to its door. On it, visible in the midnight gloom, was the number thirteen.

She recoiled, covering her mouth with her hand. When she had asked Mrs Marriott what lay beyond that door, there had been no number on it. She knew there hadn’t, yet there it was. Thirteen. And somebody was in there. Somebody, or some thing.

She backed away. The hissing of the cistern dwindled and ceased. The other sounds continued, and now the whimpering was more persistent, and the snuffling had a viscous quality to it, like a pig rooting in mud.

She retreated slowly, holding her breath. When she reached the doorway of her own room she backed through it, feeling for the doorknob and keeping her eyes fixed on the door of room thirteen. Once inside, she closed the door quickly, crossed to her bed and lay staring at the ceiling while spasms shook her body.

Much later, when the shivering had stopped and she was drifting to sleep, she thought she heard stealthy footsteps on the landing, but when she woke at seven with the sun in her face and her friends’ excited chatter in her ears, she wondered whether she might have dreamed it all.

THEY GATHERED IN the lounge after breakfast. Mr Hepworth had fixed a large map of the coast to the wall. He pointed. ‘Here’s Whitby, where we are. And here,’ he slid his finger northward along the coastline, ‘is Staithes, where the coach will drop us this morning. Staithes used to be an important fishing port like Whitby, and there are still a few fishermen there, but it is a quiet village now. Captain Cook worked in a shop at Staithes when he was very young – before he decided to be a sailor.’

‘Will we be going in the shop, Sir?’

‘No, Neil Atkinson, we will not. Unfortunately, it was washed away by the sea a long time ago. However, if we are very lucky we might see a ghost.’

There were gasps and exclamations at this. ‘Captain Cook’s ghost, Sir?’ asked James Garside. The teacher shook his head, smiling. ‘No, James. Not Captain Cook’s. A young girl’s. There’s a dangerous cliff at Staithes, a crumbling cliff, and the story goes that when this girl was walking under it one day, a chunk of rock fell and decapitated her. Who knows what decapitated means? Yes, Steven Jackson?’

‘Sir, knocked her cap off, Sir.’

‘No. Michelle Webster?’

‘Squashed her, Sir?’

‘Closer, but not right. ‘Ellie-May Sunderland?’

‘Sir, knocked her head off, Sir.’

‘Correct.’ He leaned forward, peering at the girl through narrowed eyes. ‘Are you all right, Ellie-May – you look a bit pasty?’

‘Yes, Sir.’

‘Sure?’

‘Yes, Sir.’

‘Right. Well, there’s a bridge over a creek at Staithes, and that’s where the headless ghost has been seen. We’ll be having a look round the village, then walking along the clifftop path to Runswick Bay. That’s here.’ He jabbed at the map again. A boy raised his hand.

‘What is it, Robert Field?’

‘How far is it, Sir?’

The teacher shrugged, smiling. ‘A few miles. We’ll find somewhere to eat our packed lunches on the way, and the coach will be waiting at Runswick to bring us back here. Right – it’s a lovely sunny morning, so let’s get started.’

Lisa saved Fliss a seat on the coach. As they roared along the coast road she said, ‘We stayed awake ever so late in our room last night, talking. Telling jokes and that. It was brilliant.’

‘You were all asleep before midnight, though,’ said Fliss.

‘How d’you know?’

‘I passed your door at midnight. There wasn’t a sound.’

‘What were you doing, passing our door at midnight?’

‘I went to the toilet. Or at least I think I did.’

‘How d’you mean, you think you did – don’t you know?’

Fliss pulled a face. ‘No. It’s all mixed up with this horrible dream I had.’

‘What was it about, your dream?’

Fliss told her friend about the strange noises that had seemed to come from the linen cupboard, the number thirteen on the door, the footsteps she thought she’d heard later. ‘It all seemed so real, Lisa. But then this morning I looked, and of course there was no number on the door and the sun was shining and everybody was shouting and messing about on the landing, and it didn’t seem real any more. D’you know what I mean?’

Lisa nodded. ‘Sure. It was all a dream – you didn’t go to the toilet and you weren’t outside our door at midnight so you don’t know what time we went to sleep, right?’

‘Right. Except –’

‘Except what, Fliss? What is it?’

‘After the toilet, I dreamed I washed my hands, right? And it was one of those spurty taps where the water comes all at once and goes everywhere. Some went on the floor. Quite a lot, in fact. There didn’t seem to be anything to mop it up with, and anyway I was too scared to hang about so I left it.’

Lisa shrugged. ‘Dream water in a dream bathroom. So what?’

Fliss looked at her friend. ‘It was still there this morning,’ she said.

THEY SPENT AN hour in Staithes, but nobody saw the ghost. They saw crab pots piled by cottage doors and boats tied up in the creek. They stared at the dangerous cliff and tried to imagine what it would be like to be walking along quite normally one second, and to have no head the next. They bought sweets and ice-lollies and stood among their knapsacks and shoulder-bags, chatting and watching the waves while the teachers had a cup of tea. At eleven o’clock they picked up their bags and moved out, leaving the village by way of a steep, winding footpath which led to the clifftop and on out of sight. Mr Hepworth said, ‘This is part of the Cleveland Way, and it will take us to Runswick Bay. It’s a three–mile walk, more or less. About halfway, we’ll stop and eat our lunches. There’s no tearing hurry, but do try to keep up – the path runs very close to the cliff edge in places, and if there are stragglers it becomes difficult to keep an eye on everybody. Are you listening, John Phelan?’

‘Yessir.’

‘Good. Off we go, then.’

The sun was a fuzzy ball above the sea. Little white clouds sailed inland on the breeze, their shadows racing across a rolling landscape of wheat field and meadow. Strung out in twos and threes along the track, the children walked and chattered. Gulls wheeled and soared, or floated like scraps of paper on the water far below. A jet, miles high, drew a thin white line across the sky.

Lisa flung out her arms and laughed. ‘Lovely!’ she cried. ‘Don’t you think it’s lovely, Fliss – the smells? All this space?’

Fliss nodded. ‘I was just thinking about the others, stuck in school having boring lessons, and us here enjoying ourselves.’ She looked at her watch. ‘We’d be in French now.’

‘Did you have to mention that?’ scowled Lisa. ‘Trying to spoil my day, I know.’

‘No, I’m not. I think it makes it better, thinking about where you’d be if you weren’t here. It makes you appreciate it more.’

‘Yeah, well, I can appreciate it without having to think about French, thank you very much. Are you still bothered about that dream, by the way?’

Fliss looked at her friend. ‘Now who’s trying to spoil whose day?’ She thought for a while. ‘No, I’m not worried. Not at the moment. Not here. It’s like I told you – in broad daylight all that sort of stuff seems daft. You say to yourself, it was just a dream, and you believe it. It’s when you’re in bed at night and everything’s quiet that you start wondering. Anyway, I don’t want to think about it now. What kind of bird’s that?’ She pointed. ‘The black one with a grey head. I’ve seen a few of them today.’

Lisa shrugged. ‘I don’t know. I’m no good at birds. Ask Mrs Evans.’

Fliss looked behind. ‘Where is Mrs Evans – I thought she was walking at the back?’

‘She was. We must be going too fast for her or something. Either that or she’s fallen off the cliff. Anyway, you could ask Mrs Marriott instead – she’s just up there.’

Fliss giggled. ‘You mean it doesn’t matter if Mrs Evans has fallen into the sea, because she’s not the only one who can identify birds?’

‘No, you div – I never said that. Anyway, she won’t have fallen, will she? We’ve left her behind, that’s all. She hasn’t kept up like old Hepworth said – I wonder if he’ll make her write an apology?’

‘Will he heck! D’you think we should tell somebody?’

‘Can if you want. Mrs Marriott’s just up there.’

Fliss put on a spurt, swerved past Helen Smith and Robert Field, and touched the teacher’s shoulder.

‘Miss.’

Mrs Marriott turned her head. ‘What is it, Felicity?’

‘We can’t see Mrs Evans, Miss. She was at the back, and now she’s disappeared. We thought we should mention it, Miss.’

‘Hmm.’ Mrs Marriott looked back over the quarter mile or so of track which was visible from where they were standing. Children passed them, leaving the path to do so. ‘Thank you, Felicity. D’you think you could catch up with Mr Hepworth – tell him I sent you and ask him to stop the walk? She’s probably just fallen behind, but I think perhaps we ought to wait for her.’

‘Yes, Miss.’

She set off along the track, weaving in and out among her classmates. One or two called after her, demanding to know where she thought she was going or what the rush was about but she ignored them, going at a steady jog and keeping her eyes on Mr Hepworth.

She was still a couple of hundred metres behind him when he stopped and looked back. She waved and shouted, ‘Sir – Sir!’ and to her relief he raised his hand, halting the column, and stood watching her approach.

‘What is it, Felicity?’ he asked, as she came panting up to him. She told him and he shaded his eyes with his hand, peering back the way they’d come.

‘Hmm. Well. She’s nowhere in sight – probably twisted an ankle or something and fallen behind. We’ll wait here a minute or two, and if she doesn’t show up I’ll go back and have a look.’

The line shortened, as those further back caught up and stopped. The children milled about, wondering what was happening, and a girl called out, ‘Is this where we eat our lunch, Sir?’

Mr Hepworth shook his head. ‘No, Samantha Varley, it is not. We’re waiting for Mrs Evans, who has fallen behind a bit.’ He said something quietly to Mrs Marriott, who came along the line counting heads.

‘One missing,’ she called. ‘Is it Ellie-May? I don’t think I’ve seen her.’

‘It is, Miss,’ said Haley Denton. ‘I saw her dropping back, ages ago.’

‘That’s probably it, then,’ said Mr Hepworth. ‘Ellie-May fell behind and Mrs Evans is walking with her. I thought she wasn’t looking too bright, back at the hotel.’ He looked at his watch. ‘We’ll give them five minutes, then I’ll set off back. Take your packs off and sit down – we might as well take a breather while we can.’

Fliss went back to sit with Lisa, but she hadn’t been sitting for more than a minute when one of the boys yelled, ‘They’re coming, Sir!’

Everybody watched as the two figures approached. When they reached the place where Fliss and Lisa were sitting, Mrs Evans said, ‘Now then, Ellie-May. You sit with Felicity and Lisa. They’ll look after you.’ She smiled, putting Ellie-May’s knapsack, which she’d been carrying, on the grass. ‘Ellie-May’s not feeling very well, girls. You’ll look after her, won’t you?’

‘Yes, Miss.’

‘I knew you would.’ She smiled again and moved on, murmuring, ‘Sensible girls. Nice, sensible girls.’

Ellie-May looked awful. Her cheeks were white and there were dark smudges, like bruises, under her eyes. She sat down. ‘I couldn’t keep up,’ she growled. ‘I tried, but I went all dizzy. Silly Mrs Evans made me sit with my head between my knees for a bit and I had to drink tea from her flask. It tasted awful. As soon as I felt a bit better we set off after you at about fifty miles an hour, and now I feel rotten again.’

‘Mrs Evans is nice,’ said Lisa. ‘She carried your pack, didn’t she? What’s the matter with you anyway – tummy bug or something?’

Ellie-May scowled. ‘I don’t know, do I, fathead? Why do you ask such stupid questions?’

‘Hey, Sunderland!’ A group of boys was sitting nearby. One of them, David Trotter, grinned across at Ellie-May. ‘If you didn’t go creeping about in the middle of the night, we wouldn’t have to hang around waiting for you when we’re supposed to be out walking.’

Ellie-May shook her head. ‘I don’t know what you’re talking about. I don’t creep around. I was asleep all night.’

‘Ooh, you lying so-and-so! I saw you. Half-past two, it was. You’d been to the top floor. You came down on to our landing and disappeared down the stairs. I was watching you from the bathroom.’

‘No, you weren’t, you spaz. You couldn’t. I never left the room, so there!’

‘Blue pyjamas with rabbits on, right?’

‘Shut up. I don’t know what you’re on about.’

‘I’m on about your pyjamas. You’ve got blue ones with rabbits on, haven’t you?

‘So what?’

‘So how would I know that if I didn’t see you?’

‘I dunno. Maybe you were on the stairs or something when I was getting ready for bed. Maybe it’s you that creeps about in the night.’

Fliss sat chewing on a grass stalk, gazing out to sea. She was thinking about last night. The noises from the cupboard. The footsteps. Lisa had said it was a dream and she’d tried to believe it was, but there was the water on the bathroom floor, and now this. She’d heard footsteps in the small hours, and Ellie-May had been seen coming down the stairs in pyjamas. Pyjamas with rabbits on them. So maybe it wasn’t a dream, but if it wasn’t a dream what was it? Had Ellie-May been in the cupboard last night? Was that possible? It was where the noises had come from, but then what about the number? If the noises were real so was the number, yet it wasn’t there this morning. And anyway, why would anyone be in a cupboard at two in the morning? The whole thing was crazy. Unless –

She shivered.

‘RIGHT – THIS’LL DO nicely,’ said Mr Hepworth. They’d reached a grassy hollow where the land ran down in a gentle slope to a cliff which was neither sheer nor high. The grass was very green and quite short, and the children sat down on it and took out their lunch-packs. Friends sat together, and the three teachers found a spot near the top of the slope from which they could see what everybody was doing.

Fliss grabbed Lisa’s elbow and steered her away from the group she’d been about to join. ‘I’ve got to talk to you,’ she hissed. Ellie-May stood, wondering whether to go with them or stay with the group. Fliss turned and called, ‘See you in a bit, Ellie-May – OK?’

Ellie-May nodded. ‘Sure.’ She sat down between Haley and Bobby Tuke. If people didn’t want her around she wasn’t going to worry about it.

‘What’s up?’ said Lisa, when they’d got settled.

Fliss swallowed a mouthful of fishpaste sandwich. ‘You heard what Trotter said back there. About her?’ She nodded towards Ellie-May, who was sitting with her back to them.

Lisa nodded. ‘I think he made it up. He’s like that.’

Fliss shook her head. ‘I don’t. I heard footsteps, didn’t I? I think it was Ellie-May, and I think she was in that cupboard when I went to the bathroom.’

Her friend looked at her. ‘Don’t be silly, Fliss! It was a dream. Why would Ellie-May sit in a cupboard in the middle of the night, making funny noises? Why would anybody? And how could a door have a number on it at midnight, and none in the morning? You’re barmy.’

‘No, I’m not. What about the water on the bathroom floor?’

‘Anybody could have squirted water on the floor. People do it on purpose, don’t they?’

‘Well, what about Ellie-May, then – what d’you think’s wrong with her?’

Lisa shrugged. I dunno. I’m not a doctor, am I? Maybe she’s got food-poisoning, which we all will after these rotten sandwiches.’ She pulled a face, chewing. ‘Why – what do you think’s wrong, Doctor Morgan?’

‘I think something happened to her in that cupboard. I wasn’t dreaming at all. I know that now. I’m off over to talk to Trot.’

She got up and went over to where David Trotter was sitting with a group of his friends. The boys stopped talking at her approach and squinted up at her, shielding their eyes with their hands. ‘What do you want, mong-features?’ asked Gary Bazzard, through a mouthful of something pink. Fliss ignored him. ‘Can I have a word please, Trot?’

‘Trot!’ whooped Richard Varley. ‘What is she, Trot – your girlfriend or something?’

Trotter blushed. ‘Is she heck.’ He scowled up at Fliss. ‘What about?’

‘I’ll tell you over there.’ She nodded towards a vacant spot on the slope. The others laughed. ‘Watch her, Trot,’ said Bazzard, ‘she’s after you.’

The red-faced boy scrambled to his feet. ‘Come on then,’ he growled. ‘And it better be important or I’ll chuck you off the cliff.’

They moved away from the others, and Fliss told him what she’d seen and heard in the night, linking it with what he’d seen and with Ellie-May’s present condition. The boy glanced across at Ellie-May once or twice while she was speaking, and when she’d finished he nodded. ‘OK. It all fits, and she looks rough, no doubt about that. But what I don’t get is, why would she go up two floors and into a cupboard in the first place, and if she did, and something happened to her there – something bad – why hasn’t she told one of the teachers?’

Fliss shrugged. ‘I don’t know, Trot, but there’s something funny going on, isn’t there?’

‘Maybe. But what d’you want me to do about it?’

‘I don’t want you to do anything. Not by yourself. I’m thinking of keeping watch tonight to see if Ellie-May goes walkabout again. I think Lisa will join me. Will you?’

‘I dunno. It seems daft to me. I mean, a cupboard. I ask you – what could there be in a cupboard, Felicity?’

‘Fliss.’

‘What?’

‘Fliss. Call me Fliss.’

‘Oh, I see. What could be in a cupboard, Fliss?’

‘Who knows?’ She chuckled. ‘The point is, dare you keep watch with us and find out?’

‘How d’you mean, dare I? D’you think I’m scared or something?’

‘Could be.’

‘Well, I’m not, I can tell you that.’

‘Prove it. Watch with us.’

‘OK, if Gary can come too.’

‘How d’you know he wants to?’

‘I don’t, yet. He doesn’t know anything about it, but he’ll want to be in on it when he does. Can I tell him?’

Fliss sighed. ‘I suppose so. But get him by himself, right? We don’t want the whole flipping class stampeding around in the middle of the night, or nothing will happen at all.’

The boy smiled. ‘I don’t think it will anyway.’

‘Well, we’ll see, won’t we?’ said Fliss.

SOMEWHERE BETWEEN LUNCH and Runswick Bay, David must have filled his friend in on the events of the night before, and on Fliss’s plan for that night. As he passed her seat on the coach, Gary bent down and whispered, ‘OK – I’m in. Talk to you later.’

Clouds rolled in after tea, threatening rain. Team games on the beach were cancelled, and everybody went to their rooms to write up the day’s activity. Each child was keeping a sort of log or diary of the visit, in which points of interest were to be recorded. Fliss wrote for a while, then got up and looked out of the window. The old woman was there watching the hotel. Fliss resolved to ask Mrs Wilkinson about her. She sat down again on her bunk, chewing the end of her pencil and reading through what she had written.

‘Tuesday. Staithes and Runswick Bay. Nothing happened on coach. Looked at scenery. Staithes old-fashioned and sort of dark with hills and cliffs all round. Mr Hepworth told us about the headless ghost but we didn’t see it. We didn’t see Captain Cook’s shop either because it is under the sea. Crab pots everywhere. I had an ice-lolly and Mrs Marriott took our photo.’

‘How d’you spell “excitement”?’ asked Marie from her perch on the top bunk.

‘Why – what’re you writing about?’

‘Mrs Evans. I’m putting, “There was a bit of excitement when we thought Mrs Evans had fallen off the cliff, but she’d only fallen behind, which was boring.’”

‘You’re not.’

‘I am.’

‘I wouldn’t be you, then. It’s E-X-C-I-T-E-M-E-N-T.’

‘Ta.’

Fliss knew she should write more, but she couldn’t concentrate. If Lisa and the two boys were to watch with her tonight, they’d have to get together sometime this evening and sort out details, like where they’d meet and at what time.

She listened. Beyond the door, everything seemed quiet. Nobody was on the landing or the stairs. She wondered what the teachers were doing. If they were busy, she and Lisa might be able to slip down to the next floor and have a quick meeting with the boys. It was strictly forbidden to visit other people’s rooms, but they’d have to risk it. She put her book and pencil on the bed and went to the door.

‘Where you going?’ asked Maureen.

‘Toilet,’ she lied, opening the door and looking out. The landing was deserted. She slipped out, closed the door and knocked on the door of room eleven.

‘Who is it?’ Samantha’s voice.

‘Fliss. Is Lisa there?’

‘Yes. Just a minute.’

Voices beyond the door. Fliss glanced towards the cupboard. No number. Door eleven opened and Lisa looked out. ‘Come on,’ whispered Fliss.

‘Where? I’m halfway through my log.’

‘Trot’s room. Make plans. Quiet.’

‘OK.’

They tiptoed down the stairs, listening for teachers. There was nobody on the landing below. Doors seven and eight were closed.

‘Which is theirs?’ hissed Lisa.

‘Seven. Watch the stairs while I knock.’

Lisa watched and listened. Fliss knocked.

‘Who’s there?’ It sounded like Gary’s voice.

‘Fliss. Open up, quick.’

Footsteps approached the door. It opened a crack. An eye peered out. ‘On your own, are you?’

‘Me and Lisa. Hurry up.’

The door opened. Gary and David came out. ‘Aren’t we using your room?’ Fliss asked.

‘No chance. Barry and Richard’re in there. They know nothing about this. It’ll have to be the bathroom.’

They slipped into the bathroom, and Gary pushed the door-catch into place. ‘We’ll have to make it quick,’ he whispered. ‘Somebody’s bound to want the toilet before long, and anyway I haven’t started my log yet.’

They made their plans swiftly. They would go to bed at nine as normal, and wait till their room-mates fell asleep. That should be earlier than last night because they’d had a long, tiring walk. At twenty-five past eleven exactly they’d get out of bed. They wouldn’t dress for fear of waking somebody. They would leave their rooms and meet in the top-floor bathroom, room twelve, at half-past eleven. From there they would be able to keep watch on the stair-top, landing and cupboard. It would be impossible for anyone to reach the cupboard without being seen, and if anything odd happened to the door itself, like the number thirteen suddenly appearing on it, they’d see that too.

This settled, the four split up and returned to their rooms. It wasn’t until Fliss was lying in bed at half-past nine, listening to Marie and the twins, that she realized nobody had thought about what they’d do if Ellie-May did appear. She lay, worrying about this and looking at her watch every minute or two, as her room-mates chattered on.

IT WAS NEARLY eleven o’clock before the girls in room ten stopped talking and three of them fell asleep. Fliss lay absolutely still, listening to their breathing, and almost drifted off herself. When she realized what was happening she shook her head, blinked rapidly and looked at her watch.

Twenty-three twenty. Ten minutes to zero. Now that it was nearly time she didn’t fancy it one bit. The cold, dark landing. The door of the linen cupboard, upon which the number thirteen might at this very moment be materializing. The prospect of footfalls on the stair.

And I was the one who suggested it, she reminded herself. I must have been crazy.

Well, anyway, it was too late now. It was her plan and she was stuck with it. She squinted at her watch again. Twenty-three twenty-seven. Three minutes to zero. What she’d do was, she’d listen for the others arriving. One of the others, at least. She didn’t want to be the first. She knew that if she opened the door and found herself alone on the landing, just a metre or so from that creepy cupboard, she’d have the door shut and be back under the covers so quick her feet wouldn’t touch the floor.

Listen. A creak somewhere. Somewhere a tick. The house, settling. Twenty-three twenty-nine, and no footsteps. Perhaps nobody’ll turn up. Maybe they’ve fallen asleep. I nearly did. And if they have, it’s off. There’s no way I’m watching alone. No way. Please God, let them be asleep.

Zero hour, and listen – somebody’s coming. Somebody’s right outside the door, breathing. Waiting. And there – there goes a whisper, so there’s two of them at least and they’re whispering about me – asking where I am.

Asleep, that’s where I am, so leave me. Let me sleep. There’s three of you. You don’t need me. You don’t need me, do you? Do you?

Twenty-three thirty-one. Zero plus one. They’re listening at the door, and they know you’re not asleep. They can hear you breathing – looking at your watch. They can hear your heart.

My idea. My plan. My own stupid fault in other words. OK, OK. I’m coming. Here I come.

She got out of bed, tiptoed across the sandy carpet and stood with her ear to the door, listening to the sounds of stealthy movement beyond. Behind her, the three girls slept on. She twisted the knob and eased the door open. It squeaked, and somebody outside went, ‘Sssh!’ She looked across. Three pale figures were watching her from the bathroom doorway.

‘Where the heck have you been?’ hissed Lisa, as Fliss joined them. ‘We’ve been here ages.’

‘Sorry. I think I must have dropped off to sleep. Is anything happening?’

She looked towards the cupboard but there was no number. Trot shook his head. ‘Nothing yet. Look, let’s get inside and close the door except for a crack to look through. And no more talking, right?’

They stood on the cold plastic tiles, peering over one another’s shoulders. The rain which had threatened earlier was now falling. Cloud hid the moon, so that the windows on the half-landings gave almost no light. Fliss shivered, wishing she had her dressing-gown and slippers, or better still, that she was where they were, in her bedroom at home.

Somewhere a clock chimed. ‘What time’s that?’ whispered Gary. ‘I forgot my flipping watch.’

Fliss looked at hers. ‘Twenty-three forty-five – quarter to twelve.’

‘Good grief, is that all? It feels like we’ve been here for ever.’ He withdrew from the doorway and walked up and down, hugging himself and shivering. Trot and Lisa drew back too, leaving Fliss to watch.

Nothing happened. After a while she said, ‘Hey, how about somebody else taking a turn here? I need to get warm too.’

‘I’ll do it,’ volunteered Lisa. Fliss went and stood on one leg beside the bath, resting a cold foot on its rim in order to massage some warmth into it. After a while she swapped over and rubbed the other foot.

Presently they heard the distant chimes again. Midnight. They looked at one another and drifted towards the door. As they did so, Lisa let out a stifled cry and pointed. ‘Look.’ They looked. The cupboard was room thirteen.

‘Oh, wow,’ moaned Gary. ‘It’s real. I thought it was a dream, but it’s real.’

‘You scared then?’ Trot’s words carried a challenge, but his voice came out a croak.

‘I told you, didn’t I?’ breathed Fliss. ‘I told you it wasn’t a dream.’

‘Oh, Fliss,’ whimpered Lisa. ‘Oh, my God, what am I doing here?’ Fliss put an arm round her friend and squeezed. ‘It’s OK, Lisa. Take it easy. It’s just a door with a number on it, right? We don’t have to go in there or anything. We don’t even have to go near it, for goodness sake.’ She looked at the others. ‘What now?’

‘Listen!’ Trot was watching the stairs. ‘I think someone’s coming.’

‘Oh, no!’ Gary crammed all of his fingers in his mouth and stood, gazing at the stair-top and shaking his head.

There came the unmistakable sound of footfalls slowly ascending, and a pale shape came into view. Trot grabbed Fliss’s arm. ‘It’s Ellie-May.’

‘Sssh!’

‘But shouldn’t we try to stop her? Look where she’s going for heaven’s sake.’

‘No!’ Fliss shook her head. ‘She’s asleep, I think – sleepwalking, and you’re not supposed to wake sleepwalkers. We’ll watch what happens and tell the teachers in the morning.’

Lisa looked at her. ‘That was part of the plan, was it?’

‘Yes.’ It wasn’t, of course. She hadn’t even considered what they might do if events reached this stage. She only knew she couldn’t leave this bathroom right now to save her life. Hers, or anybody else’s.

They watched. Ellie-May crossed the landing to the cupboard door and reached for the knob. She hesitated for a moment with her hand on it, then twisted and pushed. The watchers peered intently as the door swung inward, but from where they were they couldn’t see anything beyond it except darkness. They watched Ellie-May walk into that darkness and close the door.

‘Phew!’ Gary moved from the door again, shaking his head. ‘I don’t get it, Trot. What does she do in there?’

The other boy shrugged. ‘I don’t know, do I?’

‘Does anybody fancy having a look?’ whispered Lisa.

Gary looked at her. ‘Do you?’ She shook her head.

‘I think we should wait here till she comes out,’ said Fliss.

They waited. Half-past twelve came, and a quarter to one. They didn’t take turns now but huddled together, watching the door through eyes that burned, while their feet grew numb. From time to time, faint sounds reached them from beyond the door: sounds which might have made them shiver, even if they had not been cold. It was almost a quarter-past one when the noises ceased, and a few minutes after that when the door opened and Ellie-May reappeared. They watched as she closed the door, crossed the landing and slipped away down the stairs.

‘Well,’ breathed Gary, ‘what now?’

‘I vote we go get old Hepworth,’ said Trot, ‘and let him have a look in that cupboard.’

‘No.’ Fliss shook her head. ‘What if Ellie-May wasn’t sleepwalking at all? What if she’s been up to something in there – something she shouldn’t? We don’t know, do we? If we fetch Mr Hepworth we could land her in serious trouble.’

Lisa gazed at her friend. ‘Ellie-May’s always getting other kids in trouble,’ she said. ‘I don’t think we should worry too much about that.’

Gary nodded. ‘I’m with Lisa,’ he said.

‘Me too,’ growled Trot. ‘There’s something weird going on here, Fliss. We can’t keep it to ourselves. Not when Ellie-May might be in danger.’

Fliss nodded. ‘OK. I wasn’t suggesting we keep it to ourselves indefinitely – just till morning. I’ll have a word with Ellie-May before breakfast. Tell her we saw her. Ask her what she was doing. Then, if she doesn’t come up with a satisfactory explanation we bring in the teachers. How’s that?’

Gary shrugged. ‘Sounds fair enough to me. Give her a chance to explain.’

‘All right,’ said Lisa.

‘OK,’ sighed Trot. ‘I’m too shattered to argue anyway.’

They left the bathroom and tiptoed away to their beds, but dawn was breaking over the sea before any one of them slept.

‘FLISS – HEY, FLISS!’ Somebody was shaking her roughly. She opened her eyes to find Marie grinning down at her. ‘Come on, lazybones – you’re going to be late for breakfast and it’s the abbey today.’

‘Mmm.’ She pulled up the covers and turned her head away. ‘Leave me here,’ she mumbled. ‘I just want to sleep for ever.’

‘You’ll write apologies for ever if you make us late. Everybody else has finished in the bathroom and some have gone downstairs.’

Bathroom. Last night. Something she said she’d do. ‘Oh, crikey!’ She threw back the covers, leapt out of bed and grabbed her towel. ‘Listen, Marie – will you do me a favour?’

‘What?’

‘Make my bed while I get washed? I’m supposed to see Ellie-May. I wanted to catch her before she went downstairs. Please?’

‘OK.’ Marie smiled. ‘Just this once. Go on.’

Fliss ran across the landing, forgetting in her haste to check the linen cupboard door. She washed rapidly, splashing a lot of water about. It doesn’t seem two minutes since I was in here before, she thought.

When she returned to room ten her bed was neatly made and Marie had gone. She pulled on some clothes, dragged a comb through her hair and headed for the stairs. Five past eight. Breakfast was at eight o’clock. Ellie-May would be in the dining-room by now, with no empty place at her table, and Lisa and the boys would be cursing her for being last again.

The third-floor landing was deserted, which meant that Trot and Gary had gone down. The next floor was Ellie-May’s. Fliss ran down the stairs and nearly bumped into Mrs Evans and Mr Hepworth, who were talking in the doorway of room four. She slowed down and tried to creep past, but Mrs Evans said, ‘Stop, Felicity Morgan. Come here.’

‘Yes, Miss?’

‘Yes, Miss? I’ll give you “yes, Miss”. What time do you call this?’

‘Five past eight, Miss.’

‘Nearly six minutes past, actually. And what time’s breakfast?’

‘Eight o’clock, Miss.’

‘Exactly. So you’re six minutes late. And you were running. Why were you running, Felicity?’

‘’Cause I’m six minutes late, Miss.’

‘Don’t be cheeky! You’ve broken two rules already. Mrs Marriott will be in the dining-room. Tell her Ellie-May’s not well, and that Mr Hepworth and I will be down in a minute. Have you got that?’

‘Yes, Miss.’

‘Off you go then. And think on – I’ll be watching you, Felicity.’

She hurried on down. She didn’t run, but her mind was racing. Ellie-May’s not well and there are two teachers outside her room. She’s in bed, then. That means I won’t get to talk to her, so what do we do – keep quiet about last night, or tell the teachers? Tell, I suppose.

Everybody was eating cornflakes. Trot gave her a dirty look as she walked in. Mrs Marriott was sitting alone at the teachers’ table, chewing watchfully.

Fliss delivered her message, and was sent down to the kitchen to apologize to Mrs Wilkinson for being late, and to ask if she might have some cornflakes. As the woman shook cereal into a bowl for her, Fliss said, ‘There’s an old lady sits in the shelter across the road. She seems to be there all the time. Who is she?’

Mrs Wilkinson smiled, pouring milk. ‘You must mean old Sal,’ she said. ‘Sally Haggerlythe. She’s mad, I’m afraid. Got some sort of bee in her bonnet about this place – mumbles on about fate and doom and dread and I don’t know what. I’d steer clear of old Sal if I were you.’

Fliss said nothing, but thought it might be interesting sometime to have a word with mad Sal Haggerlythe.

She carried her cereal bowl to the dining-room and slipped into the only empty place. None of the other three was at her table, but two tables away sat Gary, facing her. He was looking at her with an expression which was angry and questioning at the same time.

She began mouthing at him, voicelessly, exaggerating her lip-movements and pointing to the ceiling. She’s in bed, she mouthed. Sick. I didn’t get to talk to her. She spread her hands, palms upward, and shrugged. What do we do?

Gary might have been good at all sorts of things, but lip-reading wasn’t one of them. He glared at Fliss, scowling and shaking his head. She began again, even more slowly, stretching her lips and jabbing at the ceiling, then bent forward, goggle-eyed, clutching her throat and shooting out her tongue as if puking into her bowl.

‘What on earth’s the matter with you, Felicity Morgan?’ Mrs Marriott was looking at her as though at a lunatic.

‘She’s lost her marbles, Miss,’ said Gary, and some of the kids sniggered.

‘Nobody asked you, Gary Bazzard. Well, Felicity?’

‘I had a bit of cornflake stuck in my throat, Miss. It’s gone now.’

‘I’m glad about that,’ said the teacher, acidly, ‘because, you see, the rest of us have finished our cornflakes and Mr Wilkinson is waiting to clear, so that Mrs Wilkinson can serve sausages and bacon before they go cold.’

‘Yes, Miss.’

She spooned cereal into her mouth and chewed, keeping her head down. Everybody was looking at her. She could feel their eyes. She ate distractedly, thinking about mad Sal and the whispering voice of her dream. It seemed like hours before her bowl was empty.

When everybody had finished breakfast, Mrs Evans stood up and said, ‘Now – I want you all to go back to your rooms and get ready for our walk. We’re running a bit late, so you haven’t got long. I’d like everybody in the lounge, kitted up and ready to go, by nine o’clock. What time did I say, Felicity Morgan?’

‘Nine o’clock, Miss.’

‘Right. Table one, off you go.’

Felicity’s was the last table to be dismissed, but the others were waiting for her outside Gary and Trot’s room on the third landing.

‘What was that pantomime you were putting on for me down there?’ demanded Gary. ‘I couldn’t make head nor tail of it.’ He was holding the giant stick of rock, which he’d sucked almost to a point at one end. He sucked it now as he gazed at Fliss. She shuddered.

‘I don’t know how you can,’ she said, ‘straight after breakfast. Mrs Evans and old Hepworth were by Ellie-May’s door when I came down, so I didn’t get to see her. That’s what I was trying to tell you.’

‘The point is, what do we do?’ said Lisa.

Trot looked at Fliss. ‘There’s nobody by Ellie-May’s door now, is there? The teachers are all downstairs. You could go and talk to her, like you were going to.’

Fliss shook her head. ‘The other kids’re there. She wouldn’t tell me anything in front of them, would she?’

‘I reckon we’ll just have to tell about last night,’ said Gary. ‘She was poorly yesterday, and now she’s worse. Who knows what might happen if we keep it to ourselves? I think you should go to Mr Hepworth, Fliss.’

‘Why me?’

Gary grinned. ‘He’d never believe me, nobody does, but he’ll believe you. And anyway, the whole thing was your idea, wasn’t it – keeping watch and that?’

‘All right.’ Fliss nodded. ‘But I still wish we could have talked to Ellie-May first.’

She found Mr Hepworth in the downstairs hallway, handing out packed lunches. There was a queue. Fliss tagged on the end. When she got to the front she took the little packet he offered and said, ‘Sir, can I have a word? It’s about Ellie-May.’

‘What about Ellie-May?’ Kids were waiting in line behind her and he was anxious to give out the rest of the lunches.

‘It’s about what’s wrong with her, Sir.’

‘And what’s that to do with you, Felicity?’

‘Sir, I think I know why she’s ill.’

‘Indeed? It’s Doctor Morgan now, is it? Go on then – why is Ellie-May ill?’

‘She goes in the cupboard on the top floor, Sir. At night. I heard her on Monday night, and David Trotter saw her. And last night four of us kept watch and she went in again.’

Mr Hepworth looked at her. ‘Are you trying to wind me up, Felicity Morgan? Ellie-May Sunderland’s a sensible girl. Why on earth would she be creeping about in the middle of the night, getting into cupboards? I never heard anything so daft in my life.’ He smiled thinly. ‘Just as a matter of interest, who were the three who kept this watch with you?’

‘Lisa Watmough, Sir, And David Trotter and Gary Bazzard.’

‘Ah! I thought Gary Bazzard’s name might crop up. He put you up to this, didn’t he?’

‘No, Sir. We saw her, Sir, honestly. There was a thirteen on the door and it’s not there in the daytime.’

The teacher’s lips twitched. ‘And somebody lives in the cupboard, right? Now let me guess who that might be.’ He looked at the ceiling for a moment, then slapped his hands together. ‘I know – it’s Dracula, isn’t it?’

Fliss gazed at him, appalled. ‘D’you – d’you think it could be, Sir?’

Mr Hepworth looked at her. The smile faded from his eyes. ‘Good heavens, Felicity, I do believe you’re serious. Somebody’s frightened you half to death, haven’t they? Now who’s been telling you stories, eh? Gary Bazzard, was it?’

‘No, Sir. It’s not a story, Sir. Honestly. Will you have a look in the cupboard?’

The teacher sighed, gazing at her now with sympathetic eyes. ‘All right, Felicity. I’ll have a look, and you’d better look too. A cupboard’s just a cupboard, as you’ll see.’ He looked along the line of waiting children. ‘Waseem – come and give out the rest of these lunches, will you?’

‘Sir.’

Together they climbed to the top of the house and crossed the landing. Fliss hung back as Mr Hepworth twisted the doorknob and pulled. Nothing happened. ‘It’s locked,’ he said.

‘You pulled, Sir,’ said Fliss. ‘Try pushing.’

‘There’s no point, Felicity – it opens outwards.’

‘Ellie-May pushed it last night, Sir.’

‘But that’s impossible, Felicity. It’s made to open outwards – you can tell by the hinges.’

‘Get the key, Sir – please.’

He sighed. ‘If it’s locked now, it must have been locked last night. I think you had a nightmare, Felicity. You dreamed you were watching, but you were asleep. Dreams can seem very real sometimes, but if it’ll set your mind at rest I’ll go and ask Mrs Wilkinson for the key. Wait here.’

She waited till he turned on the half-landing and passed from sight, then followed quickly, seizing her chance.

The door of room four was closed. Fliss twisted the knob and pushed gently, praying that neither Mrs Evans nor Mrs Marriott would be in the room.

They weren’t. The room, like her own, contained a double bed and a pair of bunks. Ellie-May was in the bottom bunk. She lay on her back with her eyes closed. Her face was almost as white as the pillow. Fliss knelt down and touched her shoulder.

‘Ellie-May. Are you awake? It’s Fliss.’

Ellie-May’s eyelids fluttered. She rolled her head towards Fliss and mumbled, ‘What? Oh, it’s you. I thought everybody’d gone out. What d’you want?’

‘I want you to tell me what happens in that cupboard, Ellie-May. I want you to tell Mr Hepworth too.’

Ellie-May’s brow puckered. ‘Cupboard?’

‘On the top floor. You went there last night. We saw you.’

‘No.’ She shook her head. ‘Nowhere last night. Here. Not very well. Flu, Mrs Evans says. Tablets make me sleepy. Give me dreams.’

‘What sort of dreams?’ she tightened her grip on the other girl’s shoulder. ‘What sort of dreams, Ellie-May?’

Ellie-May grimaced. ‘Horrible dreams. Dark house. Empty, I think. Stairs. Lots of stairs, and a room. The room of – oh, I forget. Why don’t you bog off and leave me alone? I’m off to sleep.’ She rolled her head towards the wall, and the movement exposed the side of her neck. Fliss’s eyes widened and she almost cried out. In the pale skin under Ellie-May’s ear were two spots of dried blood.

AS SHE STARED at the marks on the sick girl’s neck, Fliss heard footfalls on the stair. Mr Hepworth was on his way up with the key. She didn’t know whether to rush out and drag him in now, or wait till he’d seen inside the cupboard. The cupboard, she decided. Once he’d had a look in there he surely wouldn’t need any dragging.

She waited till he’d passed by, then left the room and followed him up. When she reached the top landing he was there, dangling a key on a piece of thick string. He said, ‘Where’ve you been? I told you to wait here.’

‘I had to go to the bathroom, Sir. I was scared to use this one.’

He looked at her and shook his head. ‘Silly girl. Now watch.’

He inserted the key in the lock, twisted it and pulled. The door opened. Fliss saw darkness and hung back. The teacher beckoned. ‘Come along, Felicity – you’re the one who thought we should look inside.’ She moved forward and looked.

It was just a cupboard. A walk-in cupboard with a narrow gangway between tiers of shelving. Stacked neatly on the shelves were sheets, pillowcases and towels. Two metres from the threshold, the gangway ended in a blank wall. There was nothing else.

‘There you are, you see.’ Mr Hepworth closed and re-locked the door. ‘No bats, no monsters and no number thirteen. Does that make you feel better?’

Fliss shook her head. ‘It’s different at night, Sir. It changes. Could you keep the key and look tonight?’

‘Certainly not!’ He gave her an angry look. ‘Now see here, Felicity – this nonsense has gone quite far enough. You asked me to come up here. I was busy, but I came. You asked me to fetch the key. I did. You’ve seen for yourself that this is just an ordinary cupboard. Either you had a nightmare in which it became something else, or this whole thing has been a silly prank dreamed up by Gary Bazzard. Either way, it stops right here. D’you understand?’

Fliss nodded, looking at the floor. There was an aching lump in her throat and she had to bite her lip to keep from crying. What about Ellie-May? Those marks. What would he do if she mentioned them now? Go out of his tree, probably. Yet she must tell him. She must.

‘Sir?’

‘What is it now?’ He was striding towards the stairs.

She trotted at his heels. ‘Ellie-May’s got blood on her neck, Sir. Dried blood.’

They began descending, rapidly. Without looking at her he said, ‘Rubbish, Felicity Morgan! Absolute rubbish. One more word out of you, and you’ll find yourself writing lines this evening while everybody else goes swimming. Right?’

Right. Miserably, she followed him down. Everybody was out on the pavement, waiting for them, hacking at the flagstones with the toes of their strong boots and scowling into the hallway. All except Ellie-May.

Hallway – Ellie-May – Bed – Dread.

Dead.

THEY WALKED THROUGH the old town, up the one hundred and ninety-nine steps and across the graveyard to the abbey. They were in their groups, so Fliss didn’t get to talk to Lisa who, with Trot, was in Mrs Marriott’s group. She talked to Gary, who these days always smelled of peppermint. She told him how she’d seen inside the cupboard, and that it was just a cupboard. She told him how sick Ellie-May looked, and about the blood on her neck. When she told him about the blood, his cheeks went pale and he whispered, ‘Crikey – are you sure, Fliss?’ She assured him she was, absolutely sure.

He told her he’d overheard Mrs Evans and Mr Hepworth talking. Mrs Wilkinson had been there too. They were discussing Ellie-May. Mrs Evans said she thought they should phone Ellie-May’s parents. Mr Hepworth was in favour of waiting another day – it was probably just a touch of flu, he said. Mrs Wilkinson mentioned homesickness and the change of water. It happened all the time, she assured them. Children were in and out of The Crow’s Nest every week between Easter and October, and in nearly every group there was one child who grew pale and listless and lost its appetite through homesickness and the change of water.

‘I didn’t hear the end of it,’ said Gary, ‘but I think they decided to wait till tomorrow.’

Fliss scowled. ‘Grown-ups are so stupid,’ she muttered. ‘They never believe anything you tell them. If Ellie-May goes in that cupboard again tonight it might be too late to call her parents.’

‘What’re we going to do? Shall I have a go at talking to old Hepworth?’

‘No. I told you – he thinks the whole thing’s a tale and that it was you who made it up.’

‘Yeah,’ sighed Gary. ‘He would. I always get the blame for everything. It’s the same at home.’

‘When we’re looking round the abbey,’ said Fliss, ‘they won’t keep us in our groups. Let’s talk to Trot and Lisa – see what they think.’

There wasn’t much left of the abbey – just some crumbling sections of wall, very high in places, with tidy lawns between. There were a lot of sightseers though, including other school groups, and it was easy for Fliss and the other three to get together behind a chunk of ancient masonry and talk. Fliss told Trot and Lisa her story, and they tossed ideas back and forth. In the end it came to this. None of the teachers would believe them, so they were on their own. They were all agreed that Ellie-May must not be allowed to enter the cupboard again, so they’d watch and if she came they’d stop her, by force if necessary.

‘Right,’ said Fliss. ‘That’s settled. Now, d’you think we can forget about Ellie-May and that ghastly cupboard, just for a few hours, and have some fun? We’re supposed to be on holiday, you know.’

Gary pulled a wry face. ‘It won’t be easy, Fliss.’

Trot shrugged. ‘I’m scared as a rat thinking about tonight, but what’s the point? Fretting isn’t going to make it go away, so we might as well enjoy ourselves while we can.’

‘Trot’s right,’ said Lisa. ‘We’re on holiday. Let’s at least explore some of these ruins before the teachers get bored and call us together.’

They split up and wandered about, gazing at the walls and the high, slender windows. Fliss tried to imagine what the place must have looked like long ago, with a roof, and stained glass, and flagstones where all this grass now grew, but it was impossible. Anyway, she told herself, I like it better as it is now. You can see the sky. There are birds, and grass, and sunlight, and I don’t like gloomy places.

She shivered.

THEY STAYED AN hour among the ruins, then assembled for the clifftop walk to Saltwick Bay. It was just after eleven o’clock. The sun, which had shone brightly as they left The Crow’s Nest, was now a fuzzy pink ball. A cool breeze was coming off the sea, and the eastern horizon was hidden by mist.

Mr Hepworth gazed out to sea. ‘This mist is known as a sea-fret,’ he told them, ‘and sea-frets are very common on this coast. You probably feel a bit chilled just now, but once we start walking you’ll be all right.’ He turned and pointed. ‘That collection of buildings is the Coastguard Station. The path goes right past it, and that’s where this morning’s walk really begins. Who can tell us what coastguards do? Yes, Keith?’

‘Guard the coast, Sir.’

‘Well, yes. What sort of things do they look out for, d’you think?’

‘Shipwrecks, Sir. People drowning and that.’

‘That’s right. Vessels or persons in trouble at sea – including those silly beggars who keep getting themselves washed out on lilos and old tyres. They also watch for people stuck or injured on cliffs, and for distress rockets and signs of foul weather. Right – let’s go.’

They filed across the Abbey Plain and up past the Coastguard Station. The path was part of the Cleveland Way, and countless boots had churned it into sticky mud, permanent except in the longest dry spells. Because of this, duckboards had been laid down, so that most of the path between Whitby and Saltwick was under wooden slats.

‘What a weird track,’ said Maureen. ‘It’s like a raft that goes on for ever.’

‘I hope it doesn’t go on for ever,’ her twin retorted. ‘It kills your feet.’

It didn’t go on for ever. They’d been walking twenty-five minutes, on the flat and over stiles, when the boards ended and they found themselves on a tarmac road which went through the middle of a caravan holiday camp. Just beyond the camp was a muddy pathway which led from the clifftop to the beach. Mr Hepworth lifted his hand.

‘Right. This is Saltwick Bay.’ He looked at his watch. ‘It’s twenty-five to twelve, and if it stays fine we’ll be here till about half-past four, so there’s plenty of time. We’ll eat lunch at half-past twelve. In the meantime you may paddle, play on the sand, look for fossils in the cliff-face or collect shells and pebbles on the beach. You are not, repeat not, to do any of the following: sit down in the surf and get your clothing wet. Attempt to climb the cliff. Throw stones or other hard missiles. Murder one another. Chuck your best friend into the sea. Utter shrieks, bellows or similar prehistoric noises, or find a tiny child with a sandcastle and flatten the sandcastle, the tiny child, or both. Is that clear?’

It was.

The bay was sandy in some parts and rocky in others. Fliss and Lisa sat on a rock to remove their boots and socks, then ran down to the water’s edge, where they rolled up their jeans and waited for a wavelet to wash over their feet.

‘Ooh, it’s freezing!’ Fliss scampered clear and stood with her hands in her anorak pockets, curling her toes in the wet sand. Lisa gasped and screwed up her face but refused to budge. The wavelet spent itself and rushed back.

‘Hey, that’s weird!’ She flung out her arms for balance. ‘If you look down when the wave’s going back you seem to be sliding backwards up the beach at terrific speed – like skiing in reverse. I nearly fell over.’

‘I remember that from when I was little,’ said Fliss. ‘It happened the first time I ever paddled. I howled, and it was ages before my mum could get me in the sea again.’

‘There’s something else as well,’ laughed Lisa, as a second wavelet ran back. ‘The water washes the sand away from under your heels. It’s like a big hole opening up to swallow you. I bet that’s why you were frightened. Come and have a go.’

They played along the edge of the sea till it was half-past twelve and Mrs Evans called them to come and eat lunch. They sat on rocks and munched, burying their feet in the dry sand for warmth.

‘I’d no idea it was lunchtime,’ said Fliss. ‘We only seem to have been here about five minutes.’

‘That’s ’cause we’re having fun,’ Lisa replied. ‘If it was maths, it’d seem like five hours.’

Grant Cooper and Robert Field had been looking for fossils along the foot of the cliff. They’d dug some out and brought them back in a polythene bag. Mr Hepworth tipped them on a flat rock and spread them out. Everybody gathered round, and the teacher picked out the best specimens.

‘Look at this.’ He held up a slender, cylindrical object which came to a point at one end. ‘This is a belemnite. It lived in the sea millions of years ago and looked something like a squid.’

‘It looks something like a bullet now,’ observed Andrew Roberts. Mrs Evans gave him one of her looks.

‘And this one’s a gryphia, or devil’s toenail, to give it its popular name. It looks similar to a mussel, but it too lived millions of years ago. And this,’ he held up a thick disc with a curled pattern on it, ‘is an ammonite. It looks snail-like, and you might think it slithered slowly along the seabed but it didn’t. It swam, catching its food with its many tentacles.’

‘How do they know, Sir?’ asked Haley Denton.

‘Know what, Haley?’

‘That it swam about, Sir. There were no people then, and there are no ammerites or whatever now, so how do they know what it did?’

‘Ah – good question, Haley. Well, one thing they do is look at creatures which are built in a similar way, and are alive today. There’s a creature called the nautilus which is something like an ammonite. They know how it gets around, so they’re pretty sure the ammonite got around in a similar way. D’you see?’

‘Yes, Sir.’

When everything had been eaten and washed down with canned pop, the children went off in twos and threes to do whatever they felt like doing. It was a quarter-past one. The mist had thickened, blotting out the sun, and the breeze gusted spitefully, sharp with blown sand. The holidaymakers had withdrawn to their caravans, so that the children of Bottomtop Middle had the beach to themselves. They went barefoot, but did not remove their anoraks.

Fliss and Lisa ranged far along the tideline, looking for shells and fancy pebbles. They found no shells, except some blue-black fragments of broken mussel which they spurned. There were plenty of pebbles though, and some were quite pretty, especially when wet. They picked up the best ones, putting them in the bags they’d saved from lunch. It was absorbing work, and when Fliss finally looked up she was amazed to see how far they’d come.

‘Hey, look – we’re miles from anyone else. The teachers look like dots.’

‘That’s just how I like them,’ chuckled Lisa. ‘We can’t go any further, though – we’ve run out of beach.’

It was true. In front of them a great, dark headland jutted into the sea. Gulls skimmed screaming along the face of its cliff but the still air felt less cold.

‘There’s no wind here,’ said Fliss. ‘Let’s stay for a bit. Look – the tide’s swept all the rubbish into a corner like Mrs Clarke at school. There might be something good.’

They waded through the flotsam with their heads down, turning it over with their feet, exclaiming from time to time as some new find came to light. A lobster pot smashed in a storm. A clump of orange line, hopelessly tangled. A dead gull.

Fliss worked steadily along the base of the cliff, seeking mermaids and Spanish gold. She heard the hiss of surf on sand, and glanced up to find she d almost reached the sea. As she stood looking out, her eyes were drawn to a dark, spray-drenched rock, and to the bird which sat on it.

It was black, and it held out its ragged wings as though waiting for the wind to dry them. Fliss shivered as she gazed at it, feeling the magic drain out of the day. It reminded her of something. A witch perhaps, or a broken umbrella. Or the iron crow on the Gate of Fate.

WHEN FLISS AND Lisa got back, the teachers had already called everybody together for the return journey. It was only a quarter-past three, but the mist had thickened and there was a hint of drizzle in it. Some of the kids were sitting on rocks, drying their feet with gritty towels, pulling on socks and boots. Others stood waiting with their hoods up and bags of pebbles dangling at their sides. A small party, supervised by Mrs Evans, was picking up the last scraps of litter. Bottomtop Middle prided itself on the fact that whenever a group of its children vacated a site, they left no evidence that they had ever been there.

As they trudged up towards the path in the cliff, Fliss saw a large, slate-coloured pebble lying on the sand. Something about it appealed to her – its perfect oval shape perhaps, or its wonderful smoothness. She bent and picked it up. It was thick, and far heavier than she’d expected, and when she tried to add it to the collection in her polythene bag, it wouldn’t fit. She was cramming it in her anorak pocket when Mrs Evans, who was bringing up the rear, said, ‘Felicity – you don’t really want that, dear. It’s far too big. You’ll be crippled by the time you’ve carried it all the way back to Whitby, not to mention the fact that it’ll probably tear your pocket. Throw it away.’

Fliss was a quiet girl who never argued with her teachers, and so she surprised herself as well as Mrs Evans when she said, ‘I like it, Miss. I want to keep it.’

It was lucky for Fliss that Richard Varley chose that moment to leap on Barry Tune’s back. As the two boys fell on to the sand, Mrs Evans called sharply and hurried to separate them, and by the time she had done so the line of children was toiling up the cliff path. She had to put on a spurt to catch up, and the pebble incident was forgotten.

The rest of the walk back was uneventful, except that it started to rain in earnest which made the duckboards slippery. Several children fell, to the delight of the rest, who laughed and cheered their classmates’ misfortune.

By twenty to five they were back at The Crow’s Nest, drenched and happy. They were sent to their rooms to change and to write up their journals. It was during this interlude that Fliss and Lisa, Trot and Gary met briefly on the fourth-floor landing.

‘We all set for tonight?’ asked Fliss. She felt tense, and was amazed that for a few hours today she’d actually succeeded in forgetting about all of this.

The others nodded. ‘Same time, same place,’ said Trot. ‘And let’s hope nothing happens.’

‘Any news of Ellie-May?’ asked Lisa.

Gary shrugged. ‘I saw Mrs Marriott going into her room as I came up. Maybe they’ll call her parents to take her home or something.’

‘Oh, I wish they would,’ sighed Fliss. ‘I’m fed up of feeling scared.’

Trot nodded. ‘Me too.’

‘We all are,’ said Lisa. ‘Who wouldn’t be?’

After tea, everybody had to rest quietly for an hour in their rooms to let their food settle before Mrs Evans took them swimming. Fliss couldn’t rest. There was something she had to do. She looked out of the window. Yes, old Sal was there as usual. Mumbling something about going to the toilet, Fliss left the room, slipped down the stairs and let herself out. It was still raining.

The old woman looked up as the girl reached the shelter. Fliss smiled. ‘Hello.’

Sal nodded. ‘Evenin’.’

Fliss blushed, looking down at her feet. She didn’t know what to say.

‘I – I’m staying at The Crow’s Nest.’

‘Aye, I know.’

‘I’ve seen you lots of times. Through the window.’

The crone nodded. ‘Windows is the eyes of a house.’

Fliss smiled. ‘Yes. Eyes, watching the sea. Lucky old house.’

‘Lucky?’ Something rattled in Sal’s throat. ‘You’re wrong, child. It’s got the other eye, see. The eye that sleeps by day.’

‘Oh, has it?’ Fliss smiled, not sure whether she ought to. The eye that sleeps by day. Sounds barmy but then, so does room thirteen. Should she mention room thirteen to Sal? No. There wasn’t time. It only needed a teacher to look in room ten and she’d be in more trouble. She looked at the old woman. ‘I’d better get back. They’ll be wondering –’ She let the sentence hang, turned and ran through the rain with her head down.

Nobody had missed her, and when the swimming party set out twenty minutes later old Sal had gone. The rain-lashed streets were practically deserted, and when they got to the pool they found that they had it almost to themselves. They made the most of it, leaping and splashing and whooping in the warm, clear water under Mrs Evans’ watchful gaze. A puzzled frown settled for a moment on the teacher’s face when she noticed four of the children standing by the steps at the shallow end, taking no part in the revelry. Odd, she mused. Very odd. You’d think they were non-swimmers or something, but they’re not. Still, it’s up to them, isn’t it? Perhaps they’re tired from the walk today. Her eyes moved on, and the frown dissolved.

NOBODY CALLED ELLIE-MAY’S parents, or took her home. The word was that she was a little better, and might even be with them on the coach to Robin Hood’s Bay the following day.

Fliss wasn’t fooled. At ten o’clock she was lying on her back, staring at the wire mesh under Marie’s mattress, waiting for half-past eleven. Her hands were folded across her chest, and under them was the pebble from Saltwick Bay. She felt its weight when she breathed, and her fingers caressed its perfect, soothing smoothness.

She was tired. Not from swimming – neither she nor the other three had swum – but from the exertions of the day and a sleepless night before. The swimming must have finished off Marie and the twins, because they were zonked out already. She listened to their breathing and wondered if she could stay awake.

She didn’t. Not completely. At least twice she drifted off and woke with a start, thinking she’d missed the witching hour, but there was to be no such luck. When the town clock chimed for eleven-thirty she was wide awake, and scared.

This time she got to the bathroom first. Trot and Gary came nearly straightaway, but it was nineteen minutes to twelve when the door of room eleven opened and Lisa slipped out.

‘Sorry I’m late,’ she whispered. ‘I fell asleep.’

‘It’s OK,’ Fliss told her. ‘I fell asleep too – twice.’

‘I was spark-out,’ admitted Trot. ‘This div had to shake me like a madman to wake me up.’ He looked at Gary. ‘Didn’t you, Gaz?’

Gary nodded. ‘You should’ve got yourself a stick of rock like mine. I sucked that from ten o’clock and didn’t nod off once.’

‘Dirty pig!’ shuddered Lisa. ‘I don’t know how you can.’

Gary grinned. ‘You should see it – it’s getting a really good point on it now.’

‘Tell you what I do want to see tonight,’ said Fliss. ‘I want to see how the thirteen gets on that door. I want to be watching when the clock starts striking midnight – see the exact moment the number appears.’

‘Yeah.’ Trot nodded. ‘Good idea. Let’s do that.’

‘I’ve brought my torch,’ said Lisa. ‘We can shine it on the door – right where the number will be. We’ll see really clearly then.’

They waited. Gary, sitting on the rim of the bath, looked at his watch every few seconds. Fliss went to the hand basin, ran a trickle of cold water into her cupped hand and sucked it up, watching herself in the mirror. Trot stood by the window, gazing out. The patterned glass splintered the light from a streetlamp. Lisa leaned on the wall by the door, switching her torch on and off.

After a while Fliss whispered, ‘Maybe she won’t come.’

‘It’s only five to,’ Gary told her. ‘Plenty of time yet.’ He hoped Fliss was right.

When his watch told him it was a minute to midnight, Gary got up and went over to the door. The others joined him, jostling quietly till they could all see and Lisa was at the front with her torch. ‘Thirteen seconds,’ he hissed, and began counting down. At fifteen seconds Lisa switched on and steadied the disc of light on the right spot.

It was not spectacular. As Gary whispered, ‘Zero,’ they heard the town clock chime, then strike. At about the fourth stroke they noticed a small shapeless mark on the door, and Lisa moved the torch slightly to get it in the centre of her beam. It was like a stain, lighter than the surrounding woodwork. As stroke followed stroke, the stain seemed to shrink and become paler, and then to divide, becoming two whitish blobs whose shapes altered until, by the twelfth stroke, they formed the figures one and three. As the echo died, they heard a door close somewhere below.

‘I think she’s coming,’ warned Fliss. ‘Switch the torch off, Lisa.’ She did so, plunging the landing into darkness. They withdrew and half closed the door again.

‘Did you see that?’ breathed Trot. ‘It just came out of nowhere. I can’t believe it.’

Fliss snorted. ‘You’ve got to believe it, you div – you saw it. The point is, what do we do when Ellie-May gets here?’

‘We stop her,’ hissed Gary. ‘By force if we have to. We agreed.’

‘OK, but which of us actually goes out there and grabs her – or do we all go?’

Lisa shook her head. ‘We can’t all go. It’d scare her to death. It should be a girl, Fliss – you or me. But I think we should try calling her first – from here.’

‘Sssh!’ Trot pressed a finger to his lips. ‘She’s here.’

They looked out. Ellie-May was standing on the top step, looking at the door to room thirteen. She hesitated for a moment, then moved forward. Lisa nudged Fliss. ‘You, or me?’

‘Me.’ As Ellie-May drew level with the bathroom, Fliss cupped her mouth with her hands and hissed, ‘Ellie-May!’

The girl didn’t turn or pause, but continued walking slowly towards the cupboard. Using her full voice this time, Fliss called out, ‘Ellie-May – over here!’

It made no difference. The girl was standing before the door now, reaching for the knob. Fliss felt a push in the small of her back and Lisa hissed, ‘Go on, for heaven’s sake – before she opens that door!’

She left the bathroom and moved across the landing, approaching Ellie-May from the rear. As the girl’s hand closed round the knob, Fliss took a gentle grip on her shoulder and said, ‘Ellie-May – You don’t want to go in there.’

She felt the thin shoulder stiffen under her hand. Ellie-May’s head turned, slowly, and Fliss found herself gazing into eyes which were dead as a shark’s. The girl’s lips twitched. ‘Let go of me,’ she hissed. ‘Leave me alone.’

‘Ellie-May!’ Fliss swung her round and held her by both shoulders. ‘Listen. We’re trying to help you. If you go in that room, you’ll die!’

Ellie-May snarled, shaking her head. ‘Never die. Never. You, not me.’ She tore herself from Fliss’s grip and turned, scrabbling for the doorknob.

‘Gary!’ cried Fliss. ‘Lisa. Quick – I can’t hold her!’ There was a scampering of bare feet on carpet and they were with her, the three of them. Hands reached out, snatching fistfuls of Ellie-May’s clothing, circling her wrists. She hissed and fought, amazingly strong, freeing one hand to twist the doorknob and push.

The door swung inward. Fliss, one arm crooked round Ellie-May’s neck, glanced inside and saw not a cupboard, but the room of her dream. There was the table with the long, pale box upon it and beyond, a small, curtained window. A window which wasn’t there in the daytime. The eye that sleeps by day! She dug her heels into the carpet, threw her weight backwards and fell with Ellie-May on top of her.

‘Quick, one of you – close that door!’ She flung both arms round Ellie-May’s waist and held on as the girl bucked and writhed. Lisa dropped to her knees, grabbed Ellie-May’s legs and fell forward, pinning them under her. Fliss heard the door slam, and then the boys were there, catching the girl’s wildly flailing arms. Ellie-May fought on for a moment but they were too many for her. Fliss felt the thin body go limp, and the girl began to cry. When they let go of her she lay curled on her side with a thumb in her mouth, moaning softly.

They got up and stood, looking down at her. ‘What do we do now?’ asked Lisa.

As she spoke, they heard voices below and footsteps on the stair. ‘It won’t be up to us,’ said Gary. ‘Here comes the cavalry.’

‘WHAT ON EARTH’S going on here?’ The landing light came on, and there stood Mrs Evans, unfamiliar in a quilted dressing-gown and no make-up. She saw Ellie-May on the floor and hurried forward, dropping on one knee beside her.

‘She was – we were –’ Fliss floundered, seeking words which might make their story credible, while the teacher lifted Ellie-May’s head on to her lap and checked with hands and eyes for damage. Mrs Marriott appeared in a beige nightie, followed closely by Mr Hepworth in maroon pyjamas. The door of room ten opened and Marie’s sleepy face peered out.

‘Marie Nero!’ snapped Mr Hepworth. ‘Get back into bed – now!’ The door closed. He looked at Ellie-May, sobbing in Mrs Evans’ arms, then at Gary, then at Fliss. ‘What’s all this about, Felicity Morgan – what’s happened to Ellie-May?’

‘Sir, she came up again. To go in the cupboard, only it’s not a cupboard. Look.’ She pointed, and then her heart sank. There was no number on the door. ‘There was a number, Sir. We all saw it. Thirteen. And Ellie-May opened it and it opened inwards, and inside –’ She stopped. There was disbelief in the teacher’s eyes, and the hard glint of anger. She dashed across to the door, twisted the knob and pushed.

It was locked. She pulled, but the door didn’t move. She turned, pointing. ‘Look at Ellie-May’s neck, Sir!’

‘Yes, look at it,’ said Mrs Evans, grimly. She tilted the girl’s head to one side and lifted the hair. Ellie-May’s neck was bruised and scratched.

‘She was fighting, Miss – fighting to get in the room. We had to stop her, Miss.’

‘That’s enough!’ Mrs Evans glared at Fliss. ‘If Ellie-May came up here of her own accord, then she was obviously walking in her sleep. It’s quite common among young people, and all you had to do was come down and tell me or one of the other teachers. Instead, it seems to me that you woke her in a sudden, violent way and she panicked, as anybody would. You’ve been silly and irresponsible, and there’s to be no more of it. Go to your beds, and in the morning I’ll want to know what you, Gary Bazzard, and you, David Trotter, were doing up here on the girls’ landing in the middle of the night.’

Ellie-May was helped to her feet and taken away, supported by Mrs Marriott on one side and Mrs Evans on the other. Gary and Trot followed a grim-faced Mr Hepworth downstairs, and Fliss and Lisa were left gazing at each other, nonplussed.

‘What can we do?’ whispered Lisa, almost crying. ‘Nobody believes us.’

Fliss sighed and shook her head. ‘I don’t know, Lisa. I’m too tired and fed up and scared to think. We’ll talk in the morning.’

She crept into bed, and jumped when Marie’s voice came out of the darkness. ‘What happened?’

Fliss sighed. ‘Nothing, Marie. Nothing much, anyway. I’ll tell you tomorrow, OK?’

‘Promise?’

‘Promise.’

‘OK.’

She expected to lie awake till dawn, but she didn’t. She had just time to wonder in a muzzy way what she was going to tell Marie, before sleep rolled in like a black tide and bore her away.

THURSDAY DAWNED CLEAR and sunny after the rain. Ellie-May appeared at breakfast, smiling wanly and saying she was feeling much better. Fliss watched her across the dining-room and wondered if she remembered anything at all about last night. From the way she was behaving, it seemed she did not.

Practically everybody had heard something of the disturbance – even the boys on the first floor – and the talk over breakfast was mostly about sleepwalking. Fliss had told Marie that Ellie-May had been found on the top landing, sleepwalking, and had reacted badly to being woken up. Trot and Gary, she said, were in trouble because they had done the waking. When Marie asked what the boys were doing on the top landing in the first place, she said they’d seen Ellie-May pass their floor and followed her up. It didn’t sound too convincing to Fliss, but it had got around.

Trot and Gary had been interviewed by Mrs Evans before breakfast. When Trot started to tell her what he saw as he reached for the door to pull it closed, she cut him off, saying, ‘The door opens outwards, David, and anyway it was locked.’ And when Gary said there was a vampire in the hotel, she told him not to be so stupid. ‘If I catch you spreading that story among the other children,’ she said, ‘a letter will go to your parents the minute we get back to school.’

They were lucky in a way though. Mrs Evans decided they’d gone to the top floor because they were worried about Ellie-May. ‘There was absolutely no need for you to worry,’ she told them, ‘but I can see you were trying to be helpful, so we’ll say no more about it.’

So, in spite of the midnight rumpus, and against all the odds, the four found themselves back in favour, free to join in the day’s activities. It was to be a busy day, and Fliss hoped this might help her to forget the horrors of the night. This morning they were taking the coach six miles to Robin Hood’s Bay where, according to Mr Hepworth, there was a good beach and quaint, narrow streets. At twelve o’clock they would return to Whitby for a fish-and-chip lunch on the seafront, before being turned loose to do their shopping in the afternoon.

Robin Hood’s Bay was good. The sun shone all morning and they ran along the sand and played hide-and-seek up and down the little streets. By the time they piled back on to the coach, everybody had worked up an appetite and fish and chips sounded just right.

When they arrived back in Whitby, the teachers got the children settled on some benches not far from the jetty, and Mr Hepworth chose a boy and a girl to go with him to the chippy. Fliss knew he wouldn’t pick her – not after last night – and he didn’t. He chose John Phelan and Vicky Holmes, and the three of them went across the road and tagged on the back of the queue. Fliss watched. The service was fast, but the queue didn’t get any shorter because people kept joining it. She smiled to herself, wondering what the people behind would say when old Hepworth ordered fish and chips thirty-four times with salt and vinegar.

It took them ten minutes to get served and come staggering back with armfuls of greasy little packets. Mrs Evans and Mrs Marriott gave out the portions, and everybody sat in the sunshine munching, chatting and throwing scraps to a gang of gulls which appeared out of nowhere, on the scrounge.

Gary looked at Fliss. ‘Where are you going first when they turn us loose, Fliss?’

She shrugged. ‘I don’t know. A gift shop, I suppose – I want to get a pressy for my mum.’

‘I’m not,’ he told her. ‘I’m off round that “Dracula Experience” place we saw the other day.’

Fliss pulled a face. ‘Haven’t you had enough of that sort of thing in real life? I know I have.’

‘No! I know what you mean, but this is different – a bit of fun. And anyway, I might find a clue there to the mystery of room thirteen.’

‘Will you heck! Anyway, I’m not going – it’s the last place I want to be.’

‘You’re chicken, that’s why.’

‘Am I hummer! Chicken of some daft show after what we’ve seen at The Crow’s Nest? You must be joking.’

‘Come on then – prove it.’

‘No way.’

‘Like I said – chicken.’

‘Naff off, Gary, you div!’

‘Chicken!’

‘OK then – I’ll come, and I bet you’re more chicken than me. You were scared spitless Tuesday night – I could tell.’

He scoffed. ‘You were, you mean.’

The argument might have continued for ever if Mrs Evans hadn’t called everybody together to speak to them. Fish-and-chip wrappers had been gathered up and deposited in bins, and the place left tidy as always.

‘Right. This is it – the moment you’ve all been waiting for. You are free to go off now with your friends and spend what’s left of your pocket-money. You may go into shops or, if you must, into amusement arcades, but you must stay on the seafront, on this side of the bridge. There’s to be no crossing into the old town, and nobody is to go wandering off up the streets leading to the West Cliff. Mrs Marriott, Mr Hepworth and I will be keeping our eyes open, and we don’t expect to see anybody charging along the pavements, shouting. Remember, there are other people here besides yourselves, and they don’t want to be shoved into the roadway or deafened by children yelling. And please – ’ her face changed, so that she looked to be in great pain, ‘think before you buy. Seaside shops are full of cheap, tinselly rubbish which looks tempting, but falls apart if you breathe on it. There are nice things – good things – you can take home to your parents, but you have to look for them. Off you go, then.’

Fliss felt like slipping away with Lisa to look in shop windows, but Gary wouldn’t let her. ‘Come on,’ he demanded. ‘You said you weren’t chicken, so let’s go. Last one there’s a plonker.’

In spite of Gary’s taunting, neither Trot nor Lisa came with them. The only ones who agreed to come were Gemma Carlisle, and Grant Cooper, who arrived last but offered to break the face of the first person who called him a plonker. They paid their fifty pences and went in.

The first bit was a sort of shop, with mugs, T-shirts and badges for sale. ‘Huh!’ snorted Gary, ‘I don’t call this scary.’ He bought a badge with a bat on it, and they moved on into a dark tunnel. ‘This is more like it,’ said Gemma. As she spoke, there was a blood-curdling scream and something brushed Fliss’s cheek. She ducked away with a cry, and Grant and Gary laughed at her. They were wading through some sort of smoke or vapour which swirled low down, hiding their feet. In the tunnel walls were windows through which weird scenes could be seen. In one, a coffin-lid was lifted by a ghastly hand. In another, a woman with bloodstained clothing lay on a bed, while a red-eyed vampire leered at her through her window. While Fliss gazed at this scene, wishing she was somewhere else, a hand came out of the darkness. Shrinking from it, she walked right into another which grabbed at her throat. She recoiled and started walking faster, wanting only to get to the end of the tunnel and out into the sunlight. But now the floor was moving, and she had to walk fast just to stay where she was. It was like her dream. She wanted to go one way, but her feet were taking her another. Sobbing, she broke into a run, and after a moment the moving section was behind her. She looked down, and the floor was glass. Under the glass was soil, and in the soil, half-embedded, lay the half-rotted heads of corpses.

She hurried on, feeling sick, looking straight in front of her, thinking, I shouldn’t have come. I should never have let that idiot Gary persuade me. She was sweating. The screams were getting louder, and there was a sudden gust of wind. She didn’t know where the others were, and she didn’t care. She rushed along, her hair and face brushed by unseen things. Through her eye-corners she glimpsed spiders and graves and the toothy grins of skeletons.

She blundered on, and then at last she saw a door with a sign on it. WAY OUT.

Thank goodness. Oh, thank goodness! She pushed. It swung open. No sunlight. No. Darkness, and a standing corpse whose head fell off as she watched.

She swerved and rushed past with her head down, and here was another corpse, blocking the way. She swerved again, and it stuck out a pale, bony hand. Sudden anger rose in her against this ridiculous place, and her own stupidity in coming here. Teeth bared, she struck at the hand, but it caught her wrist and the corpse whispered, ‘Wait – I have to talk to you.’

She screamed, snatching back her hand. The corpse made a small, distressed sound like the mew of a kitten, and in that instant Fliss recognized it. It wasn’t a corpse. It was the old woman in the shelter. Mad Sal Haggerlythe.

‘What – what d’you want?’

‘Here – back here where there’s nobody.’ The old woman took her wrist again, gently this time, and led her through a gap in the tunnel wall. It was dark and cold and seemed to be a sort of storage space, with planks and trestles and paint cans, and a lot of stuff she couldn’t quite make out. There was a musty smell.

‘Where’s this?’ She didn’t know why she’d allowed herself to be led here – if she’d resisted there’d have been nothing the old hag could have done about it.

‘Behind the tunnel,’ Sal whispered, ‘in the real world.’ She chuckled wheezily. ‘Folks walk through tunnels all their lives, y’know. All their lives. Gawping in through lighted windows, thinking what they see’s real, but it’s not.’ She laughed again. ‘No, it’s not. They’re in a tunnel, see. Looking at a show. And all the time, the real world’s just inches away through the wall. And now and then, just now and then, somebody finds a hole and goes through and sees what’s behind it all, and d’you know what they get called then?’

The old woman paused, and Fliss shook her head.

‘Mad, that’s what. Barmy. They’re the ones who know what really goes on – what it’s all made of – and they call ’em mad. Lock ’em away, some of ’em. I ’spect they’ll come for me one of these days. D’you know what I’m talking about?’

Fliss shook her head again, in the dark. ‘No. Not really. I’m sorry.’ She wondered where Gemma was, and Gary, and Grant. Out by now, probably. She wanted to be with them. ‘Look – I’ve got to go. My friends’ll wonder where I am.’

‘Listen, then. You’ve seen something, haven’t you, at The Crow’s Nest – something strange? And there’s a sick child?’

‘Yes,’ Fliss murmured, ‘but how did you know?’

‘I know, because I lived in that place a long time ago, before the Great War. It was East View then, not The Crow’s Nest. I went there when I was ten, as a scullery maid. It was a grand house then. Turnbull, they called the people who had it. Mr and Mrs Turnbull and their little daughter, Margaret. It wasn’t an hotel, you understand – it was a house. A private residence. You’ve seen the abbey, haven’t you?’

Fliss nodded. ‘Yesterday.’ She wished the woman would come to the point and let her go. If there was a point. There might not be. That was probably one of the signs of madness. It occurred to her that Sal might be dangerous, and she wondered if she’d find her way back to the tunnel if she had to run.

‘Well,’ the old woman went on, ‘there was a bit more to it when I was your age. A gateway, with a little house. Children kept well away from that gateway after dark, I can tell you. Grown-ups too, come to that. That’s where he was, see?’

‘Who?’

‘Him that’s in The Crow’s Nest now.’

‘Who’s in The Crow’s Nest? Who is he?’

‘I think you know. Anyway, that’s where he was. Old gatehouse. Folks who knew, steered clear. Strangers didn’t. Not always. Now and then, someone’d vanish. Drownded, we’d say. Fell over the cliff in the dark. We knew better. Anyway, it come nineteen-fourteen, and the Great War. Near Christmas, a German battleship comes and stands off a mile or two and fires on the Coastguard Station. Some of the shells hit the abbey. One gets the gateway, and demolishes the little house. Doesn’t demolish him, though, ’cause there’s only one way to do that, and you know what that is. Anyhow, he’s lost his place and so there he is, in the middle of the night, seeking another. He’s got to find it before first light, and you know why. And out of all the houses in the town, he picks East View, and that’s the end of it.’

‘End of it – how d’you mean?’

‘End of it as a place folks can live in in peace. Listen. Margaret Turnbull – little Meg – the apple of her daddy’s eye. She falls sick. All through that winter, paler and paler, thinner and thinner. Calling out in her sleep. Doctors come. Specialists. No improvement. Comes a night in early spring, and there’s ever such a bang and a clatter and they find her at the foot of the stair, unconscious. Seven year old. Doctor says she’s been walking in her sleep. Anyway, the little mite recovers, though it’s touch and go for a while, and the minute she’s strong enough Master Turnbull sells up and moves on, and we’re all let go. Later, we hear the child perks up like magic as soon as she’s away from that house. And after that the place stands empty, and folks steer clear, same as they used to with the gatehouse. Somebody comes along and buys it eventually – a stranger, but he has no luck and moves out. Place has kept changing hands ever since. Soldiers were billeted there in the last war, and one disappeared. Deserted, says the authorities. Or drownded, we say, but it’s neither. And now he’s got bairns – a fresh lot practically every week, and he’ll be laughing, and it’s you’ve got to stop his laughter, Miss.’

‘Me?’ Fliss peered at old Sal in the gloom. ‘Why me? And anyway, how?’

‘Why you?’ The old woman poked a bony finger into her middle. ‘Because you had the dream, that’s why. You know – the Gate of Fate. The Keep of Sleep. The Room of Doom and the Bed of Dread. Remember?’

Fliss nodded, shivering. ‘Yes.’ Her voice was a croak. ‘But how –?’

‘How do I know? I told you. I can go through the wall. Leave the tunnel. See what’s really what. And as for how, you’ll be told. Don’t ask me who’ll tell you, because I couldn’t explain – just like you can’t explain any of this to your teachers – but believe me, you’ll be told. And if you refuse to do it – if you don’t do what has to be done – your little friend is doomed, together with those who went before her and all who’ll follow. Doomed to wander the earth, for ever. Do you understand what I’m saying, Felicity?’

‘You know my name.’

‘Oh, yes. Felicity. It means happiness. Did you know that?’

‘No, I didn’t.’

‘Well, that’s what it means. And if you can be very brave tonight, you’ll let happiness back into that sad house, and into the hearts of more people than you know. Will you do it, Felicity?’

Fliss hesitated. The old woman’s words were whirling around inside her head. Strange words. A madwoman’s words. Yes, Sal Haggerlythe was mad all right – no doubt about it – completely out of her tree. And yet she knew so many things. The dream. All that stuff in The Crow’s Nest. Her name, and what it meant.

She nodded, biting her lip. ‘Yes.’

‘Good.’ A frail hand fell on her shoulder and squeezed. ‘You’ll succeed, Felicity. I know you will. Off you go now – your friends are worrying.’

Fliss allowed old Sal to take her hand and steer her back to the hole in the wall. Two people passed by, laughing to show they weren’t scared. Sal waited till they’d gone by, then whispered, ‘Follow them – they’re on their way out.’ Fliss felt a gentle push in the small of her back. She followed the laughing pair, and when she looked round a moment later, there was nothing to be seen.

‘WHERE THE HECK have you been? We’ve been waiting ages.’

Fliss had emerged, blinking against the sudden glare, on a narrow street at the back of the building. Gemma, Grant and Gary, keen to move on to the next thing, gazed reproachfully at her.

‘Sorry. I got lost.’

‘Lost?’ sneered Gemma. ‘How could you get lost in a tunnel, for goodness sake. You walk through and that’s it.’

‘And you were miles in front of us,’ put in Grant. ‘We expected to find you waiting here when we got out.’

Gary grinned. ‘You shot off up that tunnel in a heck of a hurry, Fliss. For someone who’s not chicken, I mean.’

‘Chicken’s got nothing to do with it. It was that moving floor. It was like a dream I had – a nightmare. My feet taking me where I didn’t want to go. And then there was this hole in the wall, and I went through and I was behind the tunnel. It was pitch black, and I kept bumping into stuff – rubbish and that. I thought I’d never find my way out.’

‘You’re a nut,’ said Grant. ‘I never saw any hole, and if I had I wouldn’t have gone through. Anyway, where we going next – amusements?’

Gary shook his head. ‘Not me. I don’t like fruit machines. You lose all your money. I’m off to the shops.’

‘Me too,’ said Fliss. She needed to talk to Gary, away from the other two.

‘Well, I’m going with Grant,’ said Gemma. ‘I won two pounds for ten pence on a machine last year, at Blackpool.’

When Grant and Gemma had gone, Fliss said, ‘I’ve got something to tell you, Gary.’

‘What?’ They were back on the seafront, heading for the gift shops. Gary was walking fast.

‘Slow down a bit and I’ll tell you. It’s not the flipping Olympics, you know.’

Gary stopped. ‘Go on then – what?’

She told him about Sal Haggerlythe, and what the old woman had said. When she’d told him about the promise she’d made, she said, ‘Will you help me, Gary? I don’t think I’d attempt it by myself.’

Gary pulled a face. ‘I guess so. I mean, we’ve been together all the way along, haven’t we? Trot and Lisa too. I just don’t know what it is we’re supposed to do, Fliss.’

‘She said we’d be told.’

‘Yeah, but she’s barmy, isn’t she? If I hadn’t seen all that weird stuff with my own eyes, I wouldn’t believe a word she said.’

‘But you have seen it. Old Sal might be mad, Gary, but she knows all about The Crow’s Nest.’

‘Hmm. Well, we’ll just have to wait and see if we’re told, won’t we? If we’re not, I don’t see how we can do anything except keep Ellie-May from going in that cupboard.’

They shopped. Fliss bought a brown photo mounted on a block for her parents. It was by somebody called Sutcliffe, who lived a long time ago and was a famous photographer. It showed two children playing with a toy boat. She’d seen one like it, but bigger, on the wall at The Crow’s Nest.

Gary found a leather key-fob with the abbey and the word Whitby embossed on it for his dad, and a little vase encrusted with seashells for his mum.

By the time they’d decided on these purchases, it was half-past two. They were due to meet the teachers back at the bandstand at three, so they made their way in that direction and spent the last twenty minutes in the lifeboat museum. Some of the others were there too, and they compared presents and donated their last few pennies to the lifeboats.

At three, Fliss, Gary and the others left the museum and crossed the road to the bandstand, where the teachers were waiting. Nearly everybody was there. The twins weren’t, and neither was Trot. Everybody sat down except Mrs Evans, who stood gazing along the seafront and looking at her watch.

The twins turned up. Mrs Evans frowned at them. ‘What time were we to meet?’ she asked.

‘Three o’clock, Miss,’ murmured Joanne.

‘And what time is it now, Joanne?’

‘Miss, eight minutes past. We were on the donkeys, Miss.’

‘Hmmm.’

It was almost a quarter-past three when Trot came trudging up the slipway from the beach. He was carrying a torn plastic kite, and looked fed up.

‘And where have you been, David Trotter? Do you know what the time is?’

‘Yes, Miss. Sorry, Miss. I was trying to mend my kite.’

Mrs Evans looked at the kite. It was made of clear polythene on a rigid plastic frame. It had a picture of a bat on it, but the polythene was badly torn and hung in tatters from its frame. She sighed. ‘What was the last thing I said before we went off to do our shopping, David?’

‘I don’t know, Miss.’

‘No, because you weren’t listening. I warned everybody not to spend money on cheap, rubbishy goods, David. How much was that kite?’

‘One pound forty, Miss.’

‘One pound forty, and look at it. Didn’t you notice how thin that polythene was? Didn’t you realize that the first good gust of wind would rip it to pieces?’

‘No, Miss.’

‘No, Miss. Well, it did, didn’t it?’ She turned to the group. ‘You know, I sometimes wonder whether the other teachers and myself aren’t just wasting our breath talking to you people. First there was Lisa Watmough, going into a shop before we even got here, buying a trashy flashlight which is probably broken already. Then Gary Bazzard spends I don’t know how much on a stick of rock the size of a telegraph pole.’ Her eyes found Gary, who looked surprised. ‘Oh, yes, Gary – I know all about that rock. It’s in your room now, melting, with a beard of bed-fluff on it. You’ve sucked at it till you’re sick of it, and now you don’t know what to do with it.’ She looked at Trot again. ‘And now you, with your kite. I only hope that next time, if there is a next time, you’ll be told.’

You’ll be told. Fliss, whose mind had been wandering, looked up sharply. Mrs Evans, talking about –

Buying things. Things you shouldn’t. Lisa. Gary. Trot. Why those three? It’s a connection, isn’t it? Must be. Can’t be coincidence, can it? Her heart kicked. You’ll be told.

Yeah, but hold on a minute. What about me? I’m one of them. I started it, in fact, and I haven’t been in trouble for buying anything. I’ve been late for breakfast, but that’s different. Nobody’s said to me, ‘You shouldn’t have bought that, it’s rubbish.’ Nobody’s –

The pebble. The big pebble. I didn’t buy it, of course, but Mrs Evans told me to put it down, and it’s a thing, like a torch or a stick of rock or a kite.

That’s it. The four of us. Nobody else has been told off for something they’ve got, have they? She sat, frowning, gnawing her lip.

A torch. A stick of rock. A pebble. A kite.

You’ll be told.

THEY WERE BACK at The Crow’s Nest by twenty to four, stowing their purchases in their rooms and writing up their journals. It had been their last day, and Fliss wondered why it had had to end so early. It wasn’t as if they’d be setting off home at the crack of dawn and needed an early night. They weren’t leaving till half-past ten.

Not that an early night would be much use to the four of us anyway, she thought. She had talked briefly to Lisa and Trot on the stairway. They knew what had happened to her today, and had agreed to meet Gary and herself in the usual spot at half-past eleven.

The rest of the kids were feeling a bit down because the holiday was nearly over, but for Fliss, Gary, Lisa and Trot it couldn’t end soon enough. They were tired and frightened, and wanted only to be near their parents and to sleep in their own beds.

‘Guess what?’ said Marie. She was looking out of the window.

‘Shut up, Marie,’ growled Maureen. ‘I’m trying to write.’

‘The old witch is there again,’ said Marie, ignoring her.

‘We know,’ said Joanne, impatiently. ‘We saw her when we came past the shelter just now. How d’you spell “stake”, Fliss?’

Fliss looked up. ‘There’s two sorts of stake,’ she said. ‘What’re you writing about?’

‘A poster I saw in the town. Movie poster. It showed this vampire with a stake through its heart. It said, “Party all night, sleep all day, never grow old, never die, it’s fun being a vampire.’”

‘That sort of stake’s S-T-A-K-E,’ Fliss told her.

‘Thanks.’ Joanne bent her head over her work. Marie left the window, sat down at the dressing-table and began to write. Silence reigned.

Fliss chewed her pencil and stared at the carpet. S-T-A-K-E. Stake. A short pole, sharpened at one end, and a mallet to hammer it in with. A flaming torch to illuminate the crypt, and a cross lest the vampire should wake. A stick of rock the size of a telegraph pole, sucked to a point. A pebble too heavy for the pocket. A torch the shape of a dragon. A cross? No cross.

Trot. We’ve each done our bit, except Trot. Trot must find the cross, then. He hasn’t got one that I’ve ever seen. He didn’t buy one today, which was the last chance. He bought –

A kite. That tattered kite on its rigid, cross-shaped frame. That’s it!

She was certain, now. You’ll be told, Sal Haggerlythe had said, and it was true. Mrs Evans had catalogued the items, and then spoken those very words. You’ll be told. The pieces fitted. Every one.

She got up and went to the window. Sal was sitting in the shelter, and seemed to be looking at her. Fliss mouthed a silent ‘yes,’ and nodded. The woman made no response, but then, the sun was behind the hotel and this side was in shadow.

When they went down to the lounge, the children found out why they’d returned early to the hotel. There was to be a disco for them in the dining-room starting at seven o’clock. They would eat early so that the room could be prepared, and would have plenty of time to wash, do their hair and get into their best outfits before the festivities began.

‘It’s a farewell disco,’ Mr Hepworth told them. ‘Farewell to The Crow’s Nest, farewell to Whitby. We’ve kept it a secret till now because we wanted it to be a surprise. It will go on until half-past nine, with a break at eight o’clock for pop, crisps and various other goodies. Mr and Mrs Wilkinson’s daughter will be running the disco, and I think it’s very kind of them all. Don’t you?’

Everybody did. There were three very loud cheers for the Wilkinsons, who came to the doorway of the lounge to hear them, and then it was dinnertime.

As she ate, Fliss watched Ellie-May, two tables away. She’d joined them on the trip to Robin Hood’s Bay that morning, and had seemed fine. She’d behaved so normally that at one point Fliss had approached her and spoken, just to see what she’d do. Ellie-May had been her usual rude self, telling Fliss to drop dead, and she seemed normal now too, sitting between Tara and Michelle, boasting about the outfit she was going to wear. She’s chuffed to little mint balls, thought Fliss. Looking forward to the disco like everybody else. She doesn’t remember a thing about last night. Or the night before. Or the night before that.

Lucky her.

‘HEY, WHERE’S THE dining-room gone?’ Neil Atkinson, first down in jeans and sneakers, paused in the doorway. Tables and carpet had disappeared. Chairs had been moved back against the walls. Heavy curtains blacked out all the windows. Coloured lights flashed red, then blue, then green, striking sparks from the parquet, leaving corners in shadow. The place looked twice as big as before. At one end, between stacked speakers, a girl stood behind a double-deck. She twitched and writhed as Madonna belted out a number so loud you felt it through your feet.

‘Wow!’ Sarah-Jane, made-up and dressed to kill, went on tiptoe to peer over the boy’s shoulder. ‘It’s brilliant – like a real disco. What we waiting for?’

They walked out on to the floor, fitting their movements into the beat, beginning to dance. The girl at the deck smiled as her blue face turned to green. Others followed, spilling on to the floor in their finery with grins and exclamations.

It grew hot as record followed record, rising and falling on the twin-deck in unbroken series. The three teachers sat together way back in shadow and watched. Now and then, somebody would go over and try to get them to dance, but they wouldn’t. ‘My dancing days are over,’ they’d say, or, ‘I’m waiting for Buddy Holly.’ When the break came at eight, everybody was ready for it.

Fliss managed to get the other three in a corner together. Gary had worked up a sweat. His hair was stuck to his forehead. He slurped Coke as she told them what she’d worked out. When she’d finished, he said, ‘So what you’re saying is, we go in there where he is, and all we’ve got is a torch, a pebble, a stick of rock and a knackered kite, right?’

Fliss nodded.

‘Well, I don’t fancy it, I can tell you that.’

‘Who does, but have you got a better idea?’

‘Sure. We go to bed tonight like everybody else and forget it.’

‘And what about Ellie-May? Not to mention all the other kids he’s enticed into that cupboard, and all those he will in future if we don’t do something about it.’

‘It’s got nothing to do with us, has it? We’ve done our best. We tried to tell the teachers but they wouldn’t listen. What I mean is, here we are at this disco, right? And everybody’s really enjoying it except us. It’s been the same all week. Everybody else has been on holiday, but we’ve been in the middle of a nightmare. Why us, Fliss? Tell me that.’

Fliss shrugged. ‘I can’t. I don’t know why us, Gary, except we’ve been picked out somehow. You bought that rock and spent three days sucking it to a point. You’re part of the team.’

‘Big deal.’

She looked him in the eye. ‘We can’t do it without you, Gary. It needs four. Four things, four people. Are you chickening out?’

He shook his head, looking at the floor. ‘I don’t suppose so. It’s not fair, that’s all I’m saying.’

‘You’ll be there though, at half-eleven?’

‘Yes.’

The second half kicked off with the new Bros album. They danced together, the four of them, a little apart from the others. Gary was right, of course. Deep down, each of them felt as he did – that they’d been unfairly singled out. They’d do what had to be done, but their week had been ruined and that was that. They moved mechanically to the music and thought about midnight.

The end came too soon for everybody, except perhaps the teachers, who had sat it all out, waiting in vain for Buddy Holly. At half-past nine the last track faded, the lights came on and the enchantment melted away. Children stood on the scuffed, littered floor, exposed, self-conscious and tired. Mr Hepworth led three cheers and a round of applause for the disc jockey, who grinned, blushed and looked at her feet. After that, they collected jackets, bags and cardigans and went away to bed.

Mrs Evans stuck her head round the door just as Fliss was taking her shoes off. ‘Can I see you out here a minute, please, Felicity?’

Fliss sighed, re-tying the laces. ‘What’s up now, I wonder?’

‘You’re in bother,’ said Marie, cheerfully. She was already in bed. The twins hadn’t finished in the bathroom yet.

Fliss went out on to the landing. Mrs Evans had Lisa there too. She spoke quietly to them both.

‘Now listen. I know you’re both worried about Ellie-May Sunderland, but you needn’t worry any more. She’s been fine today, but anyway Mrs Marriott and I have decided to take her into our room for the night, just in case she decides to go sleepwalking again. Mr Hepworth is speaking to Gary and David, and we want you all in bed and asleep before the clock strikes ten. Is that clear?’

‘Yes, Miss.’

The disco had shattered everybody, and by the time the faraway clock struck ten Marie and the twins were fast asleep. Fliss lay stroking her pebble, wishing she could sleep too. She could have, easily, but she knew if she did she wouldn’t wake up till morning.

So. Ellie-May won’t be coming. That doesn’t mean the room out there won’t change though – wish it did. What about the others? Mr Hepworth’s spoken to Trot and Gary. They know Ellie-May’s being guarded. Will it stop them coming? Gary wasn’t too keen to begin with. And if they don’t come, what do we do, Lisa and me? Shine the torch in his eyes and hit him with the pebble, or call it off and let him go on luring kids to their doom? And anyway, who says Lisa’s going to show up?

Good way to keep awake, worrying like this. Every quarter that clock chimes, but it seems like hours between. Ten fifteen. Ten thirty. Ten forty flipping five. Forty-five minutes to go.

Then what?

THEY CAME. ALL of them. Fliss came last, clutching her pebble.

‘Have we all got our stuff?’ she whispered. They showed her. ‘Right.’ She looked at her watch. Twenty to twelve. ‘Soon be over now.’

‘Aye,’ growled Gary. ‘One way or the other.’

Fliss looked at him. ‘We’re going to succeed, right?’

He shrugged. ‘If you say so. But if somebody had told me last week I’d be risking my life for Ellie-May Sunderland I’d have told him he was nuts. I don’t even like her, for Pete’s sake.’

‘Who does, but it’s not just for Ellie-May, Gary. Old Sal says it’s for all the others.’

‘Yeah, well, like I said before, she’s crackers.’

They waited. Fliss kept looking at her watch. When it said five to twelve she whispered, ‘Right. Time to get into position.’

They’d worked it all out beforehand. Trot was first. He opened the bathroom door and stood on the threshold, holding his kite. He’d stripped away the tattered polythene. All that remained was a stiff, white plastic cross. As soon as the number appeared on the cupboard door, he was to cross the landing, open the door quietly and walk in, holding up the cross. That was in case the vampire was awake and out of his coffin. If he was, then they wouldn’t be able to carry out their plan, but the cross might keep the creature at bay till they could get out and slam the door.

Behind Trot stood Lisa with the torch. She would follow him in, and shine the torch around to see if the vampire was loose. If he was, she’d try to dazzle him while they retreated. If he was in the coffin, she was to shine it on his chest, right where Gary had to place the stick of rock.

Gary was third. He would follow the other two in, and if everything was all right, he’d grip his rock with both hands and place the point directly over the vampire’s heart.

Fliss would be last. If the vampire was out of the coffin, her job would be to get out fast and that was all. If he was in the coffin, she would raise the pebble and bring it down on the rock, driving the point into the vampire. She was to hammer the rock again and again till the vampire was dead.

It would all have to be done very quickly. Fliss wished they’d been able to practise a couple of times, but they hadn’t. So. They had to get it right first time, or else –

The town clock began to chime. ‘Stand by,’ whispered Fliss from the rear. Her mouth was bone-dry. Her left hand was resting on Gary’s shoulder and she could feel him trembling. In front of him, Lisa switched on her torch and trained it on the door.

The pale stain appeared. Four pairs of eyes watched it form the number thirteen. As the figures grew clear, Fliss hissed, ‘Go!’

Swiftly, silently, they padded in line across the landing. Trot twisted the doorknob, pushed, and walked into the darkness, holding the cross up high and with Lisa at his heels. The torch beam made a quick sweep of the room and steadied on the long, pale box. Gary strode forward and leaned over the open coffin, grasping the rock in both hands. Fliss stood poised, the great pebble raised high above her head. The torch beam slid over the rim of the box.

He lay with his hands crossed on this breast and his eyes closed. He was thin, and small, and dirty. His face was dead white, except for a dark smudge on the forehead and a brown crust about the bluish lips. A fleece of pale, tangled hair, grey with dust, covered the skull, falling on to the bed of earth which covered the bottom of the coffin. His fingernails were split and blackened, and a disgusting smell rose from the single, filthy garment he wore, which looked like a nightshirt or shroud.

‘Ugh!’ Gary’s stomach heaved and he twisted his face aside.

‘Quick!’ hissed Lisa. ‘His eyes are moving – look!’

As she spoke, the vampire’s eyelids fluttered. Gary sucked in some air, turned back and planted the spike he’d made in the vee between the creature’s hands. The vampire’s eyes flew open, red-rimmed, filled with fear. Grabbing the coffin-rim with one hand and scrabbling in the earth with the other, he began to rise. His lips parted. Chipped, yellow fangs glistened in the torchlight and the breath hissed stinking through his teeth. Trot dashed forward and thrust his cross at the contorted face. The vampire let go of the coffin-rim to strike at it, and as he did so Gary threw all this weight forward, bore down on the spike and yelled, ‘Now, Fliss – now!’

Fliss aimed, screwed up her eyes and brought the pebble down with all the force she could muster. There was a wet thud and the vampire began to scream, bucking and thrashing so violently that the coffin slid about. Gary fell forward across the table, clinging desperately to the spike. ‘Again!’ he gasped. ‘For Pete’s sake hit it again, Fliss!’

Fliss, sickened, raised the pebble and brought it down again, driving the spike clear through the writhing body into the bloody earth beneath, where it broke off. The vampire screamed again, clutching at the coffin-rim with both hands, flailing its naked legs and arching its back so violently that Gary’s grip was broken and he crashed to the floor.

At once the others closed in. Lisa’s beam lanced into the creature’s fear-crazed eyes. Trot lowered the cross till it almost touched the coffin-rim, and Fliss lifted the pebble, ready to split the vampire’s skull.

She didn’t have to. As they watched the creature’s struggles began to subside. Its screams became ghastly, bubbling cries as it twisted this way and that, clutching at the impaling spike, striving to draw it out. Soon, weakening, it ceased to kick.

Its hands lost their grip on the spike and slid down the curve of the heaving chest on the glistening earth. It lay, mouth open, gulping at the air, rolling its head and screwing up its eyes as it strove to avoid the light. Gradually its movements became sluggish and its breathing shallow. Then, quite suddenly it seemed, the breathing stopped. The head rolled over to one side. All movement ceased.

Fliss lowered her arms, dropped the pebble on the table and turned away. Trot let his cross fall to the floor and stood, gazing into the coffin. Gary had picked himself up and was leaning against the wall with this eyes closed, breathing hard, whispering, ‘We did it. Wow, we did it,’ over and over. Lisa aimed her torch beam at the floor and very slowly followed the puddle of light towards the open door. As she did so there were footfalls on the stair, and voices, and the landing light triggered the shift, so that three frowsy teachers saw four dishevelled children and a cupboard which was locked.

SOME MORNINGS ARE just perfect. You know what I mean. You’ve slept like a log, you come wide awake and it’s sunshine from the word go. Sunshine and birdsong and your favourite breakfast and everybody being nice to you. It sometimes happens to people on their birthday.

Well, that Friday morning at Whitby was one of those, and it wasn’t anybody’s birthday. There should have been some gloom about because the holiday was over, but there wasn’t. Fliss and the other three should have felt dog-tired and maybe a little bit chastened after their horrific adventure, but they didn’t. They’d got a terrific telling-off from old Hepworth, of course, but they didn’t mind that. An enormous weight had been lifted from them and they walked on air. Nobody thought, Oh, crikey, school. Everybody thought, Oh great, home! It was that sort of morning.

Fliss was hungry. The aroma of sausages, drifting up from the basement kitchen, made her mouth water. Sausages! Her favourite. The cereal was a favourite, too. She shovelled it into her face, watching the teachers.

They hadn’t tried to explain to the teachers. There was no point. Grown-ups don’t believe anything you tell them. They have to see with their own eyes, and there was nothing to see. Not now.

After breakfast, the children went upstairs to finish packing and tidy their rooms. The door of the linen cupboard was closed, and there was no number on it. Never will be again, thought Fliss. Not even at midnight. She smiled.

In room ten, everything had been packed away. Marie and the twins stood looking out of the window. ‘There’s no old witch today,’ said Maureen.

‘Mad Sal’s not a witch,’ said Fliss. ‘And she’s not mad either.’

Room ten looked bare without their bits and pieces. It wasn’t their room any more and they weren’t sorry to leave it. They carried their luggage downstairs and stacked it in the hallway. The coach wasn’t due for another hour, so the teachers took them down to the beach where they ran or skimmed pebbles or stood, saying goodbye to the sea, which sparkled in the sun.

The coach was coming at half-past ten. At twenty past, Mr Hepworth called them together and led them back up the steep pathway.

It was there. The driver was stowing the last of the luggage in the boot. Mr Wilkinson was helping him. Both men whistled as they worked.

The children crossed the road and climbed on board. Fliss and Lisa got seats together. The driver slipped into his seat, grinned at the children through his mirror and told them to hold tight. The engine roared into life. The coach rolled forward. The Wilkinsons stood on the top step, waving. The children waved back. The coach gathered speed. The Crow’s Nest fell away behind. They were going home.

Fliss settled back in the comfy seat and sighed. ‘It’s been a funny sort of holiday,’ she said.

Lisa nodded. ‘You can say that again. I’m glad we did it, though. We made things better, didn’t we, Fliss – I could sort of feel it this morning.’

‘Oh, so could I. Everybody could, I think. Mr Wilkinson, whistling. And the driver. Drivers are usually a bit narky when they’ve got a coachload of kids, but this one isn’t. Look at him, grinning in the mirror.’

The coach swooped down into Sleights, then toiled up the road to the moors. Halfway up, Fliss slapped her knee and cried, ‘Drat!’

Lisa looked at her. ‘What’s up?’

‘I’ve just remembered – that picture I got for my mum. I put it on top of the wardrobe and I’ve left it there.’

‘Oh, Fliss! Why did you put it there, and not in your case?’

‘I had other things to think about, didn’t I? Vampires, for instance. I just shoved it any old where and forgot about it.’

‘Maybe Mrs Wilkinson’ll find it – send it on.’

‘How can she? She won’t know it’s mine. It might have been there weeks for all she knows.’ She sighed. ‘Poor Mum – no pressy.’

They were on the moors now. Sun and sky, wind and heather. Mr Hepworth stood up. ‘If you look back now,’ he said, ‘you’ll get a glimpse of the abbey.’

Everybody stood or knelt, looking back. There it was, a black, dramatic silhouette against the shining sea. As Fliss gazed at it, somebody touched her elbow. She turned, and saw Ellie-May with a little flat package in her hand. ‘I heard what you said,’ she whispered, ‘about your mum’s picture. I want you to have this.’

‘What is it, Ellie-May?’

‘A picture. A Sutcliffe, like the one you lost. I saw you with it yesterday.’

‘Well, don’t you want it? Didn’t you buy it for someone?’

‘I bought it for me, Fliss. It was a present from me to myself.’ She smiled. ‘I bring myself presents all the time. Or rather, I did. I was my favourite person, you see. Now you are – you and Lisa and Gary and Trot – because I know what you did. Here – take it.’

Fliss took the package. She smiled at Ellie-May. ‘Thanks.’

‘Thank you, Fliss.’ Nobody had seen her give Fliss the picture. Everybody was busy looking at the abbey. She slipped back to her seat.

Fliss looked along the coach at Ellie-May, then down at the little package. She smiled.

‘So long, Dracula,’ she whispered. ‘Hi, felicity.’

THE END

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Robert Swindells left school at fifteen and worked as a copyholder on a local newspaper. At seventeen he joined the RAF for three years, two of which he served in Germany. He then worked as a clerk, an engineer and a printer before training and working as a teacher. He is now a full-time writer and lives on the Yorkshire moors.

He has written many books for young readers, including many for the Transworld children’s lists, his first of which, Room 13 won the 1990 Children’s Book Award, whilst his latest, Abomination, won the 1999 Stockport Children’s Book Award and the Sheffield Children’s Book Award and was shortlisted for the Whitbread Prize, the Lancashire Children’s Book Award and the 1999 Children’s Book Award. His books for older readers include Stone Cold, which won the 1994 Carnegie Medal, as well as the award-winning Brother in the Land. As well as writing, Robert Swindells enjoys keeping fit, travelling and reading.

Also available by Robert Swindells

and published by Doubleday/Corgi Yearling Books:

ABOMINATION

BLITZED

HYDRA

INSIDE THE WORM

INVISIBLE!

JACQUELINE HYDE

NIGHTMARE STAIRS

RUBY TANYA

THE THOUSAND EYES OF NIGHT

TIMESNATCH

A WISH FOR WINGS

INSIDE THE WORM

Robert Swindells

The worm was close now. So close Fliss could smell the putrid stench of its breath. Its slavering jaws gaped to engulf her …

Everyone in Elsworth knows the local legend about the monstrous worm that once terrorised the village. But it never really happened. Or did it? For when Fliss and her friends are chosen to re-enact the legend for the village Festival, something very sinister begins to happen.

Hidden within the framework of the worm costume, the four who are to play the part of the worm dance as one across the ground. And as they sense the exhilaration of awesome power, an intense excitement that tempts them to turn beauty into ugliness, good into evil, Fliss begins to feel real fear. Somehow, the worm itself is returning – with a thousand-year hunger in its belly, and vengeance in its brain …

A compelling, fast-paced and spine-chilling new thriller, featuring Fliss and her friends from the award-winning Room 13.

0 440 86464X

CORGI YEARLING BOOKS

ROOM 13

AN RHCB DIGITAL EBOOK 978 1 448 10019 4

Published in Great Britain by RHCB Digital,

an imprint of Random House Children’s Books

A Random House Group Company

This ebook edition published 2011

Copyright © Robert Swindells, 1989

Illustrations copyright © 1989 by Jon Riley

First Published in Great Britain

Doubleday 1989

The right of Robert Swindells to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.

This ebook is copyright material and must not be copied, reproduced, transferred, distributed, leased, licensed or publicly performed or used in any way except as specifically permitted in writing by the publishers, as allowed under the terms and conditions under which it was purchased or as strictly permitted by applicable copyright law. Any unauthorized distribution or use of this text may be a direct infringement of the author’s and publisher’s rights and those responsible may be liable in law accordingly.

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A CIP catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.