Thirteen Chairs (16 page)

J
ack feels as if he’s been running. He’s not much of a talker usually, but once he got going he found ithat the words just tumbled out, bundling and barging out of him like an unruly crowd. It was thrilling, like a fairground ride, and at the end of it he is breathless, exhausted and light-headed.

He stretches his head back and blows out a long breath while his heart thumps away in his chest. Then he drops his head forward and squints into the darkness, searching for the faintest hint of the pale man’s face, but finding nothing. The dim light from the dying flame of his candle barely even picks out his own hands there on the table top, so faintly visible that he might be the only one able to see how much they are trembling. He thinks that the others are still there but they make no sound, and he can no longer see a single one of them. Even looking round for his nearest neighbours, closest to the failing candlelight, he finds no sign. If they are there then the flame’s shrinking glow cannot reach them.

Jack wouldn’t have thought that being surrounded by dead people could ever provide any comfort, but now he wishes he could see them all rather than feeling alone in the embrace of this unnatural darkness.

He feels suddenly enormously tired, as if he has been awake for days, like the man in Mr Blackmore’s story.

His eyelids droop, and his eyes drop to the tiny stub of his candle. It has burned down almost to nothingness, a smear of wax and a blink of fire. He watches it
for a moment, dreamily fascinated that it can still burn. Surely any moment now it will be gone. Any moment now.

Now, to his right he hears a faint, low sound, too quiet to place. Perhaps just the kind of noise that any old house might make in dark silence. Or perhaps the softest creak of a floorboard trodden upon. Perhaps Mr Osterley has risen from his seat.

Jack turns his head to look, but now the flame finally stutters out, and the last ember of light is swallowed up by the deep darkness …

Jack closes his eyes.

He doesn’t know what will happen next.

He doesn’t know how this will end.

Perhaps he ought to run.

But Jack is a curious boy.

M
egan looks up at the old house, scowling at the crack of light in the upstairs window. It’s nonsense of course, what that boy told her about this place. What was his name anyway? James? Josh? Something beginning with J, she thinks. She can’t really remember much about him at all. Curious little kid. It must be nearly a year now since he told her. What had he called this place? The House Where the Ghosts Meet. That was it.

Silly little idiot.

Just ridiculous.

Still, she wonders if there’s a way in round the back.

With thanks to:
Bella Pearson for editing, cheerleading and wisdom;
David Fickling for patience and faith;
Ness Wood for designing, general brilliance
and moral support;
Sue Cook for copy editing
(especially her vital tidying of errant punctuation);
Pam Smy for, you know, everything;
and Mila Bartolomé Smy for inspiration
and musical accompaniment.

A Boy and a Bear in a Boat